Upon first arriving in Town, he’d discovered that his father was dead. A disappointment, to be certain. He would never have that sweet moment where they came face-to-face. He’d envisioned many scenarios. The moment they would bump into each other at a ball or soiree. Or at the duke’s club—which Struan had made certain to gain access to. There was nothing money could not buy, even entrance to White’s. Especially when Struan possessed vouchers from some of the most admired and important men in England—men, unlike him, who didn’t know when to quit. Men who played until they’d wagered everything. Their fortunes, their estates, the very clothes off their backs.
Struan had amassed a fortune in the years since his mother’s death. He’d started out chasing dice in back alleys. Even without proper schooling, he had a knack for numbers, for knowing how to quickly tally them and manipulate them so that they made sense. Numbers, unlike most things in life, were reliable. They never betrayed one.
That skill helped him beat the odds at horse racing and other games of chance. By the age of twenty he’d risen from gaming in back alleys. He’d won horses and phaetons. He even once won a pair of kangaroos. Soon there was property, estates. At two and twenty, he’d won his first gaming hell. From there his empire only grew. Aside from land and houses in Scotland, he’d gained properties in the Cotswolds and the Lake District. And then came London.
Doors that had forever been shut to him magically opened, and he’d begun to fantasize about meeting his father . . . of showing him what he had become with no help from him. In these fantasies, he was in possession of a highborn wife to sweeten the pot. Someone coveted not only for her rank but her beauty. And so, that ambition had been borne.
He left for London with one clear goal: marry the most attractive, bluest blue-blooded English rose he could find and rub his father’s nose in it. He would make old Autenberry rue the day he ever rejected him and called him a lowborn bastard.
Once he arrived and discovered his father dead, he continued his quest mostly out of habit. Moving through long-ingrained routine. As though he could still reach his father in the grave and prove to him that he’d been wrong—that Struan Mackenzie was somebody even though the Duke of Autenberry refused to acknowledge him as his son.
The hack hit a slight rut and the girl quickly reached across the space to clasp Autenberry’s shoulder, steadying him and keeping him from falling off the seat. He felt his lip curl at her attentiveness to Autenberry.
She was a fierce little thing. Not a beauty, but there was a certain something to her. He wondered, not for the first time, if his dear brother was shagging her. There were only a few females whose skirts his brother had not lifted, after all.
She’d actually possessed the temerity to attack him. He was twice her weight. He could crush her single-handedly and yet she’d come at him as though he were her match. What had his brother done to earn her stalwart protection? He stifled a snort of derision. He knew the answer to that. Autenberry had a way with the fairer sex.
He studied the slim line of her beneath a dress that had seen better days. He knew his brother favored his females on the curvy side, and she was a far cry from that.
Satisfied her patient would not roll off the seat, she settled back against the squabs. “You look like him a little,” she admitted grudgingly. “I see it now.”
“I know.” He’d observed the resemblance upon their first meeting. They might look similar, but his father had claimed and doted upon Marcus. A sentiment that went both ways if the rage his brother exhibited upon first meeting him signified.
The young duke despised Struan. He was convinced that Struan wanted only to destroy the remaining Autenberry family and, like a papa bear, he was determined to protect his family. To be fair, Struan did not entirely blame him for the impulse. He might feel the same way if their situation was reversed. If he had anyone left in the whole world that cared about him. But he didn’t. He had no one.
As though she couldn’t resist, she leaned across the space once again, her slim fingers gently pushing a lock of hair off the duke’s forehead. It was a tender move that made his chest clench uncomfortably.
Of course she doted on him. Autenberry was a duke. And handsome. Even without that to recommend him, he was charming, as well. Everyone said as much. There couldn’t be too many handsome, charming dukes around. It was a bitter bit of irony that the unconscious man she gazed at with total adulation had only moments ago called Struan’s dead mother a whore and him a liar before taking a swing at his face. Despite their resemblance, Autenberry liked to pretend that his father had not committed adultery and had not fathered a son he then abandoned to poverty.
It wasn’t the first encounter Struan had with his half brother, but each confrontation only grew more contentious. The young duke believed Struan was after him for mercenary reasons. As though he didn’t have wealth enough of his own. He could buy and own Autenberry’s estate twice over—the land, his homes, the servants, his fashionable clothes and possessions. It was a pittance for him.
The first time they came face-to-face, Struan had the foolish notion that they could perhaps be actual brothers to each other. Since they were. Well, half brothers, anyway. It annoyed him to reflect on that moment now. The stupid boyish optimism he had felt. He should have known better. Had his father’s rejection taught him nothing? His mother was dead. The only creature on this earth who had ever given a damn about him. He would never have anyone love him unconditionally again. Nor did he need anyone. He was fine on his own. Rich. Respected by many. Feared by the rest. He had women to warm his bed whenever he wished it.
After stubbornly insisting that Struan couldn’t be his brother, Autenberry ordered him to stay away from him and his family—as though Struan were stalking them, as though he wished the remaining Autenberry clan ill.
Only today Autenberry had taken it one step further and insulted the memory of his mother. My father never strayed from his marital bed, and he most certainly didn’t father some whelp off a whore from Glasgow—
Their old man was dead. He’d lied and used Struan’s mother, abandoned her when she came to him for help. He’d pushed her to her death . . . as if he had snuffed out her life himself.
Death, as far as he was concerned, was too good for his sire.
That said, he never intended to transfer his hatred onto his half brother . . . but it seemed his half brother was determined to think the worst of him.
In fact, Struan had been debating returning to Scotland, selling the properties he’d accrued since moving to London and putting the past behind him for good. Or try to, at any rate.
Then they’d come face-to-face again on the street today.
Struan wasn’t sure what to expect, but the venomous words had jarred him. And just like that, his thirst for revenge flared to life again. Except this time instead of exacting it on his father, he wanted his pound of flesh from the bastard’s son. The good son. The son worth having around. The one worth keeping.
Struan had lost control. When Autenberry struck him, he was ready.
The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened and he motioned for her to descend. “Go ahead. I’ll see him out unless you mean to carry him in yourself.”
She eyed him suspiciously before nodding and departing before him. He lifted the duke’s not insubstantial weight, maneuvering him as carefully as he could out the door. A pair of footmen waited at the ready, arms outstretched to assist.
Autenberry’s devoted little friend hovered close, her expression fixed in concentration as she stood next to an anxious-looking woman, presumably the housekeeper, if the keys hanging from the belt at her waist were any indication.
He watched as the men carried his brother up the steps and into Autenberry’s Mayfair mansion.
The gray-haired housekeeper scrutinized his face. “Mr. Mackenzie?”
He felt a small flicker of surprise that she knew him. But then of course servants talked. They knew everything, before even their masters did.
As the housekeeper to the Duke of Autenberry she likely knew all about him the moment he arrived in Town.
He masked his reaction and nodded.
She surprised him further by stepping forward and closing her hand around his forearm. She gave him an encouraging squeeze. “You’re the spittin’ image of your father, sir. Come inside, won’t you?” She motioned him inside the house with an easy smile.
He cast one final look at the girl who’d jumped on him like a wolverine, then turned his back on her. Whatever she was to his half brother, he was certain it was the last he would see of her. She hardly looked the sort to fit in among the ton—so that would exclude her from the Duke of Autenberry’s drawing room.
Poppy watched, worrying her lip between her teeth as the footmen carried the duke inside the house, scarcely listening or paying attention to the housekeeper as she addressed the duke’s brother. Her heart lodged somewhere in her throat as she stood there agonizing, praying for him to survive. Please, don’t die. Please, don’t die.
The duke’s half brother moved ahead of her, blocking her vision with his broad back. He looked over his shoulder at her before ascending the steps and disappearing inside the house, leaving her on the stoop, dismissing her as though she were no one of any import.
Her chest squeezed. It struck her as vastly unfair that he got to go inside whilst she, who genuinely cared for the duke, was left out here to wonder and worry. She let out a huff of breath and propped her fists on her hips.
“Oh, Marcus,” she breathed, allowing herself the liberty of secretly using his Christian name. “Please be well. Please don’t die.” Her eyes stung. “I’m here for you.” Her voice quavered a little. She swallowed back a choked sob and attempted a weak jest, “We’re going to get married, remember?”
“Hallo, there.”
She jerked and turned to face the housekeeper staring intently at her. She hadn’t realized the woman was still standing outside or so close . . . or listening to her. Blast. Had she heard the nonsense she just spouted? If she had, she must not give it any credence, chalking it simply as the ramblings of a deranged girl.
“H-hello,” she stammered, finding herself pinned by the housekeeper’s eagle-eyed scrutiny. She backed up several steps. The housekeeper followed. She was a great Viking of a woman. Tall with considerable girth. Poppy felt like a sparrow in her shadow.
“What’s your name?” the housekeeper asked.
“Poppy Fairchurch.”
“Miss Fairchurch . . . how is it you came to be here?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly the coachman was at her elbow. “She saved his life! Jumped directly in front of the carriage and pushed him out of the way.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows winged high, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “That so?”
“The damnedest thing I ever seen.” The driver snatched his cap off his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, miss. It was a sight to behold. The bravest thing I ever seen.”
“Indeed.” She rocked back on her heels, still staring at Poppy, speculation bright in her eyes. “How fortunate. I shudder to think what would have happened if you weren’t there.”
Warmth crept over her face. She was unsure how to respond and still suffering acute embarrassment from the housekeeper overhearing her talking to herself.
The woman took hold of her arm and turned her toward the front door. “Come inside, my dear. I’m certain the duke will want to see you when he wakes.”
She frowned, hope skimming through her. “You really think so?”
“Of course he will.” Her silvery head nodded with certainty. “I’m Mrs. Wakefield, by the by.”
Poppy wasn’t so certain that the duke would want to see her, but she couldn’t resist letting herself be guided inside the house. She wanted to know when he woke. She wanted to be there. She wanted to make certain that he was going to be well—that next week he would stroll into Barclay’s Flowers and place his usual order.
Arm in arm, Mrs. Wakefield led her into the grand foyer.
Chapter 4
“Let him hear you talking. Maybe he’ll come to.” The housekeeper positioned a chair by the duke’s bed for Poppy.
They weren’t the only two individuals in the chamber. On the far side of the enormous room Mr. Mackenzie sat on a brocade chaise. Sprawled, really. His long booted legs stretched out before him like some pasha overseeing his domain. His eyes glowed from the shadows, following her like a predator’s stare.
She knew his name now. He was no longer that rough Scotsman. He was Mr. Mackenzie. Mackenzie.
She didn’t like finding him sitting there, watching Autenberry, watching her as she walked across the vast chamber. Brothers or not, she still did not trust Mackenzie.
She rubbed her palms against the skirts of her pinafore, feeling very uncertain in such grand surroundings. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Poppy sank down beside the bed, rationalizing that it was the least she could do until the physician arrived. Be there for Autenberry. Talk to him. Encourage him.
Mrs. Wakefield nodded in satisfaction, staring at Poppy so intently, as though she had something on her face . . . some bit of food stuck between her teeth. Poppy resisted the urge to bring her hand to her face as a shield.
“Can I offer you any refreshments while you’re waiting?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I am fine,” Poppy replied with a forced smile, bemused at the woman’s kindness.
Mackenzie glowered from where he loomed on the far side of the room, arms crossed his chest.
The housekeeper hesitated before taking her leave. “I must say, I’m glad His Grace has you.”
She floundered. “Er . . .”
“I’ve long wished His Grace would find someone special and put an end to his bachelor ways.” She patted Poppy’s shoulder approvingly.
Blast! Evidently the housekeeper had heard her ramblings, after all, and taken them to heart.
“Now have a seat beside your betrothed right here.” Mrs. Wakefield patted her shoulder briskly.
Poppy’s stomach dipped. Betrothed? Oh, sweet heaven.
She searched for the right words to correct her confusion, but Mrs. Wakefield kept on talking. She motioned to the unconscious duke. “Go on now, my dear. Let him hear you. It will do him so good.” She whirled around to address Mackenzie. “If you will both excuse me. I shall wait for Dr. Mercer and escort him in the moment he arrives.”
Poppy’s mouth worked, seeking the right words as the housekeeper bustled from the room, moving surprisingly fast for a woman of her size. The door shut behind her with a soft click that resounded in the cavernous space.
Poppy swung around swiftly, not daring to meet Mackenzie’s scouring gaze. She scooted the chair closer to the edge of the bed, peering at her unconscious duke and pretending that her lie didn’t throb on the air like a giant, man-eating gnat. While she was also pretending, she tried to imagine there wasn’t a third person in the room. A chore, to be certain, as she could feel his glacier stare drilling into the back of her.
Poppy patted the duke’s well-shaped hand resting on the bed. She went ahead and folded it, so still and cold beneath her fingers, in her own hand and chafed it, trying to warm the chilled skin. “There now. Everything will be—”
“Fine?” That Scottish brogue spoke up from behind her. He’d risen to his feet and moved closer. “Is that what you intended to say?”
She tensed. “Why are you still here?” she snapped. Without waiting for an answer, she focused on the duke’s handsome face. “Everything will be fine,” she crooned, refusing to look over her shoulder and give that other man the satisfaction of her attention.
“You think so?” he asked.
She sighed. “There’s no sense in being grim. That’s not helpful.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being harsh,” she countered with a sniff. She recalled his hard, unsmiling face vividly in her mind as well as the savagery of
his fight with his brother. Yes, this man was as unrelenting as stone and she would do well to stay clear of him. Whenever she must be in close proximity with him, she would stay on guard.
“He may never wake up, you know.”
She sent him a withering look over her shoulder. She couldn’t help it. At that remark, she had to look back at him. “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Something flickered in his eyes . . . a brief flash of surprise. “On the contrary. Why would I wish him dead? He is my brother—”
“Who clearly cannot abide you.”
He shrugged a big shoulder. Her gaze skimmed the solid outline of his physique. Did he lift boulders in his spare time? Clearly this was no dandified gentleman who required additional padding in his jacket. “A minor misunderstanding. It happens among brothers.”
She scoffed and looked back at the duke asleep on the bed. “No brothers I’ve ever known.”
“And you have great experience with brothers?”
She didn’t reply, simply turned and fixed her gaze on Autenberry, and tried to ignore the sense that there was something vulgar underlying that question.
Mackenzie’s boots slid closer behind her, a whisper on the carpet and a reminder that he was still there. Not that his presence was exactly forgettable. Her nape prickled and she resisted the urge to brush her hands there and chase away the sensation. “How long have you known Autenberry?”
“We first met June seventeenth.” Her first day of employment at Barclay’s.
“You’ve committed the exact day to memory?” His tone rang with derision.
“Yes.” She would never forget it. The day had been a bitter thing to endure. She had thought she would live out her days in Toadston-on-Mersey as Edmond’s wife. Papa was supposed to be their neighbor and live to be an old white-haired man, bouncing her children on his knees. The duke had been the one bright light in that disappointing day.