by Eva Devon
The Duke of Devonshire. Tony shuddered, hooking one knee over the chair arm, his favorite sitting position in intimate company. The man was as dull as tombs. Effective in work but, good Lord, the man was boring.
“I must admit,” Tony said as he gripped his snifter tightly, trying to find the right words. He knew it was too early even for him and his father to have a second glass. “The prospect of dukedom is harrowing.”
“Tony, you’re more capable than most men I know,” his father assured him. The Duke of Aston’s hand was firm and supportive on his son’s shoulder.
“Thank you for that. But I’ve seen what it is.” Tony looked to his father’s desk which fairly bulged with papers, rolled parchments, and ledgers. “It’s a great deal of work.”
Aston arched a brow. “And you’d rather continue to laze about, scamp?”
Tony gave his father the eye, a skill he’d learned from his stepmother, Rosamund.
“Oh I know, you’ve worked since childhood,” his father said softly. “I never would have encouraged this, if I didn’t believe in you, Tony. You will do so much good.”
Tony swallowed then nodded, honored by the compliment. “Thank you, Da.”
“Now, how does Your Grace, The Duke of Ayr, sound?” Blakemore ventured as he examined his nails casually.
“Scotland?” Tony bellowed, the idea thundering through his head.
Blakemore nodded, pleased.
Tony tossed back the rest of the brandy. Not because he didn’t like Scotland, but because he knew it very well. He’d spent a great deal of time there since his stepmother was Scottish.
“Did Ros arrange this?” Tony demanded.
His father cleared his throat. “Your stepmother may have mentioned that she’d like to have you in Scotland. Though, when she agreed with it, she said if any English mon could do it, it was you.”
“As you very well know, they aren’t exactly overly fond of their English overlords,” Tony pointed out with a good deal of sympathy. He’d been raised to loathe the English himself. Only proximity to actual English people had alleviated his dislike and suspicions. “Why give them another one?”
“Because you are you, Tony,” Lord Blakemore said factually. “You’re a charmer. And not exactly a member of the elite, so to speak. You weren’t born trotting off to Eton, believing yourself superior to everyone that lives and breathes outside of England. You can help to heal old wounds.”
Healing was a painful and long process. He knew it well. And he doubted it would go easily. Was it worth the attempt? Of course it was. He loved the Highlands and lochs in a way no other part of England could reach him. He supposed it was the Irish in him. He loved the wildness of those lands, and the rebels who still, in their hearts, longed for freedom.
He sat up straight, his leg slipping off the chair arm. “Wait. Didn’t Ayr die rather suddenly last year?”
“He did,” his father confirmed.
Tony nodded, glad he knew which dukedom they were discussing. But it felt odd to triumph out of another man’s misfortune.
He stared into the banked fire for a moment, understanding how the devil one’s life could so entirely change in just a few hours. He knew that there was nothing certain in this world. His life, too, had once changed in just a few moments. It should come as no surprise that it would do so again. Even so, it would take some adjustment.
Doing his utmost to see the best in all of this, he said, “Well, Scotland is beautiful and I will be very happy there.”
“Glad to hear it, old boy,” Blakemore said. “Glad to hear it.”
Suddenly, his father gave him a slightly duplicitous look. “Now, there’s just one more thing.”
“The investiture?” asked Tony, hoping he’d been mistaken in his father’s attitude. “I’m happy to also be a supporter for the Whig party—”
“Your marriage,” cut in Blakemore without any attempt at mercy.
The wind went out of him, leaving him doing naught but blinking. Finally, he stuttered, “My. . . I beg your pardon?”
“It has been advised that you marry, Lady Eleanor Paisley.” Blakemore’s face transformed into a determined but rather unreadable mask. “The ward of the former duke.”
Lady Eleanor.
Tony felt his own throat tighten and he tugged roughly at his cravat. It felt, at present, remarkably like a noose. In the short years he’d been in England, he had met very few people who had genuinely made him consider going abroad again. Lady Eleanor was one of them.
As the full weight of it hit him, he roared, “Not her!”
His father and Blakemore stared at him with twin looks of astonishment.
“You’ve met the lady, then?” Blakemore asked, smoothing down his plain, cream waistcoat, apparently put off guard by Tony’s vehemence.
“I have had that misfortune,” Tony confirmed, scowling. Few people put him in a foul mood upon the mere mention of their names. “She’s. . . She’s. . .”
“Wealthy,” supplied Blakemore.
“Yes,” Tony bit out, struggling to hold back his full horror.
“Scottish,” supplied his father optimistically, though he looked like he was concerned Tony was about to erupt.
“Yes,” Tony replied, a mixture of disbelief and outrage running through him.
Blakemore arched a dark brow. “A legitimate link to your new dukedom.”
Tony shoved himself out of the chair, standing as tall as the other men. “Yes, but—”
“But?” queried his father.
Tony blew out a harsh breath before he condemned, “She’s a bloody snob.”
Aston grinned before he chortled. “The lady does have a reputation for reservation.”
“Reservation?” Tony swung his gaze to his father. “Da. What can be going through your head? She’s the worst choice for me!”
Aston grew serious and he asked with care, “Is she, lad?”
“We have nothing in common,” Tony declared swiftly with a swipe of his hand.
“She’ll be ideal in helping you transition to your new role,” Blakemore said solidly, a hint of warning in his voice.
Tony blinked, feeling as if a boulder had been dropped upon him. “Is the title contingent upon our marriage?”
“Let us simply say,” Blakemore said, his voice quiet and hard, “it would be unwise to either turn down the title or the marriage.”
“But. . .” Tony appealed to his father. “Da, you married for love. . .”
Aston smiled, a roguish smile, apparently unconcerned. “Who’s to say you won’t fall in love with Lady Eleanor? I quite like the lady myself.”
Tony snorted. His father clearly had not met the lady in the same capacity as he had. “I’d sooner love a statue.”
“Think of all the good you’re going to do,” Blakemore interjected. “Does the lady’s personality truly matter?”
Tony swallowed, looking back to his father. Over the last year, it had grown more and more apparent that, as an untitled bastard, he would never be able to compete in his father’s realm. He would not truly be able to work beside his father, the great duke. And it had begun to have a most deleterious effect on his usual unflappable moral. That was a shock. He’d quite enjoyed his years of wine, women, and song. But there it was. He was ready to make change. . . Something he could not presently do.
Glancing to the window again, studying those beautiful summer trees, he brought Lady Eleanor to mind and another summer and the glitter of a ton season.
They’d met at the Talbot ball. He’d been in fine spirits when he’d looked across the room and seen her standing alone, with her chaperone. Not a single fellow asked her to dance which had seemed odd because Lady Eleanor was beautiful.
Tall, slender, fearsome, she’d looked like a sleek hawk amidst pigeons. And he quite liked hawks and he certainly hated to see a lady neglected. So, he’d taken himself across the room to ask her to dance.
My God, that woman had a look that could shrivel a man at
ten yards. Her disapproval of him and everything about him had been so evident as he’d approached that he’d nearly stopped dead in his tracks. Certain he was mistaken, he’d continued, bowed slightly, and inquired if she were engaged to dance. . . She’d stared at him for a long moment, fairly sneered, then looked away.
It had occurred to him that she was declining due to his bastardy. It had not been a pleasant moment.
Could his father truly mean this?
He glanced from his father to Blakemore, both of them waiting with bated breath for his answer.
With a dukedom, he could truly right so much injustice. He could directly help people. He’d be a fool to say no. So what if Lady Eleanor was a self-appointed saint?
Saints could be appeased.
Surely, he could find a way for them to be at least content together. After all, he’d always been a most persuasive sort. Perhaps her sneering had come from a rigid childhood, he argued with himself.
A slow smile pulled at his lips. It might be great fun ruffling her feathers. Yes. He could do this.
So, he squared his shoulders, faced the two men offering him power beyond his imagination and said, “When’s the wedding?”
Chapter 2
Lady Eleanor Paisley had spent a good deal of her life on her knees. It was true that, if she thought very hard, concentrated with every bit of her will, she could remember a different time, a different life. She could recall that, as a very small girl, laughter had been a common occurrence and her days had been filled with the warm glow of her mother and father’s love.
And there had been that time, that brief, glorious time when she had been loved by a handsome young captain.
She clung to those memories like a man thrown overboard clings to a rope. That and her work with people in greater pain than she were the only things which made it possible for her to face day after day.
She could still recall the hour the warmth had first vanished from her life. One very cold winter night, tucked deep in the northernmost Highlands in a small manor house, her life had changed forever when both of her parents had succumbed to a vicious illness whilst staying in Edinburgh.
The fatal words had come via coach that Eleanor was now an orphan.
With little explanation, her tearful nanny had hugged her close, then packed her things. Still, in her dreams, she could recall being bundled up and put into a carriage with a crest of a lance upon it. The manor house and her nanny, waving wildly, had faded into the snow and screeching December wind. The vehicle whisked her across Scotland to the mountainous western Highlands to her guardian, the Duke of Ayr.
That Christmas had been the cruelest, quietest, most terrible she had ever known. She’d eaten her Christmas dinner alone, then had been rather unceremonious put into a small, frigid bed, clinging the doll her mother and father had given her the previous year to her small chest.
It had been the beginning of a long, cold road.
Once, she’d thought she might be free. It had come to nothing. Worse than nothing, for the death of the man she loved had taken a piece of her heart with him.
But much to everyone’s surprise, her freedom had come in the most shocking of ways.
Her guardian had fallen from the cliffs last year. Few had mourned his passing. Some had even rejoiced.
Climbing down the steep ben and walking over the stone bridge that led to the castle bailey, she glanced up to the wicked ridge in the mountains where her guardian had met his fast end.
She shook the thought away and tugged her thick, gray, wool cloak tighter about her frame. She would not allow thoughts of that old man to interfere with the accomplishment she’d felt helping Nancy Monroe take care of her new baby.
That small, glorious baby was thriving after it had suffered a very dangerous bout with a frightening lung complaint. She, herself, had sent for the wise, old woman, Graine MacBride who lived down the glen. The old woman was a far better choice than the doctor who ventured begrudgingly up from Fort William on occasion.
A poultice of mustard and boiled eucalyptus leaves had done the trick and the baby had begun to breathe easily. Nancy had cried tears of relief.
Though she was tired, Eleanor felt more untold joy at the happy outcome than she had in a year.
Smiling at the memory of the wee babe in her mother’s arms, the two safe and sound, were enough. More than enough.
As she approached the castle’s arched entry, she spotted a lacquered coach with a coat of arms marked with three red hearts. Her step slowed. She knew it. The lord had visited her some months ago to ascertain her wellbeing. After all, she was now a ward of the crown, of all things.
Still, she did not like visitors who came without appointments. She never had. Not since that terrible winter night. Eleanor drew in a deep breath, shaking off the unpleasant feeling that briefly shadowed her happiness. No. Long ago, she’d learned to surmount her feelings. If she had not, she’d never have gotten out of bed when James had died. Quickly, with a determined step, she headed up the stairs and into the great hall. She divested herself of her cloak and gloves.
Murdoch gave her a quick, conspiratorial glance then looked to the library. She nodded her understanding. The butler, who had served for years despite the cruelty of their master, had been a great source kindness in her life. They had made Castle Ayr a place of some greatness and use, despite its master.
Smoothing her hands over her coiffure, she braced herself. Then, she strode into the cavernous room decked in tapestries as old as Robert the Bruce.
Lord Blakemore stood by the great fire, his hands to the high flames. The massive logs crackled, the only sound in the room that vied with the wind which whipped against the windows off the sea loch.
Despite the softness of her steps, he turned then bowed. “Lady Eleanor.”
“Lord Blakemore,” she greeted as she folded her hands calmly before her. She liked the mysterious lord who had come to the castle before. Few people of importance seemed to care about her wellbeing and she had appreciated that he had. It was no small journey, London to Castle Ayr.
“To what do I owe the honor of your esteemed visit?” she asked brightly. “Have you eaten?”
Blakemore smiled. He was a handsome man who could not be forty. And yet, despite his kind greeting, she felt that he was the most unknowable man she’d ever met. It was one of the things that intrigued her about him.
“I ate at the inn, Lady Eleanor, thank you.” He cocked his dark head to the side. “I must admit this is not a social visit.”
She laughed then, crossing to the huge fire. She lifted her hands to the delicious warmth wafting from the fire. She lingered beside him in comfortable affinity before she said, “That would be quite the effort, indeed. And you are an important man. I imagine what you have to say is of some import. Have they found a new duke?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, eyeing her.
“Oh, dear.” It was expected, but difficult to hear. She was unsure what would happen to her when the new duke came. Would she remain? Or would she be sent off, once again? She did not allow herself to worry overly. There was no point. “I suppose that means he shall be in residence soon. Did you wish me to make the castle ready?”
It would not take long. She was quite efficient and had already eradicated most of her guardian’s unpleasant presence.
“Indeed, that would be agreeable,” Lord Blakemore said. “But that is not the news I’ve come to impart. Or, that is only part of it.”
That gave her pause and she faced him fully. “Oh?”
He nodded then announced, “You are to make a great marriage.”
It was all she could do not to grab the mantel for support which seemed terribly dramatic. She was not prone to such things. So, instead, she lifted her chin.
“I am to marry?” she asked clearly.
Lord Blakemore inclined his head. “Yes.”
She knew the possibility that this day might come. One did not have a fortune or family name such as hers
and expect to remain uncalled upon. So, she sighed, ever practical. Practicality was now the only thing that would see her through the turmoils of this life.
Clearing her throat, she ventured, “To whom, might I ask?”
“To Anthony Burke,” Blakemore replied with little emotion. “The next Duke of Ayr.”
She cringed as a wave of horror crashed through her. The one time she had met the man, the devastatingly handsome and notorious rake, she’d given him the cut direct.
The awfulness of that moment at the celebrated Talbot ball rushed in on her. She had stared at his impossibly handsome face, stunned, and then looked away quickly. He’d simply been too much. Too much male, too beautiful, too confident, too happy. . . Too appealing.
To her credit, she’d been in a rather bad way. It had not been a year since James had died, and the feeling Anthony Burke had evoked in her person had been most unwelcome. She’d never felt those strange sensations in her belly before and she’d squelched them. Immediately.
And then there had been the other problem.
She closed her eyes and swallowed.
Eleanor could not dance.
Not only could she not dance, a skill she’d never been permitted to learn, but the companion her guardian had assigned her after what he called the soldier debacle, had been a tyrannical goat of an old woman. Mrs. Sloane had been an old crone determined to keep her in line.
It had been with much relish that she had released the foul woman from her position after her guardian’s death. Since then, she’d gloried in her books, badly played music, and what simple pleasures she could find.
She shook her head, still recalling her mortification at her own rudeness.
But rakes such as Anthony Burke, fascinating as they were, were the very last sort of people she’d been allowed to consort with.
Now, she was to marry him?
She laughed. A rich, wild sound.
“Lady Eleanor?” inquired Blakemore softly.
She looked him squarely in the eye and said tightly, “I do not think we are compatible.”
If she was to marry, she preferred it to be someone. . . Completely unlike Anthony Burke. Someone who did not elicit feelings making her believe that a slow fire had been lit within her.
