Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3) Read online

  “It is a turn of phrase,” Lord Hareden said, almost gently. “Nothing more. Go on.”

  When she was sure he meant it, she continued. “Ah, Ethan passed on everything he got.” She snorted. “Sometimes things that were not fit for a girl to read, but I read them anyway.”

  “So you’re an autodidact.”

  “Self-taught?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose so. At least, until Papa chose to take me under his wing. Then I had more supervision than I was used to in that area, but in the end, I believe I benefited.” She read through a notation on a surgeon who had accidentally killed a man and shuddered. She cast it aside to be discarded. The duke had written that there was no culpability and it really had been an accident. “Even if,” she said, unthinking, “it had the unfortunate effect of making me somewhat too independent.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “It’s been said.”

  “I am sure it has,” he said. “But do you think so?”

  “No?” she said uncertainly.

  No one had ever asked her what she thought about her strange ways and training. What a bizarre conversation she was having with an actual member of the nobility, an actual officer of the Royal Army. Or so she assumed. The duke actually hadn’t said anything about being an officer, but it made sense that he was one. Had been one? He’d been sent back to England due to injury, but maybe one was always an officer unless the status was stripped from them. She blinked when she registered that he was speaking to her and she hadn’t responded.

  “Pardon, your grace?”

  “I shouldn’t speak to you when you are trying to triage all of these things,” he said. “But I said, that is the first time in our admittedly short acquaintance that you have sounded uncertain.”

  “No one has asked me anything of the kind,” she admitted.

  “Well,” he said. “You seem content doing this sort of work in spite of it being unusual. I would give that more credence than any unsolicited criticism.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if I was content, if I were no good at it.”

  “Ah, but thankfully, you are good at it.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said, a little shyly.

  Chapter Six

  By the end of her trial fortnight, Charlotte felt she had proven to the duke that she could do the work she was hired to do. It had taken her about that long to put his records in order. Never mind actually doing much else, she thought. That couldn’t be helped. If he’d wanted her to look after other affairs in those fourteen days, he could have delegated them.

  She knocked gently on the gleaming wooden door to his study, wondering if she had arrived too early for their appointment. He had told her ten in the morning and she endeavored to be punctual, but she could hear no sounds from within.

  “Your grace?” she said, resting her hand on the doorframe.

  No answer.

  “Your grace,” she repeated, with less of a question in the words.

  When she went to knock on the door with a little more force, it fell open just slightly. Inside the study was Lord Hareden, his head resting on the wide desk—its tone matched the door, but overall the piece of furniture looked far newer—eyes closed. He looked asleep, at first, but for the strange look of his posture and the tension in his face. Charlotte frowned, and took a step inside the study so that she was barely within its threshold.

  Should she tap him on the shoulder? While he had caught her bodily only two weeks ago, even a very small amount of contact between them seemed ill-advised.

  She felt too much of a pull toward him.

  She had told herself that there would be no infatuation. But what she couldn’t control was attraction, and that was there in spades alongside good rapport. She could not help but speculate as to whether he noticed it, too. No matter if he did. She did not think she had the stomach for being a mistress. But God had given her eyes and she intended to use them, even if the thoughts behind that use were sinful.

  He was a man who simply exuded power and it was all the more interesting that he did not seem arrogant about it. He was in control of his status and power, not the other way around, unlike some boorish, unfortunate souls.

  “If you are coming in, Miss Masbeck, do shut the door.”

  Startled, she gave a huff. His eyes were still closed and his instruction came forth in a slurred grumble. She did as he said, though it was improper.

  He said, “I wonder what you must think of my family, Miss Masbeck.”

  Lingering near the door, she blinked and said, “I don’t think about it, your grace.” She was, naturally, lying. But it would be mortifying to admit the truth.

  “You are either a liar or a remarkable woman, then.”

  “Remarkable?”

  “I don’t believe there are many people who would not be intrigued by the familial mess in Rosethorpe. If you’re not interested, you must be remarkable.”

  “I’m not paid to speculate about your personal life, your grace.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it.”

  He still had not opened his eyes. She took the opportunity to study him unnoticed. He was the most stunning man she had ever seen, and it was a pity that she generally avoided looking at him for too long. Even slumped over his desk with a cheek resting on its surface, he was arresting.

  Before too much of a pause went by, she said, grasping for something to say, “I explored the gardens and even met your horse.” She had wanted to ask the hostler who was minding the horse how his grace got on while riding—having only the single hand—but evidently, he had adapted.

  She also knew it would be deeply rude to ask anyone.

  “Bottom.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The horse.”

  “Why,” she asked, after a breath, “in Heaven’s name have you called him Bottom?”

  “He’s a bit of an ass.”

  Charlotte was not prepared for that answer. “How…”

  “Have you seen any of Shakespeare’s plays?”

  “Yes…” she stared at him. “But…”

  “The comedies?”

  “Oh! Nick Bottom!”

  “Indeed.”

  She still had little idea why a horse was named for the man whose head was transformed into a donkey’s. “Your grace, I still must say I don’t quite…”

  “It’s nothing terribly complex. When Bottom was young, his ears were too big for his head. He was a beautiful boy, wonderful lines. Except for that. One of my grooms said he had the head of an ass.”

  She still wasn’t convinced that this was the kind of discussion she should be having with her employer, yet here she was.

  “Are you well, your grace?”

  “No.”

  His bluntness surprised her. “Shall I fetch Mr. Snow and have him send a boy for the physician?”

  “God, no. I don’t want a dressing down this early in the day.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Please sit, Miss Masbeck, or I shall be revealing my morally pitiable state through lamentable manners. I don’t believe I can stand at the moment.” One eye opened to look at her. It was red-rimmed. Sighing, she complied and sat in the comfortable, simply-hewn chair across from his own. He did not seem to be in too much distress, although he was acting most odd.

  “Lord Hareden, what has happened? Whatever do you mean by morally pitiable?”

  “First, I think you should be made aware that your offer of employment has been extended. Congratulations.”

  “That is hardly what I am concerned about, at present,” said Charlotte, even though part of her was relieved to hear it. The duke had not demonstrated a fickle streak that she had seen, but he was always within his rights to terminate their spoken agreement.

  Lord Hareden carried on as though he had not heard her. “I have had a contract drawn up by my solicitor. It doesn’t do to write one’s own contracts. Well, some people do, but I don’t prefer to let myself get away with i
t.”

  He was, she decided, speaking nonsense. Or, at the least, he was speaking nonsensically.

  “Lord Hareden,” she began.

  “I will sign it, and if you accept the terms, you may sign it.”

  She shook her head. “Of course, but…”

  “But?”

  “Your grace, have you been…” She searched for the most delicate way she had of asking if he was in his cups at ten of the clock. “Have you been imbibing this morning?”

  She would almost say Lord Hareden was drunk, except there was a bizarre, internal focus to his thoughts that she’d never encountered in a drunk man. It was obvious that he knew what he was on about and didn’t much care if she knew because he was going to speak regardless.

  “I suppose you’ll want to search for accommodation in Aldbury,” he said.

  Once again, it was as though he could not hear or had not heard her. She gazed at him questioningly. The truth of it was, after settling into something that resembled a routine, she no longer felt as strongly about relocating. But she was having difficulties following him.

  “Perhaps not, your—”

  Lord Hareden actually shushed her, waving his hand. “If I were you, I would get out from under this roof.”

  “I don’t see why you would say—”

  “No, no, I would,” he said, bringing his head up and sitting straight at last. Well, straight in comparison to just having been slumped over. Charlotte stared at him. If she was not mistaken, he wore yesterday’s clothing and no cravat. She tried not to look at the small patch of skin between his throat and the top of his chest, which peeked out from the white cloth. His dark brown hair was ruffled and unruly, while his cheeks and chin remained unshaven. “I would, Miss Masbeck. We shall infect you.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Hareden?” she said. She was interested in what he might say and morbidly enthralled by whatever state he was in.

  “My lady wife does exactly as she pleases and I try to numb myself. Both are normal, daily events, and they should not be.”

  “You try to… numb yourself?”

  “Can you not tell?”

  “Tell what?”

  “That I’m a fool.”

  I was not expecting that, she thought. She hoped her face remained still. “Your grace, I’ve never thought so.”

  “You have not been here long enough,” he said, gazing at her with something akin to pity mingled with warmth. “My life is such a lie, Miss Masbeck.”

  “Why?”

  They were venturing into very rough seas, here. She thought she knew to what he was alluding, but it was truly none of her concern. Charlotte did not want to pry into his personal life. It was just difficult not to learn more about it when she wasn’t the one opening the lid to Pandora’s Box. If he voluntarily told her things, then she could not be faulted for listening. And something else was amiss in the manor, though she could not put her finger on what. Not with enough certainty. Of course, she’d read the rumors, she knew what the ton said about Lord Hareden. But so far, she had not directly witnessed anything that might indicate Lady Hareden’s infidelity.

  In fact, the entire time Charlotte had been there, she had not seen the duchess since the day of their first disastrous encounter. It was unclear whether or not she’d gone away at any point, or if she was only making herself scarce. While Charlotte knew from Mrs. Snow that Lord Hareden spent time with Luke, and she herself had seen the duke with his son, she had not yet seen or heard of the duchess interacting with the poor boy.

  Though he had a veritable battalion of servants, including his devoted governess, a cheerful young woman from Aberystwyth called Jane, Charlotte felt he must get lonesome for his mother and father.

  She had met Luke only once, when he’d somehow toddled down all the flights of stairs and wide corridors from his nursery to Lord Hareden’s study.

  She’d been rifling through some files that had been unceremoniously stuffed into the bookshelf amongst actual books and was ready to howl out of frustration.

  Then came an uncertain cry of, “Papa?” from behind her.

  A little, round face full of doubt looked up into her own, and any idle thoughts Charlotte might have had about Luke not being Lord Hareden’s legitimate son were quickly bolstered.

  Luke’s hair was a mop of strawberry-blond curls and his eyes were fiercely green. She hadn’t thought much about the child’s parentage because it was a grossly inappropriate topic. Nonetheless, the idea that the duke’s son might not be his true son had entered her head a few times. It was impossible not to wonder, given all the rumors about his wife. And it wasn’t for her to decide if Lord Hareden was right or wrong for remaining in his own marriage, either. But she had thoughts on that, too.

  When she couldn’t think of the right reply to the little boy’s query—she did not know where the duke had gone that morning—and stood there for too long thinking, What do I say to him? the duke blundered, or rather, scrambled, to a halt behind the child.

  He said, “There you are, Luke. You are getting much better at hiding, aren’t you?”

  Relieved, Charlotte offered Luke a small smile as the duke took him in hand, but the boy did not return it. He didn’t seem afraid of her, precisely. Just very curious. The avid expression on his face made her want to laugh but, in truth, she did not think Luke would take kindly to being laughed at, even if she wasn’t really laughing at him.

  “Let’s leave Miss Masbeck to her work, eh?”

  Her heart warmed at the sight of the duke scooping up his son. He gave her an apologetic look. But for what? The boy hadn’t interrupted anything at all, really.

  Shaking her head, she returned her focus to the man before her in the present.

  He still hadn’t replied.

  “Your grace,” she said slowly and clearly. “Lord Hareden. Why do you feel your life is a lie?”

  She could not understand it. All of his work was in order—“in order” in the sense that nothing about it was untoward or underhanded, not that it was literally in order—he was a veteran of war, and unless he was talking about his lady wife, she could not suss out the matter to which he referred. So she waited.

  “It simply is,” he said. “Nothing is what it seems here, and I can’t help but think you have been drawn into it.”

  “That cannot be, your grace.”

  Charlotte glanced past the duke and her eyes landed on a small, brown glass bottle on the shelf behind him. Oh dear, she thought, with a sinking feeling in the hollow of her chest. It looked like some of the bottles of laudanum she’d seen—Aunt Edith was quite fond of the stuff for her headaches.

  Suddenly, the duke’s slurred and erratic speech made far more sense. He must have taken more than the recommended amount. Trying to veil her concern, for she doubted it would be appreciated, she waited for him to speak again.

  “You are very kind for saying so.”

  “I am simply trying to understand your reasoning, your grace. May I ask…”

  His eyes followed hers and he turned to look at the shelf. To her surprise, rather than acting ashamed, he smirked, his blue eyes gone rather dreamy and oddly feral at the same time.

  “I do apologize for my state. I’m not as used to high volumes as I once was.”

  “To the… medicine?”

  “You could call it that, I suppose.”

  “How much have you taken?”

  “A little too much, and yet not enough,” said Lord Hareden. Off her look, he clarified, “I’m no addict. It has been months since I’ve indulged so much. I probably came close to becoming one after this.” He motioned with his handless wrist, and she took this to mean his amputation. “But thankfully, I am in possession of great self-control and, in the end, I did not mind the withdrawals as much as I thought I might.” He shrugged. “Wine and spirits normally suit me better than opiates but, to be honest, I thought… why not?” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the bottle. “It is there. Why not use it?”


  Use it, indeed, thought Charlotte. She did not know what to say. It was rare that she was rendered speechless, but she was also finding it difficult to judge Lord Hareden. Many would, she knew, even despite his injury and past service to the country. Many were judging him, according to the papers. Did he realize? Had he seen something recently? Maybe that prompted this bender, she thought.

  “I have never had need to—”

  “No, of course not. You are healthy, and clever, and young.”

  Young? she thought. She did not know his age, exactly, but she hazarded a guess that it was not an enormous amount older than she was herself. Perhaps a decade at the most?

  Wary, she tried to assess his state without really staring at him. But she felt that he knew what she was about. He was too astute.

  “I know I should make no comment on it, but—”

  “But?”

  “Do you mean to go about your entire day like this?”

  Lord Hareden considered her question. “Well, if I do, it wouldn’t be the first time I have done so.”

  “Truly?”

  He humored her. “I shall wait until I’m a little less obvious and see how I fare. Food helps.”

  “You jest, surely,” said Charlotte skeptically. She crossed her arms from where she sat, momentarily forgetting to whom she was speaking. “Does no one notice, even when you are less, er, obvious?”

  He seemed amused. “I do not jest at all. And no one bothers to cross me, you see.” He looked at her significantly. “Besides, I don’t do this too often.”

  “Why do it this morning, then?” It was a bright and fine morning. Apart from that, she had heard no foul news percolate through the manor and knew of no special reason why he would imbibe so freely.

  Then again, Aunt Edith didn’t generally need a reason aside from a small headache to lean on the stuff so heavily. Such was its lure, or so Charlotte guessed. She did not like being too intoxicated and spirits always made her head pound, no matter how restrained she was in partaking.

  Even at her jumpiest and most despondent after Rowling—then again after seeing him so unexpectedly at Lord Wenwood’s townhouse—she had not slipped into overindulgence. Sometimes she wished to, so it was not that she couldn’t summon empathy for Lord Hareden, who had on the whole been through more than she had. But she was curious as to why this morning of all mornings he’d seemingly relapsed.