Page 92 of Dare to Love a Duke
“We’ve a treat today,” she said sunnily. “New books.”
The girls exclaimed in wonder.
“Where’d they come from, miss?” “Theydolook new.” “If there’s one about plants, I want that one.”
Lucia moved through the room, distributing the texts quickly, as if she wasn’t handing out pieces of her heart.
“That gentleman from the other week,” she said. “These books are a gift from him. And theyarenew, so treat them with respect.”
Reverently, the children opened their books, their fingers tracing above the pages to preserve their cleanliness.
“I liked him,” Mary announced as she took her seat at her desk. “He was handsome and smelled nice.”
A broken laugh escaped Lucia. “Hedidsmell nice.” Like spice and coffee and leather, and she longed to inhale him deeply and draw him into herself. Anger at herself bubbled up caustically. She didn’t want to want him, not after all that had happened and her foolish belief that she could put herself before others. “He’s not coming back.”
The girls nodded, and the looks of resigned acceptance on their faces nearly made Lucia’s knees buckle. They were too used to people coming and going, too familiar with abandonment.
She stood in front of the desks and exhaled jaggedly. “Bambine,before we begin today’s lessons, there is something I must tell you.”
Her students gazed at her in expectation.
“Do you remember how I told you about a place, a place that was warm and dry and there was enough food and books for everyone?”
“And no rats running over our feet at night,” curly-headed Dora said.
Lucia prayed for strength, when all she wanted to do was run away and hide herself in some dark place where she could weep and scream and feel the fullness of her grief.
“Yes, that place,” she said. “Itwillhappen. I promise you that. Only...” She swallowed. “It’s going to be a little while longer before it exists.”
“How long?” Mary demanded.
Lucia owed them the truth. “I don’t know. Six months... a year? I wish I could say, but I cannot.”
Again, the expressions of calm resignation on their young faces shredded her. It was as though they had never fully believed that this special place for them would ever exist. Another dream that had died before it was born.
“But this won’t change,” she said, resolve firming her words. “We’ll still meet here every Saturday. I swear to you that our time together is safe.” She placed her hand atop Dora’s head, the texture of the girl’s curls branding into Lucia’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A few of her students smiled and nodded, but Mary continued to regard her warily. From what Lucia had been able to piece together of the girl’s history, her parents were long dead, and it was left to an older brother to take care of his siblings. But the brother could seldom find work as an unskilled laborer, and often disappeared for days. Mary knew hunger better than satiety.
“I promise, Mary.” Lucia’s voice throbbed with vehemence.
Slowly, the girl nodded. She opened her book and read, her lips silently moving.
Lucia forced herself to smile. She would persevere, she would make her dream happen. But,Cristo benedetto,she didn’t know how.
Damn me. Damn me for loving him.
Tom climbed the stairs leading to his bedroom, his clothing clinging damply to his body. Despite the pugilism he’d practiced for hours that morning, fury and loss still sieved through him acidly. No matter how hard he threw his punches, no matter how many blows he took, he couldn’t beat the sorrow away. It weighted him down and turned the whole world into a monochrome nightmare.
All the while, he imagined his opponent to be Brookhurst, and only when he’d knocked his sparring partner down with a vicious blow—causing the poor blighter’s nose to bleed—did he realize how much he channeled his rage against the duke into each punch.
At the pugilism academy, he’d endured the stares and whispers of other gentlemen also there for a morning’s exercise. Yet their muttering and pointed looks pinged off of him like so many pebbles thrown at a brick facade. They couldn’t touch him. He didn’t give a rat’s arse what they thought of him. But Maeve, his mother—as women, they were more vulnerable to society’s opinion.
His only consolation was that, in mourning, his mother and sister were not expected to venture out in public. Perhaps by the time they were free to socialize, the scandal might have dissipated. God help him, but he hoped so.
He reached his bedchamber and lumbered inside. The elegantly furnished room oppressed him, its carpet feeling thick enough to swallow him up, the dark blue walls the same hue as sky just before sunlight disappeared with darkness following.
Pulling off his shirt and dropping it to the floor, he strode to the bellpull to summon a bath.
