Page 4 of Duke in Darkness

Lord Kingsford rose to his feet. “Now, Mother—”

“Sit down. You begged for my assistance, and I have provided it by meeting with Imogen and proposing this match. It took some persuasion, but your eldest will be Duchess of Exton, as she was always meant to be.”

Lilian’s hands bunched in her green-striped gown, all thoughts of decorum vanishing in the dark whirlwind of this abhorrent news. How could they do this? Of all the peers in England, press her to marry the new duke, her late fiancé’s cousin? “I cannot. You ask too much, Grandmother.”

“Be quiet. You are behaving like a henwit. Every young lady in England would give her last farthing to be a duchess, and you balk? When the happiness and wellbeing of your own family, and so many servants and tenants, is at stake?”

“But…” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s mad. Colonel Jordan-Ives is mad. And dangerous. Both Exton and Lord Simon, God rest them, said so.”

Her grandmother glared at her, her eyes cold and hard as flint. “I’m sure you mistook their meaning. And you forget yourself, both in tone and reference to His Grace, Gabriel, the fourteenth Duke of Exton. Tomorrow you shall meet him. Then you’ll marry by special license, three days hence. And that is the end of the matter.”

CIVILIAN CLOTHES WERE THE DEVIL.

Gabriel looked away in disgust from the ostentatiously large mirror in the equally ostentatious ducal bedchamber. It would be so much easier if he could meet Lady Lilian in his scarlet regimentals, but those could only be worn by a soldier on active service. In uniform, with the gold epaulets on each shoulder and badged with star and crown to designate him as a colonel, the scar disfiguring half his face became less conspicuous. Or at least felt less conspicuous. As did his stubbornly bronzed skin, which no potion or poultice could scrub away. But in perfectly pressed gray trousers, starched cravat, embroidered silver waistcoat and black jacket he looked all wrong, like a barbarian playing at dressing up. He wanted to rip the false, constricting, itchy veneer of aristocratic respectability from his body and go back to bed, as much as he wanted to rip the cream silk from the bedchamber walls and smash the uncomfortable and thoroughly impractical gilt furniture his cousin had so adored.

Last evening had been another bad one. Not even owning vast cellars of wine, brandy, port and fine Scottish whisky could get him drunk enough to forget, or to sleep. While ostensibly early spring, March still felt like winter in England, endless months where it seemed a bright warm sun would never appear again. The frigid gloom, the too-short days, only strengthened the bars of the cage around his mind.

“Your Grace? The carriage is ready to depart for Lord Kingsford’s townhouse.”

Gabriel turned and glared at Hobbs. His valet had fallen far too easily into the habit of addressing him by his new title, and now he would give anything to be Colonel, or just sir again. “Efficiency for once. Excellent.”

“Don’t be concerned, it will go well. I understand the earl and his mother are both most eager for this match.”

“What about my dear fiancée?” he said sardonically. “Or do her feelings not matter?”

Hobbs hesitated, then moved closer. “Of course they do. But Lady Lilian knows it is a good bargain. All her father’s debts settled, and she will be a duchess, mistress of her own domain, and treated very well. You gain the dragon of a grandmother’s clout, and an accomplished, well-bred wife with an excellent reputation. Without even having to court her.”

The stark practicality of his valet’s statement both soothed and rankled. While it was indeed a blessing to not have to leave the townhouse and attend balls, soirees and picnics to meet potential brides, marrying a stranger had never been something he’d wished to do. What if they hated each other? Lady Lilian could be bloody ghastly, a mean-spirited gossip, or someone whose conversation never ventured beyond the weather. If she was as stuffy as Quentin would have wanted, she might well hate the thought of the marriage bed and permit only the most basic coupling until she fell pregnant and barred him from her chamber. If that was the case, he would have to find a mistress to indulge the rough, lusty fucking he’d enjoyed before Bayonne. Goddamn it. He’d always planned to be faithful to his wife. Have a happy marriage like his parents, before they tragically passed of the fever that had swept through the county after he’d joined the army.

“No courtship is not…necessarily a good thing.”

“But having a wife is,” said Hobbs, giving Gabriel’s jacket sleeve yet another light brush. “You need to secure the title with heirs. Besides. People are talking about your, ah, troubles. I’ve tried to stop the gossip, but these servants aren’t loyal to you. I’m sure they often report back to those damned lawyers. I don’t trust any of them. A wife could manage this household and get the servants up to scratch, while you concentrate on parliamentary and estate matters. And regaining your health.”

Humiliation burned.

Being a seasoned military man didn’t help at all when it came to understanding lands and crops or tenants and ledgers. Not to mention political papers so long and detailed they could be used to hold doors open. Every time he thought to meet with stewards or take his seat in the House of Lords, he would have an especially bad night and spend days recovering. Sometimes it felt like he had lost his mind. His skin would grow damp with sweat, his hands would shake, and catching his breath became impossible. Every room had to be lit up like Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, with candles and roaring fires to stave off the darkness, furniture removed or pushed to the walls, and definitely no four-poster bed in his chamber just so he didn’t feel trapped.

Thirty years old, and a bloody damned mess.

But Lady Lilian could help. No doubt she’d been trained since birth to organize households, and could act as his hostess at political dinners. If she wanted to redecorate, so be it. It wasn’t like he was attached to any of the furnishings, in fact, he’d welcome more comfortable chairs and a less gaudy outlook.

“Enough talk about my health,” Gabriel said shortly.

“Oh no, Your Grace. Not irritable. Today you must be…charming.”

His lips twitched at the older man’s earnest face. “Are you saying I’m not?”

“I’m saying there are bears woken from hibernation more pleasant. And you…you really need an ally. Lady Lilian has no connection with the lawyers, or your servants. I fear your poor aunt is too consumed with grief to be of any real assistance at this time, but a wife with Lady Lilian’s stature and skills could be a tutor of sorts and a buffer in discussions.”

Gabriel sighed and picked up his jet-topped cane, a practical necessity with the added protection of a deadly retractable blade. “I am a duke rebuked. Just don’t do it in public. Not going to be responsible…for mass swoonings.”

“There! You know, when you speak in short sentences, perhaps adjust a cuff or allow a cough during speech, your words are easily understood.”

“Thank you, Nanny. Begone.”

Within a half-hour, the ducal carriage pulled up outside the Kingsford townhouse in Hanover Square. Unlike his own townhouse, the place looked immaculate: stairs swept, windows clean, brass door knocker polished to a gleaming shine, and a deferential butler appeared to welcome him.

“Your Grace,” said the silver-haired man with a low bow, as though he were practically royalty. “Good afternoon. If you would please follow me, I’ll take you straight to see the family.”