Page 101 of Dare to Love a Duke
Of course. The girl had Tom’s striking looks, her gaze sharply intelligent.
“Are you not in mourning, Lady Maeve?” the angry-looking man demanded.
“There’s always an exception for good works, Your Grace,” the girl said with barely hidden fury.
This was the man who’d ruined Lucia, and trampled Tom’s reputation. The man who’d taken everything from her.
It was all she could do to keep from springing forward and ramming her fist into his stomach.
An older woman, her dark hair threaded with silver, her bearing regal, came forward. When she spoke, her works were musically inflected with an Irish accent. “As her mother, the decision as to whether or not her activities are suitable is entirely mine.”
The men bowed, and Lucia, setting aside her anger, quickly bobbed a curtsy.
“I believe many of you know the Duchess of Northfield,” Tom said to the group.
Cristo in cielo,this woman was his mother.
The duchess nodded at the men, and when she looked at Lucia, her gaze wasn’t entirely friendly.
“Your assistance here is greatly appreciated, Your Grace,” Lucia said.
“I am here for my son,” she said primly. “And for the girls.”
“Certo.” Lucia swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d seen all walks of life in her establishment, and knew that beneath everyone’s clothing, they were merely human. Long ago, she’d gotten beyond feeling intimidated by someone from a higher social class—but the Duchess of Northfield made Lucia feel no bigger than a spool of thread.
“Hugh!” the Duke of Brookhurst’s eyes went round and color drained from his face. “What the blazes?”
Several of the men nearby coughed at the Duke of Brookhurst’s language.
Lucia followed the Duke of Brookhurst’s gaze. An exceptionally handsome young man, likely no older than his early twenties, appeared. He had sandy hair and hazel eyes, and the pristine cut of his expensive clothing revealed his rank.
Lady Maeve stared at him, adoration shining in her face. “Hugh.”
There was so much love in that look, so much joy, it was like being in the presence of something holy. Lucia almost shielded her eyes.
“I’ve brought more ink,” the young man said. “Cleaned out the stationer’s shop.” He held up a box that contained numerous bottles. “Brought some quills, too.” When he looked at Lady Maeve, his expression brimmed with devotion.
“Lord Stacey.” Tom tipped his head in greeting.
“How good of you to assist us,” Lucia said with a grateful smile.
Hugh—Lord Stacey—gave her a bright grin. “A good cause, of course, and when His Grace, the Duke of Northfield, told me of the place, well, naturally I offered my services.”
A choked sound came from the Duke of Brookhurst, his gaze fastened on his son. The pallor had left his face, replaced by a hectic flush.
“As you can see, gentlemen,” Tom said to the assembled crowd, “I am not, in fact, the owner of an illicit club. I am the patron of this home, and Miss Marini is the headmistress. Your Grace,” he said, turning to the sputtering duke, “I do believe that your accusations were inaccurate.”
“Quite inaccurate,” Lucia said coolly.
A dark-haired man with a striking and stern countenance moved to the front of the group. “You’ve made serious allegations against a fellow peer. Allegations that have been proven false.”
Mutters rose up from the crowd.
“...Brookhurst went too far...”
“...lies... slander... against a duke’scharity...his own political gain...”
The Duke of Brookhurst glanced toward a trio of older men, clearly seeking their support. But their faces were stony with condemnation.
