by Erica Taylor
“Sir?” Andrew asked as the headmaster sat down and read over a piece of paper. The elderly headmaster handed him the paper, the crease lines still visible where the paper had been folded.
“I’m so sorry, my young lord,” Headmaster Quick said.
“For what, sir?” Andrew asked and looked down at the paper.
The words swam before his eyes, tears mixed with shock and disbelief. His tall, proud father, a duke through to his marrow, had died, and his brother, Sam, who Andrew had worshipped from afar, had died with him.
“As the next eldest son, Lord Andrew . . . you are the Duke of Bradstone now,” the headmaster told him.
Andrew did not remember the carriage ride home. He had a vague recollection of walking into Bradstone Park in Kent and immediately having his mother’s arms around him. The days afterward flew by, and he saw the haunted looks on his brothers’ faces and the tears streaking his sisters’. His youngest sister Mara had been barely a year old. At the age of seventeen, Andrew became the tenth Duke of Bradstone.
He knew his life had changed, forever. The things he had thought about doing with his life—his dreams, his desires, his goals—were no more. Everything had shifted. His position in society had changed; he was no longer a second son of a duke, but a very young and very wealthy duke himself. He now had expectations and responsibilities and obligations he hadn’t previously had; he had a title he had not been raised to inherit, and he had a very large pack of younger siblings who were all looking to him for guidance and reassurance. He had to be strong; he had to be an unfailingly solid wall for his family in their grief.
In one terrible moment, Andrew lost his father, his brother, and the rest of his life.
His mother had insisted he return to Eton the following fall, and he was treated differently as he stepped back onto campus as a duke. Suddenly everyone wanted to be his friend. Everyone wanted his opinion. Everyone just wanted to be near him. He maintained a few select friends, those who were close to him before he became a duke, but there was one friend who turned the opposite way of everyone else. Instead of wanting his approval, he despised Andrew. Instead of hanging onto his every word and asking for his opinion on every trivial thing, Lord Jonathan Masson, then Viscount Sterling, later the Earl of Morton, hated Andrew’s newly ducal guts.
Losing their mother six months later did not help things for any of the Macalister clan.
With so many expectations of him so soon after the deaths of his mother, father, and brother, he had done the only sensible thing: he had given everyone what they wanted.
He had approved Sarah’s marriage to the first man who asked, only because Sarah had begged it of him, and then Andrew had been a strong and a solid shoulder for her to cry on after the death of her husband five years later.
He allowed Bennett to run off and join the Royal Navy, later purchasing his commission when it was requested.
He financed Luke’s random and lengthy trips out of the country.
He endorsed Susanna in all of her charitable dealings.
He supported Norah as she joined practically every women’s club she could manage.
He tried to remain impassive when Nick got into fight after fight, not commenting too much on how prize fighting was not the most respectable pursuit for a gentleman.
He willingly supplied Charlie with whatever obscure scientific instrument he desired.
And Mara . . . well, Mara had been merely one year old when they had lost their father and Sam, so he had taken on the role of a father more to Mara than to any of his other siblings. Mara had him wrapped around her finger, and he did not mind. He knew he spoiled her shamelessly. He could not help it. Mara was his baby sister, and he found it very hard to deny her anything she wanted.
Andrew had put on a brave face, the new face of the Macalister family, and done what the ton expected of him. He dutifully sat in the House of Lords, he dutifully hosted a ball each season, he dutifully managed their estates, tenants, properties, investments, and business ventures. He did his duty to the title that ruled his life.
It was that duty which prompted his proposal to Clara’s twin sister, Lady Christina Masson. Five years ago, the old Earl of Morton had still been alive and had enthusiastically consented to the marriage of his prized daughter to the ton’s most eligible bachelor. But Christina Masson had cried off, leaving him standing at the altar on their wedding day as she ran off to Gretna Green with her father’s footman. Andrew had chased them all the way to no avail. She had completely disappeared.
Twelve years after inheriting, Andrew had carved a nice place for himself. Though different from what he had dreamed of doing during his days at Eton, he was not dissatisfied with his life. He knew he would have to marry eventually, possibly even soon. It now fell to him to produce an heir and establish the continuation of the Macalister lineage. He certainly was not getting any younger.
A long time ago he had known the sweet and mischievous Lady Clara with braids and warm smiles, back when her eyes did not carry the hurt he had witnessed last night. He saw a fair amount of Clara Masson while he was a welcome friend in the Masson household and later when he was courting and engaged to her sister, but he had not set eyes on her since that day in the church, when Christina had disappeared. Clara had been a beacon of light then, and it bothered him that the light had dimmed. He knew pursuing a relationship with her was not going to be easy. Her brother hated him, and the feeling was mutual. However, there was something between himself and Clara, and after losing happiness once, Andrew was not about to give up if fate was offering him a second chance.
Lady Clara Masson glared at her older brother, biting down hard on her lip to ease the tremble of fear racing through her. Lord Jonathan Masson, the Earl of Morton, was tall and imposing, and cruelty danced behind his dark eyes. In Clara’s opinion, he was insufferable, he was mean, and she hated him.
It also did not help that he was kicking her out of his house.
“Jonathan, where do you expect me to go?” she asked, straining to keep the desperation out of her voice.
“I care not, Clara,” he snapped at her. “I am through with you disgracing this family with your wanton ways. Throwing yourself at Bradstone like some two-pence harlot. You disgust me. I will have you in my home no longer.”
“You are being absurd, Jonathan,” Clara argued. “You cannot do this; you cannot toss me out with the rubbish.”
“I should have done it years ago,” Jonathan said, turning his nose up at her. “You will not drag my illustrious title through the mud.”
“Oh please,” Clara huffed and rolled her eyes. “You are not as important as you think yourself.”
Jonathan grabbed the plate in front of her and threw it against the wall. Clara jumped as the porcelain shattered, the crash echoing off the walls, and gaped at her brother in shock. He sneered at her, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
“Leave,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “I do not care where you go. You were so determined to be at Bradstone’s last night, go back there. Go be the duke’s whore.”
Clara’s sudden intake of breath was all the satisfaction she would allow him. He would not see her tears; he would not see her fear.
“I will pack my things then,” Clara managed to reply, keeping her voice even before turning and fleeing the breakfast room, taking refuge in her rooms. She tried to ignore his shouts, but they cut into her all the same. He was cutting her off. He was kicking her out; he had disowned her. She was twenty-three years old. She had no dowry, no funds to her name apart from a pitiful inheritance from her mother, which would come to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday. How would she survive for two whole years?
I could stay with Aunt Lucinda, Clara thought. Her father’s sister and husband had never approved of Jonathan’s treatment of her. The Yarrows were nearly impoverished, not that they would admit to such a disgrace, and Jonatha
n refused to aid them in any way. They would take her in out of the goodness of their hearts, but it was not a long term solution. Clara knew they could barely afford what they had, and she would hate to be a burden on them. She hated feeling dependent.
The only other person she could possibly turn to was her eccentric Great-Aunt Bridgette, who had basically put her in this position when she had forced Jonathan to bring Clara to London for a season. It had been Great-Aunt Bridgette’s hare-brained idea to attend the Macalister Birthday Ball to begin with, only Great-Aunt Bridgette had not attended as she had promised. Luckily Aunt Lucinda had attended the ball, and Clara had been grateful for her presence.
Filling with despair, Clara sank into the chair next to her. Great-Aunt Bridgette, her paternal great uncle’s widow, lived in London, though Clara was not sure where. Great-Aunt Bridgette had funded her season this year, with the strict instructions to “Make a good match, for I will not spend another penny on you!”
Clara wiped away a rebellious tear and stood, trying to shake herself into action. She certainly could not stay here, not with Jonathan, not when he was in such a rage. She had never seen him this angry before, and she did not doubt his seriousness. Jonathan had always despised her.
Of the four Masson siblings, Jonathan, Christina, herself, and Patrick, Jonathan had always been their father’s favorite. Father tolerated his twin girls with the expectation they make spectacularly advantageous matches. He had seen something different in Christina than he had in Clara, though since they were identical twins, Clara had never understood what it was. Something about Christina had always drawn people to her, and her supposed superior beauty and charm had won Father’s favor as well. Patrick was four years her junior and had left three years ago to join the Royal Navy. Jonathan had purchased him a commission earlier that spring. But it was Clara whom Jonathan despised. Jonathan had always kept a special well of cruelty deep within him that he reserved just for her. She had known she would have to face her brother’s wrath for attending the Macalister Birthday Ball last night, but she had not expected anger of this magnitude.
Clara hastily pulled dresses out of her wardrobe, stuffing as many as possible into the two traveling trunks she had yanked out from under her bed. The fine gowns and day dresses Great-Aunt Bridgette had purchased for her went into the trunks. They would have to be sold; it was much too humble an end for such nice things. She would find a way to repay Great-Aunt Bridgette for her generosity. Clara wouldn’t need nice clothes now.
Tears fell unabashedly down her cheeks as she surveyed the mess of garments scattered around the room. She was not sure how she was going to manage to leave, it all seemed too impossible. Last night had been full of such magic and promise, even if her tall, dark rescuer was the man her sister had jilted at the altar. But he hadn’t seemed to mind. He even found it amusing. Amusing. The Stone Duke had found something amusing. She had witnessed the cold demeanor the gossip sheets wrote about, but she had seen his laughter and his gentleness, almost as if she was seeing a fleeting glimpse of the long lost Andrew, the boy who had been her first childhood friend. If Andrew was choosing to smile at her, it had to mean something. And now . . . now she would not know what that something was.
She did not know how long she sat there and sobbed into the arm of the chair, crumpled and shattered inside. She did not hear her brother stomp up the stairs, but the crash of the door slamming into the wall jolted her out of her trance.
“Stop your sobbing and get the hell out of my house!” Jonathan roared from the doorway and Clara jumped. He stormed into her room, and slammed the nearest trunk closed as she jumped again.
“Jonathan! what are you doing in here?” Clara cried at him, horrified. “This is my bedchamber!”
“This is my house, Clara, in case you forgot,” Jonathan reminded her. “And I want you out. You have five more minutes to get what you are taking with you into those bloody trunks. Whatever does not fit is being burned, so pack accordingly, Clara.”
Clara could not stop sobbing. She was exhausted from the night before. Under her brother’s hateful watch, she quickly packed a few more things into the remaining open trunk, grabbing the items that were personal to her. It was scarcely two minutes before he started bellowing again and throwing things in a dramatic and terrifying rage.
“Goddammit, Clara, hurry up!” he shouted, throwing a porcelain cat against the wall, the sound causing her to spill her armful of books onto the floor.
“Books?” Jonathan barked at her, boring down on her over his thin nose, so unlike her own. He looked so much like their father that it scared her, with his dark brown hair and angry stone-grey eyes. “What are God-dammed books going to do for you when the men in the streets have had their fill of you?”
Clara did not answer, she merely scooped them up and dumped them into the nearest open trunk.
“You have got to be the most worthless female relation in the history of the world,” he snapped at her. “Most sisters can at least be sold off to a husband, but not you!”
“I could get married,” she pleaded. Her voice shook with fear and exhaustion as she tried to hold herself together. “Please, Jonathan, I’ve barely had any time in town to find a husband.” She just needed to make it out of the house. She would call for a hackney. If she could just make it out of the house and to Great-Aunt Bridgette’s, she would be fine, temporarily. Great-Aunt Bridgette would surely let her stay for at least one night. She would figure everything else out later.
He picked up a vase from a side table and threw it across the room, barely missing Clara.
“Do you think I actually want you to find a husband?” he asked, with a vicious laugh. “Why would I wish that upon anyone? No one will have you! Clara, I’m doing you a favor. You are not worth the trouble of trying to marry off. I got rid of one sister easily enough, at least you will prove useful payment. You I will dispose of, like trash.”
Clara tried to stand up, but her legs gave out. Exhaustion was starting to overtake her—exhaustion combined with terror. She had to get out of the house immediately.
“Where am I supposed to go?” Clara questioned. She could not control her tears and was mortified of them at the same time.
“I don’t bloody care!” Jonathan laughed madly. “You and these two trunks are going onto the street, and from there you are no longer my business.” Jonathan yanked the hair gathered at the back of Clara’s head, hauling her to her feet.
With every ounce of resolve and strength she had remaining, she pulled on the deep recesses of her being and found the strength to plant her legs beneath her. She felt her senses awaken, and she knew he would kill her if she did not fight.
He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, and dark spots danced before her eyes. Her face throbbed in burning pain. He had actually struck her. He had always been cruel with his words but never with his hands. He raised his hand to assault her again, and she stood her ground, her eyes burning with tears and hate and fear.
The second hit was harder. It knocked her off balance, and her feet gave out beneath her. She hit her head on the side of her bedframe before crumpling to the floor.
Chapter Four
Morton House was in chaos.
Having walked the few blocks to Morton House from Bradstone House, Andrew had heard the screams and shouts from the street and found the door to Morton House ajar. So far no one had noticed him standing halfway in the house. The butler was nowhere to be found. There were maids scurrying around and footmen carrying things up and down the stairs. Most looked frantic and terrified; some looked ready to burst in rage.
“Pardon me?” he called, but no one turned to look at him or even acknowledge that they heard him. I should probably leave, he realized. This seemed to be a family matter, and he should keep his nose out of it. But he was curious. What could cause such uproar?
He was on the point of walking away
when a crash upstairs made him pause. Something did not feel right. Andrew dropped the bouquet of hothouse flowers on the floor and took the stairs two at a time. He heard Clara’s sobbing and Morton’s yelling. He had been to Morton House before when he and the earl had been friends, so he remembered the basic layout of the house. He went up another flight of stairs, following the sound of Clara’s frantic voice. Nearly sliding into the doorframe of what must be Clara’s bedroom, Andrew scanned the scene. Dresses were strewn about everywhere, books littered the floor, and pieces of porcelain were scattered across the carpet. A terrified looking maid was huddled in the corner, a footman standing in front of her, protecting her. Morton was standing over Clara’s crumpled form on the floor, a pool of blood seeping from a wound on her head.
Andrew threw himself at Morton, grabbed his arm by the wrist, spun him around, and knocked him solidly on the jaw. Morton stumbled backward and regained his balance before lunging at Andrew. The impact threw them both back into the wall, and Morton was able to land a few punches before Andrew threw an elbow into the side of Morton’s head. Morton stumbled back, shaking his head to clear his vision, and Andrew took advantage of Morton’s momentary distraction, grabbing him by his throat.
“So you’ve come back for your whore,” Morton sneered, struggling against Andrew’s grip.
“You’ve seen what my fists can do to you,” Andrew said, his voice cold and hard. Pulling the man closer, he offered a final warning. “If you touch her again, I will kill you.”
Morton spat in his face, sneering as Andrew wiped at it with his free hand before releasing him. He planted two punches into Morton’s abdomen before landing a final blow to his jaw. Morton spun the impact and fell to the floor.
Andrew was at Clara’s side in an instant. She did not move or open her eyes, and her breathing was shallow. He had to get her out of here.
