How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 36

  She sounded credible, but he hadn’t a clue what to believe. His whole world had just been turned upside down. Anger threatened to consume him, to take away what little reason he had left. The open door to the pantry caught his gaze, mocking him, and his insides froze. He encouraged the sensation, and the ice within him doubled, tripled, to spread throughout his veins, making him impenetrable. Any bothersome emotions were shoved aside, buried, just as he’d done as a boy when his father turned cruel or distant. Or when his mother had died. I don’t need anyone else. Havermeyer Publishing is everything I need.

  “Let’s go.” He gestured toward the stairs.

  “Duke, please. We should talk about this. You’ve hardly spoken.”

  You’ve ruined everything, he wanted to say. You’ve jeopardized my company. You’ve destroyed what could have been between us.

  He strode to the larder and turned the switch, glad to darken that memory. Then he did the same with the kitchen light. “Come.”

  A soft yellow glow from the upper floor illuminated their way as they climbed the steps. He didn’t touch her as they continued on. Didn’t yell or even scowl at her. He’d successfully shut down any feelings, become numb to his surroundings. It was a relief, really. The world was much clearer, simpler when emotions were not involved.

  Part of this was his fault for believing her. When was the last time he had trusted someone? A mistake he would not repeat.

  You were too busy attempting to get under her skirts. You let your cock do your thinking.

  “Duke, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you or ruin tonight.” She hurried to keep up with him, her skirts rustling in the quiet corridor. “I only tried to do as you asked—to host a Christmas dinner for the board.”

  The result had now given him another reason to hate Christmas. Excellent.

  “I’ll see that your friends are well compensated for their troubles” was all he could think to say.

  “I’ve already paid them—and I don’t want to discuss the compensation. I want to apologize.”

  Now at the front entryway, he located their coats in the tiny closet. He helped her with her overcoat, then donned his own. There were things he could have said, probably should have said, but he never looked back once a decision had been made. There was no point—and Rose had forced his hand by lying.

  He opened the front door. “Is there a key or . . . ?”

  She bit her bottom lip, her brows dipping together, and she produced a key from her skirts. Duke took the metal key, closed the door behind them, and locked it.

  He returned the key to her. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and he offered his arm to lead her down the smooth front steps. His brougham waited at the end of the walk. “Where is your address?”

  She rattled it off and Duke repeated the location for his driver. Then he helped Rose into the carriage. He did not follow.

  She dropped onto the seat, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t you wish to shout at me? Isn’t there anything you want to say? Anything at all?”

  He had to keep control, to swallow all the angry words and messy sentiment. Too much was at risk to uncork the chaos swirling inside him.

  “I do have one thing to say.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed the carriage door. “You’re fired.”

  Chapter Nine

  You’re fired.

  Fired. He had actually fired her.

  Worse, Duke wouldn’t talk to her or answer her notes. Refused to see her when she paid a call to his home yesterday. It was as if she had ceased to exist for him.

  If only the reverse were true.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the night of the dinner party. Before Mr. Miller’s arrival, Duke had been so charming. Flirtatious and fun. Not to mention the way he made her feel in the pantry . . . Good heavens, she broke out in a sweat merely recalling his kisses, the sweep of his large hands over her skin, unlocking all her secret desires and unraveling her with the simplest touch.

  Then he’d learned of her lies, and whatever had been blossoming between them had withered. He’d withdrawn, shut her out. Never had she seen anyone go from blazing hot to ice-cold in such a short period of time. Yes, she had lied to him. She had put his business at risk, not to mention those who depended on Havermeyer Publishing for their livelihoods. Though she believed her actions were justified, he had every right to be angry with her.

  However, after everything that happened, could he not allow her five minutes to explain?

  This was how she found herself at the HPC offices on Christmas Day. By God, he was going to see her—and listen to her—if she had to strap him in a chair to do it. This was precisely what she would have advised one of her readers to do, and if she couldn’t take her own advice, then she had no business writing a weekly advice column.

  And if Duke decided there could be no personal relationship between them, fine. However, she wanted her job back. No, she deserved her job back.

  Though it was a holiday, the main newsroom bustled with activity. Men were checking copy, typing rapidly, and hurrying about as they rushed to put tomorrow’s edition together. News never took a holiday—nor did the man obsessed with his empire. Undoubtedly, Duke would be here. That he worked on Christmas to relieve other employees—instead of closing up shop—was an indicator of his priorities.

  The door to Mr. Pike’s office was ajar and she had a feeling someone had decided to use the office, someone whose own office sat far from the newsroom.

  She peered inside and, as she’d suspected, found Duke at the desk, his dark head bent over a proof of the Gazette.

  “Reggie, this headline on the East Side murder—” He looked up and surprise skated over his features before he masked it behind a wall of cool reserve. Dropping his gaze, he resumed his work. “Make an appointment with my assistant if you need something, Miss Walker. I am quite busy.”

  “You will see me now, Mr. Havermeyer.” She closed the door behind her and turned the lock. The scratch of his pen faltered for a brief second, then continued. Undaunted, she crossed the room and planted her feet in front of his desk. No fear. No hesitation.

  “Well, get to it. I have an edition to finish.”

  Her heart squeezed in agony over his wintry tone. Had this been a mistake? The loving, passionate man, the one who’d held her hand in the tiny pantry to help keep her calm, seemed like a distant memory.

  “You have three minutes, Miss Walker, before I have you shown out. Were I you, I would hurry.”

  She took a deep breath. “You never allowed me a chance to apologize properly. Or to explain why I lied.”

  He made a scornful noise in his throat. “A justified lie is still a lie—and I abhor liars.”

  The back of her neck tingled, the dismissive words irritating her. Yes, she had deceived him. Yes, she deserved his anger. However, did she not also deserve a bit of compassion? An opportunity to share her side? His rigid judgment stung and her temper flared.

  Drawing herself up, she snapped, “How nice for you, this luxury of judgment. How easy for you to remain sanctimonious, a man who never had to struggle or scrape, never had to prove himself to rise above the others. Not all of us have been so fortunate. You don’t even care to learn the reasons behind the charade.”

  He shot to his feet and braced his hands on the desk. “I know you have deceived thousands of people for months. Does their trust mean nothing to you?”

  “Their trust—or yours?”

  “You think this is about my hurt feelings?”

  “Are you saying it’s not?”

  “Rose, there are more than ten thousand employees who depend on HPC for their livelihoods. If no one buys the newspapers, then those people are out of work. People do not buy newspapers unless they trust them. Ergo, it is my job to present the truth. Always.”

  “Oh, please. Noms de plume abound in journalism—and you know it. Nellie Bly’s real name is Elizabeth Cochran, for God’s sake. Pike and I made up
the Mrs. Walker persona knowing readers would have an easier time accepting advice from an older married woman. However, the advice was entirely factual. I am still the woman behind the words.”

  “Yes, you and your research partners. Let’s not forget them.”

  She put her hands on her hips and struggled to remain composed. “You probably don’t realize this, but I applied for a reporting position at the Gazette. I wanted to be like those men out there”—she gestured toward the outer room—“but Mr. Pike told me female reporters would be a distraction to the men on staff. He agreed to let me write an advice column from home, however. It wasn’t ideal, scribbling out recipes and solving marital squabbles, but there was no other choice. I needed a position, one that would provide for my mother and myself. A job that will not break me, as hers has broken her.”

  A flicker of emotion glowed in his dark eyes. “What job is that?”

  “My mother is a maid. A housemaid in her younger days, a job that is too rigorous for her now. She works in the kitchens at the Lowe residence with Henry, Bridget, and the others.”

  “Ah. Your comments at dinner make more sense.”

  She remembered Mr. Cameron’s insensitive attitude concerning the servant class and her reaction. “You were worried about losing your business, but I was worried about losing the roof over my head. And my mother’s health. Our future. Telling a fib or two was sometimes necessary.”

  “You think I only insist on the truth because I am rich.”

  “No, there are plenty of rich liars in the world. I believe your rigid sense of right and wrong has been tainted by your status. You get to decide the rules . . . and everyone else must play by them.”

  “My newspaper, my rules. Doesn’t seem unreasonable to me.”

  She clenched her teeth. This was getting her nowhere fast. How could she make him understand? “Duke—”

  “You’re wasting your time, Rose.” He dropped into the large leather chair. “The paper is barely surviving one scandal. Can you imagine the hullabaloo if another one surfaced?”

  “Wrong. You are selling the readership short. I read their letters and I know them. They don’t like Mrs. Walker because of her wedding ring or her fancy house. They like her because of the wisdom and compassion she displays, the wit and the emotion. That is all right here.” She pointed at herself.

  Duke was already shaking his head. “I’ve made my decision, Rose.”

  She hated that answer, but it was what she had expected—and why she’d written a new column for tomorrow’s paper.

  “And what about us?” she forced herself to ask. “Have you made that decision, as well?”

  He exhaled a long breath and studied her face. “I don’t make a habit of ruining innocents. I am willing to do the right thing, however, which is no doubt why you are really here.”

  Did he think . . . ? Was he insinuating . . . ? The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, her fingers curling into her palms. “I’m here to argue for my job, not to drag you kicking and screaming into a marriage.”

  He didn’t appear to believe her. “You should congratulate yourself. Many have tried to get me to the altar, but you are the only one who has succeeded. Contact my assistant after the holiday and she’ll tell you all you need to know.” He picked up his pen and went back to proofing.

  “All I need to know?”

  “Yes, such as the location and date.” He waved his hand, still not meeting her eyes. “Where to send the bills, et cetera.”

  Snow began to fall outside the windows, the sky giving up in trying to hold in the moisture. Rose felt a little the same way, unable to swallow past the lump in her throat as her heart split in two. She’d been wrong about him.

  So very wrong.

  She couldn’t speak, her mouth as dry as dust, tears threatening behind her eyes. As much as she would love to deliver a blistering setdown, one that would reach the heart behind his cold shell, she could not. And really, why would she bother? She’d rather work as a laundry maid for the rest of her life than marry this man. “No, thank you,” she choked out and crossed to the exit.

  Unlocking the door, she left Pike’s office and dug deep for composure. Only a few more minutes. She had one last stop to make before she could figure out the rest of her life.

  It took a few tries, but Rose finally located the correct typesetter. “Good day. I am Mrs. Walker,” she told the young man. Pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket, she placed it on the desk. “I have new copy for my column. See that it gets replaced in the morning edition.”

  “But we’ve already laid out the entire paper. Mr. Havermeyer’ll be very displeased if—”

  What was one more lie when she had absolutely nothing left to lose? “Mr. Havermeyer just finished approving the changes. You don’t think I’d be foolish enough to go behind his back, do you? On Christmas?” She laughed, though it sounded hollow to her ears.

  “I suppose not,” the man said and picked up the words she’d written last night. “I’ll see this is taken care of.”

  “Thank you. I owe you a glass of eggnog.”

  “Gives me indigestion. I’d rather have a cigar, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Then you shall have it. Take care and Merry Christmas.”

  “I enjoy your column, Mrs. Walker,” he called as she walked away. “Wife and I never miss it.”

  She turned and thanked him, her head high as she left the Gazette for the final time.

  * * *

  The offices were dark that evening as Duke relaxed in Pike’s office with a cigar and a bottle of scotch. The other employees had already departed, the issue long sent to the presses. Only, he had nowhere to go, no one to meet. An empty house awaited him, the thought more depressing than the quiet offices. At least at the office, he might get ahead on his work.

  He took a swallow of scotch, hoping to numb the pain he’d felt ever since Rose had walked out of this room. While his proposal may have lacked romance, she certainly hadn’t hesitated in refusing him.

  What had you expected when you treated her terribly?

  He stared at the spot where she’d taken him to task hours ago. You get to decide the rules . . . and everyone else must play by them. And why not? With things under his control, then Duke could protect himself from the disappointment and hurt when others failed him. No betrayal. No messy feelings grinding up his insides like machinery.

  Another mouthful of scotch burned its way to his stomach. Perhaps if he got drunk enough, he’d be able to sleep tonight. The last two nights he had stared at the ceiling above his bed, remembering and second-guessing himself—something he never, ever did.

  She had done that, with her sharp wit and striking blue eyes. Her soft kisses and teasing smile. He could still hear her breathy moans in his ear as he drove inside her, his body shaking with need the likes of which he’d never known.

  And he’d pushed her away with his indifference.

  I needed a position, one that would provide for my mother and myself.

  While he didn’t approve of lying, he could understand the need for her to pose as someone else, especially after Pike had refused to hire her as a reporter. However, after what happened in the larder, she’d had ample opportunity to tell him the truth. Instead, she’d maintained the lie and now he felt like the world’s biggest fool. She’d been a maiden, for God’s sake. He would have been gentler if he’d known. Their intimacies wouldn’t have gone as far, that was for certain.

  A stab of guilt worked its way under his ribs and he attempted to banish it with another swallow of spirits.

  The door to the office slid open and Duke’s heart thumped hard.

  Had she returned?

  Pike’s weathered face appeared, his body pausing when he spied Duke in the chair. “Mr. Havermeyer . . . I hadn’t expected to find you here this late.”

  Duke pushed aside his disappointment and beckoned his former editor in chief inside the room. “Obviously. You might as well come in.”<
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  Pike removed one of the paintings from the wall. “The wife painted this when we were younger. Cannot believe I left it behind.” He lowered himself into a seat across from the desk. “I see you found my scotch.”

  “I certainly have.” Duke glanced at the nearly empty glass in his hand, then finished the rest of it in one gulp. “It tastes like varnish.”

  “Hardly ever drink spirits myself. Kept that in my desk for the editors—and you, apparently.”

  Duke reached into the drawer and withdrew another glass. He filled it and topped off his own. He held the fresh glass out to Pike. “If I must suffer, then so shall you.”

  Pike laughed and accepted the crystal. “Fair enough. I must say, you look like shit, Havermeyer.”

  Duke dragged a hand down his face. “A few long days, is all. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

  “Sure about that?” He lifted the glass to his mouth. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  It was not an odd request. Duke had worked closely with Pike over the years and had looked up to the man. In truth, Pike had been more of a mentor than Duke’s own father. Firing the older man hadn’t been easy—almost as hard as not chasing after Rose when she walked out today.

  He cleared his throat, determined to stick to business matters rather than personal ones. “Why’d you keep Mrs. Walker’s identity a secret from me?”

  “So she told you?”

  “More like someone told me for her, but yes. I know she’s an unmarried girl living in a boardinghouse. What I cannot fathom is why you would think keeping that from me was a good idea.”

  Pike blew out a long breath. “A bit of what we do is razzle-dazzle, even if you don’t like to admit it. Pulitzer certainly ain’t above pulling a stunt to gain readers. Look at what he’s done with those cartoons and sending Bly into that lunatic asylum. I never compromised the reputation of the paper, not once. I merely wrapped Rose’s advice in a bit of sugar to make it an easier pill to swallow.”

  “The sugar being her supposed age and marital status.”

  “Of course. Girl’s got a good level head on her shoulders, but no one wants to hear advice from one so young. Hell, the Pittsburgh Dispatch has an advice columnist who’s a man posing as an elderly woman. At least I stuck with the right gender.”