dying.
The clerk stared at Derek, mouth agape, until he finally regained his voice. “You’re Derek Vaughan? From India?” To Derek’s answering nod, the clerk flushed to the roots of his hair, swept a deep bow and murmured, “Your Grace.”
Derek stood for a moment, confused, then glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one had entered the office behind him. Turning back to the red-faced youth, he could think of nothing to say. “I beg your pardon? I think there’s been some mistake.”
“ No mistake, Your Grace,” the young man’s head bobbed in earnestness. “Father was very thorough in his search, and you’re definitely the heir.”
Derek’s stomach knotted. “The heir? To what?”
“ The Dukedom of Ambersley."
~
“ You’re what ?” cried Harry, back at the hotel.
Still trying to accept the news himself, Derek said nothing as he crab-stepped past his cousin’s trunk and portmanteau to reach the sideboard and uncork the wine.
Harry coursed his heels. “Derek, you’re not shamming me, are you? He called you the Duke of Ambersley? It’s—it’s—extraordinary. This calls for a toast.”
Derek tossed off a meager portion of Madeira then poured a more liberal splash without offering his cousin any.
With entire good humor, Harry waited his turn at the bottle. Lifting his glass, he proclaimed, “To my cousin, the duke!”
Derek stopped his agitated strides to stare down at the drink pressed between his palms. A title, a home, an income—this was a future beyond his reach. How many in London recalled his mother’s scandalous behavior, her notorious crime? Even as a youth he’d not escaped the whispered rumors surrounding his paternity. Whether or not anyone had proof , he knew he carried no Vaughan blood. No, he had no right to contemplate, even for a breath, accepting the Ambersley peerage. But the dukedom could provide for the children, and that was key.
He recalled his mother. Blonde, lovely, heartless. She’d had all the golden good looks of the Coatsworth clan, but none of their warmth, certainly none of their honor.
“ What was I thinking getting saddled with a child?” she’d said to him one day. She’d studied him as though he were a hat she might buy. Or not.
He’d been no more than six at the time.
She’d never held him, never comforted him, never engaged in conversation directly with him. If not for Father taking an interest in his upbringing, Derek might have rotted away in the nursery on Harley Street.
He hadn’t shed a tear for her when his father sat him down to explain that she’d been imprisoned and charged with murder.
“ Did she truly kill a man, Father?” he’d asked. At the age of ten, he’d understood enough about death to fear it.
“ I don’t know. But Derek, you must always remember this—she’s a good woman. She sacrificed for both of us. You must always remember that and always love her.” Father had left the room, his tears barely suppressed.
Derek sat for a long time and contemplated his mother, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a reason to love her.
Father remained steadfast, even when she tried to accuse him of murdering her lover. No one believed her. Her trial was the talk of London, especially when she publicly named every man she’d ever bedded in an attempt to exonerate herself. In the end, they’d hanged her.
No, he refused to pass along her blood to future generations of Vaughan peers.
“ Derek, you’re wool-gathering again.” Harry sounded amused. “I’ve proposed a toast, and you won’t even drink your own health.”
“ I was thinking of my mother.”
Harry sobered at once. “Don’t torture yourself.”
“ I grew to hate her, you know.”
“ So did my father,” said Harry. “And he was her brother. He believed a fit of madness took her.”
Derek wished he could believe that, but
The clerk stared at Derek, mouth agape, until he finally regained his voice. “You’re Derek Vaughan? From India?” To Derek’s answering nod, the clerk flushed to the roots of his hair, swept a deep bow and murmured, “Your Grace.”
Derek stood for a moment, confused, then glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one had entered the office behind him. Turning back to the red-faced youth, he could think of nothing to say. “I beg your pardon? I think there’s been some mistake.”
“ No mistake, Your Grace,” the young man’s head bobbed in earnestness. “Father was very thorough in his search, and you’re definitely the heir.”
Derek’s stomach knotted. “The heir? To what?”
“ The Dukedom of Ambersley."
~
“ You’re what ?” cried Harry, back at the hotel.
Still trying to accept the news himself, Derek said nothing as he crab-stepped past his cousin’s trunk and portmanteau to reach the sideboard and uncork the wine.
Harry coursed his heels. “Derek, you’re not shamming me, are you? He called you the Duke of Ambersley? It’s—it’s—extraordinary. This calls for a toast.”
Derek tossed off a meager portion of Madeira then poured a more liberal splash without offering his cousin any.
With entire good humor, Harry waited his turn at the bottle. Lifting his glass, he proclaimed, “To my cousin, the duke!”
Derek stopped his agitated strides to stare down at the drink pressed between his palms. A title, a home, an income—this was a future beyond his reach. How many in London recalled his mother’s scandalous behavior, her notorious crime? Even as a youth he’d not escaped the whispered rumors surrounding his paternity. Whether or not anyone had proof , he knew he carried no Vaughan blood. No, he had no right to contemplate, even for a breath, accepting the Ambersley peerage. But the dukedom could provide for the children, and that was key.
He recalled his mother. Blonde, lovely, heartless. She’d had all the golden good looks of the Coatsworth clan, but none of their warmth, certainly none of their honor.
“ What was I thinking getting saddled with a child?” she’d said to him one day. She’d studied him as though he were a hat she might buy. Or not.
He’d been no more than six at the time.
She’d never held him, never comforted him, never engaged in conversation directly with him. If not for Father taking an interest in his upbringing, Derek might have rotted away in the nursery on Harley Street.
He hadn’t shed a tear for her when his father sat him down to explain that she’d been imprisoned and charged with murder.
“ Did she truly kill a man, Father?” he’d asked. At the age of ten, he’d understood enough about death to fear it.
“ I don’t know. But Derek, you must always remember this—she’s a good woman. She sacrificed for both of us. You must always remember that and always love her.” Father had left the room, his tears barely suppressed.
Derek sat for a long time and contemplated his mother, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a reason to love her.
Father remained steadfast, even when she tried to accuse him of murdering her lover. No one believed her. Her trial was the talk of London, especially when she publicly named every man she’d ever bedded in an attempt to exonerate herself. In the end, they’d hanged her.
No, he refused to pass along her blood to future generations of Vaughan peers.
“ Derek, you’re wool-gathering again.” Harry sounded amused. “I’ve proposed a toast, and you won’t even drink your own health.”
“ I was thinking of my mother.”
Harry sobered at once. “Don’t torture yourself.”
“ I grew to hate her, you know.”
“ So did my father,” said Harry. “And he was her brother. He believed a fit of madness took her.”
Derek wished he could believe that, but
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