Page 13 of Dare to Love a Duke
“So it does.” Maeve leaned forward, reaching out and taking Tom’s hand in hers. “Hugh and I haven’t seen each other since Father took ill. Your kindness in facilitating this is remarkable.”
His brows lifted. “Shall I be a cad, and stand in the way of my sister’s happiness?”
“Don’t be flippant, Tommy. This is a risk for both of us.”
“A moderate one for me, but an extraordinary one for you.”
“One Ihaveto take.” Urgency and youthful conviction throbbed in her words. “Hugh is everything to me.”
What would that be like, to believe in something so strongly? To have faith and purpose?
In the whole of his thirty-two years, Tom had never experienced that. It shamed him to feel a pulse of envy for the girl—young woman—that had once gazed upon him with pure idolization.
He shouldn’t, couldn’t, begrudge Maeve her happiness. But out of all the experiences he’d had in his life, never had he known what it was to care deeply for anything or anyone not related to him. Somehow, the little sister who had tried to run after him on her stubby toddler legs had grown into a woman who loved, and was loved in return.
Her brother could not say the same.
“You are certain that Lord Stacey will be waiting for us in Fulham?” Tom asked.
She nodded. “His last letter spoke of nothing else.” She patted her heart, and Tom could only guess that was where she carried Lord Stacey’s missive. “He’s made all the arrangements that we might see each other, if only briefly.”
Foolish, romantic girl. How he coveted that for himself.
“We’ll be unable to stay long,” he cautioned.
“Anytime with him is a gift.”
He snorted. “Now you sound like one of Shelley’s poems.”
She made a soft scoffing noise. “As though I would attempt to emulate that histrionic, overwrought scribbler. Everyone knows that Keats is far superior.”
Tom didn’t hide his grin. It was never difficult to solicit an opinion from his sister, a fact which bedeviled their mother but delighted him.
“I’m partial to Byron, myself,” he said. “Except for that bit about sleeping with his sister.”
“Half sister. But still, that does tend to color one’s enthusiasm for his work.”
The constriction around his chest eased. For all that she was thirteen years his junior, he never felt the divide of their years. They could always talk and jest freely, and while he never detailed his dissolute exploits to her, she was one of the few people that accepted him as he was.
I’d kill for her.
The words formed in his mind as firmly as if he’d spoken them aloud. It was an oath he swore to himself.
“Talk to me of anything but the past six weeks,” Maeve pled. “What was the last play you saw?”
“An excellent work by the most esteemed Viscountess Marwood. It involved a kidnapping and three assumed identities.” Riveted by what he saw on the stage, Tom had barely stirred in his seat, not even to flirt with a few daring widows.
Maeve clapped her hands together. “Ah, splendid! And was there a swordfight?”
“Between the heroine and the villain.”
She chuckled. “Even better.”
For the remainder of the journey to Fulham, they spoke of subjects unrelated to death and loss—a relief. They carved out a space for themselves in the midst of grief, where Tom could set aside the fact that now, he was the duke, shouldering the title’s massive responsibilities, and he and Maeve were merely themselves as they had been. The scapegrace elder brother and the sardonic but adoring younger sister.
The carriage slowed to a stop, far faster than Tom had anticipated.
“We’re here, Your Grace,” the coachman called down.
