The Reluctant Duke

by Blaise Kilgallen

  The Reluctant Duke

  Blaise Kilgallen

  Published 2006

  ISBN 1-59578-227-3

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2006, Blaise Kilgallen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  Email:

  raven@LSbooks.com

  Editor

  Barbara Marshall

  Cover Artist

  Blaise Kilgallen

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Dedication

  All my creativity is dedicated to Bill Fox, lover and husband, a hero and a gentleman who should have been born in the 19th century. Time fades but love never dies.

  Prologue

  Sebastian Thorndyke’s brother, the Duke of Weston, and his wife succumbed to influenza in 1837. Settling in Spain and marrying Luna del Torres after the Napoleonic Wars ended, Sebastian brought his family—Luna, Antonio, and Briella—to England to meet the new Duke of Weston, his nephew, James Thorndyke and his wife Lorena.

  During that visit, the Spanish Thorndykes were introduced to James’s closest neighbors—the Earl of Crestwood, his son, Hal, and his daughter, Caroline Newton.

  Hal Newton and Antonio Thorndyke were both eighteen that year. Learning they were to attend Cambridge University together, the two men soon became friends.

  Briella, Antonio’s sister, was an unruly child of ten, spoiled by her parents and her older brother. Born in Spain, both of Sebastian’s children learned to ride at an early age, taught by Luna’s relatives. The talented young riders rode beautiful and highly trained Andalusian horses bred on Luna’s father’s estancia in Andalucia. From their uncles, the two young aristocrats learned to ride the animals in Haute Ecole and airs above the ground as taught for many years at the Spanish Riding School in Austria.

  Caroline Newton, deprived of her deceased mother’s guidance, was allowed to run wild with little restraint during a rather lonely childhood. The Earl of Crestwood, involved in London with Parliament for much of the year, was at a loss as to how to deal with his daughter’s palpable grief. He finally asked his head groom, William Hershey, to teach Caroline to ride. Very soon, the girl rode like a centaur, astride like a man, wearing breeches, her behavior and attire most improper, to say the least.

  At thirteen, Caroline was metamorphosing rapidly from girl to woman, with new and frightening modifications pulsing through her nubile body and invading her emotional landscape with instability.

  Intensely handsome, Antonio had a way of making her uncomfortable. He seemed to look right through her with those inscrutable pools of liquid pitch, his eyelashes so thick and black she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. When she thought about him—which was often—distracting fantasies consumed her even though she was tongue-tied in his presence.

  At the time Caroline never understood why he had such an effect upon her. She didn’t even like him. She thought him conceited, haughty, unfriendly, and intimidating. Nevertheless, she never forgot her youthful flutters around Antonio Thorndyke, the cool, handsome, dark-eyed Spaniard.

  Chapter 1

  February 1845, Andalucia, Spain

  Summoned by his English father, Antonio Thorndyke strode hurriedly toward the thick walled hacienda of the Estancia de la Luna. What could be so urgent that Sebastian sent a servant rushing to fetch him from the riding arena?

  Entering the book-lined study, Antonio took one look at his father’s face and was immediately wary. Sebastian wore the look of someone hiding a deep, painful emotion.

  Coming around his immense desk, Sebastian leaned his backside against the sharp edge, grasping it with both hands as if needing support. He pinned his gaze on his son’s countenance.

  “Tony, I received a thick packet of legal papers from England a little more than an hour ago. The information was shocking.”

  Antonio reacted to Sebastian’s anguished expression and gruff words, scrutinizing his father’s face. Dark, slashing eyebrows clashed in a frown over the bridge of his nose as Antonio hoped to stave off bad news. Nevertheless, a premonition of pain struck him squarely in the solar plexus.

  “What’s happened, Father? What is it?”

  Sebastian’s reply was brief and gloomy. “Your cousin, James, Duke of Weston, his wife, Lorena, and their young son, Joshua, are believed dead—drowned.” A minute hesitation suspended the bleak announcement in silence as it echoed hollowly around the room. “They were lost at sea off the coast of Scotland in a boating accident last summer.”

  “Que diablo!”

  Stunned, Antonio’s deep voice rose in dazed disbelief. He flinched, noticing a flickering in his father’s blue eyes, eyes that blinked too rapidly to hide tears. Unable to comprehend the loss yet, Antonio asked, “You mean the entire family is deceased?”

  Sebastian nodded.

  Antonio raked a hand through his thick, ebony hair. Several loosened strands fell onto his broad forehead, and he impatiently brushed them away. “How? I don’t understand, Father.” The emotion in his voice betrayed his disbelief. “Why is it we learn this only now, months later?” He tore his gaze from his father’s face and stared at the floor; his broad shoulders slumped. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment of silence and crossed himself in prayer.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian’s boot heels clicked unevenly across the Spanish tile floor, the only sound in the solemnity of his study as he paced.

  Antonio wanted to commiserate, to say something to soften the blow. Looking up, finally, he said, “You recall I met James when he inherited Uncle Robert’s title, and I stayed in England to enter Cambridge. He and I got on well for the short time I spent at Westhaven Hall.” Antonio swallowed hard. “Nombre de Dios! James was only ten years older than me, and now…”

  Inhaling audibly, Antonio hesitated then spoke again. “What will happen, Father? None of us has been to England since I graduated from university.”

  “I received a copy of James’s will in the mail packet.” Sebastian halted his pacing and nodded toward the pile of papers lying on his desk. “It names you, not me, Tony, as next in line to inherit.”

  “Me, an English duke? But how…?” Antonio’s palms rose in protest until he asked, “May I see that, Father?”

  “Of course.” Sebastian handed Antonio a number of pages that were affixed with gold seals and colored ribbons. “See for yourself, Son.”

  “Caramba, this can’t be correct!” A deep scowl furrowed Antonio’s brow.

  “It’s true, Tony. It’s all there in James’s will.”

  “You gave me the title of Viscount Stanton when I might visit England now and again. But this…” Antonio waved the written sheets in front of him. Shaking his head in a sharp gesture of denial, he faced his father, voicing his complaint.

  Antonio had returned to Spain after Cambridge to breed and train his Andalusian horses. He expected to live out the rest of his days in the sunshine and sands of southern Spain. “I don’t want this. This…this is much too…permanent.”

  “You are going to England, Tony. Be warned of it. James’s solicitors told me in correspondence that you must return as soon as possible to oversee the duchy’s title and possessions. I was advised it may take months o
r even years before James and his son Joshua are legally designated as deceased.”

  “But, Father…”

  “You must do what James’s will decrees. Our family is small. Unfortunately, now it is decimated more by the loss of my nephew, his wife, and heir. Someone must oversee Weston’s affairs. It’s your responsibility to do it.”

  Several expressions streaked across Antonio’s countenance—amazement first that he was made duke instead of Sebastian—anger because he was forced to give up his settled life in Andalucia; and lastly, dismay, since family honor demanded he obey his father’s dictums.

  “For all intents and purposes you are the next duke, Antonio.”

  “I seem to have no choice in the matter,” Antonio replied, his scowl deepening.

  Sebastian nodded. “You’re six and twenty, my boy. It’s time you accept the English half of your ancestry. You are to assume the reins of the Weston title and what it entails until such time as James’s and Joshua’s demises are no longer open to question—or are confirmed.”

  Antonio leaned forward and threw his cousin’s will onto his father’s desk, then circled the room with choppy strides.

  Almost immediately, Sebastian gripped his son’s arm, halting his agitated pacing.

  Sebastian had been an officer in Wellington’s Peninsula army. Commanding was part of his nature, and Antonio knew his father expected to be obeyed. He saw Sebastian’s cobalt eyes fire back at him with a purposeful glint of paternal determination. His father’s lips had thinned to a straight line; the cleft in his square chin tightened. Not ready to hear more reasons, nevertheless Antonio watched and listened.

  “You will stay in England until such a time as you are no longer needed.”

  Dios! An English duke? Me? Ranked just beneath the monarchy? A member of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria’s court, bound by the stringent rules of propriety and strict, miserable behavioral constraints?

  Antonio hated the very idea. A tic jumped high on his cheek. Unsmiling and unhappy, he clenched his teeth to subdue his frustration at the familial subordination.

  “There is more, Tony.”

  “There’s more?” Repeating his father’s words, a dark eyebrow lifted. “What else can there be to interfere with my life?”

  “You’ll be leaving Spain very soon. After receiving the sad news, your mother and I made additional, hard, and uncomfortable decisions.”

  “And what might those be?” Straightening his shoulders, Antonio braced for yet another distasteful surprise. He waited to hear what was to come. His eyes fastened on Sebastian’s face. “You’d better tell me everything, Father. I want no more shocks.”

  “All right, then.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “Briella will go to England with you. She’s eighteen. It’s time she learned of her heritage also. You’ll introduce your sister to London society with the help of your grandmother. What better place than England and who better than my mother, the Dowager Duchess, to sponsor Briella’s come out?”

  For the first time since entering his father’s study, Antonio barked out in laughter. “That little hoyden? Briella turned loose in London? God help the English Haut Monde!”

  When his chuckles ceased, Antonio released an audible sigh. “I shall do my best, Father.”

  Without further argument, he accepted the demands presented to him. Whether he wanted it or not, he had been given the prestigious title of Duke of Weston.

  “There’s something else, Tony,” Sebastian said hurriedly. “Luna and I strongly suggest that to secure the title you should choose an English bride as quickly as possible.”

  Chapter 2

  Kent, England, March 1845

  Garbed in the leather of a Spanish caballero, Antonio sat astride an Andalusian stallion during the misty spring dawn. A flash of color drew his sharp eyes to a distant corner of a meadow. The gray horse’s alert ears pricked forward.

  “Eh, hermano. I see him, too,” Antonio murmured. Standing in his stirrups, he shaded his eyes against the brightening sunrise.

  A patch of vivid blue streaked across the meadow’s emerald-colored hedges, a horse and rider galloping with great speed. Antonio’s legs tightened against the stallion’s sides, and the horse spurted forward. Antonio soon realized it was no use; the other rider had the advantage and was outdistancing him. The blue cape billowed behind the intruder, waving in the breeze like a farewell pennant. Antonio brought Maestro to a collected halt. The rider had slipped into the enveloping woods while Antonio watched.

  “Next time,” Antonio vowed aloud, turning his stallion back to where they’d started. “I’ll catch you, el hombre, if you trespass here again.”

  Antonio allowed his horse to recover after the aborted chase while his thoughts centered on his ongoing dilemma. The sharp sting of duty pinched at him, because he didn’t believe he belonged in England at all. Slowly, Antonio shook his head from side to side, declaring his frustration aloud as he shared his troubles with his mount.

  “Ah, hermano, I know I must make the best of it. I can’t ignore my parents’ wishes, my heritage, or the responsibilities my father pounded into me before I sailed from Spain. Caramba! This is not where I wish to be for the rest of my life. Nor do I wish to marry yet. Why must I do so? I’m not yet thirty with years ahead of me to produce an heir to carry the family name.”

  Hearing his master’s rumbling voice, the stallion’s ears wiggled. Maestro was one of several fine Andalusians to make the watery voyage to England from the Iberian Peninsula. Blowing out his nostrils, the horse snorted, seeming to listen and agree.

  Antonio’s lips curled into a thin smile as he looked around the meadow. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad for you, brother. You and your lady companions will grow fat and lazy on Britain’s lush grass.” Antonio patted the horse’s muscular neck.

  “Your ninos will grow big and strong and leap higher than ever in the classical airs.” At least the thought gave Antonio a small measure of contentment, and he pushed the horse into an easy canter.

  Rain had drenched bushes, trees and the damp earth, which now exuded pungent odors from the land surrounding him as the reluctant duke took in the beauty of the green Kent countryside so different than the dry heat, sun-dried sands and hills where he had grown up. Perhaps he could be satisfied here, he thought, embracing the idea but without eagerness to stay permanently. It was better than the hustle and bustle of the metropolis for months on end. As he rode, Antonio’s white teeth slashed a wide smile across his deeply tanned countenance. He remembered again, quite vividly, that London, with its bevy of willing ladies, also had its finer points. He squeezed Maestro’s sides with legs muscled from years of riding. His stallion cantered smoothly toward Westhaven Hall.

  Nevertheless, his troubling thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. Though he had inherited a prestigious title and a great deal of wealth, he wasn’t sure he would ever be happy anywhere but in his homeland.

  * * * *

  For the past four days the rainy spring of 1845 had confined Caroline Lockler to Crestwood Manor. She and her Thoroughbred, Demon, were accustomed to regular exercise. Caroline hadn’t expected to meet anyone in the meadow that morning—especially not the Spaniard.

  Her life had been on hold for a year. Her father’s illness had demanded she return to Kent the previous spring. Her coming out, late as it was, was held in abeyance. Then the earl’s death prompted a hastily arranged marriage to Sir Richard Lockler, her father’s longtime friend. Their brief marriage had ended in tragedy after a fatal foxhunting accident in November. The two deaths within months of each other had plunged Caroline into the blue devils.

  Looking out of her bedchamber window that morning, she had been gladdened by a rosy dawn. Removing her night rail, Caroline donned breeches, shirt, and high leather boots. She grasped her long, reddish brown locks and quickly tied them back with a strip of ribbon. Throwing on a royal blue, hooded cloak, she made her way cautiously down the servant’s stairs, pausing near the kitchen. She overheard Mrs.
Crowley and Crestwood Manor’s staff chatting as they began their morning chores of stirring the coals and preparing to fire the ovens and cook stove. After sneaking out a rear doorway, Caroline turned toward the stables. Her brother was still abed, she knew, because she’d heard him snoring as she tiptoed past his room. She so craved a solitary morning ride on her stallion, Demon.

  William Hershey was directing grooms to their duties in the stables when he caught sight of his mistress. His forehead wrinkled, but he ordered one of the young stablemen to bring out Caroline’s favorite mount.

  “Expected to see ye this mornin’, Lady Caroline. The minute I saw the sky gettin’ light and the sun peekin’ up, I know’d ye’d be up and callin’ for the devil. He’s fed and ready for ye.”

  “Thank you, William. Demon’s been too long without a good run, and so have I.”

  “I don’t expect, m’lady, that ye’d take one of the lads wi’ ye? The way ye race that horse o’ yourn, ye could have a bad spill. We’d be none the wiser ‘til ye didn’t come in fer breakfast. After what happened to Sir Richard…”

  Caroline stopped him with a raised palm. “You’ve taught me well, and I trust Demon, William. Ease your mind, old friend. I’m not going far—only through the woods. I want a gallop in that meadow abutting our property and Westhaven’s. I promise I’ll not take any risks.”

  “As ye say, m’lady.”

  Martin, one of the grooms, brought out the feisty, black stallion. William cupped his hands and gave his mistress a leg up onto the flat saddle. Caroline slipped her boots into the irons, tapped Demon’s sides and rode out the lane, horse and rider eager to be on their way. Watching her, William slowly shook his head and gestured to the stable help to stop dawdling.

  * * * *

  Nearing the safety of the trees, Caroline had chanced a hasty glance over her shoulder as she and Demon galloped across the large, open meadow in a rush to lose the Spaniard. She saw the rider on the gray horse had pulled up and was no longer in pursuit. Her heart banged raggedly against her ribs as she sucked in mouthfuls of misty air. Slowing Demon to a trot, she turned her horse into the greenery hiding a narrow footpath as the pair slipped behind a shield of thick, leafy bushes. She’d escaped the Spaniard, thanks to Demon’s blazing speed. Exhaling in relief, she slumped in the saddle. She would need to be more careful now he had returned to Kent, or she’d run into him again during one of her morning jaunts.