When a Duke Loves a Woman Read online

  Dedication

  For Mary D. and Emily G.

  For keeping me sane during insane times

  To forever friendships

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London

  Winter 1841

  Ettie Trewlove was accustomed to the echo of babies wailing. After all, she had four, but these haunting cries came from beyond her thin wooden door. Waiting for the harsh knock that would call her forth, she looked at her darling boys, lined up in their tiny bed, asleep, and wondered how she would manage if she took on another. The few meager coins placed in her palm wouldn’t be enough to feed and clothe the newest one for long. It never was.

  “No more,” she whispered. “No more.”

  She had to be strong and turn this one away, no matter that it broke her heart doing so, no matter that she was possibly condemning the child to a worse fate.

  But the knock never sounded, yet the keening continued ringing in her ears. Slowly, ever so slowly, she approached the door—the frigid whistling wind slipping past its edges—released the latch, opened it, and gazed out. Big fat snowflakes floated down from the heavens, coating everything in pristine white that would soon turn black, including the wicker basket on her doorstep and the red-faced child within it, whose bare arms flailed ineffectually at the cold, the injustice, the harshness of life.

  Stepping out, Ettie glanced up and down the dismal street, not even a streetlamp to aid in her quest, only faint light feathering out from a window here and there. Not a soul to be seen, no one scurrying away. Whoever had deposited this bairn on her stoop had made a hasty retreat, but then humiliation seldom had anyone lingering in her presence.

  “Not even decent enough to leave a few pennies behind,” she grumbled as she bent down, lifted the basket into her arms, and carried it, along with its precious bundle, into the protective shelter that waited inside. She set it on the table and studied the little one, who continued to bellow indignantly.

  The covering was too thin to provide any sort of protection. Moving it aside, she saw that she’d been brought a girl. The child wore no clothing, no nappy. By the looks of her, she was only a few hours old. Life in the rookeries was neither kind nor safe for a lass.

  Cradling the babe as though she were delicate porcelain, Ettie Trewlove eased into the rocker before the hearth where a few lumps of coal released heat insufficient to warm most of the room. When she’d become a widow a little over three years ago, she’d needed some means to provide for herself. A woman she knew had boasted about the lucrative practice of caring for the well-to-do’s by-blows. Foundling homes wouldn’t take those conceived in sin, born of shame. Neither would workhouses. What was to be done with them when their very presence was a mark of disgrace?

  But she could no longer bring herself to cast aside the innocents as many did, which was the reason she had four boys dependent on her. And now this little one.

  She might not have much in the way of creature comforts to offer the child, but she did have love. She prayed it would be enough.

  Chapter 1

  Whitechapel

  Mid-August 1871

  He died because of a damned timepiece.

  Antony Coventry, the ninth Duke of Thornley, took what comfort he could from knowing word of his idiocy would go to the grave with him.

  Although at that particular moment, any sort of comfort was difficult to come by. The ruffians were indeed rough, two of them tugging off his boots, another his jacket, while the fourth struggled to unhook the watch chain from his waistcoat button. Odd thing that the thief was now taking such care when only moments before he’d landed a blow to the side of Thorne’s head that had left him temporarily senseless.

  Which might have resulted in his decision to stand his ground over the watch.

  Without much of a fuss he’d handed over his purse and signet ring. He wasn’t a fool. Four to one odds weren’t good. Money and rings could be replaced. The punch to his temple had come about because he hadn’t surrendered the items quickly enough for the ringleader’s satisfaction.

  “We want the timepiece faster,” the lout had stated with a sneer.

  The timepiece. It had been handed down through four generations. The engraved crest on the cover had been worn thin from one duke after another rubbing and worrying his thumb over it when faced with a difficult decision. He’d been ten and five when his father, on his deathbed, in a moment of rare lucidity, had placed it against his palm and folded his fingers over it. “Your legacy. Guard it well. Make me proud.”

  So to the oafs surrounding him in the dark mews with the fog swirling about, he’d announced, “I fear, gentlemen, I’ve handed over all I intend. The watch stays with me.”

  He might have answered differently had he seen the knives earlier. No, he bloody well would not have. They’d gotten him in the thigh, the side, the shoulder, the arm. The blows from hard knuckles and booted feet that had followed when he dropped to his knees had taken him down completely, left him lying there in the dirt and grime, feeling his warm blood soaking through what remained of his clothing and turning cold. The edges of his vision had long been darkening until all he could see were the grubby hands closing around the treasured watch.

  “Got it!” the bastard cried.

  “No!” screamed through the pulsing thrum rushing between his ears. Must have screamed through his mouth as well because the thief widened his eyes just as Thorne’s tightly balled fist, backed by whatever lingering strength remained to him, landed a solid punch to the miscreant’s jaw. The satisfying crunch of bone cracking echoed through the night just before another knife slid through skin and meat and muscle—

  “Oi! What the devil are you lot up to?”

  The men froze as the demanding shout reverberated around them, bouncing off the walls of the surrounding buildings.

  “Christ, it’s Gil. Let’s get the bloody ’ell outta ’ere,” the leader muttered as though his jaw was no longer properly hinged.

  He heard their thundering feet fading away in the distance as they raced off. Another sound followed, softer footsteps but more hurried. He became vaguely aware of a presence, someone kneeling beside him, gentle hands touching him with care.

  “Ah, hell, you’re a bloody mess.”

  An angel’s voice. He didn’t think she was swearing, but making a truthful statement regarding his blood-soaked clothes. Where had she come from? A companion to the fellow named Gil? Had he gone after the footpads? He wished he could see her more clearly but the darkness was closing in on him. “My . . . watch.”

  She leaned nearer and brought with her the scent of . . . beer? “Pardon?”

  “Watch.” The blackguard had dropped it. He’d heard it fall. In de
speration, he patted the ground at his side. He needed to find it.

  Then she took his hand, cradled it within hers, long slender fingers closing around him. “There’s no timepiece, pet. Nothing here.”

  There had to be. He was supposed to pass it on to his son someday. But there would be no son now. No heir. No spare. No wife.

  Only death. In a rotten-smelling, mucked-up alleyway that had suddenly turned frigid, causing ice to form in his veins, to leak through to his bones. The only warmth offered was where she touched him. He tightened his hold, hoping her heat would spread through him, would give him strength. He couldn’t die, not like this, not without a fight.

  He couldn’t give up. Not until he found Lavinia.

  Gillian Trewlove worked her arm around the man’s shoulders, tried to leverage him up, and swore softly. “You’re bloody heavy.”

  Stretched out as he was, it was difficult to tell precisely, but she’d place him at a couple of inches taller than she was, which put him on the higher side of six feet. She patted his bristly cheek until he stirred from the depths of oblivion into which he’d fallen. “Come on now, pet. Up with you.”

  He nodded, struggled to push himself up to a sitting position, while she did what she could to assist him, tugging here, pushing there, and ignoring his groans of pain. The coppery stench of blood scented the air. His clothes were wet, and it wasn’t from the dampness of the heavy fog settling in and wrapping around them like a wispy shroud.

  “Look, I can’t carry you on my own. I know the darkness is calling to you, and she’s a tempting mistress, but you have to resist. You’ve got to fight her and help me here.”

  Another nod. A grunt. Labored breathing. She slid in against him, slipped beneath his arm, giving him her shoulder to use as a crutch while she snaked her arm around his back, closed her hand against his side—he released another groan muffled by clenched teeth—and felt the liquid warmth pour over her fingers. Not good. Not good at all.

  Leaning on her, using the brick wall for support, he pushed, she pulled, until he was on his feet. Ah, yes, well over six feet.

  “All right now. My place is just up here. Not far.” As usual she’d closed up her tavern at midnight, her employees had all headed home after setting the place to rights, and she’d worked on her books for a while. She’d finished up at half past one and had been taking out the rubbish when she heard the commotion, not at all pleased to find nefarious deeds occurring behind her establishment. She didn’t allow for shenanigans inside; she certainly wasn’t going to allow them to occur on the other side of her walls. Her tolerance for misdeeds was a low threshold that went even lower when it came to causing injury to people.

  Their pace was slow, his breathing harsh and uneven, and more than once he stumbled, staggered, righted himself. Cooing gently, she encouraged him with words of praise for each step taken when he didn’t falter or fall. She considered hauling him into the tavern, but it would be bad luck if he died there. Better option was her flat, although the stairs would be a challenge. Finally they reached them. “Grab the banister, pull yourself up. Lift your feet a little bit higher.”

  “Right.” The word came out low but determined.

  “You’re going to make it.”

  “Better. Have some scores to settle.”

  A man with a purpose could survive a hell of a lot. Her brothers had taught her that. “Save your breath and your strength for the climb.”

  It was long and arduous, but she had to give him credit for never faltering, even though he’d begun to shiver, and that concerned her. It was a cool night, but not so much that one needed much of a wrap, and their efforts were keeping her far too warm. But then she had a great deal more blood rushing through her, while his was leaking out, leaving a trail marking his progress. He dropped to his knees three steps shy of the landing, and she nearly tumbled on top of him. Catching her balance, she knelt beside him. “Almost there.”

  Crawling, he laboriously took one step, then another. She hopped to her feet, located her key, unlocked the door, and swung it open. “When you get inside, you can collapse on the floor.”

  He did just that.

  She rushed out, down the stairs, and back into the tavern. “Robin!”

  The little urchin who slept on a small bed near the fireplace, in spite of her best efforts to move him into a proper home—he simply wouldn’t have it—sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Aye?”

  “Fetch Dr. Graves to my flat immediately.” She slapped some coins into his hand. “Take a hansom if you can find one. You need to be quick. Tell him there’s a man dying on my floor.”

  “Did ye try to kill ’im, Gillie?”

  “Him,” she repeated automatically, emphasizing the h, always striving to improve his pronunciation of words because she’d learned early on that speech affected people’s perceptions of a person. “If it’d been me, there wouldn’t have been a try, now would there? He’d be dead.”

  “Wot ’appened then?”

  Another h lost, but she didn’t have time to correct him again. “Later. Fetch Dr. Graves. Be quick about it.”

  The lad shoved his feet into his shoes and took off at a gallop. Hurrying back to her lodgings, she was discouraged to find the man hadn’t moved a muscle during the time she was gone. Placing her fingers above his upper lip, she felt his faint breath whisper over her skin. Relief washed through her. Leaning near his ear, she commanded, “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  Her voice came to him through the fog, soft but slightly raspy, urging him on, keeping him tethered to this world when his aching body and wounded soul wanted to sink into a vast oblivion where peace hovered. She draped a thick woolen blanket over him, but his shivering continued unheeded, his clenched teeth doing little to prevent their clattering. She pressed a hand to the worst of the gashes. Hurt like the very devil, but a distant part of him that could still process thought understood she needed to stanch the flow of blood if he were to have any hope at all of surviving.

  “Stay with me now,” she urged. “Dr. Graves will be here soon.”

  Graves? One of the physicians to the queen? How did she, living in the squalor of Whitechapel, know such an illustrious man?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The other thoughts flittered away as he worked to concentrate on responding to such a simple question. “Thorne.”

  “I’m Gillie.”

  Was she the Gil the ruffians had run from? He’d thought it short for Gilbert. Squinting, he fought to bring the hovering person into sharper focus, but his vision had never been particularly clear when it came to viewing things that were near. He made a reach for his spectacles housed in his jacket pocket before remembering the ruffians had taken it. So he concentrated on what he could determine about the individual who’d come to his aid.

  Short hair, cropped just below the ears. A dark shade. He couldn’t discern specifics in the dim lighting. Blouse . . . not a blouse. Shirt. Similar to his. A kilt? No, no tartan. It was plain. A skirt? It made no sense. Why would the ruffians run from a woman?

  “I own the tavern downstairs.”

  A man obviously, a man with the voice of an angel. He didn’t care. Bloke was keeping him from leaving this realm behind. That was all that mattered.

  Then the angel began reciting the process for brewing beer. Definitely a man. A woman would have described the various stitches in a sampler. His mind was a muddled mess. Of course it was a man. A woman’s presence wouldn’t have chased off four ruffians, hauled him upstairs, entertained him with an accounting of the differences between various liquors.

  He didn’t know why he was disappointed with the truth. He knew only that the fingers combing softly through his hair were the gentlest he’d ever known.

  Chapter 2

  She lost him. Somewhere during her explanation regarding the difference between brandy and cognac, he’d drifted away. Realizing it had been a punch to her gut. She didn’t want to lose him, had wrapped a strip of cloth tightl
y around his thigh, stuffed linen into the other wounds—in spite of his crying out—and pressed her hand against the worst, the one at his shoulder, which seemed to be the deepest gash. Beneath her fingers, the stream of blood had slowed to a trickle, seemed to have stopped in other spots if the lack of liquid creeping up to turn white linen crimson was any indication, but he was so deuced pale as though very little life-affirming fluid remained to give him color.

  The pounding of rushing footsteps hitting wooden planks echoed up the stairs, vibrating off her door. Thank God! The resounding knock was brisk.

  “Hurry,” she yelled, hating the few seconds of delay, wishing she hadn’t closed the door but she’d wanted to trap as much warmth as she could inside in hopes of keeping the stranger from shivering to death.

  William Graves was through the portal and kneeling beside her before she could take much notice of his disheveled appearance. She supposed Robin had woken him, and he’d been quick to dress, probably using only his fingers to tame his riot of pale curls. Stubble marked his jaw.

  “Caw! Blimey! ’E’s a bloody mess!” Robin declared as he followed the physician in and, with big round eyes, stared at the man lying prone on the floor. “I ain’t swearin’, Gillie. I promise. I’m talkin’ about all the blood.”

  “I know, Robin. You did a good job. Off to bed with you now. You don’t need to be seeing this.”

  “But—”

  She gave him a glare that had him backing up two steps. “To bed. And don’t tell anyone else about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said.”

  He treated her to a disgruntled look, obviously not satisfied with her reasoning, before turning on his heel and shuffling his feet as he went out the door. Honestly, the male of the species sulked more than any female she’d ever met. Life was full of disappointments. Best to learn from them before tossing them aside like so much rubbish and moving on.

  “What happened?” Graves asked, bringing her attention back to him. He’d moved aside the blood-tinged blanket.