Page 47 of Dare to Love a Duke
Tom felt Greyland’s gaze on him. “Now you know. Keep Brookhurst happy, which keeps my sister happy.”
“A thorny thicket,” his friend said grimly. “Navigating it comes at a high price.”
“Sometimes,” Tom said in a dark tone. “there’s little choice but to make a bargain with the Devil.”
“I hope it’s worth it.”
It was as though the walls of Whitehall bore down on Tom, smashing the very life from him. Even Samson was crushed by the temple pillars, and Tom was no biblical man of strength. “As do I.”
Chapter 12
There had been a time, not so long ago, that walking through Mayfair’s elegant streets set Lucia’s pulse to hammering. The tall, imposing facades stretching up into the sky made her feel as small as a mouse, the expensive carriages jeered at her mud-stained hem and worn boots, and every face beneath a beaver hat or bespoke bonnet seemed to glare at her in a constant reminder that she was a poor foreigner, an outsider, and always would be.
Today, however, her heart thudded with anger, and her fist clenched around a crumpled newspaper as she stalked up South Audley Street. She passed the incomparable Chesterfield House without giving it a glance.
How could he?
She neared Grosvenor Square, and Northfield House loomed ahead of her. Despite her fury, the front door seemed as weighty as the entrance to a temple. Only once in her life had she ever tried calling on someone using the front door, and she’d been turned away.
More anger snarled within her gut. She’d thought that by now, she would have forgiven her grandparents for refusing to shelter their half-Neapolitan granddaughter years ago—her third heartbreak. But no. Fury and sadness continued to plague her.
Just once, she’d like to knock on a front door and be received like an honored guest.
She headed down the mews, dodging puddles and a pile of horse manure, passing grooms and housemaids and a footman. They gave her a wary nod of recognition, the way familiar strangers greeted each other.
After avoiding a maid furiously beating a rug, Lucia approached the back entrance. The servants’ door stood open, and, after taking one final breath in a futile attempt to contain her rage, she went inside. A handful of maids and two men-of-all-work hurried down a corridor, barely paying her any attention. Sounds of chopping floated out from the kitchen, and distantly, a bell rang.
She knocked lightly on a door that stood ajar.
“Enter,” a man’s voice said.
She poked her head in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Norley.”
The butler was seated at his desk with an open ledger spread before him, but when he saw her, he immediately stood. “Today isn’t the twenty-first.”
“I need to see him,” she said tightly. “The matter is urgent.”
He must have seen the anger in her face, and her determination, because he said with deliberate calm, “I will request his presence directly.” Mr. Norley donned his jacket and gave it a tug. “Will you wait in the usual place?”
“Here I was hoping you’d see me up to the drawing room and ply me with cakes and wine.” When the butler did not smile at her poor attempt at levity, she said, “Yes. I’ll wait.”
At his nod, she turned and headed back down the corridor. The larder stood between the kitchen and the scullery, and she pushed the door open and entered. Shelves lined the chamber—which was larger than her bedroom—and held wheels of cheese and jars containing spices and jams. Large crocks of milled flour also crowded the shelves. A cone of sugar stood ready atop a cabinet.
She’d been in this room over a dozen times, but it wasn’t a comfortable place she looked forward to inhabiting.
Lucia shut the door behind her. Yet she could not remain still, and paced back and forth as she waited.
Finally, footsteps sounded on the flagstones in the corridor. The door opened, and Tom appeared before closing them in together.
His quizzical expression did little to stem the impact of seeing him again. He was lean and masculine and his dark mourning clothes only brought into sharp relief his handsomeness. But his magnetism only stoked her fury higher.
“Why?” she demanded hotly.
He frowned at her question. “You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”
“Why do you hurt the people I’m trying to help?”
His expression remained infuriatingly blank. “I still can’t make sense of what you’re saying.”
