Page 30 of Dare to Love a Duke
There was no point in reminding his mother that he was far from a child. The sheaf of documents beside him proved it.
Deirdre’s gaze moved to the papers. “Oh, Tommy lad, don’t tell me you plan on working whilst we have tea.”
“No choice in the matter. God rest him, Father left me far more than this enchanting house.”
He picked up the top sheet, which seemed heavier than a simple piece of paper.
Marrying an Irishwoman had been one of Edward Powell’s sole acts of nonconformity—though Deirdre O’Connell had converted from Catholicism so they might wed. Other than his choice of bride, the sixth Duke of Northfield had been a man of unshakable belief that England’s stability rested on the nation’s traditional institutions.
Tom had thought that, when he finally inherited the title, he’d change all that. He’d quietly divested from the family holdings in the Caribbean and the American South, and all other investments that were entangled with the repulsive practice of slavery, but as yesterday’s conversation with Lord Stacey—and the article in theTimes—he discovered that extricating himself from the Duke of Northfield’s political legacy here in England wasn’t as easily achieved. It was, in fact, dangerous to his sister’s happiness.
“What is that?” Maeve asked, nodding toward the paperwork.
“Notes on the Duke of Brookhurst’s bill.” Tom tried to focus on the words covering the page, but weariness—and dismay—made it difficult to read. He set it aside and made himself smile. “Care to join me for a game of pall-mall in the garden?”
“It’s November.” Maeve narrowed her eyes. “And you can’t distract me from the Duke of Brookhurst’s bill. He’s Hugh’s father, after all. I ought to be aware of my possible-future-father-in-law’s actions in Parliament.”
“I’m fit to curl up under the sofa and fall asleep,” Tom said. “We can talk about it later.”
Maeve looked disgruntled, but thankfully, she didn’t press the issue.
How to discuss it with her? Many of those vagabonds were veterans, and it turned Tom’s stomach to think that those men had given everything to their country but were given nothing in return.
Yet as Tom had discovered, voting against the bill meant alienating the Duke of Brookhurst and ending Maeve’s chance of marrying the duke’s son.
I can’t let anything come between Maeve and Lord Stacey.At least one of the two Powell offspring would marry for love—precisely why he had to do everything he could to ensure their marriage happened.
Including his decision to never again visit the Orchid Club, or see Lucia.
His chest throbbed, and he rubbed it absently. It was as though the seeds of Lucia’s true self had been planted in his heart and pushed out seeking roots, holding firmly to him.
He’d never know more about her, and that was for the best. What he’d learned of her—the courage she had to come to England from a faraway place, the expert way she managed the establishment, the pain she’d faced—made him ache with the need to know more, to understand her better. Which would never happen.
Despite his fatigue, restlessness pushed him to his feet, and he paced to the fireplace to watch the flames crackle.
“I’m glad one of my children recognizes the importance of marriage.” His mother rose from the sofa.
“Mam,” Tom said without turning around, “Father’s hardly in the grave. Must we discuss this now?”
“If you’re to fully embrace your responsibilities, yes. Tommy lad, look at me.”
She had iron in her voice, as she always did whenever she commanded her offspring to obey.
As she approached, he faced her with his hands clasped behind his back, and schooled his features to look attentive.
“The getting of a legitimate heir cannot be done as a bachelor,” she said. “A bride is a necessity, as is a son. You need both as the Duke of Northfield.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “At the least,considerbeginning your hunt for a bride. It would make me happy to know you have someone to care for you into your dotage.”
He traded a look with Maeve. They both knew how expertly Mamtroweled on guilt.
“I’ll consider it.”
“That’s all I want.”
A polite cough sounded from the doorway. He turned to see Norley, the butler, standing just inside the parlor.
“Yes?” Tom asked, grateful for the interruption.
“You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
