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Chapter One
London, 1813
Anne, the Duchess of Hawthorne, had often wished her husband to go to the devil. Today was the first time in ten years of marriage that she felt the urge to personally aid him on his journey there. She eyed the letter opener on her desk. Efficient, quick, and quid pro quo for the knife that he had long ago stabbed into her back.
The Duke of Hawthorne leaned a shoulder against the ornate mantel. The rich velvet of his coat gleamed in the firelight, and so did the jewels that studded his fingers. His dark hooded eyes gazed at her, inscrutable as always.
Once, he had been her lighthouse in stormy seas. Now he was the sea itself, intent on sinking her.
How dare he crash upon the shores of her drawing room?
“It wouldn’t be immediate, if you don’t wish it.” His voice was always deep, but she suspected he had pitched it even lower in an attempt to soothe. Instead, it aggravated.
“I don’t wish it to happen at all,” she snapped, rising from her chair and leaving the letter opener on the desk and out of her line of sight. Less tempting that way. “Why on earth do you wish to establish your lover inmy house?”
“I would naturally accompany him. May I remind you that this isourhouse?”
“You said you were content to keep your bachelor apartment at the Albany. You certainly aren’t the only husband there who is estranged from his wife.”
“Things change.”
She sucked in a breath. “But we had settled this when you returned from France in May. We would live apart so that your scandalous ways do not touch the duchy—or sully my good name.”
“Is it not the privilege of this title to change the rules as I please? Have I been mistaken all these years in thinking that a duke’s power is limitless?”
“Nowyou lay claim to the power of the title?” There was no one on the face of this earth who could rile her the way that he did. He seemed unaffected, lazily twisting his signet ring on his finger. Seeing the emblem of the House of Hawthorne winking at her enraged her further. “Who has been the face of this duchy for the past decade, Hawthorne? Who presided over countless decisions on behalf of your name? And what have you done instead while you gallivanted in France?”
“My legacy will be known to my kind of people.”
“From the wild parties you used to throw?” Anne shook her head and sat again, glaring at the stack of letters that had arrived for her from the estate managers. She had a meeting with her secretary in an hour to draft her replies. Every day, she worked to maintain the dukedom, and suddenly Hawthorne had a vested interest in it? Did he expect her to hand everything over to him just because he was a man?
Over her dead body. She glanced again at the letter opener. Or better yet,his.
When she looked up, she saw the twitch at Hawthorne’s right eye that told her, even after all these years apart, how upset he was. “You may not understand the work that I have done through the years, Annie. But I assure you—I have toiled to help people who needed it.”
“I think we are rather far from returning to given names, are we not? In case you somehow failed to notice, I am not yourAnnieanymore.”
The tic jerked at his eye again and he pushed himself away from the mantel and into a low bow. It was meant to be insulting, she knew, because he scraped to the extent that would have better suited the Queen.
“My humblest apologies, Your Grace.” By the time he straightened, the bored look had returned to his face. “Yet I am indeed the Duke of Hawthorne, and your husband. I kept away for six months after my return to England out of respect to you, to give you time to adjust. I came today to extend an olive branch, which you can snap and throw away if you wish. However, you must accept that I will take back the reins of the dukedom. I will return to my birthright—this house. And where I go, I take Phin with me.”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “Must you carry on with a meresir? Sir Phineas is nowhere near our rank.”
Hawthorne laughed. “Is that what you care about? You believe he isn’t good enough for this house? How wrong you are. He is a man valued above rubies. He stays with me. I shall postpone our moving date until after the start of the new year, when you will be back at Hawthorne Towers and our presence here won’t bother you. But that is the best I can offer.”
After Hawthorne left, there was nothing but the stolid ticktock of the grandfather clock in the hallway for company. Usually she enjoyed being alone. Life was much easier when she could focus on what must be done, without the emotion and tension and complications that another person brought into the equation.
Especially when that person was her husband.
Anne took a deep breath, then rang the bell for a housemaid to add more coals to the fire and to bring a cup of tea. It was never warm enough in this room, and it was only October. God help her if she had to stay here through the winter.
She was in London to handle pressing business, but usually by now she would be ensconced in Hawthorne Towers in Kent, where her custom was to stay through the winter. Summer and autumn were always spent touring the dukedom’s vast country holdings, managing the land and its tenants, and hosting events for the elite social circle into which she had been both born and wedded. In thespring, she kept a careful eye on the duchy’s business from London. She had rarely been in the capital as late as October.
But she couldn’t bear to think of staying in Kent while her husband took up residence in the London townhouse after ten years away. Who knew what changes he would try to implement at Hawthorne House? Who could predict the staff’s reaction if he instituted his lover in his own bedchamber? What if he threw scandalous parties from the ballroom? Only her presence could prevent gossip. It was her duty to avoid even the hint of scandal.
Anne had spent too long establishing a sterling reputation to see it chipped under the weight of Hawthorne’s indiscretions.
He couldn’t expect to roll up his sleeves one day and start signing his signature again. He might wear the family signet ring on his finger with the full weight of the dukedom behind it, but the heavy gold seal carved with strawberry leaves and an ornateHon its tip belonged on her desk, not his. That seal had become the mark of approval from the duchy during Hawthorne’s absence. Maybe she should move it to her bedchamber, or start carrying it on her person—but no. That was taking things too far.
