Page 1 of The Duke Who Claimed Her

Chapter One

“Ihave done all that I can and more,” Miss White pleaded. “Our lessons are those I have applied to a dozen children. I have worked with five other families, none of whom have had any reason to complain. Please, Your Grace, I am not trying to escape punishment, nor pass the blame onto another. I am merely telling you, as a professional, that there is only so much I am able to do.”

“Excuses…” Caspian Seymour, the Duke of Glastonbury, said darkly as he stared into the flickering flames of the hearth. They licked the brick walls, turning them black, the heat so intense that he felt its burn on his face. “That is what I am hearing.”

“Not excuses,” Miss White said with some courage. She was far older than Caspian, close to sixty, but that age meant little as she had a hard face, a stubborn personality, and was not one to bend easily. “Merely statements of fact.”

“If you cannot do your job, Miss White, I will happily hire another who is more capable. There is no shortage of governesses available in England.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Caspian saw Miss White’s hesitancy. While she often complained and appeared desperate to free herself of a position that grew harder with each passing day, the mere thought of being let go was anathema to her. Was it pride? Was it arrogance? Or was she telling the truth, and this simply was not her fault?

“You may do so, Your Grace,” Miss White said carefully, not daring to raise her voice. “Although I have no doubt that if you do, whoever you hire will say the same thing as I.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Master Timothy is a sweet boy, Your Grace,” she said, and the warmth in her voice told Caspian that she spoke the truth. “He is also intelligent and perceptive. Sadly, his unpredictability is making it impossible for me to teach him as he needs to be taught. Some days, he is welcoming and eager. Others, he refuses to listen and seems intent on disruption for no reason I can gather.”

“He is eight,” Caspian said sharply. “Disruption is what children do.”

“He is also deeply depressed.” Miss White’s voice cracked. “He spent much of last night crying, and he spent all this morning hiding from me. Even the task of getting him ready to join you today was an exercise in patience and control, the likes of which grows worse by the day.”

“He…” Caspian turned and found Miss White watching him. She wore no malice in her expression, just pity and sadness. “He was crying?”

“All night,” she said.

Caspian resisted the urge to grimace, not wanting to show Miss White his surprise or his worry. That he did not know that Timothy had been crying… it shamed him greatly, confirming the gulf which existed between himself and his nephew.

Timothy had lived with Caspian for one year, taken in as his ward the week after Timothy’s parents had died in a tragic accident. And while Caspian had done his best the past year to make Timothy feel at home, to give him the life that he needed and deserved, he knew too well how tremendously he had failed.

And if I did not know it, this confirms it…

“No one is blaming you, Miss White.” Sitting in the room with Caspian and Miss White was Penelope, the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough, Caspian’s cousin. “Truly, Miss White, we know you are doing your best.”

“I am worried about the child,” Miss White said, sighing deeply, letting her shoulders sag so that she looked even older than her sixty years.

“As are we all.” Penelope stood from her chair and crossed the room. “For now, perhaps it is best that you tend to Master Timothy. No doubt he is lonely and needs some company.”

Miss White nodded. “I will find him, Your Grace. And please…” She looked again at Caspian, who had gone back to staring into the fire. “Think on what I have told you.”

“We will,” Penelope assured her.

Penelope said nothing as Miss White excused herself and hurried from the drawing room. When she opened the door, the sound of laughter swept inside, that of the dozens of guests currently filling the manor. But then the door closed, the moody silence returned, and Caspian continued to stare into the flames.

For a moment, he felt his cousin’s eyes on him, as he felt her concern.

She was five-and-forty, ten years older than Caspian, enough that she looked at Caspian as more of a mother than a mere cousin. Regal in appearance, her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her white skin was blemish-free, and her dark blue eyes were warm and caring in a way Caspian struggled to relate to.

It was strange to think that Caspian and Penelope had similar upbringings. Death haunted their pasts, and sorrow was a constant companion. While Caspian embraced the torment—brooding, moody, and emotionally detached—his cousin rose above it. She was the light in the darkness and often guided him where no one else would.

“She is right, you know,” Penelope said after some time. “And to blame her for the way Timothy behaves will solve nothing.”

Caspian did not turn around. “And who else should I blame? Timothy? The boy has been through enough.”

“It is not about assigning blame. You must remember, Timothy is still in mourning. No doubt, his actions are a direct reflection of that.”

“It has been a year,” Caspian said darkly, although such anger was not directed at his nephew. In truth, even a year later, he still felt great sorrow whenever he thought about his sister, and great shame because his failure with Timothy felt like a betrayal of her. “A year in which I have given him everything. In which I have…” He clicked his tongue. “In which I have done everything. The boy wants for nothing.”

“It is not about having his needs met,” Penelope said gently. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “As you must know, there is only so much that you can do. He has a governess. He has servants. He has everything, save for the one thing he truly needs…”