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A Heart for an Heir
A Duke’s Daughters –
The Elbury Bouquet - Book 8 - Thorne
Chapter One
Thorne Gardenbrook, Marquess of Wildenhall, stared out of the Elbury House parlour window at the perfect May afternoon. It irritated him unreasonably.
The house was too quiet, now that all of his sisters were married and gone off to live their own lives, and he was left without an easy distraction. Growing up with seven younger sisters had kept him busy – teasing them, protecting them, escorting them about London and more. But now… it had been nearly two months since Iris’ wedding, and his ability to entertain himself was proving to be minimal.
And if his mother hinted, one more time, that now the girls were all married, it was his turn…
He spun away from the window. He would go out, perhaps ride in Hyde Park…
Fifteen minutes later, when he came back down, changed into attire suitable for riding, he was very glad that he had made that choice.
“Thorne! I wanted to talk to you…”
“Sorry Mother – perhaps when I return? I should be back in time for dinner.”
The Duchess huffed in annoyance, then shrugged, well aware that he was just as stubborn as she was, despite the fact that the impression he gave to the world was one of cheerful good humour.
“I will take that as a promise, and hold you to it. Enjoy your afternoon.”
He sketched a rather impertinent bow, and went towards the back of the house and the door which led to the kitchen garden, and beyond that, the stables.
>>>
He reached Hyde Park before the most popular time for the ton to be there, and allowed himself the luxury of riding far faster than was truly acceptable in the Park. The rush of air past his face seemed to clear away his irritation with the world, and he soon slowed to a steady trot, allowing his horse to cool down after the run. He chose to ride away from the main paths, winding through the trees, and in and out of small clearings near the river.
At one point, as he came out of the trees, he saw a man on the opposite bank – a man engaged in exercise, it seemed. The gentleman had shed his coat, hanging it upon a branch, and was just finishing a set of movements involving a sword, which glittered in the sun as he moved. Thorne halted, and watched, fascinated by the precision which was so effortlessly brought to the movements.
Eventually, the man stopped, coming to a stillness as precise as the movements had been, then, without fuss, he lifted something from the grass near the tree where his coat hung, and slid the sword into it. At first, Thorne thought it a scabbard, until the man set it down again, pulled his coat on, lifted it, and walked away.
In that instant, he realised that what had been a sword was now an innocuous looking cane.
A sword cane.
An idea arrived in his mind, whole and complete, without any warning – he would go to Mr Thomas Black’s shop, and purchase himself a sword cane, then, next time he saw him, he would ask Blackwater to teach him to use it. Not that Thorne couldn’t wield a sword… but Damien, his brother-in-law, was infinitely better than he was, and had much practice with sword canes in particular.
That would give him something to do, and something his mother likely would not interrupt.
He turned his horse, and set off at a steady slow canter, winding through the trees, back towards the Park gates, and the streets of London beyond.
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Lady Faith St John studied herself in the mirror. Wearing colours again was delightful, after the months of mourning for King George III. But was she delightful? She was beginning to suspect that she very much wasn’t. This was her second Season, the first having been rather later than ordinary due to her father’s and then her elder brother’s deaths, and affected by scandal not of her making.
And most of this Season had been overshadowed by the mourning for the King’s death. And now, she was twenty-one – tantamount to a spinster in the eyes of the ton. Some gentlemen had shown interest, it was true – but they were mainly the gamblers who found her dowry more attractive than anything else.
Perhaps tonight would be better, now that the mourning was finished – perhaps someone interesting would be there, someone new. Shaking her head, she laughed softly. There was no point deluding herself – the possibility of her making a good match was becoming vanishingly small. But… she refused, absolutely refused, to consider marrying one of the gamblers, or one of the men who cared nothing for her mind, and everything for her breasts, and more.
Rejecting the advances of men like that was becoming a sadly more frequent requirement, as they assumed that her approaching spinsterhood would make her desperate, and willing to accept them. Which she was not. Although desperate was beginning to be an accurate description…
She picked up her book, and went down to the parlour – perhaps an afternoon reading would put her in a better frame of mind.
