Page 1 of The Duke of My Desire

CHAPTER 1

London, England

October 1822

If London Society knew anything about Gregory Mallen, the Eighth Duke of Paxton, it was that he was a devoted son.

Some mocked him for his devotion to his mother, claiming he was tied to her apron strings—or worse—but he did not let their opinions bother him.

At least, not overly much.

He knew most men of six-and-twenty weren’t as close to their mothers as he was to his, but the dowager duchess was really the only parent he’d ever known, and the only family he had. She had always been there for him, his staunchest supporter, his friend and confidante, and he would forever be grateful to her.

That being said, just because he loved his mother did not mean he wasn’t annoyed by her on occasion. Especially when she was trying to make him do something he did not wish to do.

Like marry a woman he did not love.

“Mother, please,” Gregory said, leaning forward in the chair in his office, arms spread in supplication. “You know I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot marry Jane Withers.”

Araminta Mallen, Dowager Duchess of Paxton, sat ramrod straight in the large leather chair behind the desk—his desk—and glared down her long nose at him.

“Of course you can marry her,” she said, her voice crisp with authority. “Jane is a lovely girl and would make you an excellent duchess.”

Gregory suppressed a sigh, his gaze drifting to the window and the night sky beyond, the thick clouds concealing the autumn moon. He had no reason to doubt his mother. If anyone should know the ingredients of an excellent duchess, it was her. She’d been one herself for nearly three decades, and although she was slower than she used to be and her auburn hair had begun to turn white, she was as imperious—and opinionated—as ever.

“I have no doubt that you are right,” he replied calmly, though they’d had this discussion a hundred times before. “But Jane will have to make another duke an excellent duchess for I will not marry her.”

His head had begun to throb, undoubtedly due to the tension in his neck and shoulders, a tension he could not seem to shake ever since his return to England.

He’d suffered a great disappointment last year when he discovered the woman he loved—the woman he’d planned to marry—did not love him and, in fact, loved another man. The rejection had left him reeling, heartsick and unmoored, and the only thing he could think to do was get the hell out of England. So he’d fled to the Continent, and there he’d stayed for nearly three months, much to his mother’s displeasure. She still hadn’t entirely forgiven him, and it had been nearly six months since he’d returned home.

Of course, that did not stop her from trying to run his life for him. He was beginning to suspect nothing short of death would accomplish that.

“I do not understand why you’re being so stubborn, Gregory.” His mother’s frown deepened, her dark brown eyes sharp with irritation. “You are a duke. A duke needs an heir. And in order to produce an heir, a duke needs a duchess. Jane is more than ready to be your duchess. Why will you not marry her?”

Gregory shook his head, his smile regretful. “Because I do not love her.”

The dowager duchess and Jane’s mother had been friends since they were girls and the two had long hoped their children would wed. Jane was a sweet-tempered girl and Gregory genuinely liked her, but he could not marry her, not even to please their mothers.

“Love will come later,” the dowager duchess said, waving her hand like a queen bestowing a royal decree.

“It never came for you and Father.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them and his mother flinched as if she’d felt them bodily.

Regret was swift and Gregory reached a hand across the desk, intending to apologize, but she spoke before he could.

“You’re right, it didn’t,” she said stiffly. “But in the beginning I thought it would. I hoped it would. I thought if I was patient enough, love would come. But that was before I learned that your father—” She broke off, her mouth twisting bitterly. “That was before I learned it was not to be.”

It was the most Gregory had heard her say about his father in some time. They rarely discussed him, and never at length. Gregory was only a boy of seven when he’d died, so he hardly remembered the man, but he knew he had treated his mother poorly, and even after all these years, time had not healed the pain he’d caused her.

“My marriage was not a happy one,” she went on, “but many marriages are, and I think if you give her a chance, Jane will make you very happy, indeed.”

Gregory rubbed his eyes with one hand, weariness settling over him like a cloak. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, taking the coward’s way out. “But I’m suddenly famished, so we will have to finish this conversation another day.”

He pushed to his feet and turned for the door, his mother’s stare a sharp pinch that followed him as he crossed the room.

“Where are you going?” she called out, her voice shrill with disapproval.