by Eva Devon
Blakemore’s brow quirked as he fixed an undoubtedly nonexistent fold in his perfectly tailored cuff. “Does that truly matter?”
Did it matter? Well, drat and blast. To the vast majority of the ton, of course it did not. It shouldn’t even matter to her, really. A marriage was a marriage was a marriage since she never intended to love her husband.
But she would have preferred that her husband create no feelings in her whatsoever.
Anthony Burke had created several. Then there was his reputation.
Was she truly to marry a handsome rakehell who likely never spent a moment out of a lady’s bed or a gambling hell?
As she stared at Blakemore’s serious visage, she realized that, yes, that was exactly what was expected.
“He will need a great deal of help,” Blakemore said simply. “You know all of the protocols and rules necessary for him to make a smooth transition.”
“I am not a governess” she protested, feeling panic boil up inside her.
A wry smile tilted Blakemore’s lips. “You underestimate your abilities. And I’m sure he will prove a willing and apt pupil. You might even enjoy teaching him.”
Enjoy it? She thought back to the devastatingly handsome man with a cheeky grin, who looked as if he’d never suffered a day in his life. Would she have to put up with such a frivolous person, who’d no doubt been spoiled every day of his life? Granted, being a bastard could not have been. . . Easy. But he was the bastard of a duke, a duke who showered him with attention and access to the most important people.
And his face had no doubt made it impossible for women to say no to him. Even she had been moved by it.
“But Anthony Burke?” she queried, still trying to wrap her thoughts about this prospect, still wondering why it had to be a handsome, charming young buck. She would have much preferred an older man who would pay her little attention. “He is a—”
“Bastard?” Blakemore asked with a touch of coldness.
She pressed her lips together, alarmed that he might think she could think such a thing. But then again, why else might she seem so reticent? “I was going to say a scandal and not just because of his bastardy.”
“He is. A bit of scandal, but no more so than many young men,” Blakemore confirmed without apology. “He’s also very well liked and more honorable than most men I know. We imagine he will be very useful in the lords.”
Honorable. That gave her pause. She doubted Blakemore would say such a thing unless he meant it.
She considered her prospects.
A political husband. She looked to the arched ceiling with its stones painted blue and interspersed with golden stars. She’d always loved the flying buttresses. There wasn’t a more fanciful room in the castle.
Did she dare believe Anthony Burke was interested in policies which might improve the lives of others? It seemed impossible.
Still, that would be very different than the old duke who did not seem to give one whit for his tenants or the people of his country.
Very well liked. She contemplated those words and felt a wave of apprehension. She’d never been liked in London. The few times she’d ventured into society, she’d been accepted and, of course, because of her wealth and station, respected. But she was not liked. At least, not since James had died.
She’d simply been unable to enjoy raucous events; not when she knew James should have been with her. Not when she knew she had foresworn love.
Was that why they had picked her? Because Tony was liked and she was efficient?
She nearly laughed. How demoralizing.
“I assure you, I am the last person that he likely wishes to wed.”
Blakemore’s brow’s rose. “Quite the contrary. He expressly wishes to marry you.”
“I beg your pardon?” she gasped. It couldn’t be possible. Not after the way she treated him.
“Yes, he’s most eager.” Blakemore stepped away from the fire. “When I last saw him, he even requested the date.”
Anthony Burke was the sort of man that women threw themselves at by the score. Everywhere he went, he was the darling of the room. He could have anyone.
Why in God’s name would he wish her as a wife when she had been so cold to him? When she was the antithesis of everything he seemingly admired in a lady. Where he was playful, she was serious. Where he was gregarious, she was perfunctory.
“We shall not like each other,” she said simply. It was the truth, after all. Her interests surely were not his and she barely knew how to play cards and could not dance. What on earth would they have in common?
But the marriage bed.
She blinked, recalling how strong he had been. How confident.
Quickly, she shook the traitorous thought from her mind.
She wasn’t interested in such things. Not anymore. Besides, kissing had never been particularly appealing. Despite her strange sensations when thinking of the young rake, she doubted they could amount to anything. Passion was for the pages of novels.
“This is an important marriage, Lady Eleanor,” Blakemore informed her, determined to make himself plain. “You, of course, do not have to marry him. But you would be throwing away a great deal if you did not.”
She groaned. It was true. She was no fool.
“I know how important your charitable work is,” Blakemore continued easily. “And if you married him, you could do so much more for the people here.”
That was a truth she could not ignore. Her work was her joy. And most of her work was within the lands of the Duke of Ayr. She had no affinity to the castle itself, though she’d put a great deal of work into it. It had been a place of great unhappiness. But the wild Highlands about it? She loved them with every part of her being.
Just to walk the hills made her heart sing. She knew every inch of them. Every nook, every crag, every ripping burn.
“Imagine what you could do as a duchess with a man as affable as Anthony Burke,” he tempted. “Imagine how he will persuade people to support your causes.”
“He doesna care about such things,” she scoffed. “He does naught but lark about gambling and drinking.”
Blakemore’s lips quirked. “Tony’s finer points are not often heralded. Did you know, he is also a war hero?”
A war hero?
She fought a flinch.
There was only one war hero that she cared about. And he was dead.
It was hard to credit it in any case. That boisterous man? Oh, he appeared strong enough to be a solider, towering above most men about him. Still, he looked as if he’d never done a day’s work in his life.
She sighed.
It didn’t truly matter in the end. A marriage to the next Duke of Ayr would be a coup for any woman. And she didn’t have to like her husband. Perhaps, it was even preferable since she never intended to love him. She’d make it plain they were to be distant. She would not risk fanning the odd flames he’d seemed to ignite in her. Desire really never amounted to much, in any case.
Still, it might have been nice not to dislike him. . .
“I. . . I will consider it,” she said carefully. “If he assures me personally that he will champion my work.”
Blakemore nodded. “That is reasonable.”
“I’m glad,” she drawled, allowing herself to look about the great hall, flummoxed by the afternoon’s turn of events.
She’d been a piece of baggage her whole life, shunted off where directed. And now, it seemed it was about to happen again. So, she had to make sure there would be some positive outcome from this.
Blakemore folded his strong hands behind his broad back. “Then you shall come to London with me and meet him.”
“London?” She thought of Nancy and her baby, wishing to oversee her care a little longer. “Could he not come here and see his new lands?”
“No,” Blakemore said with some apology. “The investiture will occur there and he cannot come up to Scotland at present.”
There it was again. A bit of baggage mov
ed about the country at the behest of men. She’d grown accustomed to it but it was still tiresome that women had so little recourse in this world.
Why, even without a husband or a father, she still did not have independence. Young ladies were simply not to be trusted. It was a deuced nuisance.
Still, she paused. If she went to London, if she met Anthony Burke again, and he promised to support her in improvements on the duke’s lands. . . Perhaps marriage to him mightn’t be so very terrible.
She would gain a great deal of independence as a married woman, a duchess. The power she would wield would be irrefutable. Not that it mattered, but she would be the envy of every single young woman and their mama in Britain.
All across the country, ladies were, no doubt, desperately hoping to answer the call to be the next Duchess of Ayr.
Still, Anthony Burke.
Her stomach tightened at the very idea and not just because she had been so unkind to him. It seemed that everything came easily to the young man.
Even a dukedom.
He was a notorious hellion. What kind of a husband could he possibly make?
She forced herself to think slowly, reasonably, to quell the rioting emotions within her. It was just as she had trained herself to do ever since James’ death.
He would be a powerful husband. One who likely would not harbor much affection for her.
That was ideal, was it not?
And she was tired, so very tired, of having so little say in her own life. Even this castle was not hers. She had no home. No place to go when the new duke came to take up his seat. Perhaps, if she married him, she could not only be his duchess, but a lady with funds and influence to finally do as she had so wished for so long. And, given his habits, he would never fall in love with her. He was a man who loved women. Despite what some claimed, rakes didn’t change their stripes. And that. . . That would insure she kept the vow she’d made after James’ death.
“Well then, Lord Blakemore,” she said, with as much optimism about the odd proposal as she could. “When shall I meet him?”
Chapter 3
Anthony tugged on his starched, once perfectly folded cream cravat. Again. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many ornate, gold-framed mirrors in the morning room, and hoped to God he looked like a prospective husband. He’d grown accustomed to grand rooms over the years so, at least, he no longer felt out of place amidst the Adams’ and Chippendale furniture, silk hung walls, and sparkling crystal chandelier. He wore them now like comfortable clothes, which had taken a great deal of doing in his youth. And much like the furniture, he’d grown to enjoy the expensive attire draping his body.
This morning, he’d chosen one of his simpler ensembles. Sapphire blue cut away coat, gold-embroidered waistcoat, black breeches. His boots were so polished they were almost as reflective as the mirrors. Looking away, he locked his hands behind his back. Waiting.
Waiting for her.
Wondering if she’d approve. Wondering why he cared. He knew he looked the perfect gentleman.
The truth was, and much to his own surprise, he quite liked dressing well. Not as well as Beau Brummell, mind. In Tony’s opinion, no sane person should spend that sort of time at one’s toilette. Three hours with an audience seemed a dance with the devil. But unlike the rarified set he now often spent his hours with, he’d spent a good part of his life in ripped trousers and a shirt that was three sizes too big. Shoes had not been a possibility. Nor had they been desirable.
Firstly, his mother couldn’t afford them and secondly, well. . . They weren’t considered a necessity. One’s hooves were quite good enough, thank you very much, over Ireland’s rich, green, stone-dotted fields.
When he’d finally met his father as a traveler boy, his father had smiled kindly, offered him a cabin of his own on the vast ship and not said a word about shoes or clothes.
Instead, wise man that his father was, he’d simply placed them in Anthony’s cabin and waited.
At first, he’d been furious and defiant. He’d seethed in his small quarters, hating to be so penned in, far preferring to be out racing up the rigging and spending a good deal of time in the crow’s nest gazing out to the far off horizons.
Facing the world without his dark-haired, blue-eyed mother had been a prospect too agonizing to bear. For all his life, it had been she and him against the world. And it had been magical, even if it had often been difficult. He was adrift without her. She had been his polestar, his comfort, and the only person who had ever loved him.
To lose that. . . It had rocked him to his very core. The darkness that had engulfed him had been deep and terrifying.
Once in his father’s company, he’d engaged in fisticuffs at every opportunity with the hardened sailors and at the exotic ports they’d anchored in. Pain had been an anchor. It had saved him in a way he’d never thought possible.
It had not occurred to Tony that his father had been looking out for him since he’d boarded the ship, like some mad angel, until one day he was cornered in an alley by four men with cudgels. As usual, he’d happily insulted everyone in the nearest tavern hoping for a fight. Usually, even though physically he was a boy, he was the man left standing and he savored the wild feel that pulsed through his veins, distracting him from his suffering.
Finally, inevitably, he’d insulted the wrong man.
As a cudgel had come down in that grim, trash-strewn alley, smashing his arm, the scream that had ripped from him had been primal. Like a feral animal sensing its doom, he’d eyed the other rough men circling in on him, ready to lash out in its eminent death throes.
He’d known he was going to die. No matter how good a fighter he was, he was no match for four armed, seasoned bruisers.
And as he’d slumped into the mud and another cudgel had come down, he’d breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he was about to shuffle off his mortal coil and see his mother again. Shuffle off all the pain and care of being utterly alone.
It was then that he’d heard the most terrifying growl in all his existence. Possessed, Captain Aston, his father, had singlehandedly torn the armed men from Tony’s person and beaten them into sprawling, crawling vermin on the filthy ground.
Tenderly, and as if Tony had weighed no more than a babe, his father had picked him up and carried him back to the ship.
No words had passed between them until a week had passed, they’d returned to sea, and he’d mostly healed.
To Captain Aston’s credit, he had never doubted that Tony was his son. The big, dangerous man had taken one look at Tony, allowed him aboard and told the entire crew to welcome his son. It had not made Tony like him.
He could still recall in vivid detail the moment his father had sat beside his hammock in the tiny cabin, his wild hair a riot about his lion-like face, and asked quite seriously, “Would you like to hit me, lad?”
Tony had blinked, scrambling for an answer in all his still seething anger at the world. “You’re the captain, sir. Can’t hit the captain. I’ll be flogged, will I no’?”
Aston had arched his brow and pulled Tony up from the swinging ropes. He’d stood, staggering a little on his weakened legs after spending so much time resting.
His father had faced him, a giant of a man. He’d lowered his hands, as powerful as a blacksmith’s hammers, to the side and replied, “You won’t be flogged. You’re angry, pup. Deuced angry. At the world. At me. And I deserve it. I wish I’d known about you. Wish it more than I can ever say. But we can’t go back.” His father had given an encouraging nod. “Now, you hit me. You hit me until all that anger is out of you. And we’ll never have a day like we did in that alley again.”
Fury had pummeled through him. How dare this man confront him? Captain Aston didn’t understand. He hadn’t been there for his mother. Hadn’t married her. Saved her. Helped her. He was a devil. He’d left them all alone. No money for medicine. No money for a doctor. It didn’t matter that his father hadn’t known the dire circumstances that had befallen h
is mother after their fling.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known of Tony’s existence.
So, he’d pulled back his fist and drove it into Aston’s jaw.
Aston’s head had cracked back and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek. Still, the man didn’t lift his hands in self-defense. Instead, he nodded again, his gaze kind. “That’s it, lad. That’s it.”
Tony lifted his fists again, his hand smarting, ready to beat his father into the floorboards. Ready to savor every blow.
But as he hauled an arm back, the emotion that tore through him wasn’t the desire to fight but to simply not hurt any longer.
Tears had stung his eyes and he choked, “I miss her.”
At that, Aston’s eyes had burned with grief and sympathy. He’d pulled Anthony into his bear-like embrace and held him as no one ever had. Not even his beloved mother. There had been a power in that all-encompassing, fatherly embrace that he hadn’t been able to deny.
He had sobbed out his pain onto that shoulder that seemed like it could bear the weight of the world.
Tony had not immediately trusted but, over the months, he’d come to like the man who was his father. And one day, he’d gone into his cabin, taken off his rags, and put on the sharp, fresh clothes that had been supplied to him.
He still hadn’t put on the shoes. A man’s toes were the best for gripping the rigging.
My God, things had changed since then.
Shoes were still not his favorite things. There was something about feeling the purity of the earth or ship’s boards beneath one’s feet. But London wasn’t exactly the best place to go unshod. There was nothing pure about a London street.
When his father had brought him back to the greatest capital on earth, it had been a shock to his system. Not the teeming city in itself, but his new place in it.
All his life, he’d been a traveler boy, getting his bread in often nefarious ways, then a sailor. Now, he was to be a gentleman.
