Page 12 of Dare to Love a Duke
So Tom had agreed when Maeve had proposed this sortie. He would give his sister anything, if she asked.
“This way,” he said, guiding her along the path.
“I can’t see a thing behind this blasted veil,” Maeve grumbled. “It’s like my eyes are full of smoke.”
“I’ll be your eyes.”
“Again, my big brother champions me,” she said warmly.
“As a big brother, I am contractually obligated to champion you.”
They had reached the stable yard, where the carriage and driver awaited them, while a groom held the horses. In a show of respect, the coachman wore a black caped coat, the footman standing beside the vehicle was attired in inky livery, while horses had been draped with black fabric.
Tom and Maeve approached the carriage.
“Your Grace,” the coachman said, bowing. “Lady Maeve.”
Tom suppressed a grimace.Wrong,he wanted to shout.My father is His Grace, not me.
His whole life, he had known that one day he’d assume the title. But that had been a purely intellectual exercise and easy to dismiss. Yet to finallybethe Duke of Northfield felt like trying to breathe underwater.
I’m not ready, damn it. Not for any of this.
“You know where we are headed?” Tom asked the driver as the footman helped Maeve into the carriage.
“Broom House Farm, Your Grace. In Fulham.”
“And?” Tom prompted.
“And Her Grace isn’t to know of it,” John recited.
“No oneis to know of this excursion. Make sure your grooms keep their silence. You’ll all see yourselves handsomely rewarded for your discretion and punished for any indiscretion.”
It was a fact of life that servants and staff gossiped, and if word ever got out that Tom helped Maeve break her mourning to see Lord Stacey, she would be the one suffering the harm to her reputation. Lord Stacey and Tom might receive sidelong glances of disapproval, but they’d still be admitted into drawing rooms and dining chambers throughout London.
A carriage kitted out in mourning might attract moderate interest, but Tom could move about the world freely without consequence. If someone recognized the vehicle, it would be a simple enough matter to explain that Tom was attending to his newfound responsibilities—alone.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Grand.” For good measure, Tom slipped a guinea into John’s hand before he climbed into the carriage.
Once the door had been closed, and the curtains in the windows secured, Tom rapped on the roof to signal they were ready to depart. The vehicle jolted slightly as it surged into motion, but it was excellently sprung, and as they drove down the mews and onto the street, he hardly felt the movement. The sound of the wheels was dampened by the straw that had been laid out along the street during the late duke’s illness. Soon, though, they had driven past Northfield House, and the rumble of the wheels and the clop of the horses’ hooves formed the background noise of their journey.
Fulham was some four miles away from Mayfair, a journey that took them through Belgravia and Chelsea. At a decent pace, he and Maeve would reach their destination in three quarters of an hour.
“Don’t peep through the curtains,” Tom warned Maeve as she attempted to do exactly that.
She flopped back against the seat, making a sound of frustration. “I wish I could look outside and see the world again.”
“It will still be there when you’re out of mourning.”
“Months from now.” She sighed regretfully, then clicked her tongue. “You think me a callous chit for thinking of my own comfort and amusement at such a time.”
“I think,” he said, his voice gentle, “that you can mourn whilst also longing to live your life. It’s a hard burden to be locked away from all company, and doubly so if one is a girl barely into her second season.”
“Ayoung woman, not agirl.”
“My apologies.” He pressed a hand to his chest and gave a slight bow. “And if you are ayoung womanwith an ardent suitor, six months of deep mourning might seem like an eon.”
