The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires (42 page)

He fought the uncontrollable quiver in his chin. “Because Father hates me.”

“Oh, lad, I’m sure he doesn’t,” his cousin said with that awful look of pity on his
face.

“You can tell me the truth. I already know he does.” Tears clogged Pierce’s throat,
and he choked them down. “What about Mother? D-Doesn’t she want to see me at all?”

Something like sadness flickered in Mr. Waverly’s eyes before he forced a smile. “I’m
sure she does. Very much. But your father can’t spare her right now.”

“He can never spare her.” He stared blindly out the window, then added in a wistful
voice, “Sometimes I wish Mother and I could just go live in one of Father’s other
houses.” Brightening, he looked back at his cousin. “Perhaps in London! You could
ask her—”

“That will never happen, lad, so put that out of your mind.” Mr. Waverly’s tone was
quite firm. “Her place is with your father.”

More than with her son?

Manton’s nasty words leached into his thoughts:
I guess we both know what she saw in
him
—all that money and the chance to be a countess. She latched onto that quick enough.

It wasn’t true. Was it?

His cousin would know—he had to know something about Mother and Father, or he wouldn’t
have said what he did. And he had a friendly look about him. Like he could be trusted
to tell the truth.

“Is . . . that is . . . did Mother marry Father for his money?”

“Who told you that?” his cousin asked sharply.

“A boy at school.” When a sigh escaped Mr. Waverly, Pierce swallowed hard. “It’s true,
isn’t it?”

Moving over to sit beside Pierce, Mr. Waverly patted him on the shoulder. “Whether
it is or not, it has nothing to do with how your mother feels about
you
. In fact, she gave me this letter for you.”

As he fished it out of his pocket and handed it over, the tightness in Pierce’s chest
eased a little. Eagerly, he broke the seal and opened it to read:

My dearest Pierce
,

Your father and I think that staying at Waverly Farm will prove a grand adventure
for you, and you do enjoy a grand adventure, don’t you? I miss you, but I’m sure you
will learn all sorts of fine things there. Don’t forget to write and tell me what
fun you have!

Do be a good boy for your cousins, and keep your chin up. I know you will make us
proud.

And always remember, I love you very, very much.

With many kisses,

Mother

Relief surged through him. She
did
love him! She did!

He read it again, this time paying closer attention, and his heart sank a little.
It had the same determined cheer as Mr. Waverly.

And then there was the line:
I know you will make us proud.

He sighed. She loved him, but she had still let Father send him away. And why?
You will learn all sorts of fine things there.
Just like Father, she wanted to see him toughen up.

Tears filled his eyes, but he ruthlessly willed them back. Very well, then. No more
crying, and no more behaving like a milksop and a mollycoddle. He had to get big and
strong, to learn to ride and fight like the other boys.

Because clearly neither Father nor Mother would let him come home until he did.

T
HIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD
P
IERCE
W
AVERLY,
Earl of Devonmont, sat at the desk in the study of his London town house, going through
the mail as he waited for his current mistress to arrive, when one letter came to
the top, addressed in a familiar hand. An equally familiar pain squeezed his chest,
reminding him of that other letter years ago.

What a naive fool he’d been. Even though he
had
grown bigger and stronger, even though he’d become the kind of son Father had always
claimed to want, he’d never been allowed home again. He’d spent every school holiday—Christmas,
Easter, and summer—at Waverly Farm.

And after Titus Waverly and his wife had died unexpectedly in a boating accident when
Pierce was thirteen, Titus’s father, General Isaac Waverly, had returned from the
war to take over Waverly Farm and Titus’s orphaned children.

Even though Pierce hadn’t received a single letter from
his parents in five years, he’d still been certain that he would finally be sent home—but
no. Whatever arrangement Titus had made with Pierce’s parents was apparently preserved
with Pierce’s great-uncle, for the general had fallen right into the role of substitute
parent.

Despite all that, it had taken Pierce until he was eighteen, when neither of his parents
had appeared at his matriculation from Harrow, to acknowledge the truth. Not only
did his father hate him, but his mother had no use for him, either. Apparently she’d
endured his presence until he was old enough to pack off to school and relations,
and after that she’d decided she was done with him. She was too busy enjoying Father’s
fortune and influence to bother with her own son.

Pain had exploded into rage for a time, until he’d reached his majority, at twenty-one,
and had traveled home to confront them both . . .

No, he couldn’t bear to remember
that
fiasco. The humiliation of that particular rejection still sent pain screaming through
him. Eventually he would silence that, too; then perhaps he’d find some peace at last.

That is, if Mother would let him. He stared down at the letter, and his fingers tightened
into fists. But she wouldn’t. She’d poisoned his childhood, and now that Father was
dead and Pierce had inherited everything, she thought to make it all go away.

She’d been trying ever since the funeral, two years ago. When she’d mentioned his
coming “home,” he’d asked her why it had taken his father’s death for her to allow
it. He’d expected a litany of patently false excuses, but she’d only said that the
past was the past. She wanted to start anew with him.

He snorted. Of course she did. It was the only way to get her hands on more of Father’s
money than what had been left to her.

Well, to hell with her. She may have decided she wanted to play the role of mother
again, but he no longer wanted to play her son. Years of yearning for a mother who
was never there, for whom he would have fought dragons as a boy, had frozen his heart.
Since his father’s death, it hadn’t warmed one degree.

Except that every time he saw one of her letters—

Choking back a bitter curse, he tossed the unopened letter to his secretary, Mr. Boyd.
One thing he’d learned from the last letter she’d written him, when he was a boy,
was that words meant nothing. Less than nothing. And the word
love
in particular was just a word. “Put that with the others,” he told Boyd.

“Yes, my lord.” There was no hint of condemnation, no hint of reproach in the man’s
voice.

Good man, Boyd. He knew better.

Yet Pierce felt the same twinge of guilt as always.

Damn it, he had done right by his mother, for all that she had never done right by
him
. Her inheritance from Father was entirely under his control. He could have deprived
her if he’d wished—another man might have—but instead he’d set her up in the estate’s
dower house with plenty of servants and enough pin money to make her comfortable.
Not enough to live extravagantly—he couldn’t bring himself to give her
that
—but enough that she couldn’t accuse him of neglect.

He’d even hired a companion for her, who by all accounts had proved perfect for the
position. Not that he would know for himself, since he’d never seen the indomitable
Mrs. Camilla Stuart in action, never seen her with his mother. He never saw Mother
at all. He’d laid down the law from the first. She was free to roam Montcliff, his
estate in Hertfordshire, as she pleased when he wasn’t in residence, but when he was
there to take care of estate affairs, she was
to stay at the dower house and well away from
him
. So far she’d held to that agreement.

But the letters came anyway, one a week, as they had ever since Father’s death. Two
years of letters, piled in a box now overflowing. All unopened. Because why should
he read hers, when she’d never answered a single one of his as a boy?

Besides, they were probably filled with wheedling requests for more money now that
he held the purse strings. He wouldn’t give in to those, damn it.

“My lord, Mrs. Swanton has arrived,” his butler announced from the doorway.

The words jerked him from his oppressive thoughts. “You may send her in.”

Boyd slid a document onto Pierce’s desk, then left, passing Mrs. Swanton as he went
out. The door closed behind him, leaving Pierce alone with his current mistress.

Blond and blue-eyed, Eugenia Swanton had the elegant features of a fine lady and the
eloquent body of a fine whore. The combination had made her one of the most sought-after
mistresses in London, despite her humble beginnings as a rag-mannered chit from Spitalfields.

When he’d snagged her three years ago it had been quite a coup, since she’d had dukes
and princes vying for her favors. But the triumph had paled somewhat in recent months.
Even she hadn’t been able to calm his restlessness.

And now she was scanning him with a practiced eye, clearly taking note of his elaborate
evening attire as her smile showed her appreciation. Slowly, sensually, she drew off
her gloves in a maneuver that signaled she was eager to do whatever he wished. Last
year, that would have had him bending her over his desk and taking her in a most lascivious
manner.

Tonight, it merely left him cold.

“You summoned me, my lord?” she said in that smooth,
cultured voice that had kept him intrigued with her longer than with his other mistresses.
She had several appealing qualities, including her quick wit.

And yet . . .

Bracing himself for the theatrics sure to come, he rose and rounded the desk to press
a kiss to her lightly rouged cheek. “Do sit down, Eugenia,” he murmured, gesturing
to a chair.

She froze, then arched one carefully manicured eyebrow. “No need. I can receive my
congé just as easily standing.”

He muttered a curse. “How did you—”

“I’m no fool, you know,” she drawled. “I didn’t get where I am by not noticing when
a man has begun to lose interest.”

Her expression held a hint of disappointment, but no sign of trouble brewing, which
surprised him. He was used to temper tantrums from departing mistresses.

His respect for Eugenia rose a notch. “Very well.” Picking up the document on the
desk, he handed it to her.

She scanned it with a businesswoman’s keen eye, her gaze widening at the last page.
“You’re very generous, my lord.”

“You’ve served me well,” he said with a shrug, now impatient to be done. “Why shouldn’t
I be generous?”

“Indeed.” She slid the document into her reticule. “Thank you, then.”

Pleased that she was taking her dismissal so well, he went to open the door for her.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Eugenia.”

The words halted her. She stared at him with an intent gaze that made him uncomfortable.
“That’s the trouble with you, my lord. Our association has always been one of business.
Intimate
business, I’ll grant you, but business all the same. And business doesn’t keep a
body warm on a cold winter’s night.”

“On the contrary,” he said with a thin smile. “I believe I succeeded very well at
keeping you warm.”

“I speak of you, not myself.” She glided up to him with a courtesan’s practiced walk.
“I like you, my lord, so let me give you some advice. You believe that our attraction
has cooled because you’re tired of me. But I suspect that the next occupant of your
bed will be equally unable to warm you . . . unless she provides you with something
more than a business arrangement.”

He bristled. “Are you suggesting that I marry?”

Eugenia pulled on her gloves. “I’m suggesting that you let someone inside that empty
room you call a heart. Whether you make her your wife or your mistress, a man’s bed
is decidedly warmer if there’s a fire burning in something other than his cock.”

He repressed an oath. So much for this being easy. “I never guessed you were such
a romantic.”

“Me? Never.” She patted her reticule. “This is as romantic as I get. Which is precisely
why I can offer such advice. When we met, I thought we were both the sort who live
only for pleasure, with no need for emotional connections.” Her voice softened. “But
I was wrong about you. You’re not that sort at all. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

Then with a smile and a swish of her skirts, she swept out the door.

He stared bitterly after her. Sadly, he
did
realize it. Leave it to a woman of the world to recognize a fraud.

Matrons might panic when he spoke to their innocent daughters, and his exploits might
appear so regularly in the press that his Waverly cousins kept clippings for their
own amusement, but his seemingly aimless pursuit of pleasure had never been about
pleasure. It had been about using the only weapon he had—the family reputation—to
embarrass the family who’d abandoned him.