The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(85)

"Oh, my heavens. But if Jack is the duke, then you - "

"Are not," he finished wryly. "I am sure you can imagine our eagerness to have this settled."

Mary stared at him in shock. And then at Jack. And then looked as if she very much wanted to sit down.

"I am standing in the hall," the dowager announced haughtily.

"Don't be rude," Thomas chided.

"She should have seen to - "

Thomas shifted his grip on her arm and yanked her forward, brushing right past Jack and his aunt. "Mrs.

Audley," he said, "we are most grateful for your hospitality. All of us."

Mary nodded gratefully and turned to the butler. "Wimpole, would you - "

"Of course, ma'am," he said, and Jack had to smile as he moved away. No doubt he was rousing the housekeeper to have her prepare the necessary bedrooms. Wimpole had always known what Aunt Mary needed before she'd had to utter the words.

"We shall have rooms readied in no time," Mary said, turning to Grace and Amelia, who were standing off to the side. "Would the two of you mind sharing? I don't have - "

"It is no trouble at all," Grace said warmly. "We enjoy each other's company."

"Oh, thank you," Mary said, sounding relieved. "Jack, you shall have to take your old bed in the nursery, and - oh, this is silly, I should not be wasting your time here in the hall. Let us retire to the drawing room, where you may warm yourselves by the fire until your rooms are ready."

She ushered everyone in, but when Jack made to go, she placed her hand on his arm, gently holding him back.

"We missed you," she said.

He swallowed, but the lump in his throat would not dislodge. "I missed you, too," he said. He tried to smile. "Who is home? Edward must have - "

"Married," she finished for him. "Yes. As soon as we were out of mourning for Arthur. And Margaret soon after. They both live close by, Edward just down the lane, Margaret in Belturbet."

"And Uncle William?" Jack had last seen him at Arthur's funeral. He'd looked older. Older, and tired.

And stiff with grief. "He is well?"

Mary was silent, and then an unbearable sorrow filled her eyes. Her lips parted but she did not speak. She did not need to.

Jack stared at her in shock. "No," he whispered, because it could not be true. He was supposed to have had a chance to say he was sorry. He'd come all the way to Ireland. He wanted to say he was sorry.

"He died, Jack." Mary blinked several times, her eyes glistening. "It was two years ago. I didn't know how to find you. You never gave us an address."

Jack turned, taking a few steps toward the rear of the house. If he stayed where he was, someone could see him. Everyone was in the drawing room. If they looked through the doorway, they would see him, struck, ready to cry, maybe ready to scream.

"Jack?" It was Mary, and he could hear her steps moving cautiously toward him. He looked up at the ceiling, taking a shaky, open-mouthed breath. It didn't help, but it was all he could manage.

Mary laid her hand on his arm. "He told me to tell you he loved you."

"Don't say that." It was the one thing he couldn't hear. Not just now.

"He did. He told me he knew you would come home. And that he loved you, and you were his son. In his heart, you were his son."

He covered his face with his hands and found himself pressing tight, tighter, as if he could squeeze this all away. Why was he surprised? There was no reason he should be. William was not a young man; he'd been nearly forty when he married Mary. Did he think that life would have stood still in his absence?

That no one would have changed, or grown...or died?

"I should have come back," he said. "I should have - Oh, God, I'm such an idiot."

Mary touched his hand, pulled it gently down and held it. And then she pulled him out of the hall, into the nearest room. His uncle's study.

Jack walked over to the desk. It was a hulking, behemoth of a thing, the wood dark and scuffed and smelling like the paper and ink that always lain atop it.

But it had never been imposing. Funny, he'd always liked coming in here. It seemed odd, really. He'd been an out of doors sort of boy, always running and racing, and covered in mud. Even now, he hated a room with fewer than two windows.

But he had always liked it here.

He turned to look at his aunt. She was standing in the middle of the room. She'd closed the door most of the way and set her candle down on a shelf. She turned and looked back at him and said, very softly, "He knew you loved him."

He shook his head. "I did not deserve him. Or you."

"Stop this talk. I won't hear it."

"Aunt Mary, you know..." He put his fisted hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckle. The words were there, but they burned in his chest, and it was so damned hard to speak them. "You know that Arthur would not have gone to France if not for me."

She stared at him in bewilderment, then gasped and said, "Good heavens, Jack, you do not blame yourself for his death?"

"Of course I do. He went for me. He would never have - "

"He wanted to join the army. He knew it was that or the clergy, and heaven knows he did not want that.

He'd always planned - "