Page 46 of Dare to Love a Duke
But neither of them moved, and he realized that he and Lucia were forever entwined, their lives tangled together in a complex series of knots that he wasn’t certain he wanted to untie.
Deep bass voices echoed off the walls of the Long Gallery outside the House of Lords as several scores of soberly dressed men stood in assemblies of three and four, conversing gravely as they discussed the forging of political alliances and the fate of the realm.
Only Saturday, Tom had been in Bethnal Green with Lucia, and now he stood alone to one side of the lobby, his stomach churning and his mouth dry.
It was as though his life was a choppy sea, and he rode the waves as they crested and plunged. There was no sign of dry land, or the stability it offered.
Tom bit back a curse when he saw the Duke of Greyland enter the Long Gallery. Greyland would demand answers, and Tom had none to give. None that eased the sting of Tom’s conscience.
As Greyland walked into the chamber, several noblemen approached him, eager to have his ear, but he held them back with an upraised hand. His gaze fell on Tom, and his stern expression did not lift as he neared.
“I cannot understand you, Northfield,” Greyland said. “Blakemere’s aveteran. If he was here instead of in Cornwall, he’d feel your blade in his back. You voted ‘content’ on Brookhurst’s accursed bill. How—?”
“There’s more at work than adhering to the principles of my conscience,” Tom bit out.
In the top drawer of his desk in his study sat a letter. A letter that had arrived early in the morning to ensure that Tom read it before coming in to Parliament for the day’s session.
The duke of Brookhurst had made his position very clear.
Your sister and my son have formed a considerable attachment that honors both our families. But it is an attachment that will not survive should you turn from the course set by your father. I have made my position clear to Hugh. He shall not wed Lady Maeve—not if her brother takes it into his head to stand against me.
I trust you will take my words to heart, and act accordingly.
Voting in favor of harsher punishment for transient veterans had caught in Tom’s craw like a poison bone, but he’d had little choice.
The very thought caused nausea to churn through him.
When Greyland directed his frown at Tom’s feet, his gaze was so honed that Tom felt obliged to look down.
“What the deuce are you staring at?” Tom demanded.
“I was determining whether or not you fit into your father’s shoes.”
Guilt and anger stabbed into Tom’s stomach. “Damn it—”
Greyland lifted a brow. “None of that language here.” He glanced around at the elegant Long Gallery, the atmosphere weighty with significance and tradition.
“Ah, Northfield!”
Hand outstretched, the Duke of Brookhurst strode toward him, accompanied by two other senior members of the Lords. The duke was a tall, trim man with a leonine mane of silver hair and a broad brow, his heritage evident in his aloof expression and the set of his shoulders.
He shook Tom’s hand heartily, then sent Greyland a cool glance. “Your Grace.”
“Brookhurst,” Greyland said with barely contained incivility. “My... felicitations on the passage of your bill.”
The duke gave Greyland a superior smile. “Yes, despite your efforts to defeat it.” He sent a pleased look toward Tom. “I do hope that soon Lady Maeve will be able to accept callers again. Hugh’s been moping around Brookhurst Hall like some knight errant pining for the damsel in the tower.”
“When she can see callers once more,” Tom said neutrally, “Lord Stacey will be the first one in our drawing room.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” He patted Tom on the shoulder. “We ought to take supper together. Tomorrow night?”
Was that a command?
“Perhaps,” Tom said. He’d rather dine with an adder, but there was no choice in the matter, and he’d have to swallow his share of venom.
‘O, villain, villain, smiling, damned villain.’
“Very good.” With a final nod, Brookhurst walked on, his silent companions trailing after him.
