The Art 0f Pleasuring A Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)
Page 30
Wesley watched the bird for a little while, its tweeting mixing with Phillip’s happy barks, and serving to calm him down. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. The air was clean and fresh, and he let it fill his lungs, expanding his chest and relishing in the feel of his soft shirt against his chest unconstrained by a waistcoat. Wesley detested waistcoats. Were he not the son of a duke, and thereby bound by the laws of sartorial propriety dictated by the ton, he would prefer to spend his days in loose breeches and a loose linen shirt that allowed him to move freely.
However, such an outfit was unbecoming of a gentleman of his station, as his valet so often reminded him. There were expectations of Wesley as the heir to the dukedom of Bersard, one of England’s oldest titles, and they pertained not only to fashion.
Wesley came from a long line of gentlemen who treated their titles like they were gifts bestowed from the heavens. His own father was positively referential about his duties, putting them above absolutely everything else, including his family. He was devoted to the Bersard properties and investments. He also never missed a session of Parliament—or at least, he hadn’t until now. His duties were his life.
Wesley knew he would be expected to do the same, and so he prayed fervently every day that the dukedom did not fall to him for some time. At first, the prayers were almost whimsy. Wesley’s father had seemed so hale and hearty. Wesley had assumed it would be at least a decade until the weight of the dukedom fell to him. But then, this past year, his father’s heart had begun to give him trouble.
The physician said it was the stress his father put on himself. Over the last year, Wesley had watched his father crumble from a formidable gentleman of tall, strong stature to a stooped, wrinkled figure who looked like a light wind would send him toppling to the ground.
The Duke of Bersard now looked far older than his five-and-fifty years and, when he was not bedridden, was forced to potter about the house with a cane to provide him the balance his body could no longer find. He was withering before Wesley’s very eyes, looking every day closer to death.
Wesley’s mother was in denial about the whole thing; she insisted that with the right tonics and poultices, his father would make a full recovery. But the physician had pulled Wesley aside just that morning and told him in no uncertain terms that his father would be dead by the autumn. There was nothing left to do but ensure that he was comfortable.
This shocking news was in fact what had driven Wesley out of the house and into the grounds. He needed the fresh air, he needed the solitude of a walk with Phillip by his side to clear his mind. He needed all this, because when he walked back inside later that afternoon, he would have to relay the news to his mother, and he could only imagine the devastation it would bring to her. She was devoted to his father, the picture of the perfect duchess.
Her title defined her. Soon she would be dowager, nudged out of her role as matriarch and made to wait until such time as Wesley could provide her with grandchildren to occupy her for her remaining years. It was almost too much for him to bear.
Phillip came bounding back up onto the grass a moment later, distracting Wesley from further depressing musings. They continued their walk about the grounds, returning through the back entrance of the estate just as a cold wind started to blow through. The sun was slowly being enveloped by clouds, and Wesley could tell that rain was coming. Whether he liked it or not, the time for walking was over.
He walked directly into the room off from the kitchen, which was used for cleaning and shining boots. The old, muddied pair of Hessians he was wearing were covered with bits of wet grass and the odd smudge of dirt. He had taken both off and set them on the table in the middle of the room when his father’s steward came rushing into the rom.
Mr. Patrick Berkeley was a kind man with a nervous disposition. He was never still, indeed, he seemed to be in perpetual motion. If he was not fast walking throughout the house, he was pacing, and if he was not pacing, he was wringing his hands, playing with the nose of his glasses, or any half dozen other physical tics.
It tipped Wesley off immediately, then, when Berkeley came to a complete stop at the doorway to the room.
“My Lord,” he said, and Wesley looked up to find Berkeley staring down at him nervously. His eyes were staring boldly into Wesley’s with intensity, wholly unlike the steward. Berkeley’s eyes normally reflected his kind, affable nature. His gaze never failed to put Wesley at ease. However, just now his stare was bereft of its calming, steadying slant. He looked almost worried. Berkeley never looked worried.
Something must be wrong.
Further supporting this idea was that Berkeley was standing perfectly still. He was normally a man of a fidgeting nature, always moving or twitching. Now, however, his hands were hanging by his sides, his fingers perfectly immobile. There was no foot tapping, no shifting from one leg to the other. He was practically as motionless as a corpse.
A corpse. The words repeated in Wesley’s mind, and he knew, before the steward said anything, the reason for his coming to find him.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Wesley asked, shocked at the steadiness of his voice.
“I am afraid so,” Berkeley said, nodding his head. “I think it best if you follow me.”
Wesley held his hand out and waited for Phillip to rise from his supine position on the floor, and then they both followed Berkeley out of the room. It was only when they were halfway up the stairs leading to the upper bedchambers that Wesley realized he was barefoot. He had the sudden urge to laugh at this oversight, but then he thought of his father, and his reaction to the state of his son’s undress.
And then Wesley realized that he would never again receive censure, praise, or anything else from his father. All he would receive was a title, and that was the very last thing he wanted from the man.
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Also by Scarlett Osborne
Thank you for reading The Art of Pleasuring a Duke!
I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, may I ask you to please write a review HERE? It would mean the world to me. Reviews are very important and allow me to keep writing the books that you love to read! ♥
Some other stories of mine:
Addicted to a Rascal Duke
The Viscount Who Seduced Her
Devilish Games of a Virtuous Lady
Bewitching the Forbidden Duke
Tamed by the Marquess
Rescued by a Wicked Baron
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Scarlett Osborne
About the Author
Born in the Sunshine State of Florida, but of both British and Nordic descent, Scarlett Osborne grew up reading historical romances from the land of her ancestors. Fascinated with the British society of the 1800s and armed with a wild imagination, she obtained a degree in Creative Writing and immediately started her career as a Regency romance author.
A daydreamer extraordinaire, Scarlett likes to jump in the shoes of her heroines, immersing herself in her own stories, living the adventures that she wished she had experienced as a child. An avid reader and fan of the outdoors, Scarlett spends her free time either reading or going on long horseback rides along with her two sons.
Get lost in a land of enchantment, where adventure and love await around every corner...Scarlett hopes that through her heroes, you too will get to live a whirlwind romance in the Regency era, when fairytales were real and all dreams possible!
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