The Scandalous Love of a Duke. Jane Lark

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      John sat again.

      “I… have… waited… for-you. You-must… speak-to… Harvey… about… business—”

      “I am sure I shall manage, Grandfather.”

      “I… know… you… shall.”

      John smiled again. That was possibly the only compliment he’d ever heard from this man.

      “I’ll leave you to it,” Richard said. The Duke’s gaze reached across John’s shoulder, then John heard the door open and shut.

      As soon as it did, the Duke’s hand moved and touched John’s forearm, which rested on the bed. “But… you… must… promise-me… one… thing. You… will… not… wed… beneath… you. You… must… choose… a… wife… to… preserve… the… bloodline.”

      John felt his face twist in disgust. Even now, even on his deathbed, the old man sought to cast orders and manipulate John’s life. Still, when the time came to set up a nursery, John would have plenty of choice from those in his own class. With a self-deprecating smile, he nodded. What did he care, it would not matter who he picked.

      “You swear,” his grandfather pressed on a single breath.

      “I swear,” John answered, his smile falling. He knew the old man’s game but chose to play.

      “Now… talk … to… me… of… what… you… have… done. I… will… listen.”

      John smiled again and leant back in the chair, folding his arms over his chest and stretching out his legs.

      He spoke of Europe, of what he’d made of it, the things he’d seen and done, and he made his stories humorous and even caused the old man to express a muted laugh. It ended in another visibly painful coughing fit, at which point the old man’s valet stepped forward to plump the pillows and make the Duke more comfortable. John would have left, but his grandfather once more bid him stay.

      John changed his subject to his true passion, to Egypt, and began talking about the place and people, about the amazing artefacts and architecture of that ancient world. He talked of the finds he was shipping home.

      While John spoke, the old man smiled and shut his eyes, his chest rising and falling with each rasping breath.

      It was strange watching him thus – this ogre who’d dominated John’s life – as a man and not a child. His grandfather was just a man too, with human frailty.

      John felt a heavy sense of regret as he continued recounting a pointless search he’d set out upon once.

      A sound of humour escaped the Duke’s lips.

      If John had returned in better circumstances, he wondered if they’d had more time, man to man, whether the past could be put straight between them.

      His grandsire’s physician stepped forward a while later, advising His Grace to rest.

      John rose and laid a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. The old man opened his eyes.

      “I… do-not… want… your… pity… Sayle.”

      John laughed. “You’ll not have it, Grandfather. But you will have my admiration.” He bowed, slightly. “Your Grace, I’ll leave you to recoup.” He had never spoken so openly to the old man in his younger days.

      John’s hands slid into his pockets as he walked back along the hall, his head was full of drifting thoughts. He wondered now if the perceptions he’d held as a child would have changed with an adult’s view. Possibly? Probably. But it was too late to know now.

      “John!”

      Looking forward, he saw a slender, strikingly beautiful young woman. She had ebony hair and pale-blue eyes, like his own. A beam of joy lit her face, and then she caught up her skirt and ran at him.

      Good God, was this Mary-Rose, his sister, all grown up?

      She hugged him fiercely, her arms about his neck, and he held her loosely. “John! Oh John! I am so glad you’re back.” His baby sister was not even a child anymore. She’d been about ten years old and not much taller than his midriff when he’d left. Now she was as tall as his shoulder.

      He lifted her off her feet and twirled her once, smiling, before pressing a kiss against her temple. “Mary-Rose, my not-so-little-anymore sister.”

      Her fingers gripped his coat sleeves and she leant back, grinning as she looked him over. “You are no different, other than a little older, and no one calls me Mary-Rose anymore, it is just Mary now. That is a childish name.”

      “And more worldly,” another female voice reached along the hall.

      John looked beyond Mary and saw his mother had stepped out from the drawing room. She was also still strikingly beautiful, their colouring was hers. But there were now two wings of grey in her hair at her temples. His smile softened. “Mama.”

      “John.” She swept towards him as Mary moved aside, and she was in his arms in a moment and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “You have been away too long. I’ve missed you.” There were tears in her eyes.

      “And I have missed you too, Mama.”

      “Liar,” she whispered before she drew away, low enough so Mary could not hear. It was not a malicious word, just the truth, and they both knew she was right.

      Tapping her beneath the chin, he made a face. “I am home now, anyway.”

      “And I am glad. Come and meet everyone else.” She slipped her arm through his as she turned back towards the drawing room. Mary occupied his other arm, and both women questioned him eagerly as they walked.

      He felt very strange and disorientated to be so besieged.

      When they reached the drawing room, though, all hell broke loose. He was mobbed by his various aunts and elder female cousins.

      Once they finally pulled away, hankies in their hands, John was then greeted by the men, his uncle’s by marriage first, and then his male cousins. His stepfather, Edward, held back.

      When the pandemonium ceased, John looked at his stepfather. He stood across the room with a youth beside him. Robbie, John’s eldest brother, he looked so like his father it was unmistakable. Robbie was fifteen; the age when awkwardness set in. He seemed to deliberately not look at John. That must be why Edward stayed back, torn between welcoming his stepson and supporting his own son.

      John smiled and approached them. He greeted his brother first. Robbie was already over shoulder height when compared with his father. “Robbie.”

      The boy coloured up with palpable self-consciousness. John’s smile broadened. Robbie had idolised John as a child, but he’d only been eight when John had left. The gap between them was too wide for any real relationship.

      “John.” Robbie took the hand John had offered and shook it limply. But John used the grip to draw his brother into a brief embrace and patted his shoulder.

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