A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (36 page)

Home at last.

His mother and Edward were inside.

And Suri.

His heart kicked up another notch and heat rushed through him. He rubbed at his jaw, his hand scraping along three day’s growth of stubble. He’d clenched his teeth so damn long, his head ached. Nonetheless, his jaw tightened again. “Blast it, Eades, get a move on. Sorry to keep you waiting, Marguerite. The old man creaks, he moves so slowly.”

She heaved a wobbly sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance the storm might be keeping Jeremy awake. The way things used to be, the fouler the weather, the sounder he slept.”

She’d sniffed after her last words which told John she wept again. God knew, with what she’d been through, she had a right as to how she handled her emotions. He drummed his gloved fingers against the leather seat and fought a fierce urge to blast out of the carriage on his own.

Likely asleep, the lot of them.

At last the carriage door swung open. Shahira leaned forward, ready to sprint. John jumped out with her, handed Marguerite down, and they dashed up the steps beneath umbrellas held by two footmen. “Don’t bother hauling the luggage through the side entry,” John called out to the men. “Bring it in through here. The lady will need dry clothing in a hurry.”

Lightning flashed blue white through the night. Thunder cracked and a gust of wind blew an umbrella inside out. Marguerite squealed and scampered into the entry hall ahead of Shahira.

“Your Grace.” Eades stepped back, eyes wide at the sight of the big cat. Just as quickly, he composed himself with a lift of his chin. “Good to see you, sir. Her Grace is still about, going over accounts. I’ll send for her.”

Going over accounts? Shouldn’t Edward be the one doing—oh, hell, he’s still drinking.

John shucked his wet jacket, handed it to a footman, and grabbed the towel in the footman’s hand. He ran it through his hair and across his face. “Since you know Her Grace so well, Eades, you’d best be the one to inform her of my presence. My walking directly in on her might be too much of a shock. This is Lady Marguerite, by the way. Jeremy’s mother.”

A small nod was all Eades acknowledged, but John knew the butler well. The man was prone to clenching and unclenching his left hand whenever nervousness swept through him, and the hand was moving at a rapid pace. “Master Jeremy will be delighted to see you, milady.”

A lady’s maid stepped forward. Eades turned to Marguerite. “Miss Thurston’s maid will show you to your chamber. You’ll be assigned a proper maid on the morrow.”

Suri’s maid?
John glanced at the stairs and back to Eades. “See to it she gets Lady Marguerite into some dry clothes.” He paused a beat. “Before she awakens Jeremy.”

Marguerite’s brows drew together. “Should I? At this hour?”

John glanced to her trembling fingers, cocked a brow, and smiled a little. “I doubt your son would forgive you if you didn’t.”

Tears filled her eyes. “My heart’s about to jump out of my throat.”

He eyed the stairs again and a profound fullness seized his chest, threatening to burst through his ribs. He struggled to relay calmness in his words. “I sympathize, madam.”

Marguerite touched his sleeve. “Bless you, John. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

He shoved his damp hair off his forehead, gave her a slight nod, then turned to the maid. “See Lady Marguerite to the nursery, if you will.”

Eades stepped forward. “I’m afraid Master Jeremy does not reside on the third floor, sir.”

John frowned. “Where the devil is he?”

“Directly across the corridor from Miss Thurston. She used to keep a spare bed for him alongside hers, but he’s grown comfortable enough to be on his own. Just not so far from her as the nursery, sir.”

“Oh my,” Marguerite murmured.

The maid stepped forward and indicated the stairs where two footmen were already carting luggage. “This way, if you please, milady.”

John regarded the ascending entourage, his thoughts focused on Suri. “Is my room intact, Eades?”

“As you left it, Your Grace.”

“Is Edward abed?”

“I do not know, sir.”

How the hell long could John keep old stiff-rumped Eades at attention while he worked his way into the one question that caused his heart to beat out of rhythm—where was Suri’s room?

“Has Edward taken the duke’s chambers?”

“No, sir. He refused to occupy them. Kept to the room he’s had all his life.”

Was that hesitation in Eades’ voice? And why was the man’s fist pumping again?
What the hell is going on?
“And Miss Thurston? She’s abed as well?”

Eades didn’t so much as blink. “Yes, sir. In the old duchess’s chambers.”

John lifted a brow.

“Since Her Grace hasn’t occupied the space in years, she placed Miss Thurston there. Thought she’d be more comfortable with her own private bathing chamber, sir.”

“And you say she has already retired?”

“Yes, sir. The miss goes to bed with the chickens and rises with them as well, since Master Jeremy took to looking after the lambs. Milady oversees him and then takes to the horses. Spends most of her days training them, she does. You’ll be right proud of the fine stock she is turning out, sir.”

There went Eades’ fist again.
It must be killing the old man to stand here so calmly.
“Inform the duchess of my return,” John said softly. “I’ll see Shahira to the orangery. Tell Mother I’ll meet her in the library.”

Eades gave a barely discernible nod. “As you wish.”

John started down the hall. He paused. “Oh, Eades.”

“Your Grace?”

“Better post a warning notice at each of the orangery doors. No telling where Shahira might wander should she escape. My guess would be the sheep’s pen for lunch.”

Eades looked down his nose at the cat. “I’ll be certain to pass the word, Your Grace.”

John took off on a trot with the sleek cheetah stretching her long legs in a slow, graceful rhythm beside him. “Feels good after being cooped up on the carriage floor, doesn’t it, girl?” The exercise did John a world of good as well. Cramped up in a small hired conveyance all those long hours, while he itched to arrive, had nearly done him in.

“Here you go, girl.” John opened the door to the large indoor garden and the two stepped inside. He knelt and scrubbed at the back of her ears. “We’ve a bit of settling in to do, but we’ll see you have a good home.” He removed the chain from Shahira’s plain collar and hung it on a hook.

“Hard for me to see, but there used to be a barrel or two of water over here somewhere.” He inched forward, feeling with an outstretched hand and a foot. Lightning lit the night, illuminating the glass hothouse. “Ah, yes. Here we are—all the fresh water your belly can hold.” The cat plunked down on top of John’s boots. He gave another scratch behind her ears and slid his feet out from under her. “Sorry. I’ve plans tonight. Be a good girl, and I’ll see you on the morrow.” He slipped out the door and headed for the library, rolling up his damp sleeves as he went.

“John!” His mother rushed from where she stood beside a blazing fire, took his hands in hers and squeezed. She blew a kiss on either cheek.

Hands clasped to hers, he peered into her eyes. Then he grinned. “Is that it, Mother? A couple of kisses blown across my cheeks? How typically French of you.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and she leaned into him. “Oh, John,” she whispered. “You are not a dream,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Tears. Now there was something he’d never seen coming from her. He’d caught sight of wrinkled handkerchiefs in her hand when his father had passed on, but the tears that had wet them had all been let in private, God love her. Pity swept through him, and his arm went around her. He gave her a tight hug, something he’d not done before. He held her, resting his chin atop her head. “I feel the same, Mother. Am I dreaming or am I home at last?”

She pulled her head back and regarded him. “It is good to have you back.”

He lifted a brow. Ever the cool and detached duchess, no matter the circumstances. Her aristocratic French breeding would allow nothing less. He’d wait to discuss James and his death once she broached the subject—likely over tea—her odd, but predictable, way of handling bad news.

How different things are about to be with Suri.

He forged ahead in a manner he knew his mother could tolerate. “Give it a few days and you’ll be so irritated with my stubborn ways, you’ll be back to calling me your worst nightmare.”

His mother stepped from his arms, tugged a square of lace from her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. “I’d wager any mother, with sons as wild as you three, has uttered the same on occasion. Especially with no daughters to buffer the onslaught of male turpitude. And speaking of wild, Eades informs me you’ve brought a jungle cat with you?”

“She’s a pet.”

A tiny sigh escaped her lips. “Doesn’t surprise me.” The duchess was back in full form—chin up, spine stiff. “You’re wet. You should change.”

He shrugged. “I’ll be on my way to my chambers in a bit to retire.”
Like hell.
“I’ll see to getting out of them then.”

At his words, something in his mother’s demeanor wavered. She made her way to a chair by the fire and sat with her hands clasped in her lap, spine rigid. John followed and leaned his shoulder against the mantel, reveling in the fireside heat against his damp backside. “Do you mind if we wait until the morrow for the full story? I’d like to tell it only once.”
Or twice, seeing as how I am about to awaken someone.
His heart kicked up at the thought.

Her lips thinned.

She’s read my mind.
“Eades said you were working on the accounts. Where’s Edward?”

When she did not answer, he turned and faced the fire in order to grant her a modicum of dignity. He leaned an elbow on the mantel, rested his chin in his hand, and brushed his thumb over his lips. “Is he drinking?”

An odd silence fell over the room. Somewhere a clock rang out the hour—slow, deep, and melodious. He counted the chimes. Midnight.

“Answer me, Mother. Is he drinking?”

“Worse than ever, I’m afraid.”

Christ.
“And what do you do about it?”

Another beat of silence. “Mother?”

“What can I do, John? I’ve never been able to stop him. None of us has.”

“Any idea what might have caused him to worsen?”

When she failed to respond, he faced her. Her knuckles were white—he’d anticipated as much. But he hadn’t expected her to be hunched over, working her handkerchief in knots, and looking like the devil had come to call.

Her spine straightened when she realized he’d turned and was staring at her. “Knowing his only brother is alive, might help his…his situation. I…I believe he’s going to be exceedingly relieved to hear you’ve returned to take your rightful place as duke. He abhorred the idea of taking on the title.”

“And all that goes with it.”

Anger flashed through her eyes. “Have a care, John. He’s not of the same ilk as you.”

“You make a mollycoddle out of him, Mother, the way you give in to him at every turn.”

“I…I have my reasons.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands over his lids. God, he was tired. “I’m going to retire. I’ll see Edward in the morning.”

“I’ll find him, John. I’ll tell him you are here,” she said quietly.

In her eyes, pain shimmered at the edge of fortitude. A strange foreboding snaked through him. He nodded. “He may be your son, but he’s my brother as well.” He started off, that old guilt wending through him. “And I do care for him.”

“I know you do.” Her hushed words floated in the air behind him like down feathers in a soft breeze. “Remember that.”

He exited the library and once down the corridor, climbed the flight of stairs two at a time. Lord, it felt like more than three years had passed since he’d last scaled these steps. But never was there a more urgent reason to do so than now.

A quandary suddenly gripped him. How the devil should he approach Suri? Would he scare her half to death if he simply walked into her room and climbed into bed with her? Or lit a candle and said, “Wake up. I’m alive?” A stray thought inched around one corner of his mind that perhaps he should wait until morning. He snorted at the fool idea.

Turning to his left, away from where Suri slept, he strode to his chambers and entered. A fire blazed in the large fireplace and an oil lamp flickered next to his shaving stand. Before the fire stood a brass tub filled with steaming water. Next to it stood Jenkins at the ready, a stack of towels on a chair beside him.

If that wasn’t a familiar sight. John yanked his shirt over his head, tossed it at the man, and grinned. “Hello, Jenkins. It’s been awhile.”

His manservant smiled so wide John could see his back teeth—what was left of them.

“Good to have you back, Your Grace. Kitchen’s hopping like Christmas morn. Cook’ll be up the night. You’ll see apple tarts on the sideboard come morning.”

John chuckled. “Which means you’ll get your fill as well.” Making his way over to the bootjack near the wardrobe, he glanced around as he worked off his boots. Not a thing out of place. Desk, canopy bed, and wardrobe in the same place they’d always been, all glossed with beeswax. Same blue coverlet and drapes. He wiggled his toes in the Axminster carpet. The room looked as though he’d never left. Familiarity was a good thing tonight—pumped up the blood already throbbing in his veins and vanquished his fatigue. He stripped the rest of his damp clothing from his body and stepped over to the steaming tub. “This won’t be a long bath, Jenkins. I can manage things from here.”

“Yes, sir, but the shave, sir. Do you wish to wait ’til morning?”

John swept a hand over his bristled jaw and frowned. “How the deuces could I forget something like a shave after three days on the road?” He moved to the mirror and winced at his reflection. “Good God, Jenkins. It’s a wonder my own mother recognized me.”

He plunked down in the chair beside the shaving stand. “Do your best, but make it quick.”

When Jenkins discreetly laid a towel over John’s naked lap before setting the razor to the strop, John snorted. Jenkins worked up a lather on the shaving brush and swirled it against John’s cheek. “Word has it you put a wild leopard in the orangery, sir.”