The Other Duke (14 page)

“Then find someone else,” Crispin encouraged. “I could make inquiries on your behalf.”

Rafe arched a brow at the desperation that laced his brother’s tone. “Why are you so set upon my finding a mistress? Why not let me have a few weeks to play husband before you hurtle me into some other woman’s arms?”

Crispin ducked his head and drew a long breath before he replied, "I suppose I worry that you may get caught up in this ludicrous life that has been fitted over your own. That you will lose yourself.”

Rafe stared at him, taking in his knitted brow, his tight frown, the concern in his bright eyes, so like Rafe’s own. He reached out and squeezed Crispin’s shoulder.

“You are worrying over nothing, I assure you. Things will be different, of course, now that this unexpected change has happened, but I have no intentions of abandoning you.” Crispin’s gaze snapped up and Rafe saw that he had struck upon the real issue. “Nor will I lose myself.”

But as he made that promise to his brother, Rafe couldn’t help but wonder if he could keep it. After all, when he heard the words in his own voice, he recognized that they were a lie. He was already beginning to lose himself. To the title, to the future…and to the woman who had wound her way into his life and his bed.

Serafina folded her hands in her lap and tried very hard to make her right foot stop tapping anxiously beneath the hem of her gown.

“I don’t want to be here,” she murmured to herself as she looked at the door across the room. But escape was wishful thinking. Just as it always had been when dealing with Cyril or his family.

As if on cue, the door to the parlor opened and Cyril’s mother swept in. The dowager duchess was draped in black from head to toe and her face was pale and drawn with grief.

In that moment, Serafina felt nothing but pity for Hesper and rose to offer her assistance to a seat. But as she neared her once-future mother-in-law, Cyril’s mother recoiled, her glare sending a perfectly clear message of her continued hatred for Serafina.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Serafina said with a slight incline of her head.

“Good afternoon,” the dowager said in an icy tone as she motioned Serafina back to her place. Once they were settled, Hesper looked Serafina up and down with a loud sniff. “Wearing color, I see.”

Serafina flinched at the accusation. “My lady, once I married Rafe, your son became my late cousin. You know that the mourning rules for a cousin are different than those of a spouse. I am wearing violet, of course, out of a respect for Cyril.”

Violet that she despised more than any other color she had ever worn. She couldn’t wait to pack her mourning gowns away for good and wear greens and blues and joyful reds again. They would certainly reflect her renewed spirit far better.

“
Rafe
,” the dowager said, practically spitting the word out like it was a curse. “You call him Rafe.”

Serafina shifted. She hadn’t realized she had used Rafe’s nickname so casually. It was difficult not to when she always thought of him that way. Rafe Flynn forever, regardless of what propriety dictated.

“If you feel that is flippant, I believe you know I mean my husband, His Grace, the Duke of—”

Suddenly Cyril’s mother was on her feet. She swung, and her hand connected with Serafina’s cheek with a hard slap that turned her head and left her face stinging. She staggered up and backed away, staring at Lady Hartholm in shock.

The dowager was panting, her eyes flashing hatred and violence and her hands shaking at her side.

“
Never
call him that,” the dowager warned. “Not to me.”

Serafina swallowed hard, folding her emotions carefully away, just as she had always been forced to practice with Cyril and his family.

“Why did you ask me here, my lady?” she asked, glad her voice didn’t tremble too much.

Hesper’s face contorted into another mask of hatred and pain. “I’ve heard you and my nephew have been parading around London, flaunting your ill-gotten gains at parties.”

Serafina shook her head slowly. “I assure you that is not true. Yes, Rafe—”

She cut herself off. What should she call her husband if Lady Hartholm didn’t like his nickname or his title?

“My husband and I,” she began again, “have gone to one party and accepted invitations to two other events, one tonight and another Sunday afternoon. But we flaunt nothing, I assure you. We are currently a novelty due to the tragedy surrounding Cyril’s death and the shock of his cousin inheriting both a title and a bride. I’m certain that interest will fade soon enough. My husband is only trying to maintain a dignified view of the title.”

“Dignified,” Lady Hartholm jeered as she paced to the window and stared out at the sunny garden. “What would
anyone
with the last name of Flynn know of dignity? That man and his family have been a blight on my husband and son for decades. That
he
would hold the title my son earned…it sickens me.”

Serafina pursed her lips with displeasure. She so wanted to ask this woman how Cyril had
earned
anything in his life. By sitting around on his aristocratic backside? By abusing anyone he considered beneath him? By being a pompous know-it-all when he was quite possibly the most stupid man she had ever had the displeasure to meet?

Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to remind herself that his mother had loved him deeply. Almost to his detriment, for she had allowed him his every whim, which had never improved his personality.

But his loss had clearly destroyed this woman.

“I can imagine how difficult this must be for you,” she said softly, not meeting Lady Hartholm’s gaze for fear her true feelings would be clear. “But I cannot change what has already transpired. Is there anything my husband and I can do to ease this transition?”

Lady Hartholm spun around and speared Serafina with a dark and angry glare. “Ease this transition? Yes, my dear, I think there is something.”

Serafina moved forward a step. “Of course—please tell me.”

“
Die
,” the other woman said. “You can both die like my son and let the title die with you. I would rather have it buried in the ground than belong to a Flynn like Raphael or Crispin. And you…you killed my son and you can rot with your new husband.”

Serafina recoiled at the ugly, bitter words. “My lady!” she gasped. “I—I—”

But there was nothing to say in the face of such hate and vitriol and madness. So she inclined her head slightly.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss, my lady. I will leave you.”

She backed from the room, noting how Cyril’s mother tracked her each and every move, her puffy eyes wide and wild. It was only in the foyer that Serafina turned her back and exhaled a breath she felt she had been holding for ages.

“My carriage, please,” she managed to whisper to the dowager’s butler.

She looked over her shoulder as she awaited his delivery, suddenly uneasy with the dowager being so close when her rage was a bubbling cauldron that felt ready to overflow.

“Your Grace,” the butler said, pulling her from her thoughts and motioning for the front door and the carriage that had pulled up on the drive.

She nodded and moved out into the fresh air, which she gulped in like a woman starved. Her footman nodded as he opened his door.

“Tell Waters that I would like to go to Mrs. Richards’,” she said with a shiver as she looked back up at the dowager house. “I need to see her.”

“Great God, how unpleasant,” Emma said, refreshing Serafina’s long-cold tea with a shake of her head. “But that woman was always hateful, just like her horrible son. You are better free of them.”

Serafina sighed. “But in a way, I’m not free at all. She is still the dowager, Emma. And Rafe’s aunt. She can press her influence if she chooses to do so. And when she said we should die…”

“Are you worried?” Emma cocked her head. “Honestly, it sounds like the ravings of a woman crazed by grief and…well, simple nastiness.”

“Perhaps,” Serafina conceded, though the situation didn’t feel that straightforward.

Emma shrugged. “She adored Cyril. She must feel his loss keenly.”

“She does, I’m certain,” Serafina agreed. “And that I’m getting something good from this arrangement chafes her even more.”

Now Emma grinned. “Yes, let us get to the something good and stop talking about nasty Cyril’s even nastier mother!”

Heat flooded Serafina’s cheeks at the knowing look on Emma’s face. “Emma!”

“Oh, come now. I have met the new duke and he is terribly handsome. But I know you are not keen on change, so the fact that you have moved yourself into his London townhouse rather than continuing to live at the ducal estate makes me think he is something
more
than you expected.”

Serafina pushed to her feet and paced away from her friend to look out the parlor window. Thinking about Rafe was confusing, and nothing seemed to make it less so.

“Serafina,” Emma said in an almost singsong tone. “You cannot pretend my statement away.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m just thinking of a way to explain.” Serafina sighed. “Rafe is different than I thought he would be when we met. When I met him, I was wary, both because he is related to Cyril and also because he
is
so terribly handsome. He knows it too. So I assumed he would be…well, perhaps just as bad as his cousin.”

As she turned to face Emma, her friend leaned forward. “But?”

“But although he is a rake and a rogue and very aware of his looks and the power they grant him, he is also…”

She hesitated, because to say out loud the things she had seen in her husband seemed too intimate. And terrifying. Because once they were said out loud, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel them.

“You delight in leaving me in suspense,” Emma huffed, though her eyes twinkled with teasing. “Or are you trying to find the words again?

Serafina covered her hot cheeks with icy fingers. “Rafe can be very kind. Even when he found out that I was not…
untouched
, he was never accusatory or hateful.”

Emma’s smile fell, and she flinched. “He realized it?”

She nodded. “He’s experienced enough, of course, that he knew. I expected judgment and even that he might despise me, but it is Cyril who Rafe despises because…because I told him the truth.”

“The truth?” Emma repeated. “You mean you told your husband that his cousin forced himself on you?”

Serafina nodded slowly.

Emma’s mouth dropped open. “But you’ve never told—”

“Anyone but you.” Serafina completed the sentence quietly. “I know.
That
is why we left the ducal home. Rafe didn’t want me to have to endure the memories left there for me. It was an unexpected kindness he did not have to perform.”

Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “I see.”

“I see? What does I see mean?” Serafina asked with a glare.

“I have known you for almost ten years,” Emma said softly. “I know your expressions. And you have never looked so…
soft
…when you were speaking about a man.”

“Soft?” Serafina barked out, panic suddenly gripping her.

Emma shook her head. “I only mean that it appears you actually like him. Is it possible that this union with Raphael Flynn is actually a good one?”

Serafina frowned. Once again, Emma had struck upon a topic that felt far too intimate to answer. Worse, it made Serafina think of things she didn’t want to consider. Like how much Rafe had moved her in just a week of marriage.

“It’s certainly better than any life would have been with Cyril,” she finally admitted.

Emma arched a brow. “That isn’t what I mean.”

Serafina turned her face. She knew that. But she wasn’t about to address the underlying implications of what Emma asked.

“I don’t know what else you could mean,” she said, pacing the room restlessly.

“Rafe is a kind man, he values your needs. And is he an—an—” Her friend blushed. “An attentive lover?”

Serafina felt hot as she thought about Rafe’s touch. Attentive was not the word she would use when describing the magnificent things he did to her, woke in her.

“Yes,” she whispered, unwilling to say more.

Emma smiled softly. “I’m glad. You deserve to have some pleasure after the pain you endured. But you also deserve love.”

At that word, Serafina stiffened. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, more harshly than her friend deserved. “I may be very pleased that I have ended up with a husband I do not despise. However, I won’t be so foolish as to allow for anything else to develop between us. Love is a weakness I cannot afford and do not desire.”

Emma shook her head. “Oh, Serafina.”

Serafina moved forward. “I adore you for wanting what you think is best for me, I truly do. But what has made you happy is not the same that will make me happy.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “And now I must return home. The duke and I agreed to meet and discuss some of his duties after our calls this afternoon.”

Emma looked as though she wanted to say more to her, but instead she simply sighed. “Very well. Let me escort you to the foyer.”

Serafina nodded and when Emma had taken her feet, they walked arm and arm to the foyer. As they waited for her carriage, Serafina turned to face her best friend.

“I hope you don’t think me harsh when it comes to my husband. It is only that our current arrangement is
not
permanent.” She said it firmly, but in her heart she wasn’t certain if the words were for Emma’s sake or her own. It was a reminder she felt like she needed at present.

Emma squeezed her hands gently. “I do not think you are harsh, my dearest, sweetest friend. But I
do
think you are scarred by the past. I just hope you won’t let the thickness of your skin keep you from allowing someone into your heart.”

Serafina drew in a sharp breath at both Emma’s words and the pity in her friend’s eyes. But she was spared from responding when her carriage arrived. So she merely pressed a kiss to Emma’s cheek, said goodbye and all but fled.

Rafe looked at the clock again and then pivoted to pace across the parlor. It was a quarter of an hour past the time he and Serafina had agreed upon to return to the house, and he found himself restless as he awaited her. Not just because he wanted to see her, but because of his earlier near-death experience. It made him nervous, but also made him want to be close to her.

As he moved to look at the clock yet again, he heard the rumble of horse hooves on the drive, and his heart leapt into his throat. It was the oddest of sensations, for he had never felt such anticipation when it came to being with a woman. Not just in bed with her, but
with
her. 

The foyer door opened and shut, and Serafina talked briefly with Lathem.

“His Grace is in the green parlor, Your Grace. And tea is waiting there,” he heard Lathem say.

Rafe was almost vibrating as Serafina opened the parlor door and stepped inside, a vision in her latest violet gown, her blonde hair framing her spectacularly beautiful face.

In that moment, he couldn’t resist. He crossed the space between them in four long strides, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.

She opened to him right away, giving a shuddering sigh as he sucked her tongue, splaying his hand across her trembling back and feeling her melt against him.

And yet, long before he was satisfied, she suddenly broke the kiss and stepped away, eyes wide and breath short.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she managed to squeak out.

He studied her expression closely. He could see the desire lit up in her eyes, burning there just as it burned within him, but as always, her hesitation also remained. No matter how much she allowed, she always held some part of her away from him. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet it did.

He drew in a long breath and didn’t push her, even though he wanted to crowd into her space, wrap her against him, make her crave him until need wiped away reluctance.

“We have tea,” he said, turning on his heel to motion to the set that had been placed on a table between the settee and a chair in front of the fire.

She nodded and moved forward. She took the settee and he settled into the chair to watch her pour a cup. Everything about her was graceful, from the way she lifted the pot to the way she tilted her head at him. She blinked a few times as her expression changed from one of serenity to something different, something pained.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “We have been married for nearly a week and I don’t know how you take your tea.”

“We have been busy learning other things about each other.”

She bit her lip. “But I should know this. After everything you’ve done for me, I should know this simple thing about you.”

He sucked in a breath at how deeply upset she seemed to be by her lack of knowledge of such a silly thing. He covered her hand with his and whispered, “There is one way to remedy that, you know?”

She stared at him. “And what is that?”

“Ask me.”

She gave him a wavering smile, and he could see she was gathering herself after her outburst. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”

He leaned back, driven to tease her a little if only to keep the conversation light. “Ah, the question at the core of every relationship in the empire.”

Now she laughed, and the room lightened at the sound. “It is of vital importance, I agree.”

He met her eyes, holding her stare for long enough that she shifted slightly and her pupils dilated.

“I like everything in my life to be sweet and creamy,” he said softly.

Pinkness filled her cheeks at his double entendre, but to her credit, she did not turn away. “Then it is sugar and milk for you, Your Grace?”

He nodded once. “Plenty of both. I doubt there can ever be enough.”

She swallowed hard and then dropped three sugars and a generous dollop of milk into his tea. She stirred gently before she handed the cup over. He smiled when her hand trembled slightly. Then she quickly flavored her own beverage and took a gulping drink of it.

“And now you know something new about me,” he said with a grin.

She nodded. “It seems I do.” She turned her face and shifted with discomfort. “We have a party tonight,” she rushed to add.

Her words were an obvious change of subject from the one he had been dancing around.

His pleasure faded, and he set his tea aside with a groan. “Again.”