Duke in Darkness
Wickedly Wed, Book 1
Nicola Davidson
Contents
Duke in Darkness
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Also by Nicola Davidson
Standalones
About the Author
Copyright
DUKE IN DARKNESS is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
DUKE IN DARKNESS © Nicola Davidson
First Edition February 2019
Editing: AuthorsDesigns
Cover: Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
Formatting: Tamara Gill
Duke in Darkness
Wickedly Wed, Book 1
Colonel Gabriel Jordan-Ives once lived to serve king and country, with high hopes for a future of love, marriage, and children. Now he exists as a poor recluse, haunted by horrific war memories and struggling with a maimed body—until the day he unexpectedly inherits his cousin Exton’s dukedom and must leave his sanctuary for London, rejoin the ton he cannot abide…and secure the line with a legitimate heir.
Often punished for her hot blooded, curious nature, Lady Lilian Nash transformed herself into the perfect duchess-in-waiting to please her family. However they demand more—wed her late fiancé’s mad cousin—or they’ll be financially ruined. Her marriage of convenience is confusing; Gabriel is unlike any man she’s ever met, an untamed aristocrat both generous and secretive, a scarred yet powerful husband who introduces her to wicked pleasures in the bedchamber even as he forbids her from touching him.
But as the brutal shadows of his past intrude on their present, and cruel enemies attempt to destroy a growing bond, can love save a duke in darkness, or will the shadows consume them both?
Content warning: PTSD, torture-inflicted injuries.
Dedication
For everyone managing past trauma:
Some days are good, some days not so much.
But this remains constant: you are amazing and worthy of every wonderful thing.
Prologue
Kent, England, September 1814
“Sir! Wake up. Please, sir, you need to get up at once.”
Colonel Gabriel Jordan-Ives turned his head and buried it deeper into his pillow as raw despair cut him to the core. Hearing the anxious tone of his batman-turned-valet Hobbs at the door of his bedchamber meant only one thing: he’d failed, yet again, to drink himself to death.
And he’d tried so bloody hard last night.
The evenings were the worst. As soon as the sun went down and shadows stalked him as relentlessly as any French regiment, his mind would turn back to Bayonne, and the battle that should never have been. The frantic confusion in the pre-dawn darkness of charging horse hooves pounding barren land, of men shouting, of weapons firing and swords clashing. The wail of trumpets blasting in the cold April air, made suffocating with the cloying scents of sweat and blood and desperate fear as hardened soldiers begged for respite. So close to victory, and then…his capture by the French. Freedom had come in the space of three days, but much could be achieved in short timeframes by men with no souls, who cared nothing for treaties or laws or news of Napoleon’s abdication, and took infinite pleasure in vengeance masquerading as interrogation.
Christ, how he wanted to die.
That would be the only escape from the memories of chains and icy water, of flaming torches and splintered wood. The daily humiliation as he hobbled along on a foot ruined beyond repair, all his scars itching and pulling, and wrestled with conversation as the sentences formed so easily in his mind struggled to leave a mouth compromised by a maimed cheek.
But Hobbs had confiscated anything that could be used as a weapon, so the only method at his disposal to end his cycle of guilt in the light, and torment in the dark, was cheap gin. Which despite his best efforts, continued to achieve nothing more than anvils dancing a flamenco on his skull, and a roiling gut.
“Go away, Hobbs,” Gabriel croaked. “Sure I’ve dismissed you.”
“At last count, two hundred and seventy-five times,” came the too-loud, too-hearty reply, close, but not too close, for he well knew Gabriel’s abhorrence for touch or proximity.
“Then why are you still here?”
“Glutton for punishment,” said Hobbs. “But you must get up, sir. You have visitors.”
Visitors? Impossible. No one came to this ramshackle cottage in the backwaters of Kent. Exactly why he’d chosen the place, it was a sanctuary from the rest of the world.
Gabriel swallowed hard as his stomach threatened to unleash its contents. “Turn them away. Now.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“Excuse me? Just gave you…a goddamned order.”
“Indeed, but the two men waiting downstairs are not the kind to be diverted.”
“Why not? Is it the king and Prinny?”
Hobbs picked up a pair of comfortably worn buckskins from a pile resting on a rickety chaise and shook them out. “Close, sir. They are Exton’s men. Lawyers.”
Unease prickled the back of Gabriel’s neck. Why would his cousin Quentin Jordan-Ives, the Duke of Exton, send lawyers? The milksop with a giant stick lodged firmly up his ass might be the head of the family, but he’d sensibly refrained from ever trying to dictate terms to Gabriel after his honorable medical discharge from the British army. The duke had no reason. Gabriel hadn’t asked for lodging or funds, nor did he want any part of the haut ton life that his cousin so loved. And it wasn’t like he stood to inherit anything; until Quentin sired a son of his own, his younger brother Simon was the heir.
Unless…the matter concerned the wedding? Quentin was betrothed to some equally priggish individual, an earl’s daughter named Lady Lilian Nash—hell, even her name sounded hewn in the frigid stone of disapproval—and after an unusually long engagement, the couple finally planned to marry before parliament sat again in November. Surely they didn’t think for a moment that he would attend? With his ruined countenance, he couldn’t even face himself in the mirror, let alone be seen by strangers. Nor did he want to witness an occasion he would now never enjoy. On campaign and on furlough he’d been popular with the ladies, and had greatly anticipated meeting and marrying the woman of his dreams: a lushly curved beauty eager in the bedchamber, well-spoken and well-read out of it. Someone he could talk to about anything, who would support his service to king and country, and be a loving mother to their children.
That dream had died at Bayonne. No lady willingly chose a broken and disfigured shell of a man who rarely slept, a man who preferred a near-constant state of drunkenness to dull the pain from his injuries and the nightmares lodged in his brain.
&
nbsp; “Did they bring…a wedding invitation, Hobbs?” Gabriel asked eventually.
His valet sniffed. “I’m not sure, sir. They were rather, er, somber when they arrived. And surprisingly respectful, I might add.”
“Horseshit. The only time a lawyer is respectful…is when they want money. And I have none. So tell them to go to hell.”
“It would sound so much better coming from you, Colonel. Men like these don’t tend to listen to servants.”
And how exactly was he supposed to do that? Gabriel the Great, leader of men, parliamentary orator, many times decorated hero of the British Army, now struggled to string a sentence together without sounding like a Bedlamite. “No. They can send a letter.”
“They wish an audience, sir. Requested most insistently.”
A snarl escaped his mouth, but Gabriel sat up and awkwardly shifted his huge six foot-two inch frame around to the side of the bed. If he didn’t see the legal vermin, they would probably set up camp in the kitchen. If he granted five minutes, they could then be thrown out on their pompous backsides. “Goddamnit, fine. I need hot water.”
Hobbs’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I took the liberty of bringing it with me, sir.”
A half hour later, Gabriel made his way to the front room that served as a parlor of sorts. The two men standing by the window looked extremely ill at ease, peering about the small and shabby area as though they expected footpads to leap out and attack them at any moment. One was of average height and slender, with gray-flecked hair and spectacles. The other younger, short, and rotund. Both had the pasty hue of those who rarely ventured outdoors.
“Gentlemen,” he said coldly. If he let them do the talking, he might be able to mask the worst of his affliction.
Both stared back, looks of abject horror on their faces, and Gabriel nearly turned around and left again. Years in the harsh, relentless heat of Spain and later France had burnished his skin bronze, and with his jet-black hair and equally dark eyes, plus the vicious scar on the right side of his face that traveled from jaw to hairline, he hardly needed further evidence that he looked like some sort of purgatory-spawned demon.
Then abruptly, as though turning a page, both faces went blank and they bowed very low.
“Sir,” said Spectacles. “You are Colonel Gabriel Jordan-Ives? First cousin to His Grace Quentin, Duke of Exton, and Lord Simon Jordan-Ives?”
Who else would he be? “I am.”
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I am Ormsby, of Ormsby, Kane, and Vesper. This is my junior associate, Jacobs. The firm has served the Exton dukedom in all legal matters for many generations. It is with the greatest of sorrow that I deliver this news to you.”
Gabriel froze. “News?”
“His Grace and Lord Simon were attending a house party in Sussex. Despite inclement weather, they decided to return to London together after receiving word their mother the duchess wished to see them…”
Foreboding clawed at his belly, and the damp-marked parlor walls began to close in on him. Stay calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. “And?”
“It was raining. The carriage took a corner too fast and overturned, down a steep bank and into a stream. Alas, His Grace and his lordship did not survive the accident. So it is my duty to inform you, as the sole surviving blood male of the Jordan-Ives line, you sir, are the fourteenth Duke of Exton. My deepest condolences for your loss.”
Black dots danced in Gabriel’s vision, a roaring sound filled his ears, and for a long moment he thought he might pass out. No. NO! Impossible. This just had to be another nightmare. His cousins couldn’t be dead. There was no way in hell he could be a fucking duke. “When? Who knows?”
Jacobs dabbed at his temples with a crisp handkerchief. “Four days ago, sir. It took a while to find them, you see. And then find you. We have tried to be discreet, but your aunt is not taking the news very well.”
Gabriel barely refrained from unleashing a snort of derision. What mother in the world would take the news of both her children’s deaths, well? “To be expected.”
“Naturally, naturally,” said Ormsby in a gratingly soothing voice. “Her Grace is but a woman, without the fortitude to manage by herself. She asks, nay, begs, sir, for you to attend her in London. To do your duty and take on the responsibilities of the dukedom as you did on the battlefield for king and country. There will be no impediment. You are the rightful heir, and are of sound mind.”
The sound mind was highly debatable. Even the thought of returning to London and being part of the ton, of dressing like a dandy, appearing in public, and drinking tea like he wasn’t a monster made sweat drip down his back and his scars itch even worse. But…duty. And Aunt Imogen had always been kind to him as a child, though he hadn’t seen her in person for many years. “Wait. Lady Lilian?”
“Do not worry. She is with her family.”
“Will you continue…to see to matters?”
Ormsby exchanged a look with Jacobs, then bowed. “It would be my honor, sir. Beg pardon, Your Grace. I will petition parliament at once for you to be recognized as legal heir, and then invested as duke. But I must humbly request you return to the capital with great urgency.”
Taking a deep, slow breath, Gabriel rubbed his aching jaw and glanced around at his unkempt and unfashionable, but safe and familiar surroundings. He didn’t actually have a choice, no matter how the lawyer termed it. And he could only imagine how many ton vultures were currently circling his good-hearted aunt, pretending to care about her loss so they could extract money, favors or gossip.
He would have to be Duke of Exton.
Without doubt the worst in history.
“Very well. To London.”
Chapter 1
Kingsford House, London, March 1815
“It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you…after suffering several heavy investment losses, I am on the brink of total ruin.”
Sounds filled the library at the Earl of Kingsford’s words—gasps and cries and a growl of rage bouncing between the dark wood panels, unread books, and woven rugs—but Lady Lilian Nash remained still and quiet. Not by so much as a twitch would her father, grandmother, two younger sisters Pippa and Georgiana, and brother Xavier know the jumble of chaotic emotions currently coursing through her body. She’d worked far too hard to transform herself into the ton lady that Grandmother demanded and her late fiancé Exton had desired: gracious, calm and proper.
Even in times of great trial, ladies did not show anything other than smiling politeness. They didn’t show frustration, even if their amiable but weak and too-trusting father had made a series of catastrophic investment decisions compounded by large loans. They didn’t show anger at the number of innocent people who would be affected, servants and tenants alongside the Nash family. And they certainly didn’t show anxiety as their world turned upside down.
“Oh dear,” murmured Lilian, rather than shouting ‘you damned fool.’
“Oh dear?” mocked Georgiana, her headstrong youngest sister. “Is that all you can say? Father might be safe from debtor’s prison, but we certainly aren’t, and your contribution is oh dear?”
“Come now, Gigi,” said Pippa, the middle sister, forever the peacemaker. “We’re all a little lost for words.”
“I’m not,” snapped Xavier, Pippa’s twin and heir to the earldom, known as Viscount Northam. “If this gets out, I’m bloody finished—”
“Northam,” said the dowager Lady Kingsford, the matriarch they called Grandmother never Granny, in her low, icy tone. “That is not a tone or word one uses in the presence of ladies. Have you learned nothing?”
“Beg pardon,” he ground out, running a hand through his distinctive Nash-gold hair. “But I had a chance of marrying someone I actually liked. Now I’ll have to go cap in hand to the heiresses, although being a viscountess isn’t much of a prize. The ones with the large fortunes expect to be a duchess. Or a marchioness at least.”
Lilian winced and shifted uncomfortably on her high
-backed chair. Even as a little girl she’d dreamed of being a wife and mother, but Xavier hadn’t even reached his majority, and still had plenty of wild oats to sow. The thought of her usually cheerful, head-shakingly roguish brother forced into a too-early marriage was unendurable. “What if…” she began.
“Yes, Lilian?” asked her father from where he sat behind his carved oak desk, pausing in mopping his florid brow to give her an encouraging smile.
“What if I wed a wealthy gentleman who agreed to pay your debts as part of the marriage settlement? With my dear Exton gone, I have no expectations of love.”
Grandmother stood and clapped her hands once. “Northam, Pippa, Georgiana, leave us, please. Your father and I need to speak privately with Lilian.”
Xavier raised an eyebrow, and her sisters shot her quizzical looks as they departed, but she could only shrug. Not when she had no idea what this particular matter might be. Yet if it couldn’t be said in front of them, it would probably be something to make her scream into her pillow later in the evening. And she’d done quite enough of that since the cruel Fates had torn her fiancé from her.
Lilian delicately cleared her throat. “What is it you wished to tell me, Grandmother?”
The old woman paused and smoothed a non-existent crease in her lilac gown before sitting down again. She had remained in half-mourning since the death of her husband thirty years ago, and still refused to wear any color but lilac or gray. “Your impending marriage.”
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