His Grace, The Duke: Second Sons Book Two

A viscountess. In what world would Rosalie Harrow, the orphaned nobody without family, position, or connection ever deserve to become a viscountess?

No. Not a viscountess. The Viscountess.

The Viscountess of Finchley.

It had been a day since the duchess let those words fall from her lips, and still Rosalie was in pieces over it. She knew what James wanted from her. His principles would not accept a life of living in the shadows, always being afraid to show his affection, even in the privacy of his own home.

But was inconvenience the right motive to marry?

Certainly not.

Even if there was hope that marriage to James might be different, that he might one day confess his love and lead with her at his side rather than following in his wake, now everything was far too complicated.

Doubly complicated.

Burke and Tom belonged to her and she to them. There would be no marrying James Corbin at their expense. And what man could marry knowing he was guaranteed to find his best friends in his wife’s bed?

Now the word ‘viscountess’ echoed in her ears like the pounding of a drum. In all her worrying, Rosalie had foolishly given no thought to James’ title. He wouldn’t be just some country gentleman living an eccentric life with his wife and her lovers. He was a viscount. If George and Piety failed to have children, he would be the next Duke of Norland. She could already imagine the headlines:

Honorable V— Finchley to wed the jezebel of C— House. Stones to be thrown at four o’clock.

It was laughable.

Unsupportable.

Rosalie would never…could never put James in a position to be questioned or ridiculed by the vultures of the ton. She would leave first. As he so rightly predicted, she would disappear like a puff of smoke, and they would all eventually be better off without the misery and heartache she brought them.

It was with all these dark thoughts swirling that she sought out the one person who might give her some much needed perspective. She found him in a lonely back corner on the third floor of the house. The footman standing sentinel outside the door didn’t question her as she gave the door a soft knock, opening it a crack.

“Your Grace, I was hoping we could talk…”

“Cabbage?”

She pushed the door open a bit more.

His surprise was eclipsed by his panic as he squawked, “Don’t come in! I’m—there’s—naked!”

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She could already see a bit into the room. If the piles of canvases stacked along the walls were not a giveaway, the pungent smell of oil paint was. Curiosity won out, and she pushed open the door, letting herself in.

“You’re not naked,” she chided.

The duke stood in the middle of the room behind an easel, which was turned towards the window to catch the best light. Narrowing his eyes, he clamped his mouth shut and stared daggers over her shoulder at the footman.

“Harrison, you’re fired,” he snapped. “I told you not to let anyone bother me while I’m in here—no, don’t touch that—”

Rosalie dropped her hand away from the canvas she was about to flip over. “What are you working on?”

“I’m not working on anything,” he replied quickly.

“You are painting. May I see—”

“I’m not painting, I’m merely…cataloging. This is where we store art.” He gestured around at the stacks of canvases.

She pursed her lips. “Your Grace…you still have a brush in your hand.”

He glanced down. “Goddamn it.” He rattled it on the tray beside him.

She fought the urge to laugh, instead using the distraction to move around the other side of his easel. “What do you paint so secretively?”

“No—I—it’s not…well, it’s not very good,” he muttered, cheeks going pink as he watched her look at the canvas.

It was a portrait of two women with fiery red hair and freckled faces. The proportions of their faces were too narrow, but the resemblance was there. “Are…is this Elizabeth and Mariah?”

“Oh, well spotted,” he sniped. “Apparently I am accomplished enough that the identity of my muses can be discerned.”

The style of the work stirred something in her. With a gasp, she turned to face him. “They’re yours…aren’t they?”

“What?”

She brushed past him and moved for the other stacks.

“No, those aren’t done either—”

She ignored him, flicking through each one, looking for similarity in stroke and style. A still life of flowers, a naked woman in profile, a pastoral scene that looked very much like a view of Alcott. “The paintings,” she murmured. “Here at Corbin House and Alcott. The gentleman on the stairs…the knight with the ugly horse by your bedroom. You painted them…but you don’t tell people? I saw a bill of sale for the one with the knight. It is a fake?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why would I tell them, hmm? So they can laugh at me? Mock my vision? Tell me how deficient I am even in this?” He stalked off to the corner and began washing his hands, muttering under his breath.

“George Corbin are you…are you a perfectionist?” Rosalie could hardly believe the words were coming out of her mouth.

“Me, a perfectionist?” He huffed a laugh. “Can you imagine?”

She glanced around the room again. “I…can actually. In fact, I believe you’ve never made more sense to me than you do in this moment.”

“Don’t pretend to know me,” he warned.

“You’re a perfectionist,” she repeated. “Just like James…only instead of being afraid to fail, you are afraid to even try…am I right?”

“You know nothing,” he grumbled, pushing past her to shrug himself back into his coat.

“Is that why you refuse to lift a finger to help James manage the estate? Why you dare everyone to think the worst of you…parading around with your drinking and your fornicating in stairwells, jumping out of windows when you’re bored, juggling—”

“I think you should leave,” he snapped.

She held her ground. “Why do you let yourself be so wildly unhappy by pretending to be bad at everything?”

He spun around. “What makes you think I am unhappy? I am handsome, ridiculously rich, entitled within an inch of royalty. I have everything I could ever want. All I need do is snap my fingers and it is mine.” He snapped them in her face to prove his point.

“And yet you are unhappy,” she repeated. “It is plain enough for anyone to see.”

He shrugged away. “Why did you come here? What do you want from me?”

She blinked, remembering her own unhappiness from moments before. “I…wanted to ask your advice, actually…your opinion.”

His brows shot up. “You want my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Mine, as in…me?”

She chuckled. “Yes, Your Grace. That is something friends do for each other,” she added. “We are still friends, are we not?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, Cabbage. We are friends…in fact, I think you might be my only friend.”

She gave him another smile, knowing well the feeling of being alone in the world. She struggled to come up with the right way to ask her question. “I wanted to ask you about…marriage. What are your thoughts?”

He slapped a hand over his chest. “Saints alive, is this a proposal? I’ll need to fetch my smelling salts…and a pistol, for James is sure to hunt me until I’m dead.”

She laughed, stepping closer. “No, Your Grace. If you’ll remember, you are already engaged.”

“Oh, damn,” he murmured. “I’d nearly forgot.”

“You will marry Piety Nash in two days,” she reminded him. “Surely, if one such as you is willing to place his neck in the noose, well, you must believe in marriage…”

He snorted. “It’s a goddamn nightmare. Can you imagine me married to another person? Cabbage, do you know how many people I’ve slept with just since we announced our engagement? Can you even guess?”

She didn’t want to guess. “So, this will be a performance for you…a ritual act for the sake of society. You will not hold to the vows you take and…that doesn’t bother you?”

“I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a lord that has not broken his marriage vows on at least one occasion. And I’m not just talking about the forsaking all others bit. That’s a laugh.” He waved his hand, dismissing the idea entirely. “But there’s the bits in the middle about tending in sickness, honoring and cherishing, etcetera. What two people in today’s modern society marry with those goals at the center? It’s all about power, isn’t it? Who has the power…who wants more power…how two people can find power together.”

She pursed her lips. “So…you’re marrying for power then?”

“I am marrying so my mother leaves me the hell alone,” he replied. “It seemed the easiest way to appease her. Piety is the power-seeking one in this match. I have no doubt she feels nothing for me. Oh, do not fret on my account,” he added, stepping forward to pat her shoulder. “It is just the way of things for our set. She seeks the power my position can give her. In return, we’ll fuck occasionally. I suppose the fucking will be more rigorous until she’s with child. But once she has a son, I can leave off it. I’ll deal with her living here, but it’s a big house. I have others. And I like to travel. I can still enjoy my freedoms.”

“And you would live that way, knowing you can do and be anything else your heart desires?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She scoffed, hands on her hips. “I mean you are a man! You are a duke. As you say, you are practically royalty. There is no power you cannot wield, nothing you cannot have, and yet you’re making the choice to live this small life. This-this half-life,” she cried, gesturing around.

“Half?” he repeated, his mouth turned down in a frown.

“I don’t know about you, but I want more,” she whispered. “I need more. I want to live fully. I want to live out loud. Boldly. Freely. I want to…run naked through a forest, scream in a crowded room, leap from a cliffside and splash into the ocean below.” She stepped closer, eyes glistening with tears as she reached for his hand, holding it in both of her own. “I see the same spirit in you, and it frightens me, George.”

“Why?” he whispered, his lips barely moving.

“Because if you cannot be brave, you who has everything…how can I ever hope to be?”