Page 2

"Your Grace, rather than accepting the pity or charity of distant relatives, the young lady chose to earn her own living. Lady Charlotte, who cared nothing for the gossip of Mayfair, immediately brought Miss Witherford into her household as her personal lady's maid and companion."

George let out a low hum, scanning the delicate lines of Charlotte's script. It was indeed typical of his late sister-in-law. Charlotte had always possessed a stubborn, independent streak, consistently thumbing her nose at the suffocating rules of the ton. Apparently she'd continued that defiance while he was gone, appointing a fallen Earl's daughter as the godmother to his brother's heir.

"I see no flaw in the appointment of a godmother," George said, tossing the letter back onto the desk with a dismissive flick. "Godmothers are decorative figures intended for christening gifts and birthday prayers. If Charlotte wished to honor her maid with such a title, it is of little consequence to me. It changes nothing regarding the management of my nephew."

"Regrettably, Your Grace, it changes everything," Mr. Pembroke countered, his voice sharpening slightly. "The issue does not lie in the title of godmother. The issue lies in Miss Witherford's demands."

George stilled, his blue eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Demands? A former lady turned servant is making demands of the Duke of Cavendish regarding his own nephew?"

"Miss Witherford insists upon remaining with the child," the solicitor clarified, choosing his words with immense caution. "She claims that on her deathbed, Lady Charlotte made her swear a solemn vow to protect little Oliver, to remain at his side, and to oversee his daily upbringing. Miss Witherford has made it abundantly clear that she does not intend to surrender the infant to hired help, nor does she intend to be separated from him."

George stared at the solicitor in absolute disbelief before letting out a mocking scoff. He unbuttoned his heavy cloak at last, letting the damp wool slide off his shoulders and fall onto a nearby chair, revealing his tailored black evening coat and the pristine white linen of his cravat.

"The notion is utterly absurd," George declared, sliding his hands into his trousers pockets as he began to pace the length of the study. "Miss Witherford is a spinster without title, fortune, or standing. She cannot possibly remain beneath my roof to care for an infant. Do you have any conception of the scandal that would erupt across Mayfair the moment the gossips learn that a bachelor duke is housing an unmarried young woman in his manor?"

"I am well aware of the social ramifications, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke replied dryly. "And if I may speak with candor, your own reputation does not lend itself well to such an arrangement. The ton regards you as quite popular amidst the whispered discussions of debutantes and maidens alike. Should Miss Witherford reside beneath your roof, society will not assume she is merely tending to a child. They will drag her name, and by extension, the child's upbringing, through the mud of every drawing room in London."

"Precisely, Pembroke." George heaved a sigh. "Oliver is a Percy, and thus requires proper, respectable care, not the misguided devotion of a stubborn servant girl who fancies herself a martyr."

George took a deep breath, steadying his eyes as the weary traveler vanished, replaced by the commanding presence of the Duke of Cavendish.

"Here are my orders, Mr. Pembroke," George commanded, his voice sharp and decisive. "You will immediately engage the finest, most reputable nursemaids in London. I want women of flawless character, impeccable references, and extensive experience in catering to noble infants. Tomorrow morning, I shall personally ride to my brother's townhouse, retrieve Oliver myself, and bring him here to Cavendish Manor where he belongs under my direct protection. As for Miss Witherford, her services are no longer required. You may write up a generous monetary draft from the estate accounts to thank her for her past devotion to Lady Charlotte and inform her that she is free to seek employment elsewhere."

Mr. Pembroke cleared his throat nervously, letting out a pitying sigh before pulling at his stiff collar as he looked up at the towering duke.

"Unfortunately, Your Grace," the solicitor murmured, "Miss Witherford is downstairs with your nephew."

George froze. The dark, brooding expression on his face shattered into utter astonishment. Downstairs? In my house?

"She is here?" George demanded, his voice dangerously low. "On whose authority was she brought into Cavendish Manor?"

"On her own, Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke admitted, bowing his head. "The moment Lord Edward passed, the servants at the townhouse were in a state of chaos. Miss Witherford packed the infant's belongings, secured a carriage, and brought little Oliver straight to the estate. She has been in the nursery in the east wing ever since."

A suffocating wave of exhaustion crashed over George. The crushing grief of his brother's death and the sudden burden of fatherhood pressed down on his chest all at once. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, leaning heavily against the edge of the mahogany desk.

"No," George growled softly, shaking his head. "I will not deal with this madness tonight. Go downstairs, Mr. Pembroke. Convey my sincere gratitude to Miss Witherford for her loyal service to my late sister-in-law and for ensuring Oliver's safe transport from Mayfair. Offer her a draft of a years' wages—no, make two. She may sleep in the guest quarters tonight, but ensure that she is gone by noon tomorrow."

The solicitor did not rise from his chair. Instead, he looked at George with a troubled expression, his fingers twisting nervously around his gold pocket watch chain.

"Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke said carefully, choosing each syllable as if walking across thin ice, "I'm afraid that..."

The sharp, metallic click of the door handle interrupted his warning, and the study door swung open.

Chapter Two

Iwill not leave without Oliver. The child has no mother. He has no one but me who loves him.

With deliberate force, Helena pushed the double oak doors open. They swung back with a dull thud against the paneled wall, stunning the men who waited within. "Your Grace, I will not leave this child alone."

Helena stood squarely in the threshold, bathed in the flickering glow of the corridor chandeliers. Pressed tightly against her breast, wrapped in layers of soft white flannel and a dark wool blanket, was three-month-old Oliver Percy, Edward and Charlotte's son. He slept soundly, his tiny chest rising and falling against her ribs, oblivious to the tempest brewing around him.

I will not permit the Duke to cast me aside, Helena thought, her chest heaving beneath the tight bodice of her black bombazine gown. I made a sacred promise to Charlotte on her deathbed, and no power in Heaven or England shall tear me from her child.

The elderly solicitor, Mr. Pembroke, gasped, his hand flying to his spectacles as if his eyes were deceiving him. But it was the towering figure standing near the mahogany desk who drew all of Helena's attention.

turned slowly, his broad frame seeming to seize every inch of the study. He was a vision of dark, formidable authority. But it was his eyes that struck Helena like a knife—piercing, icy blue, and filled with dangerous pride that scared her.

For an agonizing second, the Duke simply stared at her. His eyes swept over her simple attire, the delicate oval of her face, and circling the small bundle cradled so fiercely in her arms, before finally settling on her emerald-green eyes.