A Duke for the Road

by Eva Devon

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is it any different than what you ask your sister to do? A connection to a dukedom for a wealthy husband who can support her?”

  He ground his teeth together, drawing up. “It is different.”

  “How?” she countered. Then she added softly, “For generations, titles have had to be propped up.”

  He looked away. How could he explain that as a man who had faced war, who had survived battles, and seen the truth of men’s souls, he did not wish to be a kept man? And if he married for money, that would be what he was. The last of his hopes would be gone.

  “I will not do it,” he said quietly.

  Her hand slipped from his. “Though it pains me to say it, for all that I love you dearly, you are like your father and brother in one thing.”

  “And what is that?” he asked, his heart heavy.

  She drew in a slow breath. “You are selfish.”

  He fisted his hands, digging his nails into his palms. “You have no idea what I have done for you.”

  “Tell me,” she said, her words full of genuine desire to understand. There was no mocking to her. For his mother truly loved him. He knew that.

  The desire to unburden himself rioted within him, but he could not do it. How could he without making her complicit? No. It was his burden to bear and if the world thought him a selfish lout then so be it.

  Swallowing, he uttered words which he loathed. “I am selfish. Perhaps it is better to let the Blackstone Dukedom die. We are a hideous lot.”

  “Robert, you cannot mean that,” his mother said, truly shocked at his statement.

  He arched a brow, not meaning to be cruel, but feeling his heart sink nonetheless. “I think I do.”

  “I have sacrificed so much to continue it,” she said, her voice low and rough.

  “For what?” he asked softly. He hated to say it, but he also wished her to see that she could stop fighting so hard if she so wished it.

  She paled. “I still believe that you will be a great duke, Robert.”

  He looked askance. Once, he’d believed, too, that he might be a man who brought change to the world, to his country, to his estates. A different sort of duke than his elder brother might have been or his father. But he couldn’t even take care of his family, let alone his tenants.

  And there it was. The crushing weight of it collapsed on him as he was forced to let that last hope go.

  His mother was right. He was a selfish bastard, more attached to his pride than the welfare of the people who depended on him. His stomach clenched and a wave of nausea burned his throat. How was he different than his father or brother? He wasn’t. Not if he continued to be so damned bullheaded.

  Oh, he might not be gambling, drinking, and whoring it away, but clearly highway robbery was no longer viable to keep them afloat. No, they were truly in the mire. And not just them. Anyone who relied on the Blackstone Dukedom was suffering. How many had cottages in need of repair? Farms to be looked after? Children to be educated and fed?

  It was time to face facts. Otherwise, there would be no one to blame for the starvation on his lands but himself.

  “I’ll do it,” he gritted, feeling the last of his youthful idealism he’d once felt vanish in an instant.

  His mother blinked. “Do what?”

  “Marry,” he replied flatly. He flicked through a few papers then shoved them into a pile. “Pick someone. I care not. Just as long as she has funds enough to secure us. For generations. So that if managed, we and any future Blackstone heirs need never be in this position again.”

  A look of pure relief flushed his mother’s face. “Thank you, Rob. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Mother,” he replied, squaring his shoulders. “It is the only honorable thing to do.”

  And despite the fact that he was presently a rogue and the son of a roué, he was and always would be a man of honor.

  Chapter 5

  Lady Harriet pulled on her long, white evening gloves and fairly gamboled with excitement. Which was saying something given she was sitting at her white dressing table covered with silver-backed hairbrushes and vials of perfumes. She grinned at herself in the polished mirror.

  It was here! Finally! After years of preparation and waiting, the time had come for her to be unleashed upon society. She was to have her first presentation at court and, from what she could tell, it was going to be a most promising affair.

  The Cornwall family, which had been political for hundreds of years, had been in remarkable favor ever since the Glorious Revolution. They’d come out on the right side of things and been rewarded with a dukedom for it. Ever since, they had been at the forefront of society, setting the fashion for clothes, art, ideas, and politics.

  And the rounds of fetes and parties she’d been allowed to attend the last year had all been sumptuous and marvelous affairs. But because she had not been out, so to speak, she’d not really been allowed to do much more than stand on the fringes and long for action. Any kind of action to change the ever-plodding sameness of her days. She wasn’t bored. Only boring people were bored, as her mother said. She was quite capable of finding entertainments but she longed for a bit more. Was that so very terrible, she mused?

  Oh, her life was an exceptionally good one, no doubt envied by most of the young ladies in England. And she’d rather accepted her life would never be like the breathtaking, shockingly titillating novels she read daily. But one could hope for a bit of excitement every now and again.

  Still, despite her occasional lapse into contemplation of what she wished was, she was well aware of her astonishingly good fortune. How many could claim what she could?

  Her mother was one of the most important, intelligent, and beautiful women in society. And, well, her brother was a notorious rake, a political force, and a duke. Her family was a close, loving one. And, truly, aside from the death of her father, she had not known much suffering in the entirety of her life.

  What more could she ask for?

  Nothing. She should not dare even think of what more she might attain. Such a thing was tantamount to avaricious greed.

  So, as she took one last look in her oval-shaped, gold-edged mirror, and eyed the diamond earbobs that danced against her slender neck, she grinned.

  She’d never been allowed to wear diamonds before this night. She’d peeked at the collection of jewels that belonged to the Harley ladies whenever her mother had allowed. But now, she could wear them!

  And at long last, her hair had been curled high upon her head, diamond pins winking in the waves, with a single, long curl dancing over her shoulder and teasing her amply propped bosom.

  Really, a lady’s gowns were a wonderfully delicious scandal nowadays. She could not imagine wearing the cages her mother had been forced into but a few decades ago.

  Why, her own silk gown skimmed her hips and thighs, the hem teasing about her beribboned slippers. There was little fabric covering her body at all when contrasted to the layers and layers her mother had once donned. No, she had on but a thin chemise, over a slight corset, then her ivory silk gown. A simple ivory band, embroidered with silver roses, was tucked under her bosom, cinching her to emphasize the hourglass curves of her body. And the only constricting thing about the whole ensemble was the court train, a dauntingly long affair, which she’d fastened about her upper waist.

  If one was to ask her, she thought she looked quite smashing. And a bit naked given the way the gown bared the shadows of her body and exposed most of her bosom. She loved it. It was so very freeing!

  This was going to be a very good year, indeed.

  Most of her years had been good, in point of fact.

  Her large family was a warm cocoon of boisterous affection and she’d cut her teeth on friendship with her brother and numerous sisters. Unlike many she knew, she’d always been surrounded by friends.

  “Are you ready, my dear?”

  Her mother, Lady Barbara, Dowager Duchess of Harley, stood in Harry’s bedchamber doo
rway, a picture of resplendent decadence. Her mother was not quite seven and forty years of age and was still a stunner. Her emerald court gown was shot through with gold thread and a large emerald broach was pinned just at the center of the belt which propped up her mother’s ample bosom. More emeralds dripped from her ears and dazzled at her ivory neck.

  Not a touch of grey marred her honey-blonde hair studded with diamond stars.

  “I am ready,” Harry replied, shocked that her voice was a bit breathy. She was so shocked, she blinked. Had she truly sounded so nervous? She couldn’t ever recall being thus.

  Harry nodded to herself, rallying her confidence. Her own curled and styled hair felt a bit precarious with its jewels and feathers. She’d never truly understand why court hair need be so elaborate, but there it was. The definition of court etiquette. Nothing could be simple. After all, one had to elevate oneself from the rest of the world. Or else what was the point of a court at all?

  Striding for the door, her skirt whispering about her long legs in the most subtle of dances, she paused. Her maid, Agatha, had been on an errand of some kind. The maid slipped forward from the hall. She picked up Harry’s long, embroidered train and handed it to her. Harry smiled back at the young woman who had helped her choose her hairstyle and gown and been with her every step of the way as she’d learned all she’d need to know not to make a silly piece of herself tonight.

  “Thank you, my dearest Agatha,” Harry declared, touching her maid’s hand.

  “You’ll do us right proud, my lady,” Agatha said, beaming.

  She beamed right back, determined to do just that. For it was a truth universally acknowledged, that a family’s reputation could be increased by a successful daughter. Her own mother was a perfect example of such a thing. Once a daughter of a baronet, she had scaled to the highest echelons of society with her marriage.

  “Let us go, Mother,” Harry said as she adjusted her heavy train over her arm.

  Her mother linked her gloved arm in Harriet’s free one and escorted her down the wide, shadowed hall, over the burgundy carpet to the landing where Harry’s younger sisters stood near the balustrade waiting in their night robes.

  Her mother had promised them that they might watch Harriet depart as a special treat.

  So it was that Mary, Calliope, and Edith stood with hands on the balustrade, fairly humming with anticipation.

  “You look so beautiful!” Mary exclaimed, her cheeks quite pink with happiness.

  Calliope eyed her up and down, far more reserved, her blonde hair in a long plait. “Very nice.”

  “You look like a princess,” said the youngest, Edith, bouncing on her toes.

  “Thank you, my darlings,” she said as she bent and gave each a kiss on the cheek.

  “Dance every dance,” Mary proclaimed, fairly an edict.

  “Don’t trip on your train,” Calliope instructed.

  In truth, Harriet had spent weeks walking about in a train, her head bedecked with feathers, for this very reason. She had no intention of taking a tumble.

  She’d never forget the story of Lady Wellby who’d set her hair on fire by leaning too close to a candelabra. And then there had been Lady Paxton who had toppled backwards when being presented as her shoe caught on her gown.

  No such catastrophes for her. Oh no. She was a Cornwall. Cornwall’s didn’t trip or accidentally set themselves ablaze. They were the fire to which everyone looked. They did not get burned.

  Edith threw her small arms about Harry’s corseted waist, pressing her face against the embroidered silk. “Good luck tonight. Maybe you’ll meet him!”

  “Who?” Harry gently teased, having an idea, but wanting to give her sister the delight of saying it aloud.

  “You’re future husband!” Edith announced, her eyes sparkling. Then she leaned forward and whispered. “Just like in Pamela.”

  She did not laugh, but nodded gravely, taking her sister very seriously, loving her as she did.

  They were all obsessed with the new novel, having read it to each other aloud, night after night, in the long winter months. One could play only so many games of cards or turn about the room so many times, after all.

  Much to their good luck, their mother and eldest brother were proponents of educated females and didn’t rely on dry sermons for their edification.

  Oh no. Shakespeare to Fielding was the rule of the day at Harley House.

  So, she gave her sister a squeeze and nodded. “I promise not to muck up the first meeting like she did.”

  Edith laughed.

  Unlike poor Pamela in the novel, her family had raised her for this moment. And though she had not been much in the company of strange men, she had not been kept from them. Not like some of the girls she knew who had all but been kept in nunneries abroad until the moment of their presentation. Some even had been kept in convents until but a few weeks before to assure their purity.

  Powerful women needed powerful upbringings, her mother had always proclaimed. And her brother had always duly agreed.

  So, with a last, absolutely enormous hug to her sisters, she had to stop herself from skipping down the stairs. Instead, she allowed her tight stays to keep her shoulders back, and lifted her head with the turn of a queen and descended with her mother, out through the grand foyer, surveyed with approval by the upstairs servants all the while.

  It was a glorious moment, knowing her life was about to begin.

  As she climbed into the coach, accompanied by her mother, she let out a sigh of pleasure. Yes, this was the beginning of everything. And she could not wait.

  Chapter 6

  Robert stood at the rear of the long, glittering room, back to the gold striped silk wall. Bracing his arms across his chest, he assessed the throng of ton elites dancing, drinking, and gossiping madly. None of the cream of English society seemed to have any understanding or concern regarding the world outside their small circle. Not truly. Oh, they feared the bloodbath across the channel, but not in a way that might actually help the common people on English soil and prevent such a rebellion. He prayed daily that the few true reformers of his party would gain a solid foothold and wake these peacocks up.

  Doing his best not to scowl at the bejeweled fools, he admitted to himself that he’d never quite learned to relax amongst company when he’d returned from the Continent and the imminent war which he was certain would last for years. That new general, Napoleon, was shaking the world and England was one of the only armies strong enough to keep him from destroying all of Europe.

  Oh, he was capable of enjoying himself, but it was deuced difficult. Especially when he knew, every ha’penny he spent should go to the debt collectors and not his pleasure. Except this night wasn’t about him. Not at all. So, he forced himself to draw in a deep breath and ease his tense shoulders.

  Tonight was a rare exception. His sister’s gown had cost a small fortune and it had taken a great deal of thieving from the right people to acquire the funds. But tonight was an important one.

  What would he do in the future though?

  Robbing random coaches did no one any good.

  What would all the lords and ladies present, who would later throw themselves into parties rife with gambling, think to know a highwayman was amongst them, studying who would be traveling home with the plumpest purse?

  A smile curved his lips. Frankly, he rather enjoyed lifting the purses off of some of the nefarious people of his station. Some of them were barely deserving of the air they drew in. For the very lords who insisted there be no true policing of the cities were the first to be furious when accosted by a highwayman.

  Even so, there was no getting around it. Highway robbery was a risky way to make ends meet. Even if he was quite good at it. Paste jewels notwithstanding.

  “Here for your sister, too, are you?”

  Rob fought a wince at the deep, rumbling voice of one of his oldest friends. A friend he had kept at a considerable distance as of late. Well, he’d kept all his friends a
t a distance, truth be told. What else could he do without letting them know just how bad things were?

  “Indeed, Harley,” he said with deliberate ease. “We are all victims of the debutante.”

  George William John Cornwall, Duke of Harley laughed, his intelligent eyes flashing. “Well said. I feel a bit like a rare bird pursued by a group of zealous hunters.”

  No doubt he would, given the Harley Dukedom was one of the wealthiest in the country. There were, perhaps, five men who held as much or more wealth. Rob should have been one of them.

  “Been hiding behind reliquary again?” Rob teased, unable to resist.

  At the last ball they’d attended together, the mamas had been so determined and so fierce to seek Harley’s attention that the good duke had hidden behind a naked statue of an Apollo for half the night.

  “I was not hiding,” Harley defended, squaring his rather broad shoulders.

  Rob arched a challenging brow. “Oh?”

  Harley cleared his throat then gave a nod. “I had sought a tactical retreat.”

  Rob’s lips twitched. “That’s the only thing to do when you’re outnumbered.”

  Letting out a beleaguered groan, Harley asked, “Why don’t they chase you with the same passion?”

  Rob might have pointed out because mamas had an instinct for these things, but he was still technically a catch. What lady did not wish to be a duchess?

  Still, the unsavory death of his brother and father had rather left a bad smell about his family. One might have to be desperate, indeed, to launch their daughter at the Duke of Blackstone. Generations of dissipations did not a happy future make.

  “My reputation precedes me,” Rob drawled, determined not to seem affected.

  “Rob,” Harley said with great familiarity. “You do not have a reputation. Except for as an excellent soldier.”

  It was tempting to dispute, but what was the point? His family’s reputation was his reputation, whether he liked it or not.

  “Is your sister as excited as mine?” Harley asked, looking a bit like a fox that had only just eluded a pack of hounds.