The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel, #3)

by Sarah MacLean

She’d left him two years, seven months ago, exactly. Malcolm Marcus Bevingstoke, Duke of Haven, looked to the tiny wooden calendar wheels inlaid into the blotter on his desk in his private office above the House of Lords. August the nineteenth, 1836. The last day of the parliamentary session, filled with pomp and idle. And lingering memory. He spun the wheel with the six embossed upon it. Five. Four. He took a deep breath. Get out. He heard his own words, cold and angry with betrayal, echoing with quiet menace. Don’t ever return. He touched the wheel again. August became July. May. March. January the nineteenth, 1834. The day she left. His fingers moved without thought, finding comfort in the familiar click of the wheels. April the seventeenth, 1833. The way I feel about you . . . Her words now—soft and full of temptation. I’ve never felt anything like this. He hadn’t, either. As though light and breath and hope had flooded the room, filling all the dark spaces. Filling his lungs and heart. And all because of her. Until he’d discovered the truth. The truth, which had mattered so much until it hadn’t mattered at all. Where had she gone? The clock in the corner of the room ticked and tocked, counting the seconds until Haven was due in his seat in the hallowed main chamber of the House of Lords, where men of higher purpose and passion had sat before him for generations. His fingers played the little calendar like a virtuoso, as though they’d done this dance a hundred times be...

The only woman he’d ever loved. The only woman he’d ever hated. The same, and somehow entirely different. And Haven, frozen to the spot.

“I am Seraphina Bevingstoke, Duchess of Haven. And I require a divorce.”

“You shall live, Sera. If I have to pull you back from heaven itself. You shall live.”

“You are being dramatic,” she said. The greatest of all sins. His heart began to pound. “My child is dead. My wife nearly so.” Her gaze did not warm. He should not have been surprised by the fact, and yet it made him want to rage. But dukes did not rage. Instead, he met her cool blue gaze and said, “Your grandchild is dead.” “A girl.” Heat threaded through him. “A daughter.” “Not an heir,” she pointed out, with cool dismissal. “And now, if you are lucky, you can begin again.” The heat became fire, rioting through him. Clawing up his throat. Suffocating. “If I am lucky?” “If the Talbot girl dies. The doctor says that if she lives, she will be barren, and so she shall no longer be of use. You can find another. Produce an heir. One with better pedigree.” His gaze narrowed, the words difficult to understand over the roar in his ears. “She is Duchess of Haven.” “The title means nothing if she cannot produce the next duke. That’s why you married her, is it not? She and her mother set a trap. Caught you. Kept you with the promise of an heir. And now it’s gone. I would be less of a mother if I did not wish you free of such a cheap woman.” He chose his words carefully. “In this moment, you could not be less of a mother. You are a cold, heartless bitch. And I want you gone from this house when I return.” She raised one elegant brow. “Emotion does not become you.” He left his mother then, because he did not trust himself not to unleash every ounce of his unbecoming emotions upon her....

“You might not like me, Seraphina, but you would do well to listen.” Sera did not move. “We are not that different, you and I,” the older woman said. “We both made a mistake trapping a man in marriage. The difference is that my child survived.” She paused, and Sera willed her to leave the room, suddenly exhausted by the dowager’s very presence. “If he hadn’t, I would have run.” Running was a glorious thought. Could she outrun it? The sorrow? The pain? Could she outrun him? “There was no love lost in our marriage. Just as there is none lost in yours.” She was wrong, of course. Sera’s marriage was all love lost. And now, as she lay alone in this blindingly white bed in this blindingly white room in this oppressively daunting home, she knew that her marriage would never be love regained. Because there would never be love again. Not for Malcolm. Not for their child. Not for herself. She was alone in this room and in this life. If only she could run. But he’d stolen her freedom just as well as he’d stolen her heart. And her happiness. And her future. “You are barren.” Sera felt nothing at the words, which held no meaning in the moment. She did not care for the news of future, fantasy children, only for that of the child she’d lost. The child they had lost. “He will need an heir.” He did not wish one. Hadn’t he made it clear? His mother either did not know, or did not care. “You cannot give it to him. Someone else can.” Sera looked away. “If you wished it, I could help you.”

“Then you remember me.” The words were quiet and sharp. Of course she remembered. No matter how well she tried, she seemed unable to forget. And she had tried. She lifted her chin, keenly aware of their audience, and slung her arrow. “Don’t fret, darling. I predict we shan’t need to remember each other for long.” “You are making a spectacle of yourself.” She allowed her smile to widen. “You say that as though it is a bad thing.” One brow rose, superior as ever. “You are making a spectacle of me.” She did not waver. “You say that as though you do not deserve it.”

“You shan’t refuse.” “Why not?” she asked, uncertainty flaring, though she’d be damned if she’d show it. “Because if you want a divorce, you will require my assistance to get it.” Her heart began to pound. Would he give it to her? The divorce? The freedom? Could it be so simple? Excitement flared. And triumph. And something else, something she did not wish to think on. Instead, she waved an arm in an exaggerated flourish. “By all means, Your Grace. Lead the way.”

“So get to it, Sera. What is the reason for the dissolution of our once legendary union? There are limited arguments for divorce. What, then? Shall you tell my colleagues that I was intolerably cruel? Declare to all London that I am a lunatic? Perhaps you were forced to marry me? No,” he scoffed. “Everyone knows you came quite willingly. Fairly tripping down the aisle to shackle yourself to me.” “What a silly girl I was,” she snapped. “That was before I knew the truth.” His gaze narrowed. “And what truth is that?” That you never wanted me. That you cared more for your title than for your future. That we would never be more than a passing, fleeting moment. That you wouldn’t care when our family became an impossibility. “It is no matter.” “I never lied,” he said. It was an echo of years earlier. You lied. She could still hear the words, as though he’d said them yesterday instead of three years ago, when he’d refused to listen. When he refused to believe. Because she hadn’t lied. Not when it was important. She raised her chin, defiant and defensive. “In this, husband, you do forget.”

“I don’t forget it, Seraphina. Not a moment of it. And neither do you.” He drew closer, and she could not stop the step she took backward, toward the windowsill overlooking all London—the city that bowed to him as she once had. She took a deep breath, refusing to let him intimidate her. And he did not intimidate. He did something much worse. He reached for her, his fingers playing gently down the column of her neck, barely there, a whisper that she should have been able to ignore. “You think I do not remember you well enough to see it? You think I did not see the memories assault you when you stepped through that door? Into this room? You think I did not recall those same memories? The last time you were here? In this room?” She swallowed, disliking the way he closed in upon her. “I don’t recall ever being here.” “Lie to the rest of the world, Sera,” he said, his fingers teasing over her shoulders. She would not pull away. Would not let him win. “Lie to me, even. About your past and your plans for the future. About where you have been and where you plan to go. But do not ever, ever imagine that I do not know the truth of your memories.” His touch reversed itself, returning to her neck, this time finding purchase, fingers curling warm and sure, his thumb stroking strong and familiar across her jaw, tilting her face up to his. Marking her with the past. With his words, soft as silk. “Do not ever, ever imagine that I do not know that you watched me remove those robes thinking...

“I feel I should point out that, while a husband’s infidelities may not be grounds for divorce, a wife’s are quite a different thing altogether.”

“I’m to believe you don’t know me?” She stilled and turned back, humor underscoring her words, setting him off-balance. “At the risk of sounding rude, my lord, I don’t particularly care what you believe. As we’ve never met, I don’t know how I would know you.” Mayweather barked a laugh, and Haven had the distinct urge to push his friend right over the balcony into the hedge below. “She has you there.” She did not have him. He was not to be had. “Your Grace,” he said. She blinked. “I beg your pardon?” “You called me ‘my lord.’ It’s ‘Your Grace.’” She smirked. “How did you know how thoroughly women adore being corrected by men? And over forms of address, especially. It is a great wonder that none of us have ever fallen in love with you.” She dropped a little curtsy, the movement making him feel like a horse’s ass. “Farewell, gentlemen.” And still, he could not stop himself. “Wait.” She turned back, beautiful and poised. “Be careful, Duke; I’ll begin to think you’re the one trying to get your pretty hooks in me.”

“Thank you, Miss . . .” He trailed off, and it occurred to Haven that Mayweather was not so bad after all—if he discovered the girl’s name, that was. A grin spread wide and welcome across her face, and Malcolm felt the heat of it like the sun. “What a shock. It seems that you don’t know who I am, either.” He blinked. “Should we?” “No,” she retorted, “I’m not heaven, after all . . .” Except she damn well seemed like heaven. But she was turning the door handle. She was leaving him.

“Do you?” She tilted her head. “Do I like dancing?” “Yes.” “I do, as a matter of fact.” “Would you like to? With me?” Perfect white teeth flashed. Of course her teeth were perfect. Everything about her was perfect. “We can’t dance. We haven’t been introduced.” “Then dance with me here. In secret.” “No.” It was a game. He could feel it in his chest, the breathlessness of it. “Why?” “It could ruin me. If we were found.” He stepped closer, close enough that he could pull her into his arms. “I would never ruin you.” It should have been a flirt. An empty, teasing trifle. Something men said to women to lure them into danger. But it wasn’t. It was a promise. And more than that, it was the truth. He would never ruin her. It wouldn’t be ruin when he married her. He stilled. Christ. He would marry her. He was going to marry this woman.

“I recall refusing to dance, Duke.” “Malcolm,” he said, soft at her ear, loving her shiver at his name. “Tell me again, now that you’re in my arms. Now that I’m in yours. And I’ll stop.” He wasn’t sure how, but he would. She sighed, her lips curving into a little, lovely smile. “You’re very difficult.” He could live in that smile. “I’ve been told that.” “I thought aristocrats were supposed to be accommodating.” “Not dukes. Haven’t you heard that we’re the worst of the lot?” “And they let anyone become a duke nowadays, do they?” He turned her toward the light, revealing her beautiful face. “If you think dukes are bad, Angel, imagine what they accept from duchesses?” Her eyes went wide at the words, her lips pulling into a smile, full and lovely, all secrets and sin. “Imagine indeed.”

“You don’t deserve his punishment.” She raised a brow. “I left him, Caleb.” “He left you first.” She smiled at that. “Not in any way that mattered.” “In every way that mattered,” he scoffed. She sighed. “Duchesses don’t leave,” she explained for the dozenth time. The hundredth. “Certainly not without providing an heir.” Not even when an heir was impossible. “They should do when their husband has exiled them,” he replied. “Remaining is bollocks.” “No, it’s British.” He cursed round and vicious. “Yet another reason you lot deserved the ass-kicking we gave you.”

“I’ll be damned if he’ll make me weak again.” Caleb did not hesitate. He never did. It was a failing of his being American. “He can only make you weak if you allow it.” Her gaze snapped to his. “You stand strong and remember why you’re here. And if he punishes you, you punish him right back. But I’ll tell you one thing, if he’s all you’ve described, he’s going to give you a fight for the divorce.” For all he knew about her past, he had never witnessed it. She shook her head. “He hates me.” The words were honest and real—words she’d clung to every time she’d doubted herself in the last three years. Which was often. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you.” Memory flashed, Malcolm’s fingers running over her skin earlier in the week, the shiver of anticipation that came with the touch, the way Sera had ached to lean into it. To the memory of it. To the way those fingers had once made her sing. To the way they had made her feel for the first time in years. Not that she was interested in feeling. And besides, “Want isn’t worth the trouble.”

“Why couldn’t it have been you?” He shrugged a shoulder and took another long puff at his cheroot. “Timing.” She smiled. “If only you’d been here three years ago.” He gave a little laugh. “I could’ve used you there five years ago.” Sera reached for her friend’s face, placing her hand on his strong, stubbled cheek, tilting his chin up until his gaze met hers. “If you could erase it—all of it—all of her—would you?” He did not hesitate. “Hell yes. You?” His hand came to cover hers at his cheek as she let herself consider the question. She’d lost so much. Her love, her life, the promise of her future. So much loss that her heart ached even at the hint of the thought of it. If she could take it back, she would. Without doubt.

He couldn’t forget an instant with her. Not since the night he’d stepped from a crowded ballroom to a balcony in search of fresh air, and there she’d been. As though she’d been waiting for him. And so she had been. It wasn’t a trap. It was all real. Her words echoed in the cold wind. He hadn’t believed them. And now, he didn’t care if she’d been waiting for him. He could only hope she waited for him now. Here.

There was a woman, he’d been told. Voice like a summer songbird. Dark hair and a perfect face that had the rumor mill thinking she was French—weren’t all beautiful women French?—but it was possible she was English. She’d appeared from nowhere three months after Sera had left him. They called her The Dove.

“That woman. The dancer. Who is she?” Her gaze followed his. “The Dove.” The words, so uninterested, so direct, were a knife to his heart. The Dove wasn’t Sera. It was never his Sera.

He’d known she was here, with an American. He’d been prepared for the idea that they were lovers. But the visual of it was a wicked blow. “Ah,” the American drawled. “The duke arrives.” “The husband arrives,” Haven replied, unable to bank the anger in his tone. And then, to his wife, “We are yet married, Seraphina.” How was she so utterly calm? “Not in any way that matters.” In every fucking way that mattered. She added, “The silly laws of this nation may make me your chattel, Duke. But I will never play the role. I should think the last three years would have made that point well.”

She’d been unfaithful. He shouldn’t mind it. Shouldn’t have been surprised by it. After all, it had been years. And he had been unfaithful, too. Once. And not like this. Not with emotion. Lie. There had been emotion. The action had been full of anger. Full of punishment. All for Sera. Sera was the only woman who had ever had his emotions. Not that she would believe it. Not that she would care.

“Don’t worry, Caleb,” she was saying, “Malcolm doesn’t believe himself scorned. For that to be the case, he would have had to have wanted the marriage from the start.” He had wanted it. He’d wanted her.

“I am deadly serious, Seraphina. Why are you here?” She leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest, glass dangling in one hand. “I was born here.” “No, you weren’t.” She lifted a shoulder. Let it fall. “I was born in a coal town in the North Country, and reborn in Boston. Covent Garden’s a proper third to the trio, don’t you think?” He narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re daughter to an earl.” She smirked. “And you are the one who was so very insistent that my father’s title didn’t count, Your Grace. A title won at cards makes no kind of blue blood, not even when won from Prinny himself.” The words stung with memory. “I never—” She stopped the lie with a wave of her glass. “More importantly, Haven, why are you here?” To rescue you. Another lie. This woman didn’t need him. In all the time he’d sought her, he’d imagined her fearful. Weak. Ruined. This woman was none of those things. There was nothing cowering about her. Instead, she was all strength. She was nothing like the woman he’d met on that long-ago night outside the Worthington ball. Except . . . she was. That woman had been bold and brash. She’d stood up to him. She’d drawn him in like a warm flame on a cold night. And for weeks afterward, her smart mouth had tempted him as much as her warm body had. And then he’d discovered the truth—that none of their courtship was real—and she’d changed. She’d quieted. She’d dimmed. She’d paled. She’d become someone else, entirely. Because of him. And now, here, w...

He loathed the other man’s name on her tongue, loathed the trust in the breathy word. The faith. Faith she’d never given him. Faith he’d never earned.

Find a new duchess. “I’ll leave on one condition,” he said, the words coming as quickly as thoughts formed. She lifted a brow. “Come with me.” She laughed, low and long and somehow full of knowledge, as though she knew what he was to do before he knew himself. But then, it had always been that way between them. “And what then?” “Come to the country. You give me six weeks. Until Parliament is back in session.” She turned back to the candles. “What is this, some grand plan to woo me again? As though we are in some kind of romantic novel?” Yes. He was smart enough to stay quiet. “We’re not in a romantic novel, Haven. This is not a love story.” “Because you are in one with your American?” “Because I’ve no desire to be in one. Ever again.” Again. He would think on that word another time. Cling to it. “Fine,” he replied. “But you are in a marriage with me, and you vowed to obey.” She leveled him with a look. “And you vowed to honor.” “This is my offer. Six weeks, and you get your divorce.” It was a lie, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Her gaze narrowed. “What do you intend to do with six weeks of my company?” “I intend to put it to good use,” he said, the answer coming even as he spoke it. “I intend for you to find your replacement.”

“What does that mean?” “Just what I said,” he replied. “You come to the country and spend six weeks seeking your replacement.” “You want me to matchmake you.” He enjoyed the disbelief in her words, the way it helped him to regain his footing. “You must admit, it would save me a great deal of effort.” She narrowed her gaze. “You do not think such an arrangement would be . . . impractical?” “Not at all.” “Oh, no. I’m sure it would not be at all awkward for the poor poppets eager for the attention of a duke to be closed into a country house, playing charades with his first wife—whom he is about to divorce.” “I think it would be much more likely that they would find it a relief. After all, if we are able to coexist, perhaps I can avoid the worst of the divorce.” One sleek brow rose. “You do not think that your dukedom will be a balm to your wretched reputation?” “I should like them to have proof that I have not mistreated you.” “Mistreatment is not only external.”

“You want your divorce, do you not?” She watched him as she seemed to consider her words. Finally, she said, all calm, “I do.” “Find your replacement, Sera. And it is yours.” It was a mad plan. Pure idiocy. And he would have been unsurprised if she’d told him so. Still, he held his breath, waiting for her reply, watching the way candlelight flickered over her skin, casting her into light and shadow, a remarkable beauty. But she did not tell him so. Instead, she nodded her agreement. “Now leave.” He gave her what she wanted and left without a word, making preparations to woo his wife.

“Half the season is gone, and he’s not courting you.” He was though, wasn’t he? Before she could argue the point, her mother pressed on. “He hasn’t spoken to your father.” She opened her mouth. “He will.” “No, Sera. He won’t. He’s had six weeks to do so. He’s had six years to. You expect me to believe that after six years of seasons, of being disdained by pompous aristocrats with more money than heaven itself, of scraping for invitations and pleading for attention, the Duke of Haven has taken a liking to a Soiled S?” Yes.

“Let me be plain. Are you still a virgin?” Her sisters gasped as she said, “Mama!” “Save your shock for another, Seraphina. Are you?” “Yes.” “But he’s come close.” Sera hesitated, until the countess barked, “Seraphina.” “Yes!” she snapped, turning on her mother. “Yes. And I wish he had. I wish I weren’t.” Lady Wight’s eyes went wide as Sera’s sisters gasped. “He’s not going to marry you.” “Why not?” “Because all five of you have been out for years, and not one of you has come near a duke. They think us cheap. They think us unworthy of their names and their titles.” She waved a hand at her sisters. “Seleste might become Countess of Clare, but only because the earl is virtually a pauper and your father’s money is worth more than the shame we bring upon a title. But mark my words, not one of them will find marriage if you let yourself be ruined by this duke.” Seleste’s face fell at the words, and Sera hated her mother in that moment. Even more so when she continued. “Haven might as well be a star in the sky for all you shall reach him and not get him. The season is six weeks old and you’ve seen him, what, a dozen times?” Twenty-six times. But Sera remained quiet. She didn’t have to speak. “More than that, likely, what with all the sneaking about you girls have been doing while I was looking the other way.” The countess brandished the newspaper high. “The gossip rags were not looking the other way, Seraphina. Do you know what they say about you?” Sera’s heart was pounding. “Th...

“Who is the man you wish me to marry?” Silence stretched between them before her mother approached, reaching for her daughter and placing a hand to her cheek, the soft kidskin like a firm promise. “I wish you to marry the man you wish, Sera. But a duke—” Tears came again, and Sera could not hold them back. “I don’t care that he’s a duke. That was never of interest.” “I know.” “He is Malcolm. I wish for Malcolm.” The countess shook her head. “But Malcolm is Haven before all, my dear.” Sera closed her eyes, everything suddenly, startlingly, painfully clear. “He won’t marry me, will he?” “No,” said her mother, and Sera opened her eyes at that, meeting her mother’s dark brown gaze. “No, he won’t.” The longer she resisted the truth, the longer she put her sisters in danger. Without marriage, they were all lost. It was her duty as eldest daughter to ensure that never happen. And then her mother said, quietly, “Unless . . .” Sera’s heart leapt. She’d do it. Whatever it was. If it ended with her sisters safe and Malcolm hers, she’d do anything.

“I suppose the more important question is not whether Mr. Calhoun is handsome, but rather if he is claimed.” Sera shook her head. “He is not.” “Handsome?” Sesily teased. “Pity.” “Claimed.” Sera laughed, enjoying the feeling, rare and welcome. “He’s quite handsome, as a matter of fact.” Sesily’s eyes lit up. “Excellent!” “You are certain he is not claimed?” Seline asked thoughtfully. “You haven’t—” Sera shook her head. “I haven’t.” “At all?” Seline said, full of disbelief. “At all.” “You know none of us would judge you if you had,” Seleste leapt to say. “Of course not. What with how awful Haven must have—” Seleste said, cutting herself off before she could finish the sentence, the result of their sisters’ combined, pointed stares. “Never mind.” Except he hadn’t been awful.

She would get her freedom. She would own the Sparrow. She would sing, and live a new life. And she would move forward.

“Come now, Ses. Not even you can find something to say?” Sesily met her gaze without hesitation. “You didn’t deserve any of it.” Six words, and somehow no one had ever said them. Sera had never even thought them. And now, there they were, like a perfect, welcome wound, stealing her breath. She pressed her lips together, regaining her composure. “No one does.”

“This is an impressive cottage.” He didn’t turn to look at the massive structure, at the cold stones, hundreds of years old, that had seen generations of dukes before him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely recognizing himself when he said, “I wish it were a cottage.” Her eyes lit with teasing pleasure. “What then? You, a humble shepherd? Me, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid?” Settling her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her up the stone steps and through the enormous entryway, empty of servants. He’d given them the day, and in that, taken it for himself. He did not have to play the duke. Not ever with Seraphina. He spoke low at her ear, nevertheless. “Is that what you’d like?” She looked up at him. “Shepherd, woodcutter, butcher, rat catcher. Whatever you choose, that’s what I’d like.”

“And what of you?” He pulled her close. Her hands came up, around his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the touch. “What would you like me to be?” she asked, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his, seeing into him. He didn’t want some fantasy version of her. He didn’t need it. She was the fantasy. Heart pounding, he shook his head. “Whatever you wish to be,” he whispered. “Whatever makes you happy.” “A seamstress then,” she whispered, her gaze falling to the weave of his topcoat, one hand sliding down to stroke the fabric. “Mending clothes by candlelight, singing in the window, waiting for you to come home.” He’d take that life. Trade everything for it. For any life she would give him. But he wouldn’t have to.

“I am yours,” she whispered. “Shepherd, duke, rat catcher . . .” She shook her head with a smile. “Whatever you wish.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Yours to do with as you wish,” she whispered. His breath came on a tide of pleasure. She would say yes. But if he made love to her, she would have to say yes.

His wife was laughing. With what appeared to be immense pleasure, and damned if he didn’t warm at the sound—one of his very favorites. Even if he didn’t care for the situation that inspired it.

“May I be of some assistance, Lady Sesily?” Sesily stood and leveled him with a cool look. “A decent gentleman would already have proffered his handkerchief.” She’d never liked him. None of them had. Not that he’d deserved their liking. “I would not like to give you reason to find me lacking, but . . .” There was not much he could do with a wild beast in his arms. “No need to worry, Haven,” Sesily said, her spirits clearly restored. “I find you immensely lacking without any additional reasons.” He blinked. “I am heartened to see you are feeling so much repaired.” “Knowing I ruined your boots does help matters along.” “I see you are as charming as ever,” he said dryly, lifting the animal in his arms. “And with significantly more cats.” The cat protested with a mighty yowl. So much for the feline gods. Sesily reached for the animal. “Only a monster would punish a cat for an unavoidable owner infraction.” “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, “I’m not punishing the damn cat. If you take him from me, I shall find you a handkerchief.” “No. No one is taking the cat. The cat is going back into his basket until Sesily has a room.” Sera stepped down from the carriage, basket in hand, heading directly for them. “And a bath.”

“Where are they?” He feigned ignorance. “Who?” Her brow furrowed. “The girls, Haven. Where are my replacements?” As though she could ever be replaced. He ignored the thought. “It’s a good thing they aren’t here, considering we’re going to have to find four additional bedchambers for today’s unexpected guests. How long are they staying?” “Where is your brotherly love, Duke?” the one married to Earl Clare asked. He ignored the question. “How long, Seraphina?” She smiled, all serenity, and patted his cheek. “There are thirty bedchambers in this monstrosity of a house,” she scoffed. “I think you’ll be able to find space for family.” “Monstrosity?” “No one requires a home this large.” The words were full of distraction as she looked to a massive old tree, heavy with summer. A single crow sat on a low-hanging branch, and it seemed Sera was watching the black bird. “There was a time when you liked it,” he said. She looked back to him then and said, softly, “No longer.”

“Why is your mother not playing this role?” He did not hesitate. “The dowager is dead.” Seraphina revealed no emotion. “I am sorry.” “Are you?” He couldn’t help himself. “Not really, no.”

“You are awake.” Sera started, whirling toward the words, spoken from the connecting doorway to the ducal bedchamber, where Haven stood as though she’d summoned him with her thoughts, perfectly turned out, looking like it was mid-morning instead of dawn. Looking like color in the grey. She narrowed her gaze on him. “That door was closed, Duke. You are not invited to use it.” He raised a brow and made an elaborate show of straightening his shirtsleeve. “I was not aware I required an invitation, as it is my door.” “As it is the door to my chamber, I prefer you think of it as belonging to me.” One side of his mouth kicked up, and she hated the way he looked. Handsome and young and entirely too dangerous. “What say you we share it?” Something shot through her at the teasing in the words. Something like memory. The echo of what seemed like an eternity past, when he was a man and she was a woman and that was all that seemed to matter. What was his game? She straightened her shoulders. “I say you are out of your mind if you think I am interested in sharing anything with you. Particularly close quarters.” “You chose the room, Angel,” he said, his voice low and still tinged with the disuse of sleep. “Did you forget that it had the door?” Her lips flattened into a thin line as the words threaded through her with an emotion unwelcome and long out of use. “Do not call me that.” “There was a time when you liked it.” A lifetime ago. “I never liked it. It’s a silly name.” “The seraphim a...

“Come riding with me.” They’d never ridden together. There had been talk of it, a hundred years ago, promises that they would spend the summer here, at Highley, on horseback, discovering it together. And then they’d married, and they hadn’t been able to stomach each other. Or, rather, he hadn’t been able to stomach her. She could not blame him for that, she supposed. Except, she had blamed him. Even before he’d turned to another whom he could stomach better. She looked at him. “Why?” He lifted a shoulder. Let it fall. “Because you like to ride and it is not raining yet.” She shook her head. “What game you are playing?” “No games,” he said. “I ride in the mornings.” “Enjoy yourself,” she said. “I’m to have breakfast with my sisters and prepare for your suitors.” She paused. “Suitors? Suitesses? Is there a word for young women vying for the attention of a duke?” “Wisteria.” She raised a brow at the word, the kindest of the whispered names she and her sisters had been called. Pretty, smelled nice, and very good at climbing. “Not so quickly, Duke. We haven’t seen or scented them, yet.”

“Need I remind you that four women want a life with me so badly they are coming here to compete for it?” She gave a little laugh. “You think that they want it? They don’t. They simply think they haven’t any other choice but to vie for your attention.” She hesitated, then, “How did you select the poor things?” “It’s not so difficult to find unmarried women with an interest in marrying a duke.” “Not even a duke who has been tied to scandal for years?” “Not even that, surprisingly.” It wasn’t surprising, though. He was handsome and young and rich and titled and any woman of sound mind would want him. Not that she did. “And they were willing to wait until you had me declared dead? Husband hunting takes more patience than I recall.” “You were a superior hunter.” He didn’t mean the words the way they came, she knew. But they stung nonetheless, the reminder of the trap she’d lay. The mistake she’d made. She looked away, back to the sun, edging over the fields. “Little do they know that in a matter of weeks, your attention will wander elsewhere.” She hated herself for the bitterness in the words. After all that had happened, how was it that stumbling upon him with another woman was the only thing that seemed to matter? Hated him even more when he said, “You left me—” “You sent me away!” she said, unable to keep her voice from rising. “You stood in the house where we might have built a home, our wedding breakfast barely over, and you told me to leave you.” When he opened his mouth ...

“If I stole your life, what did you do to mine? You disappeared, leaving all the world wondering where you’d gone. Imagining that I might have driven you away.” She turned away again. “You did drive me away.” It was a lie, but she said it anyway, hoping it would hurt him. Silence fell, and she ignored it, refusing to look at him, even when he said, “I worried you were dead. The doctors told me you might die. Do you have any idea how it felt to know you might have died?” She did not hesitate. “I can only imagine you met the possibility with hope, considering you already had such a clear plan to replace me.” She expected many responses to the smart retort—anger, sarcasm, dismissal. She received pure, unfettered honesty. “I never wished you dead.” The words sent a wash of embarrassment through her before she could stop it. Even as she resisted the idea of allowing him to embarrass her. “No,” she said. “Only gone. So, let them come. And I shall give you what you wish. With pleasure.”

“Sera! Haven’s harem has arrived!”

“Don’t scare them off.” “My sisters?” she asked, all innocence. “They don’t scare easily.” “You know precisely whom I mean. If anyone can terrify a group of debutantes, it’s you lot.” “They don’t call us the Dangerous Daughters for nothing, Your Grace.” He did not laugh, and she realized the retort was not funny. Not for him. Not for her, either. Not when he turned back, time stretching with impressive weight, and said, “You never came with things.” She stilled. She hadn’t come with things. Not with a trousseau, or a maid, or anything, really. None of those things mattered when she married him. But he’d been too angry to notice. “I was different.” She hoped he’d let the answer stand without reply. He didn’t. “Because you came for me.” Every time. She could have lied, but she didn’t wish to. She didn’t want to be someone she was not ever again. “Yes.” He nodded and crossed over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Only then did Sera say the rest. “I came for you. Just as I left for you.” She smoothed her skirts and went to meet the women who hoped to marry her husband.

“I shall go fetch something for the American’s eye.” “I’ve a name, you know.” Sesily winked. “But ‘the American’ sounds so much more ominous, don’t you think?”

“Tell me. What, precisely, makes you believe you can tell me what to do?” He sighed. “Certainly not history.” “No,” she agreed. “Certainly not.” “And if you do return, then what?” “Something!” she insisted, frustration flaring. “The Sparrow isn’t anything without its namesake.” “Bollocks,” Caleb said. “You stay here. I’ll take care of the Bastards. Hire security, make sure they see I won’t stand for them getting in our way. Don’t worry your pretty head about the bits and pieces.” She narrowed her gaze. “I shall club you in your head if you continued to treat me as a precious dove. I’m coming back.” “Why?” “Because it’s mine,” she whispered. “Held in trust by you.” “Until you get your divorce, which is why you’re here.” “Which will mean nothing if I don’t have a tavern standing at the end of it.” He looked to the ceiling and exhaled his frustration. “You want your nose in the business.” She nodded. “Now, more than ever.” “Fine. Then I shall spend days here.” It was such a terrible idea she laughed. “No, you will not.” “For once, we agree, wife.” Haven stepped into the room as though he owned it. Which she supposed he did. Irritating man. “I’d thank you not to eavesdrop on my conversations,” she said. “As we remain married, conversations you have with unmarried gentlemen are my business, pet.” Men were insufferable. “Call me ‘pet’ again, and see what happens.” He did not flinch. “What? You do to me what your American scoundrel had done to him?” He looked to Caleb. “Bad luck....