Page 91 of His Grace, the Duke
Hartington gave him a measured look. “You know I am a decorated naval captain, right? Scratch that... you know I am the son and brother of a duke...”
Burke wasn’t intimidated. “What you are is a bastard, Hart. Same as me. The rules are different for us. We’re not really part of their society. The only way we survive is by staking our claims and holding to them with everything we have. So, bastard to bastard, hear me when I tell you that Tom Renley ismine. And in a fight to keep him, I have absolutely nothing to lose.”
The men held each other’s gaze for a moment before Hartington’s mouth tipped into another grin. “Is it wrong for me to admit I hoped never to meet you?”
Burke blinked. “What?”
“I didn’t want to put a face to the name and hate you even more. Damn, but you’re handsome,” Hartington said with a dry laugh. “It’s unfair to the rest of us bastards.” He absentlyraised a hand, stroking the bottom edge of his scar. “Worse still would be to meet you and like you... which is exactly what has happened.”
“I’m not looking to make an enemy of you, Hart. Any friend of Tom’s can be a friend of mine. I trust his taste... usually.”
The captain laughed again. “Your message is received, Mr. Burke. It was received years ago.”
“Years ago?”
Hartington raised his scarred brow. “Do you know how often he talks of you? Do you know how hard it was to know another charming bastard claimed a piece of him?”
A warm feeling spread through Burke. Tom spoke of him with Hartington?
“I am no one’s second choice, Mr. Burke. I walked away from him long ago... when it was clear he would never walk away fromyou.”
Burke smiled, feeling those words sink down to his very bones.
Hartington cleared his throat. “Now, is that all you wanted?”
“Actually, no,” Burke replied. “I wanted to talk to you about Olivia.”
43
James
“James, we needto talk.”
Sucking in a breath, James bolted upright, blinking in the dark. “George—what—”
“I’d resolved to keep this to myself, but it’s clear you need the push, so...” George blinked, looking around the room. “Why are you sitting in the dark? What... are you ill?”
“No.” James was still trying to clear the fog from his mind. He’d fallen asleep in Rosalie’s arms, hadn’t he? Did he dream it all? He was alone on the sofa, the curtain half-closed. No candles lit. No fire. The sky outside was nearly dark.
George still stood in the middle of the room. “Were you...sleeping?”
James dragged a shaky hand over his face. “What does it look like?”
“But... you never sleep. Oh God, you’re ill, aren’t you? Is it catching? Should I call for Fawcett?”
“George, please just shut up for a minute.” James shifted off the sofa and moved over to the mantel in his bare feet. The fire in the grate was already set—it just needed a light. He lit ataper and held it beneath the logs, letting the fire papers catch. Soon, a soft yellow light flickered around the room. He sat back on the sofa, tugging on his left boot. “What time is it?”
“Just after six—”
“At night?” James nearly cricked his neck turning to look at the clock on his desk.
“Of course, at night,” George replied with a huff. “I wouldn’t be parading in here at six in the morning, would I?”
Sure enough, the clock showed the time as a quarter after six. That little schemer lured him to sleep, then left him for nearly eight hours. He’d lost an entire day, thanks to her meddling!
To be fair, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten such good sleep.
George tipped his head to the side. “James, you’re worrying me. Have you been in here all day? The staff said you were out.”
