Dukes By the Dozen

“You can trust me, Penelope.”

“I want to, Beech. But—” Trouble seemed to follow her like a dark angel. Bad decisions, impulsive action, disastrous results.

“Do you doubt your constancy? Do you think you will stray to another man—a whole man?”

“No!” Of this she was sure. “Your arm, or lack thereof, has nothing to do with it. It is my own lack—lack of prudence, want of character—that would make me a terrible duchess.”

“I don’t want a duchess. I want a wife.” He closed his eyes, as if he were consulting some internal barometer. “Do you know, that for all the years that I was away, I never suffered homesickness? My fellow midshipmen, and later my fellow officers, often talked of home, of the family or loved ones they missed. I never thought of Warwick, or my family like that. I frankly felt relief to be away from Caius. I liked being forgotten for the most part—it suited my sense of freedom and independence. Even when I was injured, I had no thought of going home. But when I received my mother’s letter about you and Caius, my peace was absolutely and irrevocably shattered. Shattered,” he repeated as if he still could not fathom why. “But I did not have enough time to understand why before I received another letter, calling me home. The whole of the trip I feared the event that precipitated such alarm was your marriage. You cannot imagine my relief—my horrible, guilty, profound relief—when I found the cause was instead Caius’s death.”

“Beech.” She wanted to warn him to stop, to cease with such useless remorse.

But he went on. “Imagine me, if you will, receiving the news that I was now the duke—that I was now the one who needed to marry.”

Anticipation, astonishment, and even a little fear began to beat hard in her chest.

“Imagine that the moment I was told I must marry, I set out directly from London for Warwickshire. Then imagine that I waited only until I received an invitation to Sir Harold Pease’s ball to accept. Imagine then that I attended, and let people stare at me as I searched the rooms for some sign of the young lady to whom I most wanted to speak, and when I could not find her, imagine I retreated to the library in defeat.” He finally turned his gaze back to hers. “And then imagine that you, the object of my unrequited and unsuspecting obsession, simply appeared to me, like the vision from a merciful, generous God.”

She could not draw breath—all the air stopped up in her throat, hot and thick and aching.

“Imagine all that, and then imagine that you, of all the people in the world, were the first person to be clear-sighted and honest and caring enough to ask me about my arm.” He took her hand very carefully in his. “Imagine my relief at such honesty. And then imagine that you kissed like an angel and made me laugh and forget myself enough to be happy.”

He kissed her hand. “And then tell me what I should do next.”

Tears of regret for all the years lost, mingled with tears of gratitude for all the years that just might be yet to come, scalded her eyes and streaked down her face. “You should kiss me, dear Beech, and marry me.”

CHAPTER 13

RELIEF AND GRATITUDE buoyed him up. “In the morning, my darling Penelope.” Marcus kissed her forehead. “Get under the covers and stay warm. I need to see to…things.” Like giving Martins instruction on caging a marriage license out of the Bishop of Warwick at first light.

Able Martins was a font of information, as well as discretion. “A regular license, Your Grace, is what is required. It shall be done at the earliest possible moment, Your Grace.”

“I thank you.” Marcus had no choice but to return as quietly as possible to the chamber where his darling Penelope had fallen soundly asleep. He didn’t want to sleep, of course. He wanted to crawl in beside her and make love into the wee small hours of the morning. To take solace in her body. To keep the unquiet dreams at bay, if only for a night.

But they would still come—the dark memories he could not forget. The necessary violence and blood of battle. The pain and instant understanding the moment he had been hit. The endless torment that followed.

And so, he did not join her in the bed. He did not sleep.

Instead, he sat in a chair before the hearth dozing on and off, as was his way, for the rest of the night, until the gray light of dawn roused him out of his self-imposed purgatory. The crystalline sunlight slanting through the window told him the storm had broken, and the sound of footsteps trailing off toward the stable told him Martins was already on his way.

Fresh hope was overtaken by zealous enthusiasm—it was his wedding day! It only remained for Marcus to make himself presentable for his bride.

On the stand in the dressing chamber, he found soap and water and a razor, and prepared, in the absence of Sealy Best, his skilled and steady-handed Bajan steward, to do for himself.

Half an hour’s labor left Marcus swearing and bleeding as if he’d been peppered with grapeshot.

“Beech?”