Page 8 of The Scarred Lyon

The duke blinked, then took a large swallow of wine. “You have been his mistress all this time?”

“No, Your Grace. Allow me to explain. The earl lived apart from his wife, as is often the case in aristocratic marriages. They led separate lives. I could cite youth and naïvety as an excuse, as they played a role in my hasty decision. But there is more. He was older, sophisticated, and handsome in his own way. I was smitten. More than smitten, I fell hopelessly and deeply in love. I suppose it was an adventure. I also wanted to escape my parents, who had plans for me that I wanted no part in.”

The duke kept staring at her, so Augusta confidently met his penetrating gaze. “Have I shocked you, Your Grace?”

“Yes, and no. I am fully aware of the depravities of the elitist class.”

Augusta bristled at the blunt words. “Depravity? I was in love, or at least, I thought I was. It is not as if I invited all of London into my bed.”

“Mrs. Cheevers, in the end, what does it matter about our pasts? I am hardly an innocent, and I’m past the age of caring whether my future bride-to-be is untouched. It’s rather hypocritical that a man may gather all the carnal experience he can, while a woman must remain pure. The statement of depravity was aimed at the general state of the peerage, not at you personally. I do apologize.”

The words were spoken firmly, yet sincerely. She had never been in the company of an aristocrat who conversed with such forwardness. Southen and her father certainly did not offer any glimpse into their inward thoughts. Augusta liked that Allenby spoke his mind. It showed character. “I accept your apology.”

“Is this earl out of the picture?” the duke asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. He died last month. We had not been close for the past five years, although he allowed me to stay in the cottage on his property. I could have returned home, but I decided not to until I had no choice. The new earl, Southen’s son, has given me until the end of December to vacate the premises. He also cut off my allowance.”

“Ah, so you must find a new situation forthwith.”

Augusta reached for a frosted biscuit. “I am eager to begin a new chapter in my life, and that does not include returning to my parents. But now it’s your turn, Your Grace. As I mentioned, do you wish to ensure the Allenby dukedom continues?”

“Yes. That will mean children. This will not be a marriage in name only. It will be a marriage in every sense of the word. You are nine-and-twenty?”

“Yes, Your Grace, and soon to be thirty, which means I am still able to have children. You can rest assured I am capable of having them, as I already have a five-year-old son.”

There. The secret was out in the open—the secret her parents wished her not to speak of or acknowledge, and the reason for their strained relations over the past several years. Her mother had advised she not mention her child to Mrs. Dove-Lyon either, which Augusta initially opposed but eventually agreed to.

Augusta popped the tiny biscuit into her mouth and chewed vigorously, waiting for the duke to flounce out of the room. According to her family, it was bad enough that she was another man’s mistress, but to bear him a child? Her mother had begged her to keep Reese hidden away and to foster him with a family in the country (not that Augusta would ever willingly be separated from her son for long), because any prospective groom would refuse to take on another man’s bastard. Oh, how she loathed that word.

Looking at the duke’s stony expression, her mother may have been correct.

Chapter Four

A child. Duncan was not often at a loss for words, but he was here. What to say? Would he have agreed to meet with her if he had been made aware of her secret and, by society’s standards, her scandalous past? Duncan was honestly not sure. Since he eschewed society’s arbitrary and archaic expectations as a whole, perhaps he would have agreed to meet, in any case.

“Allow me to explain,” Mrs. Cheevers said, tearing him away from his conflicting thoughts. “My parents, particularly my father, had decided plans for my future. His goal for me was marriage to an aristocrat above a viscount who would better his position in society, you see. All the men he introduced me to were much older, and I had no desire to be forced into a situation over which I had no control.”

“However, you ran off with an older earl,” Duncan interjected.

“Southen was ten-and-five years older, not five-and-thirty years older, as was the marquess my father wished me to marry. I make no excuses for my actions, as I believed it was my only option to escape. Besides, I was infatuated with the Earl of Southen. My parents were appalled and went to great lengths to concoct a cover story for my sudden absence. They located a country squire, Hannibal Cheevers, in Northern England, and paid him for the use of his name. They also discovered a small Anglican church nearby that had recently burned to the ground. In exchange for a generous donation, the curate issued a common license in my name and Cheevers’s, since all the records were lost in the fire. If anyone inquired, my parents could show proof that the marriage had taken place.”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “That is quite the elaborate scheme.”

“My parents would have gone to any lengths to protect themselves from scandal and gossip, Your Grace. Mercifully, they left me alone; we had little contact with each other. We all continued with our lives. They contacted me three years ago when they learned Mr. Cheevers had passed away, informing me that when they mentioned me at all, they would refer to me as a widow. As for Southen, he bought a small manor house; he called it a cottage, and we lived there the first few years. It is located outside a small village in Kent. The villagers knew me as the earl’s housekeeper, Mrs. Roberts. We were already growing apart when I discovered I was with child.” Mrs. Cheevers took a fortifying drink of wine. “Shall I continue?”

“By all means. I thought a bishop had to sign a common license for it to be valid?”

“I assume the curate forged the signature.”

Duncan snorted. “Corruption in the Church of England? Who would have ever thought such? Please continue.”

A furrow appeared between Mrs. Cheevers’s brows. “I have to ask. Is my salacious backstory merely entertainment, or are you seriously considering making me a duchess? What is to stop you from returning to London and spreading this tale of woe to all and sundry?”

Duncan crossed his legs. “There is nothing to stop me. You are placing your trust in me, as I place mine in you. A duke seeking a bride in a notorious gambling den? Gossip, indeed. To answer your question, yes, I’m seriously considering making you the Duchess of Allenby. Are you contemplating becoming my duchess?” He spoke the truth. Mrs. Cheevers was very attractive, with her blue-green eyes, raven-black hair, and confident air. She had caught his attention from the first. Taking her hand was the first time he had touched a woman in any way in several years. Was there a brief flash of awareness between them, or had his dormant heart misread the signal?

“Yes, Your Grace, I am. If you will have me. I want your word, as a duke and a gentleman, that you will not repeat anything I have told you, whether or not we agree to the marriage.”

Duncan nodded. “As you wish. You have my word. I will not reveal your secrets.”