Page 84 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

No one had ever defended him before.

She loved him; she had to.

The realization swept through him, and he could have laughed with the giddy force of it.

But now was not the moment for a realization such as this, or to glory in the proof that his wife loved him. She loved him of all people, when he had long ago determined that he must be unlovable.

He pushed the sensations deep within himself, turning everything on his face gentle as he turned to her. “Go back to the house,” he murmured. “For William’s sake. Find Lucy and see if she is well. Send for a physician if one hasn’t been sent for already. Care for the boy.”

He squeezed her hands around the baby. He had to be the priority; they both knew it.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, but much as he wanted to turn his back on his duties and tend to his family, he was the duke, and he could not renounce his obligations.

He would do anything to protect her.

“Go,” he murmured.

Without another word, she left, the crowd parting for her as she hurried to the house, William safely in her arms.

Andrew turned back to Baron Lorthey, whose head hung down. “I don’t expect you to see how entirely twisted your way of thinking has become,” he said coldly. “But I hope a session in gaol will help with matters. You tried to take an innocent child in full view of the ballroom. If we don’t go ahead with a trial, you will still be tried and found guilty by the court of the people.” He leaned down closer still. “If Harry were still here, he would be ashamed. He was one of the best men I knew, and I mourn him every day. I will not have you spewing forth your poisonous lies that I was responsible for his death.”

It had taken him months to come to terms with the fact that he could do nothing to help, and he still woke in a sweat thinking about it.

He still couldn’t help wondering if he had just made different decisions, if he had been wiser, if he had known, though it defied the bounds of reason that he could ever have known, then perhaps all this could have been avoided.

Andrew stayed out with Baron Lorthey until finally the magistrate came with two constables and led the man away. With his plot thwarted, it was as though the man had lost his will to fight. He made no attempt to escape or leave, merely kneeling in the wet grass until finally he was taken away.

Andrew walked back to the house. The guests had dispersed, and the great rooms felt empty. Servants rushed about, clearing away the worst of the mess from the aftermath of the ball. He ached from head to foot, weary in a way he had not felt since he had returned from the war.

All this was his fault. If he had not been himself, if Jessamine had married someone else, or if Rebecca had entrusted the care of William to another man; if George had still been alive, then none of this would have happened.

No other man had a trail of bodies running behind him. None other had reason for a man such as Baron Lorthey to give metaphorical chase. This was entirely his doing, and in being who he was, he was the reason William had been in danger.

William deserved better.

Jessamine deserved better. He thought of her now, his beautiful wife, as his body ached and his soul hungered for peace. She had been such a bright light in the gloom of his life, but he was a blade poised to fall, and if he put her in the way, then the damage could be untold.

How he hated himself. There was a pit in his chest, a space where the remainder of his heart ought to be, and nothing but blackness filled it. A hollow sort of emptiness that had more presence than any other organ in his body.

As he should have known, he found Jessamine in the nursery, looking over William.

He had failed to protect her and William. He’d promised her that he would keep William safe, and he had failed in his promise. In his house, William had been snatched from his bed, and if it hadn’t been for Jessamine, Andrew might not have caught him.

Jessamine caught sight of him in the doorway and beckoned him forward, reaching out a hand to him. Out of sheer habit, he took it, allowing her to draw him nearer. With her other hand, she stroked William’s soft cheek.

Andrew couldn’t bear this. The gentleness with which she received him, when he ought to be received with anger. Blame, rightly aimed, fired like a spear.

Not this. Never this.

“You know,” she said, looking tenderly down at William, “I always thought I would make a terrible mother. In Scotland, I mean. There were always so many children running about, so many mothers carrying babies that did nothing but scream, and I thought—I was certain—that I could never be one of them. But now I’m here, with a little person who trusts me so much, I think I understand.”

Andrew didn’t understand why she had ever thought she would make a terrible mother. “Rebecca must have known.”

“I suppose she did. I think she knew a lot. She knew that I would step up and become better for him.” She glanced shyly up at Andrew, though he was unable to decipher her expression. “And I hope, someday, to give him a little brother or sister.”

Andrew froze, the implications of that running through him.

A brother or sister.