Disrupting the Duke (Dukes Done Wrong Book 4)

Book 3: Dukes Done Wrong

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Regency romance; strong heroine; England; 1800s; Dukes; Regency Historical Romance; Dukes Done Wrong; Alexa Aston

Synopsis

Welcome to the new world from Alexa Aston—Dukes Done Wrong.

Accused of something they never did. Five boys banished from their homes in disgrace, to the place where they find the brothers of their heart—and build new family ties that will last a lifetime.

A brash army major who surprisingly becomes a duke. A lady who has no interest in ever wedding. An attraction that leads to passion . . . and love . . .

Cool, moody, and irresistible Donovan Martin finds himself the new Duke of Haverhill after his father and brother drown in a carriage accident. The womanizing Donovan decides to work his way through the numerous beauties of the ton because he has no intention of settling down. Until he encounters a most unusual woman—who informs him she never plans to wed.

Lady Wynter Day wants to maintain her independence and never become subservient to any man. Besides, no man has ever sparked her interest romantically. Then the new Duke of Haverhill crashes into her life, causing Wynter to reconsider her stance on marriage.

A sprained ankle brings the pair closer together, with Wynter spending the Christmas holidays with Donovan and his friends. Sparks ignite and Donovan sees a future with Wynter. Then tragedy strikes, separating the couple, perhaps for good.

Will their stubbornness keep them apart—or will Donovan and Wynter let go of the ghosts of their pasts and take a chance on love?

Find the answer in Disrupting the Duke, Book 3 in Dukes Done Wrong.

Each book in Dukes Done Wrong is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order and can be read for free in Kindle Unlimited.

Series Order:

Book #1: Discouraging the Duke

Book #2: Deflecting the Duke

Book #3: Disrupting the Duke

Book #4: Delighting the Duke

Book #5: Destiny with a Duke

Release date: September 23, 2021

Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing

Print pages: 244

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Hillside, Surrey—June 1796

 

Donovan Martin studied the chessboard in front of him, his fingers hovering above his ball. He hesitated and withdrew his hand, resting it in his lap as he thought over the move he wished to make.

“Your instincts are good,” his brother said encouragingly.

He glanced at Sam. “You aren’t trying to trick me, are you?”

Sam laughed. “No. You’re only a beginner. I wouldn’t do that to you. Now, after we’ve played a few years? I would do everything in my power to lead you astray.”

He knew it was true. Though six years older, Sam always looked out for Donovan, taking him under his wing and teaching him to ride and swim. He had made Donovan wait until he turned ten before bringing out the chessboard, saying that it took an older boy to understand the intricacies of the game. Sam was right. Chess was hard. Thinking about your next move wasn’t good enough. It was all about thinking several moves ahead. Anticipating what your opponent would do. Working out those scenarios.

Going with his gut, he moved his ball. Seven moves later, he gleefully called out, “Checkmate!” for the first time since he and Sam had begun to play.

“That was terrific, Donovan,” Sam praised.

“I hope you didn’t let me win.”

“I didn’t. You earned this win all on your own. However, I think I did let my guard down and my mind wandered a few times.” He beamed. “I will know in the future not to do that again. You will master this game in no time,” Sam praised.

“What were you thinking about? A girl?” Donovan teased.

Sam’s cheeks turned pink. “No,” he said quickly. “At least, not too much. My mind was on what Father is going to quiz me over later today.”

“Why does he do that all the time?”

“Because I am the heir to the dukedom. Father wants to make sure I am prepared to be the Duke of Haverhill when the time comes.”

He snorted. “I am glad it’s you and not me. I would hate to have to listen to all those stuffy lessons.” Left unsaid was how Donovan was uncomfortable around their father, who probably spoke to his younger son a handful of times in a year. If that.

“They’re not too bad,” his brother defended. “And if they will help me to be a good lord to our people, they will have been worth it. What will you do while I am busy spouting all my knowledge?”

He shrugged. “Probably see if Mama wants to take a walk.”

“I envy you,” Sam said. “You are so close to her. She waited a long time for you.”

The words struck him as odd. “What do you mean?”

Sam lifted his queen from the board and toyed with it as he said, “She had other babies between you and me.”

That was certainly news to him. “How many? Where are they?”

“They didn’t live,” his brother revealed.

“Why haven’t you told me this before?” he demanded.

“You were too young to understand,” Sam said. “She had three miscarriages that I know of. That’s when something goes wrong inside and the baby doesn’t grow right. Each time, she had only been with child a few months. She would have to stay in bed after she lost one. She did have one the year before you were born but it was stillborn.”

Donovan frowned at the term. “I don’t understand.”

“Again, something went wrong. This time, the baby was born but it was still. Dead. They buried her in the family plot.”

It astounded him he hadn’t known about these babies. He and Mama talked about everything. He wondered if he should ask her or if this was something she wanted to keep private.

Sam reached across the table and ruffled his hair. “When she knew she was carrying you, the doctor had her stay in bed so she could rest the entire time. She was so happy when you came out perfect, all ten fingers and toes. Mama cherishes you, Donovan.”

He knew his mother loved him. She told him all the time. But he never remembered her telling Sam that.

“Does Mama cherish you?” he asked quietly.

Sam grew contemplative. “I think she does. As the heir, though, it seems there is an unspoken rule in society that somehow I belong all to Father. Mama doesn’t have much to do with me and never did.”

“And Father has nothing to do with me. I guess I am luckier than you are. Even if you will be the duke someday.”

A polite knock sounded at the door and a maid entered. “His Grace wishes to see you, Lord Samuel.”

“Thank you.” Sam rose. “Off to another quizzing session. Have fun with Mama.”

Donovan watched Sam leave. He was glad he didn’t have to spend time with the duke. If truth be told, he was terrified of his father. He barked orders at everyone and always wore a sour look upon his face. The servants walked on eggshells, all afraid they would lose their positions with a single mishap. The tenants eyed Haverhill carefully anytime he went out on the estate.

Hoping that Sam would pass whatever test set before him today, Donovan went in search of his mother. He found her in her parlor, embroidering next to a window.

“Hello, my darling,” she said as he crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

“Would you like to go for a walk, Mama? It’s a very pretty day.”

The duchess set aside her sewing. “I would love to. Let me fetch my bonnet. I don’t want any freckles to spread across my nose or cheeks.”

Donovan didn’t think a few freckles would detract from her beauty but he waited patiently for her in the foyer. She joined him, slipping her arm through his, and they strolled out the front door.

They walked for a good hour. The sun, which had been hidden behind a curtain of clouds, came out. Its heat seemed to sap Mama’s energy.

“Shall we cut through the woods?” he suggested. “The shade will help cool you.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, my dear.”

They ducked into the nearby copse and continued into the woods until they reached a small brook, following it for half a mile before starting through the forest again. Mama asked to stop and rest. They sat on a fallen log. He wanted to ask her about the other babies she had lost but didn’t want to see the smile fall from her face. She was so happy today and he couldn’t bear to cause her pain.

Helping her to her feet again, they continued strolling through the woods.

Suddenly, a loud shriek erupted.

“Something’s hurt!” Mama cried, lifting her skirts and racing toward the sound.

Donovan hurried after her. He stumbled on a tree root and went sprawling. Quickly righting himself, he ran to catch up—and then heard an unearthly scream. It pierced his ears as much as his soul. He knew it came from his mother.

“Mama!” he shouted, hurrying toward the blur of pale blue satin to his left.

He reached her and came to an abrupt halt, his jaw gaping.

She lay on the ground next to a doe who had been caught in a poacher’s trap. The animal’s panicked eyes frightened him. But what he couldn’t understand was Mama also with the same look in her eyes. He glanced down and saw she had also stepped in a similar trap when she came to the doe’s aid. She’d hiked up her skirts enough so he could see the steel teeth biting into the flesh just above her ankle.

She sobbed, “Help me.”

He fell to his knees and pulled as hard as he could. The jaws of the trap which encased her leg refused to budge. His gaze met hers. Her lips trembled. Her whole body trembled in pain.

“I’ll bring help, Mama.”

Donovan scrambled to his feet. “I’ll hurry. You will be fine,” he promised as he took off, not knowing if she would be.

Help her, God, help her, help her, please, help her.

The thought echoed over and over in his head as he ran as fast as he could. He reached the stables and a groom started to speak to him.

“Send for the doctor. Now!” he shouted. “Mama’s leg is caught in a trap in the woods.”

The groom’s face went white. “Yes, my lord,” he managed to utter.

Donovan continued to the house. As he reached the front door, he saw the groom race by on a horse.

He entered the house and stood in the foyer.

“Father! Father!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Father!”

Servants appeared from several directions, including their butler. Donovan ran to him, grasping his lapels in desperation.

“Mama’s hurt. She’s in the woods. She stepped into a trap. I can’t get her out.”

The butler snapped his fingers and two footmen raced out the door. The butler sent a maid to the stables for a horse and cart to bring the duchess home. She rushed from the foyer as Donovan stood helplessly, turning in circles.

Then the duke appeared, Sam right behind him. “What is all this shouting about?” He glared at Donovan. “You are never to disrupt this household in such a manner again or you will be severely punished.”

Out of breath, Donovan placed his hands on his knees, bending over and trying to catch his breath. He heard the butler relay the news to the duke regarding the duchess.

Suddenly, he was jerked upward.

“Where is she?” his father demanded.

“I’ll show you.”

Donovan took off, running out the front door and across the lawn, Sam on his heels. They reached the woods and he shouted for the footmen. They didn’t answer and he pushed further into the forest. He saw the two servants ahead, bending to Mama, and hurried to hold her hand.

“It will be just fine, Mama. I know it hurts.”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes were glassy. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she made no sound beyond a whimper.

Sam took her other hand and squeezed it as the two footmen pried the steel apart. Sam went and stood behind Mama, lifting her under her arms and dragging her back a few feet as she was freed from the trap. Blood gushed from her ripped skin. Sam whipped his coat off and wrapped it around her leg. Almost immediately, the fawn-colored jacket was soaked.

Donovan pulled his coat off. Sam removed his coat and flung it away, taking Donovan’s and wrapping it around Mama’s lower leg.

By now, his father had arrived, looming over them. Donovan saw the duke’s lips purse in displeasure.

“The doe,” Mama murmured as she began to moan. “Help it,” she pleaded.

Donovan looked and saw the animal nearby, still trapped and quaking.

“Damn the doe!” his father roared, going to the trapped beast and stomping hard on its neck.

The animal’s soft keening ceased. The deer’s eyes were wide, its neck broken. Donovan looked away, a sick feeling spreading through him.

“The cart is here, Your Grace.”

“Get her to it,” the duke said impatiently.

The two footmen lifted her, Sam helping to raise her leg. Donovan held her hand as they carried her to the cart, trying to reassure her. Mama had lost all color. She didn’t seem to know where she was.

The servants placed her in the cart and both boys climbed in next to her, taking her hands and stroking her hair. As the driver started the wagon up, Donovan’s gaze met that of the duke’s. They watched one another as the cart pulled away.

Everything was a blur after that. The servants carried Mama to her chambers. He and Sam were told to stay out as Mama’s lady’s maid began to fuss over her. The doctor arrived and was in the bedchamber a long time as the father and both sons waited in the corridor. When the doctor emerged, Donovan knew the news wouldn’t be good.

“May we speak privately, Your Grace?”

“No,” Haverhill said flatly. “Say your piece here.”

Flustered, the physician swallowed and then said, “Her Grace’s leg is nearly severed. The best thing to do would be to amputate the lower part, beneath her knee.”

Disgust filled the duke’s face. “Amputate? I don’t want half a woman. Sew the blasted limb back on, Man.”

Horror filled Donovan. He glanced to Sam, who wore an equal expression.

“That wouldn’t be best for the duchess, Your Grace. She is in shock now. I have also given her laudanum for the pain. It would be easiest to remove it quickly, while she is more numb to pain. It is her best chance of survival,” he added quietly.

His father shook his head. “You heard what I said. No wife of mine will be less than whole.”

The doctor looked at him beseechingly. “Even if I could attach it again, Your Grace, infection is likely to set in. She could die from that. Gangrene could eat away at her.”

Haverhill sniffed. “Then at least she will be buried with two legs. Not one.”

With that, the duke turned and strode away.

“Save her,” pleaded Donovan. “Don’t listen to him, Doctor. Please.”

The physician shook his head. “Your father has legal rights here, my lord. A wife is the property of her husband. His Grace has made his decision.” He paused. “I am so sorry. There is nothing more I can do for her. Prepare yourselves, boys.”

“Can we be with her?” he asked.

The doctor nodded.

With great reluctance, Donovan and Sam entered the bedchamber. The maid sat beside the bed, weeping.

“Go,” Sam said softly. “We will be with her.”

The servant left, leaving them alone.

“Why would he do this?” Donovan asked, his eyes flooding with tears.

“Because he’s a vile man,” Sam replied. “He never loved her. He doesn’t love anyone.”

They sat with her for several hours. The fever grew worse. Mama grew delirious as her body heated like a furnace. The maid returned, bringing bowls with cloths. He and Sam dipped them in the water, bathing Mama’s face and limbs, trying to calm the raging inferno within her.

The pain returned and she began howling, a guttural noise that stripped him until he was raw. The leg continued to bleed, soaking the bedclothes. Donovan thought if the high fever didn’t kill her, the great loss of blood would.

“I will go get Father,” Sam finally said as night fell and the room began to grow dark.

“Why?”

“I think she hasn’t long to live.”

“He should have been here, comforting her,” Donovan hissed. “He’s probably eating dinner and sipping port.”

Sam didn’t reply. His brother slipped from the room.

Donovan took Mama’s hand again. “I love you,” he croaked as her eyes opened.

“I love . . . you,” she gasped and then her jaw went slack. Her eyes stared at the ceiling. Her breathing ceased.

He wailed, punching the mattress with his fists. Then he calmed and brushed his hands over her eyes to close them.

Minutes later, his father entered with Sam.

“She’s dead,” Donovan told them dully, a vast emptiness inside him.

Tears coursed down Sam’s cheeks. The duke remained stalwart. Donovan couldn’t help but compare the two as they stood next to one another, both short and thin, blond-haired and fair complexions.

“She always favored you,” Haverhill finally said. “Said you were her little miracle. You look just like her, you know.”

He glanced at the still body on the bed and knew his father spoke the truth. Donovan had his mother’s thick, black hair and piercing, blue eyes. She had told him he was built like the men on her side of the family. Tall, sturdy, and muscular. A fresh wave of tears poured from his eyes, like a dam bursting.

“Quit your crying,” the duke barked. “She coddled you far too much. I don’t need a spoiled, pampered boy for a son.”

“I won’t quit crying!” Donovan shouted. “I loved her.”

“Well, if you’d loved her, you wouldn’t have taken her walking in the woods and gotten her killed.”

Guilt rose within him. Rationally, he knew it wasn’t his fault but his father’s words lingered in the air.

“You’ve cost me a wife,” the duke said plainly. “She never had a thing to do with me once you came. You look like her. Sound like her. Walk and talk like her. If she hadn’t humored you, she would still be alive.”

Shaking his head, Haverhill continued. “I can’t stand the sight of you. You will be a constant reminder of her and I certainly don’t need that in my life. Get out,” he ordered.

“Where am I supposed to go?” Donovan asked, feeling as if he’d been punched hard in his gut. He wanted his mother. He wanted Sam to comfort him.

The duke wrinkled his nose as if Donovan stank. “I’ll send you to my cousin for now. Then you’ll be off to school.” He pursed his lips, a sure sign of his displeasure. “You can stay there. I have an heir in your brother. I don’t ever want to lay eyes upon you again.”

 

 

CHAPTER 2

Turner Academy—September 1796

 

Donovan entered the ballroom with his four companions, boys he had just met minutes ago. Emotionally, he felt as if he had been forced through a washerwoman’s ringer and hung out to dry. He blinked several times, hoping the tears that kept filling his eyes would go away and not embarrass him as he attended his first school assembly at a place unfamiliar to him. He missed his old school and friends. He missed Hillside and Sam.

Most of all, he wanted his mother.

He had been delivered to Turner Academy less than half an hour ago by his father’s cousin, whom he had lived with after his father exiled him from Hillside. Donovan was led by a talkative servant to a room with four boys inside it. They were to be the ones he shared his living quarters with for the next school year.

One had sat mute on his bed as the other three introduced themselves. One by one, they told him why their families had enrolled them at Turner Academy. Donovan had been told the school was a place for naughty, depraved boys. He knew he didn’t belong here. He had told himself over and over again that it wasn’t his fault Mama stepped in the trap. That it was the poacher who had encroached upon their lands and set it who was to blame.

Donovan had yet to forgive himself, however.

As the boys, all new to the academy as he was, briefly told their tales, he was struck by the fact that they seemed innocent of any wrongdoing. Three of them were sons of powerful dukes, just as he was. The fathers all had their heirs and found these sons dispensable, treating them as rubbish to be tossed away. Miles had lost his younger brother in a shooting accident his older brother refused to take responsibility for, claiming Miles had pulled the trigger. Wyatt’s older brother had burned down the family’s stables and all their horses inside had perished—but he accused Wyatt of setting the fire. Hart’s brother had shoved the youngest brother into the water and the boy had broken his neck and drowned before Hart could reach him. Hart was blamed for the death.

At first, Donovan hadn’t wanted to say why he had been sent to a school full of troublemakers. As each of these boys spoke up and candidly explained their presence at the academy, though, Donovan decided he must do the same. He was no longer welcome at home. This school would be his entire world. If he were to make friends and have a chance at any bit of happiness, he needed to be honest.

So, he had told them of Mama’s death and how, since he favored her, his father couldn’t abide the sight of him. Instead of judging him, the three boys had openly received him. Relief had filled him—as well as hope. Perhaps he could build a life here, among the misfits.

As the five boys seated themselves, he found Finch on his left. He was the only one who had refused to share his past with the other four. Finch had cursed, shocking Donovan but, at the same time, Finch had said he didn’t care what any of them had done. Together, they had joined hands and Miles had proclaimed them the Turner Terrors.

The thought caused him to smile, the first time he had done so since that last day with Mama.

Donovan glanced around the semi-circle in which he sat. Besides the Turner Terrors, he counted ten other boys, for a total of fifteen. A few of them looked like the troublemakers they had been branded as. One older boy, about fourteen, glared at him and Donovan looked away.

“Don’t do that,” Finch said. “Look back at him. Keep doing so until he turns away.”

“Why—”

“Just do it,” Finch hissed.

He raised his head again and stared at the boy who sat across from him. Though he itched to look away, he didn’t want to be seen as weak in Finch’s eyes. Finally, the other boy gave him a disdainful look and glanced away.

“You did it,” Finch said quietly, his voice laced with praise.

“I did, didn’t I?” asked Donovan, who was pleased with himself.

“He’s a bully. It’s important to stare them down or stand up to them. Never show any sign of weakness with anyone. Here or anywhere else,” his new friend warned. “If you do, they’ll go after you. I might not be around to help you the next time.”

Donovan had never been bullied before. He had liked his school and always made friends easily. Something told him that Finch had been bullied.

Badly.

“Did you ever have to stand up for yourself? With other boys?” he asked.

Finch gazed away, silent. After waiting for a reply, Donovan decided this was something else that Finch would never answer.

It surprised him when Finch finally said, “No. No other boys ever bothered me.” He sat up straighter. “And they won’t here, either. None of the Turner Terrors will ever be seen as weak. We are strong. We are united.”

His vehemence startled Donovan. He wondered if he would ever figure out this boy. At least he seemed to have claimed William Finchley as a friend. Finch seemed fully accepting of the idea that he was a Turner Terror and Donovan was, too.

At the head of the semicircle sat a group of several men. One rose, catching Donovan’s eyes, and he sat taller in his seat.

Conversation came to a halt as the fifteen pupils turned their attention to this tall, thin man who stepped toward them. His bald pate gleamed. Donovan had never seen a pair of eyebrows as black or bushy. The eyebrows seem to have a life of their own.

“Greetings. To those of you who do not know me, I am Nehemiah Turner, co-founder of Turner Academy, along with my brother, Josiah.”

He indicated a man who was also in his mid-forties. While tall and thin like his brother, Josiah Turner’s head was full of white hair and a snowy beard covered the majority of his face. The man stood briefly and nodded before taking his seat again.

“Since there are two Mr. Turners, you will address me as Mr. Nehemiah. I will tutor you in the sciences. My brother will teach you history, philosophy, and art.”

He turned and gestured to a third man. “This is Mr. Whitby. He is in charge of languages. You will study both Greek and Latin, as well as delve into the fine intricacies of English, from grammar to composition to literature.”

Whitby inclined his head. Donovan thought he would be a hard taskmaster from his expression.

“Finally, Mr. Morris will instruct you in mathematics. He will challenge you to stump him with an equation but I have found no student has ever come close to doing so.”

Morris beamed at the boys and Donovan found himself drawn to the tutor.

“I would also like to introduce to our newcomers the two who truly run Turner Academy. Ladies?”

All the boys turned and two women who hovered in the doorway to the ballroom stepped inside.

“On the left is Mrs. Nehemiah, my wife and the academy’s housekeeper. She is the one who keeps all of us in line. The other is Mrs. Josiah, Turner Academy’s cook. I believe you will find the food to your liking.”

The only thing he had disliked at his former school was the food. Everything seemed bland, boiled, or both. Anything would be an improvement in his eyes.

“Several of you know Mr. Smythe,” Mr. Nehemiah said as the servant entered the ballroom and gave a friendly wave. “Mr. Smythe usually becomes your best friend during your time at the academy. Don’t let his geniality fool you. He is a former soldier in His Majesty’s army and has the battle scars to prove it.”

The two women curtseyed and Mr. Smythe bowed before they vacated the room.

“Shall we speak of why you are here? I think it is important to do so. Josiah?”

The other Turner came forward as the first took a seat. He gazed over the small crowd before speaking. When his eyes met Donovan’s, he thought Mr. Josiah saw straight through to his heart.

“Hello,” he began. “You most likely have been told you have been sent to Turner Academy as a punishment. That it is a school for difficult young boys. Ones who are troubled. Annoying. Boys who are vicious or nasty. Bad to the bone.” He paused. “Let me squash that thinking right away.”

“It is true that a handful of you have done something very wrong. Heinous. Even criminal. Others of you merely are victims of family politics. Some of you come from venerable, powerful families and are the sons of dukes. Other students may be sons from wealthy, titled gentlemen. The point is you have all been sent here for a reason that doesn’t matter.”

Donovan shifted in his chair and glanced about surreptitiously at the boys seated in the semicircle.

“I speak from experience,” Turner continued. “My brother and I were the sons of a solicitor’s clerk. Father emphasized the importance of a good education. Nehemiah and I studied hard and both of us won scholarships to Oxford. Before our last term, while we were at home, our father was murdered.

“Nehemiah and I were taken into custody and sentenced to death.”

A chill rippled down Donovan’s spine. He wondered how these two men had escaped such a punishment and now stood here as founders of a school.

“We were absolved at the last minute. At university, we had been befriended by the Earl of Marksby’s son and had gone home frequently with him to visit during holidays. Lord Marksby, who was quite fond of us, paid for our legal representation. When we were found guilty, he did not stop but pushed on, hiring men from Bow Street to investigate. They discovered the true murderer, a man Father had worked with. Thanks to Lord Marksby’s intervention, in a rare move, the court overturned the verdict and we were set free, allowed to complete our education.”

Donovan sat mesmerized by the tale.

“Upon our graduation, though cleared of any crime, Nehemiah and I found ourselves unemployable. No employer wanted the taint of scandal attached to us. Though Lord Marksby had passed on by this time, his son—our friend—took a chance and gave us the funds to start a school. This school. We have deliberately kept enrollment small, wanting to give personal attention to every pupil. We take in boys from ages seven to seventeen. Sometimes, for a year. Sometimes, for the remainder of their education.

“If you know your Latin, you are familiar with tabula rasa. Loosely translated into English, it means clean slate. That is what you have here. No one will question you about why you are here. You will be provided with competent instructors and a rigorous curriculum. You will be challenged. Supported. Embraced. All for being you. Take advantage of your time at Turner Academy and every opportunity which arises. You may remain only for this term. You may complete your education here. Either way, you are—each one—important. Valued. Trusted.”

The stirring words bolstered Donovan.

“You will respect our staff and one another. We do not tolerate prejudice, nor do we believe one boy is better than the next. That is why you will all be addressed with the title of Mister, followed by your Christian name. Make wise choices. Study hard. Participate. Be open-minded. Most of all, remember the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Josiah Turner smiled broadly. “Welcome to Turner Academy.”

The boys broke out in spontaneous applause.

“I know my wife has been cooking for two days straight now.” He raised his hands, palms turned upward. “Please, come and join me and the rest of your instructors in the dining room.”

Wyatt nudged Donovan with an elbow. “What do you think?”

“I think we are lucky to be here,” he said. “We could have been sent to a much different place. I think . . . I will like it here.”

They stood and Miles said, “Those Turners are the original Turner Terrors,” he joked.

“I like them,” Hart declared. “I dreaded coming here and what I would find. Instead, I believe I will be better educated than at my previous school.” He grinned. “And that I will have lifelong friends.”

“They want us to like it here,” Finch said.

“You don’t?” Donovan asked.

“I’ll reserve judgment,” Finch said. “After all, I’m going to be here a very long while.”

Donovan slung an arm around Finch. He felt protective of the boy, who acted tough but seemed to have a streak of vulnerability running through him.

“Come on. Let’s go see if Mrs. Josiah’s food is as good as her husband bragged.”

He marched Finch along and Miles, Hart, and Wyatt followed.

Donovan didn’t care what Finch said. Turner Academy was a good place to be.

And he planned to make the most of his experience here.

CHAPTER 3

London—August 1811

 

Lady Wynter Day dismissed her maid and picked up a pencil, jotting down a few ideas before she forgot them. The Season was coming to an end and she couldn’t wait to return to Chesterfield, her country home, where she could dress as she pleased and not have to think of social affairs and those who attended them. Not that she bothered with the opinions of others. Wynter was known for being charming and impulsive, dressing a bit differently from other women of the ton. She also had a reputation for being outspoken and doing exactly what she wanted to do. It attracted a good many single men to her, while most mamas kept their young daughters making their come-outs far away from her.

She didn’t give a fig about that. She thought most every young woman making her come-out insipid. They were boring and unimaginative. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was someone who was dreadfully dull. Women of Polite Society never showed any emotion. They were prim and restrained. They talked about choosing a new bonnet or what needlework they had recently completed.

Boring.

Wynter had always been attracted to men though never in a romantic sense. Men just were more adventurous. More interesting. More physical. Always in motion, going and doing. Sometimes she thought she should have been born a man. She certainly would be a better man than most men. She had witnessed that the older men got, the more sedate they became, like the ladies of Polite Society. That’s why she liked being friendly with single gentlemen in their twenties. They were full of life and fun—especially the rogues.

Thank goodness she had never felt an attraction to any of them. It was only because she hadn’t and made it perfectly clear that she would never marry that she had become a darling of the ton, functioning as a little sister to so many of the men in society. They sought her as their card partner because she was astute at card play and downright lucky, a deadly mix. They danced with her because she was good at it and they knew she had no designs on them. They took her for drives in Hyde Park, asking for her advice regarding which horses they should purchase.

Even the rogues, when it came time to settle down, asked her opinion of which lady they should offer for. They knew they could trust her opinion, never given rashly. Wynter took her time before making her suggestions for marriage. So far, she had met with success in pairing together over two dozen couples.

Setting her list aside, she ventured downstairs to breakfast. Her father glanced up and gave her a smile.

“Good morning, Wynter.”

“Good morning, Papa.”

She went to the sideboard and put a few items on her plate. A footman brought her a cup of tea and helped seat her.

“Where is Pickford? He usually drops in about this time.”

“I don’t know, Father. He may not breakfast with us this morning. He does have his own place to eat,” she said.

Just then, Sam entered the breakfast room and greeted them both. He headed to the buffet as if he were at home and filled his plate with rashers of bacon and ham and a mound of scrambled eggs. The footman brought coffee for him.

Wynter loved that Sam started his day with them most mornings. Their London townhouses sat next to one another. Their country estates lay only seven miles apart. Though she hadn’t known him growing up since he was six years older than she was and often away at school—and their fathers were sworn mortal enemies—they had become friends once she came to London for her come-out. They saw each other frequently in town and several times a month in the country. Her father adored Sam. Not only because Sam was beloved by everyone but because the earl’s friendship with Sam irritated Sam’s father, the Duke of Haverhill, to no end.

She couldn’t think of a better best friend to have than Sam.

“Father and I are leaving for home today,” Sam told them.

“Today?” she asked. “I wouldn’t advise it. It’s been raining for a good week and doesn’t look as if it will let up anytime soon. The roads will be a mess.”

Sam shrugged. “You know Father. Once he gets something in his head, there is no persuading him otherwise. Most of his friends left London a week ago. He’s bored and restless. Ready to be back at Hillside.”

“Haverhill was born restless,” the earl observed. “He was like that as a boy and never grew out of it.”

“You are right, Lord Cheston. Perhaps you might try and talk some reason into him. I fear with the mud and rain, it will take us three times as long to reach Hillside than it usually does.”

“I have no wish to involve myself in an argument with your father, Pickford. We didn’t get along as boys and never learned to as men.” His eyebrows arched. “You know the reason why.”

Wynter had found it hard to believe that anyone couldn’t get along with her father, the most reasonable and affable of men.

Until she had met the Duke of Haverhill.

She thought the duke pompous, staid, and mean-spirited. Though Sam was Haverhill’s heir, she cringed at times by the way father addressed son. Sam seemed to take it all in stride. He had told her that his father often put him through various tests, wanting him to learn to be what a good duke should. She bit back her retort that a good duke should be the opposite of Haverhill, not wanting to hurt her friend’s feelings. Besides, Sam was his father’s opposite. He would make for an excellent duke someday.

Sam thought that their fathers merely hadn’t gotten along as schoolboys and the animosity continued when they matured. Wynter had once asked her father about it.

And learned that her father had been in love with Sam’s mother.

The future Duchess of Haverhill had been the most beautiful girl of her come-out group. One look between them and Wynter’s father told her that he knew he would wed the girl at Season’s end. After all, he was a viscount and future earl. Nice-looking and wealthy. He would make an excellent candidate as a husband.

Unfortunately, the Duke of Haverhill had overheard Lord Cheston tell a few friends at White’s of his intentions. That had led to the duke pursuing the girl with a fervor unseen by Polite Society. In the end, she hadn’t been given a choice. Her father told her she was to wed the Duke of Haverhill, other suitors be damned. Haverhill was already a duke, wealthy and powerful. She would immediately become a duchess upon her marriage, one of a handful in society.

As any other young girl of her class would have done, she obeyed her papa. Naturally, Haverhill told her she was never to speak to Lord Cheston again. Wynter’s father had wed a few Seasons later. His bride was beautiful but a known featherhead. She had given birth to Wynter and died two years later in childbirth, having produced a stillborn son.

“When do you leave?” she asked, missing him already even before he was gone.

“Within the hour. I just wanted to come over and say my goodbyes.”

“And eat me out of house and home,” Cheston grumbled good-naturedly.

“And that,” Sam agreed amiably, winking at Wynter.

The earl rose. “Have a safe journey, Pickford. Wynter and I will be leaving at week’s end. We hope to see you at Chesterfield soon after.”

“You can count on it, my lord,” Sam replied. Once her father left, he added, “Would you play me one song before I leave, Wynter?”

“Of course.”

They went to the drawing room and she sat at the pianoforte. Her father had encouraged her to take up various womanly arts, in addition to being a tomboy and becoming competent at riding, shooting, and hunting. She had learned to play the pianoforte and taken voice lessons, as well as learning to embroider and do other types of needlework. She found sewing boring and had abandoned it. The voice lessons only proved she sounded no better than a croaking frog. She had taken to the pianoforte, though, and played for an hour every day for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Sam joined her on the bench and asked for a lively tune. She obliged him, pounding the keys with skill and enthusiasm. When she finished, he applauded her efforts.

“You are so talented, Wynter. I think you could do whatever you wished if you put your mind to it.”

She thanked him but saw something in his eyes. Something she didn’t like at all. Inside her mind, she started a mantra.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin things between us.

“Before I leave, I must ask something of you.” Sam grew serious, something he rarely was. “You know I am past thirty now. It is time I thought of a wife and children.”

She glanced down at her hands in her lap as he took one. His other hand slid to the small of her back.

“Wynter, I have never known a more spirited girl than you. You bring sunshine wherever you go. I know we are good friends and that is the basis of any successful marriage.”

She met his earnest gaze. “Sam, I—”

He kissed her. Instinct told her he had seen in her eyes what her answer would be and he was doing his best to convince her to change her mind.

She had been kissed before. Several times. No kiss had ever moved her.

Sam’s was no exception.

He broke it, his gaze searching her face. “It’s a no, isn’t it?” he asked, his disappointment obvious.

“You know how I feel about you, Sam,” she began. “You are my closest friend. I enjoy every minute we spend together.”

“But wouldn’t that make for a good marriage? We respect each other, Wynter. We have fun with one another.”

She shook her head. “You know I have no desire to wed. Women give up what little identity they have when they become a wife—and brood mare. I am not one of those nurturing creatures who longs for children. I enjoy my life exactly as it is. I am free to come and go as I please. Do what I wish. Answer to no man.

“I am sorry, Sam. I simply cannot marry you. My heart wouldn’t be in the marriage. I want you to find a woman you are batty over. One who will bring you joy each day. One who will bear your children and live for your smile.”

He looked at her ruefully. “Are you certain you don’t want to be that woman, Wynter? I would never try to cage you as other men would. I would let you remain true to yourself.”

“If I ever married, it would be to you,” she said honestly. “But I have no wish to do so.”

He squeezed her hand and rose, a wry smile on his face. “Thank you for hearing me out. I was expecting the answer you gave—but I had to ask all the same.”

She rose and took his hands in hers, squeezing them. “You know I think the world of you, Sam. I do believe it is time you wed. I will start considering wives for you at once. You know I have a talent in finding a man the perfect wife. We can see about eligible young ladies in Surrey first. If none proves acceptable, then next Season I guarantee that we will find you the perfect bride.”

Sam bent and kissed her cheek. “I do love you, Wynter. You are as a sister to me and the best friend I will ever have.” He chuckled. “Be sure whatever wife you find for me won’t be jealous of you.”

“I would never be a threat to her,” she promised. “I will match you with someone who will make you happy, Sam. You can count on it.”

She walked him to the foyer. “Take care. The weather is so nasty.”

“I will see you soon.”

A footman handed Sam an umbrella and opened the door. Sam opened the umbrella as he stepped across the threshold and then turned, a smile on his face.

“Farewell!” he called as he raced away.

Wynter waved and shouted, “Goodbye!”

Returning to the drawing room, she played for an hour, melancholy pieces which matched her mood. She chided herself for not seeing it coming. She had been friends with Sam for so long. They bantered as siblings and spent a great deal of time together. It hurt her to know that she had hurt him, something she would never deliberately do. But she had to stay true to herself. One day, Sam would be the Duke of Haverhill.

Wynter Day simply wasn’t duchess material.

***

With the last garden party of the Season rained out, Wynter felt a bit of relief. She enjoyed being around others but this Season had seemed to drag on far too long. She supposed she, too, was ready to leave for Surrey, as Sam and his father had done two days ago.

Escaping to her sitting room, she closed the door. She spent so much of the Season with people surrounding her that she cherished time alone when she could manage it. She had told their butler she wouldn’t be at home this afternoon. Not that anyone would come calling in this weather, which threatened to become a monsoon.

She went to the small pianoforte she kept there. This room was hers alone, her sanctuary during their time in London. Here she read, played music, or simply sat and thought. Today, she would play Bach’s inventions. She loved how they kept her on her toes, one hand going off in one direction and the other following several beats behind. She decided to start with Number 8, a spirited piece that didn’t allow her mind to wander.

Halfway through the piece, she heard a knock on the door. Wynter stopped playing, peeved that she was being disturbed. The servants knew she was to be left alone when the door to the sitting room was closed. The butler knew she wasn’t receiving any guests today.

“Come!” she called, tamping down her annoyance.

The door opened and their butler said, “My lady, you have a visitor. Not a guest.”

He looked a bit perplexed and she asked, “Who is it?”

“It is . . . Haven.”

“Haven?” she asked. “The Haverhill butler from next door?”

“Yes, my lady. He said it is most urgent. That he must speak to you at once.”

Wynter had no idea why Haven would wish to see her, especially with Sam gone to the country. Curiosity filled her.

“Show him in.”

“Very good.”

She closed the case which protected the keys of her instrument and stood, moving away from the bench. She took a seat and smoothed her skirts.

The door opened again and Haven appeared. Usually, the butler stood tall and proud, happy for the world to know he served a duke. Today, though, his shoulders slumped. He seemed to have aged several years overnight.

“Lady Wynter, thank you for seeing me,” he began.

“You look as if you need to sit, Haven.” She indicated a chair near the one she sat in.

“Thank you, my lady. I am grateful.”

Haven took a seat and swallowed. “I have news which I must share with you. I did not want you to see it in the newspapers tomorrow morning and have no warning.”

The only thing she could think of in the newspapers—especially this time of year—were betrothal announcements.

Had Sam left her merely to go to another woman and ask her for her hand in marriage?

No, that made no sense at all. She and Sam had discussed searching for his bride at home in the country and failing to find one, going about the business next Season of locating the perfect match for him in town. She doubted he would have agreed to all of that only to leave and offer for a woman before he left London.

“Go on,” she encouraged.

Pain filled the butler’s eyes. “I regret to inform you, my lady, that His Grace and Lord Pickford died in an accident two days ago.”

“Died?” she echoed, her mind whirling, her heart beating too fast. “No, you are mistaken, Haven. I saw Lord Pickford two days ago, just before he and His Grace left for Surrey.”

Haven shook his head sadly. “It happened on their journey home. The roads were abominable. They reached a bridge, which had washed out, but the driver did not see it in time. Their carriage plummeted into the water. They and their driver drowned. Only the footman survived. He clung to the carriage, trying to get the door open but it was stuck. He was then swept downstream and washed up on the bank.”

He paused. “I am sorry, Lady Wynter. I know his lordship and you were very close. I wanted to tell you in person of the tragedy.”

She had gone numb as the butler spoke. She could picture the scene in her mind. Her eyes filled with tears, thinking of the moments as the interior of the vehicle filled with water and Sam couldn’t get out.

What had been his last thoughts?

Her throat grew thick with unshed tears but she managed to say, “Thank you, Haven. I appreciate you coming to tell me.”

The butler rose and she followed suit. “Lord Pickford was a wonderful man. He would have made for a fine duke.”

“Yes, he would have,” she said faintly.

“Can I summon someone for you, my lady?” Haven asked gently. “I don’t wish to leave you alone.”

“No, I prefer it,” she said, her voice coming from a distance. “Thank you,” she said, dismissing him.

Once Haven left, Wynter dropped into the chair again. The numbness receded, followed by a deep anger. If only Haverhill hadn’t been so insistent on leaving London with the roads in such a mess. If only the driver had been paying better attention. If only the bridge hadn’t washed out.

Change any of those things—and Sam would still be alive.

Regret filled her at their last meeting. How she had turned down his offer of marriage. If she hadn’t and instead accepted him, would he have stayed and allowed his father to return to Hillside without him? Would they have gone to the final few events of the Season, happy to receive felicitations from all their friends and Polite Society?

Wynter would never know.

All she did know was that Sam was never coming back.