A Wicked Pursuit (27 page)

And then suddenly, in the middle of his unabashedly lovesick reverie, appeared his father.

“Harry, let me look at you!” he exclaimed before he was even in the door. Father was tall and straight, an imposingly handsome gentleman even as he neared fifty, and the very picture of what a duke should be. Beneath his powdered wig, his face was brown from the voyage from Italy, and as always he was dressed elegantly in the French manner, in a burgundy-red coat, costly lace dripping from the cuffs of his shirt, and silver braid on his black beaver hat.

But to Harry, he was simply Father, and while Harry bowed as best he could with the crutch, Father embraced him heartily, and with an open affection that he hadn’t shown Harry for years, not since he’d been a schoolboy. That alone told Harry how worried Father had been for him, but the uneasy mixture of shock and relief in his eyes above that beaming smile told him the rest.

“So Peterson still has you splinted, yes?” he said, stepping back to stare down at Harry’s leg. “But I see you can’t put much weight on the leg yet. You require those sticks to support you. That surprises me.”

“I’ll be rid of it all soon enough, Father,” Harry said confidently. “But both bones were broken, and Peterson is being cautious.”

Father nodded, yet clapped his hand on Harry’s shoulder as if he couldn’t bear to be separated.

“I met with Peterson in London, before I came here,” he said. “We’ll speak later of what he told me. Have you any lingering aches or discomforts?”

“No, no, Father, I’m vastly improved,” Harry said, striving to put the best face on his injury even as he worried uneasily about what Peterson had told the duke. “You should have seen me the week it happened.”

“I’m rather glad we didn’t, Harry,” said his stepmother, Celia, gliding forward to kiss Harry’s cheek. How had he missed seeing her, Harry wondered with chagrin. Like Father, she was impossible to overlook, in silk, furs, jewels, and an oversized plumed hat, a beauty still though she must be over forty, and a lady who’d brought Father nothing but joy when they’d wed four years ago. She, too, couldn’t quite hide her concern as she smiled. “It would have broken my heart to see you in such an unfortunate state. But your poor father—he was in such a froth to return to you that he made everyone thoroughly miserable on our voyage.”

Harry could well imagine that. Father did not like to be crossed, even by the wind and sea.

“But I am much better, Celia,” he said. “Infinitely better, and all on account of the great kindness and skill of this lady.”

He slipped his hand through Gus’s arm. Just as she’d done with Sheffield, she had somehow inexplicably faded into the background, and he had to physically bring her forward.

“Father, Celia,” he said, “I am honored to present to you Lady Augusta Wetherby. Lady Augusta, my father, the Duke of Breconridge, and my stepmother, the Duchess of Breconridge. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I would not have survived without her care.”

Gus curtseyed deeply, and with more grace than he expected given how terrified he knew her to be. As she bowed her head, he’d a glimpse of a long piece of loose hair trailing down her nape, escaped and unpinned, that made him smile fondly all over again.

“Miss Augusta,” Father said, taking her hand to raise her up. “We’ve heard much of you and your good works on my son’s behalf. I cannot thank you enough, and I shall always be in your debt for preserving him.”

For the first time Gus smiled. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured. “His lordship was my father’s guest, and I was honored to do it.”

“I’d say Harry was the honored one, to have the good fortune to have landed in your safekeeping,” Father said, smiling back at her. “I understand you were also responsible for plucking him from the leaves and muck.”

“Not myself, I didn’t, Your Grace,” she said, nervousness making her literal. “His lordship is rather too large for that.”

Father laughed, and she smiled again, encouraged, which encouraged Harry as well.

“But I did find his lordship after his fall, yes,” she said, clearly feeling braver. “I do not know what Sir Randolph has told you, Your Grace, but your son was in a most grievous condition and in much pain, yet he bore his sufferings from that time until now with great courage and fortitude.”

“Heavens, Harry,” exclaimed Celia with amusement. “It would seem that you have not only a savior in Miss Augusta, but a champion as well.”

Gus flushed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not intend to draw attention to myself, but rather to praise his lordship’s fortitude.”

“Which you did most admirably, my dear,” Father said, his smile indulgent and warm. “Now, having come so far, I would like to speak with my son in private.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Gus said, flustered. “Forgive me for not offering that convenience to you sooner. I trust the front drawing room, here, off this hall, will be agreeable. Is there anything else you require? Tea, wine, chocolate, or barley water?”

“Would you please walk with me in your garden, Miss Augusta?” Celia asked. “I’ve been so long in that stuffy carriage that a stroll among flowers seems like the pleasantest diversion possible.”

“Show Celia your mother’s roses,” Harry urged. “She’ll enjoy them.”

“I would indeed,” Celia said, retying the silk bow of her hat. “Roses are my favorite flower of them all.”

“Very well, Your Grace, I’ll be delighted,” Gus said quickly, curtseying again to the duke before she turned to lead Celia to the garden. “I hope you will both agree to be my father’s guests in this house for as long as you wish. I have already had rooms prepared for you.”

“You are too kind, Lady Augusta,” Celia said, following Gus. “The duke and I will be honored to stay here as your guests.”

“Well, now, Harry, that leaves us together,” Father said as the two women left the hall. “What is the state of Wetherby’s cellar? Does he have a brandy worth drinking?”

Harry smiled. “No need to throw yourself on Wetherby’s mercy, Father. I’ve arranged regular deliveries from Berry Brothers while I’ve been here, and I can offer an excellent Madeira for us.”

“Here I thought you were at death’s very door,” Father said wryly, “and yet you still had the presence to have your wine sent from London.”

“I’m your son through and through, Father,” Harry said. He sent one of the footmen off for the wine and led the way into the drawing room as two footmen held the double doors open. He tried not to feel self-conscious about the crutch, or be aware of how closely Father was watching him and how he moved. He could hardly chide Gus for being uneasy around his father if he himself was, too. What was the word she’d used? Daunted?

They sat in two chairs near an open window, with Harry making sure his good leg was extended and the crutches tucked behind the back of the chair. He was expecting news about his brothers and cousins, tales of the voyage from Italy, and a certain amount of raillery about having fallen from Wetherby’s horse in the first place.

But Father had different plans.

“I understand from Sheffield that you nearly died, Harry,” he said bluntly. “Would you agree with that estimation?”

Harry hesitated only a moment. “I would agree,” he said. “But I didn’t die.”

“I’m glad of it,” Father said, his voice softening. “Your brother would have made a wretched duke in your stead.”

He glanced down at Harry’s healing leg. “I’m glad you kept your limb, too. A gentleman should have two legs, as God intended.”

“That was Miss Augusta’s doing,” Harry said. “I’ve little memory of the events, but Tewkes assures me she fought Peterson tooth and nail on my behalf. Rather, on behalf of my leg.”

“Sheffield told me that, too,” Father said, taking the glass of brandy that the footman offered on a silver charger. “He’d only the highest praise for Lady Augusta.”

“Did he?” Harry grinned, unable to help it. “And here she thought Sheffield didn’t like her.”

“Oh, he liked her very much,” Father said. “And I agree with him that, even after a few moments in her company, I can see that she has far more merit than that silly sister of hers. If you’d wed Miss Wetherby, we would have accepted her into the family as your choice, but in my estimation, her inner qualities are no match for her beauty.”

“No, Father,” Harry said heartily—perhaps, he realized later, a bit too heartily. “I consider myself fortunately delivered from that match. There’s no comparison between the two sisters.”

“None at all, that I can see,” Father said. He paused, again watching Harry closely. “Have you found Miss Augusta as agreeable in your bed?”

Harry gulped. “Father, I don’t believe that the lady deserves—”

“No more, Harry, no more,” Father said with obvious disgust. “Don’t make it worse by lying to me. I saw it as soon as I entered this house. The way you two looked at each other made your entanglement so painfully obvious that I was ashamed for you. You know I’ve never interfered in your
petite amours
, but when you take advantage of an unattended and innocent lady—”

“It’s not like that, Father, not at all,” Harry said defensively.

Father stared at him over the Madeira, incredulous. “Then, pray, tell me, what is it like? Did you ravish the lady outright? Take her against the wall, or over a bench?”

“No.”
Harry was appalled that his father would suggest such things of him—and worse, of Gus. He knew what his father’s reputation had been before he’d remarried, knew that he’d been a regular patron of the most exclusive brothels in town, knew that he’d always kept a mistress. Objectively Harry knew all of this, because he was his father’s son, and his own past was much the same. But hearing Father now speak of Gus in the same way he’d speak of some Covent Garden doxie was intolerable.

“Don’t make Gus sound like one of your whores,” he said, his voice clipped and his hands bunching into fists at his sides. “I love her, Father, and when my leg has healed, I intend to ask her to marry me.”

“Perhaps you should have first informed your cock,” Father said irritably. “It appears to be the best-functioning portion of your anatomy at present.”

“Enough, Father,” Harry said curtly. “I won’t listen to you speak of Gus in this—”

“Oh, get down from your high horse, Harry,” Father said. “At least you care sufficiently about the lady to defend her. How long has this been going on? A week? A month?”

“Not long,” Harry said, hedging. How could he explain to Father that it had really only been a matter of hours? “Not that it is any of your affair.”

“Long enough, then,” Father said grimly. “And it
is
my affair, Harry. You will marry Lady Augusta, and as soon as it can be arranged. Today is Tuesday. Saturday should be time enough to procure a special license and make other arrangements, and to make sure her bumbling father is at last at her side to give her away.”

“Saturday? This Saturday?”

“Exactly,” Father said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair with impatience. “My concern is not entirely for Miss Augusta and her reputation, Harry. There may well be a third party to consider. You are my heir, and will be the next Duke of Breconridge. If you have already managed to fill Miss Augusta’s belly with your seed, then that child, too, may one day be a duke. And I will not have any scandal or suspicion attached to his birth, nothing that will bring any disgrace to him or this family. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, his head spinning from the suddenness of it. While he didn’t regret making love to Gus—not at all—for her sake he did regret the circumstances. Now it appeared that he’d deprived her not only of a proper seduction, but of a proper wedding as well.

And a child, a baby, the all-too-tangible proof of their coupling. His heir. How had he become so caught up in loving Gus that he’d forgotten that very distinct possibility?

“Of course I understand, Father,” he said slowly, his thoughts racing on to imagine himself with not only a wife, but a baby as well, and he was stunned by exactly how pleasurable those thoughts were. “I will be proud and honored to marry Gus—that is, Lady Augusta.”

Father lowered his chin and glowered. “‘Gus’?” he repeated, the single syllable rolling with dismay. “You call the woman who will be the next Duchess of Breconridge
Gus
?”

“I do indeed, Father.” Harry smiled wickedly. In the midst of this serious conversation, her nickname seemed such a ludicrously insubstantial objection that it was a relief. “Though I promise not to have her presented to His Majesty by that name.”

“Gus,” Father repeated, sighing with resignation. “I cannot fathom why you call such a winsome little lady by such an appalling name.”

“Because she’s always been called that,” Harry said, an obvious explanation to him, “and I cannot imagine calling her anything else. She’s my own dear Gus.”

“Gus,” Father said again, but more thoughtfully this time. “Lady Gus. No. You will not insist that I call her so?”

“You may call her whatever you wish,” Harry said, as firmly as he dared to Father, “and whatever she agrees to.”

Slowly Father smiled, too, leaning back in the chair. “You do love her, then.”

“I do,” Harry said, thinking of all that those words meant to him now. “After these last weeks, I cannot fathom my life without her in it.”

Father nodded. “Forgive me for paternal crowing, but I did tell you that that is how it should be with a wife. Honor her, protect her, respect her, indulge her, but do it all because you love her, not because it’s a duty or obligation. That’s the path to lasting happiness.”

“I do recall you saying that, Father,” Harry said, willing to humble himself a bit for the sake of the peace. “But I was a headstrong ass and didn’t believe you. Now I do, so you may crow at will.”

Father chuckled, motioning to the servant to refill his glass. “I’m glad you’re finally showing some sense, Harry. Better later than never. Shall we ask the ladies to join us, so we might begin making plans for your wedding?”

Harry leaned forward, his smile gone. “Don’t, Father, I beg you. Let me ask her to marry me first. I don’t want her thinking she’s being forced into this.”

Father’s brows rose. “Have you any doubts as to her answer? What lady would refuse you?”