Page 75 of Dare to Love a Duke
“I told Cook that I’d peel potatoes and collect eggs.” She had said this proudly.
“You forced him to give you his own money?” He had shaken his head. “Maeve, heworksfor us.” Tom would have to compensate Cook for the loss of his hard-earned coin.
Maeve’s eyes had filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Tommy.” She’d dropped the coins to the path. “You’re not here mostly and I wanted to get you a boiled sweet because I love them.”
All Tom’s annoyance had scattered like so many scraps of paper cast onto the wind. Jesus, God, but he loved her.
“Come on, then.” Tom had crouched down and collected her coins, putting them into his own pocket to return to Cook later. “Let’s get ourselves some boiled sweets and maybe even a berry cake, if they have them.” He’d stood and held out his hand to her.
She’d run to him immediately, sliding her slightly sticky little hand into his. Together, they’d walked into the village and he’d gotten her the promised sweets and cake. When the girl he was supposed to meet marched by the shop window, fire in her eyes because he’d forsaken her, he’d had not a single regret.
He could lose that. Lose Maeve.
Anguish spilled acidly through his veins, burning him from the inside out. For thirty-two years, he’d been physically a man, but in his heart, he’d been a boy, free from making decisions that cost him anything more than a few hours’ pleasure. But this choice... this would surely kill him.
No, it wouldn’t kill him. He’d survive, and have to find a way to live without Maeve’s bright flame illuminating his life.
“Maeve,” he said on a rasp.
“If the Duke of Brookhurst’s disapproval keeps Hugh away,” she said at last, turning back to face him, “I don’t want him in my life.”
He started. He couldn’t have heard right, not when her choice meant losing the man she loved. “Are you... certain?”
“Quite.” Her smile was brave, though he could see the effort it cost her. “We’re people of principle, us Powell siblings.”
Relief crashed through him, nearly making him stagger on his feet. Yet he ached for her, too, because certainly she would soon face her own heartbreak when Lord Stacey disappeared.
Sometimes, life was a goddamned bastard.
“That we are.” He took her hand in his, and was plunged back into the past, on that bridle path, grasping her little hand that was so small yet held so much power. “Thank you, little bird. To be sure, there’s trouble ahead. Da’s old friends won’t like my new course.”
Her lips curved slightly. “Remember how I climbed that tree, the big oak, and I got so scared I couldn’t climb down?”
“I do. You screamed fit to dig furrows in the earth.”
He’d stood at the foot of the oak, praying whatever deity was listening would keep tiny Maeve safe and whole.
“You just charged up after me, never worrying about breaking your own neck.” Her gaze softened. “My big brother’s afraid of nothing.”
His lips quirked into a wry smile. “God help me be the man my little sister believes I am.”
Somehow, he managed to drag himself through the remainder of the day. Though it was technically Saturday, enough work had piled up in his absence that he could not ignore it until Monday. He sequestered himself in his study to catch up.
All the while, Monday hung over his head like a sword. A prison bill was coming up, and he knew how he had to vote—but it felt like pulling the trigger and waiting two days for the bullet to slam into his chest.
For all this, for the magnitude of what his decision meant, his mind refused to stay where he needed it. The damned thing kept rocketing back to Lucia—where was she at that very moment and what was she thinking, hopefully of him?—and he found himself staring off into nothingness.
When he discovered that for fifteen minutes he’d been reading the same line in a document detailing Monday’s parliamentary schedule, he cast the paper aside before raking his hands through his hair.
It was useless. He knew his mind on the matter, and to try to attempt anything remotely productive was futile. He stalked from his study and spent the rest of the day playing lawn bowls in the garden with Maeve. After supper, they included their mother in a game of spillikins.
It was all very normal and calm, and if he was quietly going mad because he wanted to saddle his fastest horse and ride back to Lucia, he kept that madness carefully contained. No one noticed.
Except he returned to the parlor after using the water closet to find his mother and sister on the sofa whispering to each other. They abruptly broke apart at his entrance, and while Maeve fixed a bright smile on her face, his mother quickly walked to the fire and poked it with an iron as if she was Hestia, tending the hearth of Olympus.
“You looked like a pair of conspirators.”
“Oh,” his mother said in an offhand voice, “we were merely talking of the weather. It should be fine and clear tomorrow, for all that it’s heading into winter.”
