Falling for the Marquess: A Regency Historical Romance
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Synopsis
Second son August Holt is serving as a captain in the Peninsular Wars when he is gravely injured. August loses an eye and also bears a hideous scar running from his brow to his cheek from a saber wound. He returns home in time to speak to his older brother, the Marquess of Edgethorne, on his deathbed. Peter makes August promise to attend the Season the following spring and find a bride.
Lady Georgina Strong is ready to make her debut in Polite Society with two of her sisters and two cousins. Yet one after another changes her mind, and at the beginning of the Season, Georgie is the only one left to make her come-out. She has witnessed her twin Pippa wed for love, and Georgie decides she will settle for nothing less—even if it takes more than one Season to find true love.
When August and Georgie meet, she is not repelled by his appearance in the least, seeing him for the man he is. The new marquess finds himself attracted to the kindhearted lady, but he views her as a bright star who would be dimmed if they became involved. Instead, he hopes his lofty title and wealth will persuade one of the ton’s wallflowers to agree to marry him. He will insist on separate lives and bury himself in the country, allowing his marchioness to raise their children.
Georgie enjoys her Season and the attention of many suitors, but she constantly thinks of Lord Edgethorne, who stirs feelings within her which she is unfamiliar with. She wants not only a man who will love her—but a man who is her partner—and will help raise their children in a loving home.
Will the marquess settle for a marriage of convenience, or will he realize marriage with Georgina could see love flourish between them?
Each book in The Strongs of Shadowcrest is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order. Also you can read free in Kindle Unlimited!
The Strongs of Shadowcrest
Book #1: The Duke’s Unexpected Love
Book #2: The Perks of Loving a Viscount
Book #3: Falling for the Marquess
Book #4: The Captain and the Duchess
Book #5: Courtship at Shadowcrest (Regency Duet – includes Tempted by the Earl and The Viscount’s Heart)
Book #6: The Marquess’ Quest for Love
Book #7: The Duke’s Guide to Winning a Lady
Release date: April 30, 2024
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Print pages: 249
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Falling for the Marquess: A Regency Historical Romance
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
Battle of Talavera—Spain—28 July 1809
Captain August Holt quickly gazed from left to right, his mind whirling at breakneck speed.
The British and Portuguese joint forces were in trouble. The allies had taken up a defensive position just east of Talavera and had already repulsed two attacks from the enemy at Medellin, one late yesterday evening and again at dawn this morning. The lull afterward had given both sides time to recuperate, and now the French had declared a full assault.
Sherbrooke’s infantry was in disarray as Wellesley tried to plug the gap. August knew the numbers thanks to the officer’s meeting he had been present at only a few hours ago in Wellesley’s tent. The French had ten thousand men now advancing against the three thousand soldiers of the British-Portuguese alliance. It would be a bloodbath, regardless of which side won.
And August would go down fighting for king and crown.
He gave the signal, leading his men in a charge, shouting encouragement, his voice already hoarse from the previous engagements and trying to be heard over the dueling cannons from each side. If Ruffin’s division could make headway, then Wellington’s 48th Foot could plug the hole left by Sherbrooke’s unsuccessful attack. August would do everything in his power to aid the British commander’s efforts.
He had a pistol in his right hand and a saber in his left as he raced along the battlefield, leaping over the bodies of fallen comrades. A few horses surged forward from behind him, all but one passing him. That one mount shrieked, being struck by fire. August tried to bolt to his left as the horse fell, but he didn’t get far enough away, and the beast knocked him to the ground, even as its rider sailed past him.
Stunned for a moment, he felt the weight of the horse pressing against him and realized he was trapped beneath it. The fallen rider tried to pull the horse from August, but it was an impossible task for one man.
Then the cavalryman also was felled by a bullet, and August lay helplessly on the ground. His pistol had been knocked from his hand, but at least he still clung to the sword, though how he would be able to use it was doubtful.
All around him, he heard the shouts and cries of the wounded and dying as soldiers ran past him in both directions. He tried to move his legs, but he was pinned. It would take several men to release him. Already, breathing was becoming difficult, the dying horse’s weight unbearable.
“Ah, an officer,” a soldier said in French. “Waiting to be butchered.”
Perhaps it wasn’t a good thing that he spoke the language fluently.
Replying in French, he told his enemy, “Move along. You see I am helpless. Where is your honor? Would you kill a defenseless man?”
“With great pleasure. Even if you are an Englishman who speaks flawless French.”
The soldier stepped on August’s left wrist, tearing away the saber.
“I shall claim this beauty for myself,” he said matter-of-factly, already smiling at the sword.
August knew death was only moments away, most likely at the hands of his own weapon.
The Frenchman laughed and swiped the blade across the throat of the horse, which shuddered and then stilled. Then he swung the sword high, bringing it down. August threw up his left hand, trying to protect himself, feeling the blade slice through fingers and part of his palm. Pain shot through him, and he gasped, his right hand clutching the damaged left one, bringing it to his chest. Blood poured from the hand, and he saw three of his fingers barely attached.
His enemy cackled, swinging the sword high again, bringing it down once more. It struck the top of August’s head, moving down to his brow, his eye, and slicing open his cheek. The white-hot pain sizzled, making him feel as if he were on fire. Blood poured from his left eye, clouding his vision.
It was over. His life would end on this Spanish field. All the risks he had taken, all the bravery he had shown, and he would die at the hands of a foot soldier who showed him no mercy. But he would meet death and look it straight in the eye.
August raised his face to his attacker, the blood freely flowing down his face, the gloating Frenchman standing over him laughing.
Then the laughter died. A perplexed look came over his killer’s features.
And August saw the sword protruding from the man’s chest.
He blinked several times, realizing someone had run a sword through the Frenchman from behind, the blade entering his body and coming out the other side. He watched as one of his own men placed his foot on the Frenchman’s back and yanked hard, withdrawing the sword, as another man in his command pushed the dead body hard.
“We’ll get you out from there, Captain,” he was promised.
August continued to hold his injured hand to his chest, taking shallow breaths. Enough men must have been summoned because suddenly the weight of the dead beast was lifted. Someone grabbed his legs, dragging him away. He could breathe again, gasping as he filled his lungs with air.
Then he was lifted and being carried, a voice saying, “Get him to the surgeon. Now.”
As he was jostled along the uneven ground, he heard the others who carried him tell him that the 48th had collapsed France’s second line’s attack and that Lapisse himself was supposedly dead.
He could smell the grass fires, though, as they swept across the battlefield, the wounded calling out in desperation to be moved before they burned alive. August closed his eyes again, but he could not close his ears.
He would hear those screams for the rest of his life.
If he lived.
After what seemed like an eternity, the men jogging with him came to a halt, and he determined they had reached camp.
“Get me to Morrow,” he commanded. “He is the best.”
“Yes, Captain!” his three saviors cried in unison.
He must have passed out from the pain because when he awoke, he was on a makeshift table, probably a barn door, the most common thing used to act as a surgical base during operations.
“He is coming around. Pour plenty of brandy down his throat. I’m going to have to take the eye—and possibly the hand.”
August looked up, seeing Dr. Morrow with his right eye, the left still a bloody mess.
“You can’t save the eye?” he asked weakly.
“No, Captain.” The surgeon placed a hand on August’s shoulder. “But I will try to save what I can of the hand.”
Someone helped him to sit up, and a bottle was brought to his lips. He caught the strong scent of brandy and was urged to drink. He continued to do so, knowing it would help dull the pain. He prayed he would pass out from a combination of drunkenness and pain, and he did.
When he awoke, August ached everywhere. He was prone, on a cot, and sensed many others around him. Slowly, he raised his left hand, seeing the thick bandage around it. He tried flexing his wrist and found he could. That something was still on the other side of it. He then tried to wriggle his fingers, but the bandage was wrapped too firmly about his hand.
He brought his right hand up to his face. The left side was swathed in bandages. Without being told, he knew the eye was gone. His brow and cheek were also covered in gauze. Letting his hand fall, he closed his one good eye and surrendered to sleep again.
The next time he awoke, it was because someone shook him.
“Let’s try to sit up, Captain,” someone suggested. “I’ve got broth for you. You need something inside you.”
As he allowed the soldier to help him move to a sitting position, he heard Dr. Morrow say, “The broth can wait. Let me speak to him first.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
August moved his legs from the cot, placing his feet on the ground. He felt woozy, from either blood loss or from having drunk too much brandy. Or both.
The surgeon knelt before him. “You still have your hand, minus the last three fingers. They had been cut through the bone and were only hanging on by a thread of skin. Having your thumb and index finger will help, though.”
“Help me do what?” he said, not bothering to disguise his bitterness.
Morrow looked at him with sympathy. “Live.”
“What about infection?” he growled, knowing oftentimes it was infection which killed an injured man and not the wounds themselves.
“We are keeping an eye on that, Captain Holt,” the doctor assured him. “Both on your hand and your head and face.”
He lifted a hand to touch it, but Morrow guided it down.
“The less you can touch it, the better. At least, that is what I have found. You are lucky to be alive, Captain.”
“I don’t seem to feel so lucky,” he said. “You know what this will mean?”
The surgeon nodded wearily, having seen it all too often. “You will be ordered to sell your commission. The crown is grateful for your service to His Majesty, but an officer with one eye cannot lead troops into battle.”
“Exactly. I might as well be dead.”
Morrow laid a hand on August’s shoulder. “Don’t say that, man. Never say that. Life is too often taken for granted. By God, I’ve saved yours.”
“If infection doesn’t kill me,” he added morosely.
“True. But you will get to go home to England. To peace. No more fighting. No more killing. No more scent of death in your nostrils, so deeply ingrained that you will never be rid of it.”
“There is that,” August said, seeing the green of Edgefield in his mind.
“Eat the broth. The more liquids we can get in you, the better. The sooner you have regained at least some of your strength and can move about, the quicker I can send the papers to your commander that will let you go home.”
Home. What truly was there for him?
August was a second son. He would return to England a damaged man. There would be no title. He would be hideous to look at. He supposed he could retreat to his father’s country estate. Edgefield was in Surrey, just five miles from Surrey’s border with Kent. Perhaps he would be granted a cottage and live out his days in the woods, far from others.
“Bring the broth then,” he commanded. Softening his tone, he said, “Don’t think I am not grateful, Morrow. I am. I simply will have to adjust to a life I have no wish to live.”
“You are a resourceful man, Holt. I think you might surprise yourself and find something worthwhile to do.”
He accepted the broth from the private who offered it, even asking for a second bowl. Once his belly was full, he lay back on his cot once more, falling into a dreamless sleep.
The next days passed in the same fashion. He slept. Awoke. Saw Dr. Morris and had his wounds redressed. Ate. Then slept some more.
After a week, he noticed very few were still around him, and figured they had either died or been sent back to the front. He asked about the battle and learned the majority of Joseph Bonaparte’s force had fallen back to defend Madrid. Casualties for the French at Talavera numbered over seventy-three hundred, while Wellesley’s losses made up more than a quarter of his forces. Because the commander had lost so many men and Soult had a fresh army threatening to cut all lines of communication, Wellington had withdrawn his army once more to Portugal, leaving behind the wounded.
Even Dr. Morris was about to leave to rejoin Wellington’s troops and came to say goodbye to August.
“I spoke to your commanding officer on your behalf, Captain Holt,” the army doctor said. “He came to see you early on.”
“I do not recall that at all.”
“He put in for the papers which would allow for your commission to be sold. Records stated that your father, the Marquess of Edgethorne, had purchased it on your behalf. Once sold, the monies will be sent to his solicitor.”
His father wrote to August upon occasion, while his brother wrote with regularity. August wondered if Father would allow him to keep the proceeds from the sale of the commission in order to live on. He thought it a reasonable request, especially after all he had given to his country.
Withdrawing parchment from his coat, Dr. Morris said, “This letter came for you the day of the battle. I held it until now, waiting for you to be well enough to open it.”
Morris offered his hand. “I am leaving, Captain Holt. I must catch up with our troops in Portugal. You are to stay here another three days. At that time, your bandages can come off both your hand and face. Let me give them a look and change your dressings for the final time.”
He forced himself to sit patiently as the doctor examined him. Normally, August was a restless man, never staying still for long, but Morris had taken good care of him and showed more concern for him than August would have expected.
The doctor applied some type of salve and then fresh bandages were again placed upon his wounds.
Holding up the jar of salve, Morris said, “Keep this. It is almost full. Even after the bandages come off, place it upon your face, in particular, until it runs out. You might also wish to consult a doctor once you return to England.”
“How bad do I look?”
He had never asked to see a hand mirror, and none had been offered to him.
“You will be given an eyepatch to wear. Keep it on at all times unless you are sleeping. I will be frank, Captain. You are not a welcomed sight. I stitched up where your eye was, and that doesn’t look half-bad. You will have a scar, though, on part of your forehead and the length of your cheek. It is angry and red now, much as you are angry inside for losing control of your life. But it will fade in time.”
Morris looked at him in sympathy, gentling his voice. “Try to also let your anger inside fade, August. I know you did not ask for this. That it is something you will live with the rest of your life. But do not let it control your life.”
He snorted. “Easy for you to say, with your pretty looks, Doctor.”
Morris laughed. “At least your sense of humor is returning. But I am serious. Don’t let this injury affect how you view yourself.”
Shaking his head, he said, “It will be the very first thing others see when they look at me, Morris. You and I both know people judge others by what they see. I will be ridiculed. Pitied. I cannot help but be angry. Some worthless, nameless French bastard has ruined my life. I no longer have my good looks, much less my position in His Majesty’s army. My life might as well be over.”
“You may feel that way now, Captain, but I hope your attitude will change in time. That your family and friends will accept you because they know the man you are. Will others judge you by your appearance? Most certainly. But their opinions are not important. Be true to yourself, Captain Holt.”
Dr. Morris paused. “Write to me. Tell me how you fare. And I don’t mean once and think your obligation is ended. Write to me in six months’ time. Again, in a year. Even five years from now. Once those five years have passed, I will excuse you from that obligation.”
“Obligation?”
Morris smiled. “Then shall we call it a request? I do want to hear from you. And I believe as the years pass, your attitude will soften toward your appearance. That you will find the important things in life and enjoy those simple things.”
He shrugged. “We shall see.”
“Read your letter then, Captain Holt. I hope we will meet up again someday.”
The doctor left, and August turned his attention to the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and that did not bode well.
He opened it, his eye falling immediately to the closing, seeing it had been written by a P. Thomas, a name he could not recall ever hearing before. He returned to the top of the page.
1 May 1809
Dear Captain Holt –
I know we have not been introduced, but I have been Lord Edgethorne’s solicitor for the last several years. I regret to inform you that your father passed away last week, and he was buried in Surrey, in the Edgewood churchyard, two days ago.
His affairs were in excellent order, and your brother has assumed the title. Unfortunately, his poor health prevented him from leaving London and traveling to Surrey for the burial service.
I do not by any means wish to be presumptuous, Captain Holt, but I must express my concern regarding your family’s holdings. Lord Edgethorne—that is, your father—spent the bulk of his time in London and rarely went to Edgefield. Now that your brother has become Lord Edgethorne, his health is even more precarious. I fear he will not be long for this world.
My professional advice would be for you to sell your commission and come home to see to the business affairs of your family. Your brother shows no interest in them nor any inclination to remedy things left undone during your father’s time of holding the title. Because you are now the heir apparent, I suggest you return to England at once, not only to care for your brother in his last days but to see to your family’s affairs.
I hope you will be able to make due haste and return to England, Captain Holt. It would be for the best.
Your humble servant,
- Thomas
His father dead. Peter apparently dying. And him now half a man, one whom the army no longer had any interest in.
“Well, I shall be home sooner than I expected, Mr. P. Thomas,” August said aloud.
CHAPTER 1
London—September 1809
August left the ship which had brought him from Spain to England.
To home . . .
But would home ever be the same to him again?
He was coming back to an England he probably remembered in a different way than before he went to war. He had only been in His Majesty’s army four years, but those years at war had hardened him. Changed him. Once, he had been a handsome, charming, lighthearted bachelor. Attending university during the year and then events of the Season before he graduated and took up his commission. He had danced with pretty girls. Flirted with them. Bedded willing widows. Life had been joyful. Worries, nonexistent.
All that was over now. England might not have changed—but August Holt most certainly had.
He had only looked at himself once in the mirror when the bandages came off his face, trying to hide his horror at the reflection staring back at him.
While Dr. Morris had told him the scars would fade with time, they were still a bright, angry red, fresh in appearance.
Now, he sported a black eyepatch to cover where his left eye had once been. He left it on all the time, except when he slept. He could not imagine going without it. Since leaving the army hospital, he had received looks ranging from outright curiosity to disgust to horror—and that had been from the hardened sailors aboard this vessel. August tried to prepare himself for the reactions he would see from members of the public.
As they floated down the Thames toward the London docks, he went to find the captain.
“I wanted to thank you for making room for me on your vessel, Captain. As you know, it is imperative that I reach home as soon as possible.”
The grizzled seaman nodded. “I want to thank you for your service to England, Captain Holt. Somehow, some way, I hope that Britain and her allies can stop this monster called Bonaparte.”
“I have every faith we will, sir.”
August said his farewell and returned to the miniscule cabin he had been given, collecting the rucksack which held all his worldly goods. A change of clothing. His shaving razor. And the letter he had received from Thomas, the solicitor.
As he made his way back to the deck, he wondered if he should go and see this solicitor first or head directly to his father’s townhouse. No, Peter’s townhouse, he corrected himself.
He would want to meet with Peter’s doctor to understand his brother’s diagnosis, as well as see if what Thomas had written was true and that Peter only had a short while to live.
The old August would have barreled into the situation without a backward glance. The new, more introspective man he was quickly becoming decided a visit to the solicitor would be his first step upon arrival.
As they sailed along the river, he watched the people scurrying along the docks. It would be good to be back on English soil and get a decent cup of coffee. Even small things such as a scone now took on greater significance. August had put up with army rations for years, and he was ready to indulge in a good meal and take his time digesting it.
The ship came to rest in its slip, dropping anchor, sailors hurrying to and fro on the deck. The gangplank was quickly lowered, and before it was barely in place, a group of dock workers hurried up it. He assumed they would be unloading the cargo below brought back by the ship. Very few passengers were aboard, only two that he knew of beside himself, both of them injured soldiers such as himself. One had lost a leg and had kept to his cabin, eating all his meals there. The other soldier had been blinded in a cannon attack, and he, too, had remained in his cabin, having all meals brought to him.
August tamped down the bitterness that filled him, thinking of those two men’s predicaments. At least he had all four limbs and could get about, as well as the sight from one eye.
He glanced down at his gloved left hand, wistful for the missing fingers. His fingers would never again grace the keys of a pianoforte. Still, he had his right to use when he ate and wrote. He only wondered what his life would consist of now.
The rush of workers ended, and the gangplank was empty for a moment. August took the opportunity to descend, finally stepping onto English soil. He walked a few minutes, heading away from the waterfront, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the crowd, trying not to shy away from the noise. He had been the bravest of officers, leading men into battle, but since his injuries, he wanted nothing to do with being around noise or large groups of people. He supposed a quiet life in the country would be the most satisfying one and determined to go to Edgefield as soon as possible, where he could avoid the stares of strangers.
Peter had never enjoyed life in the country. His precarious health had prevented him from the pursuits August enjoyed so well—riding, hunting, and fishing. His brother had been drawn to his books and studies, first attending school, and then finishing with a tutor at home. Even as children, August had protected his older brother from bullies at school. Though two years ahead, Peter had always been small and slight, weak, and perpetually out of breath. Walking across a room brought his brother to the point of exhaustion. Boys at school had picked at Peter constantly, and August had fought every one of them. He had gained many a black eye—as well as given several—in defense of the brother he loved.
He passed a food vendor’s cart, and the smell of the pies caused his belly to growl angrily. Retracing his steps, he paused in front of the cart and simply inhaled.
“Smell good to you, Captain?” the old woman manning the cart asked.
Grateful she had not flinched, nor mentioned his condition, he said, “It smells heavenly. I would like two meat pies. Please,” he added, thinking he needed to get used to such niceties again in everyday speech.
The woman handed the pies over to August, and he held them under his nose, inhaling deeply.
“I have just returned from Spain, and this will be the best meal I have eaten in years,” he told the woman.
Reaching into his pocket for a coin, she waved it away when he tried to hand it over.
“For your service, Captain,” she said, smiling, revealing a gap where teeth should have been. “My boy is in the army now. Couldn’t be prouder of him. It’s the least I can do for one who has fought so well.”
August doffed his hat to her. “My thanks, madam. You have warmed this soldier’s heart with your graciousness. I hope your boy comes home soon and with his health intact.”
“I pray for that very thing each night, Captain,” she said. “Godspeed.”
He walked the street slowly, chewing thoughtfully on his pies as he did, not rushing, wanting to savor each bite. It truly was the best thing he had eaten since the farewell dinner his father had held in August’s honor before he had left to take up his commission and enter officer training.
He hadn’t yet dealt with his father’s death, deliberately pushing it from his mind. The old man had been hard on him, twice as hard as he should have been, but even back then, August had realized he was being pushed for two since his father could not discipline Peter. August had gained a grudging respect for the marquess, and it hurt to think he would never see or speak with his father again. Thomas’ letter did not give any details regarding the marquess’ death, and that would be something he would ask the solicitor about.
The pies eaten, he withdrew the solicitor’s letter from his coat pocket, once more checking the address of the man’s offices. Flagging down a hansom cab, August gave the address to the driver, who couldn’t bring himself to look his passenger in the face. It took a good three-quarters of an hour to get through the busy streets of London, but he didn’t mind. He looked at the sights, seeing new buildings which had sprung up during his absence.
The driver pulled up, and August paid him, exiting the vehicle. He entered the building and stopped at the first desk he came to, where a clerk looked up.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked. Then his eyes widened, and he visibly swallowed as he took in August’s appearance. To his credit, though, the man steadied himself and said, “Thank you for your service, Captain.”
It surprised him how many people recognized his rank based upon his uniform. Then again, Britain had a long, illustrious history at war, and the newspapers were always full of accounts of the army and navy and the various battles fought upon land and sea.
“My name is August Holt. I received a letter from Mr. Thomas regarding the death of my father, the Marquess of Edgethorne.”
Recognition appeared in the clerk’s eyes at hearing the name. “Mr. Thomas will certainly want to visit with you, Captain Holt. If you would have a seat, I will let him know you are here. Presently, he is with a client, but he shouldn’t be engaged but for another quarter-hour or so.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking a seat on the bench the clerk had indicated.
As he waited, his eye roamed about the office. It was a habit of those who had gone to war. A soldier, especially an officer, constantly assessed a situation and his surroundings. Within seconds, he knew how many workers were in the office. Their locations. Whether they would pose a threat or not.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. These men were civilians. They held no threat to him. He would have to change his mindset now that he was back in a civilized place.
A gentleman in his late thirties appeared, looking satisfied, and August judged him to be the client Mr. Thomas had been with. As the man sailed through the office, he did not bother to stop and thank anyone.
When he reached the area where August sat, the man froze in his tracks, his jaw dropping. His eyes widened as he studied August a moment, and then he shuddered violently, giving him a wide berth as he left the office.
As if August’s scars were catching.
The clerk he had spoken with rose from his desk and disappeared down a long hallway. He was gone several minutes and when he returned, another man accompanied him.
The man had to be Mr. Thomas. He was in his early forties, with graying temples and light blue eyes. Apparently, the clerk had warned his employer regarding Austin’s appearance because the solicitor approached him without trepidation.
The solicitor offered his hand. “I am Mr. Thomas, Captain Holt. It is good to see you back in England.”
He shook the man’s hand and joked, “I consumed two meat pies the moment I left the ship which brought me here. It was the best meal I have eaten in years.”
Thomas chuckled. “I have heard rumors of how pitiful army food can be. Is it the same fare for officers as other soldiers?”
“Upon occasion, officers dine a bit better than the men in the field. For the most part, however, we eat from the same stewpots and chew on the same moldy bread as did others.”
The solicitor had a little trouble meeting his client’s eye, but he said, “Shall we go to my office? I am sure you have questions, and I am happy to answer them.”
As they walked past the other desks, he was aware of the surreptitious glances he received. He would have to learn to ignore them because they would be a part of his life from now on. Even if he did not bear the horrible scar from the sword, others would always be curious as to why he wore an eyepatch.
They entered a cozy office, and August took one of the chairs in front of the desk as Thomas sat behind it.
“Could you tell me about my father’s death?” he began. “Your letter mentioned he was buried in the churchyard at Edgewood, but I would like to know the particulars.”
“Of course,” Thomas said. “From what I gather, it was a massive heart attack. Lord Edgethorne was in the card room during a ball, in the midst of a winning streak. A witness shared with me that your father placed his cards upon the table—four kings—and begin raking in his winnings. His last words were supposedly, ‘I will take every man at this table for whatever he ventures to gamble tonight.’
“Then Lord Edgethorne clutched his chest, and his head dropped to the table, his face buried in the chips he had just won. It was instantaneous, Captain Holt. The marquess did not suffer.”
August nodded. “Then he went out as he would have liked. My father was known for his luck at cards.”
“I accompanied his body back to Edgefield, along with Redding, his butler in town, and Pole, his valet. Unfortunately, your brother’s health did not allow him to make the trip.”
“You wrote of Peter’s unstable health,” August pressed. “Frankly, he has been fragile his entire life.”
A grim expression crossed the solicitor’s face. “I would not have advised you to sell out and come home immediately if I did not think Lord Edgethorne’s death imminent.”
He sighed. “I had no choice but to come home, Thomas. The army no longer wanted me in the condition I am now in. Thank you for being polite and not asking me about my injuries.”
The solicitor looked uncomfortable. “I assumed the injuries were recent, Captain. It is not my place to comment on a client’s appearance, however.”
“I fear many people will comment about it, either to my face or behind my back.” He rose. “I will go to see my brother now. Do you know his doctor’s name? I will wish to speak with him, as well.”
“Dr. Brown lives in Lord Edgethorne’s household and has for several years now, in order to care for your brother.” Thomas paused. “We have many things to discuss, Captain Holt.”
He frowned. “I assume you mean estate matters.”
“Yes.”
“Everything can wait until I see Peter,” he insisted. “When the time comes and I am responsible for everything, you and I will have a long chat. Until then, Thomas, my brother is the marquess. I have no say—or power—in his affairs.”
He rose, and Thomas also came to his feet, sympathy filling his eyes. “Be warned, Captain. Your brother is gravely ill. You must be ready to assume your responsibilities sooner rather than later.”
“I will not let down the tenants or anyone else,” he declared. “But now is not the time to speak of the title or finances.”
“I understand,” the solicitor said.
“I will be in touch,” he told the man, leaving the office.
He was tired of sitting and decided to walk to Mayfair. It would only be two miles or so. August regretted the decision, however, seeing the stares. Hearing the titters. Observing people move away from him. The sooner he could escape the throngs of London, the better.
His knock was answered by a footman, who gasped loudly when he caught sight of August. He recognized the servant and smiled wryly.
“I have come home, Wilson.”
Recovering, the longtime footman said, “Come in, Captain. You are in time. Barely.”
“For?” he asked, dreading the answer.
Reddening, the butler appeared. Stoic as ever, he said, “It is good to see you, Captain Holt. Please come with me. His lordship is almost gone. You are in time to say your goodbyes to him.”
Hurt, mixed with anger, ran through him. Even knowing that Peter was in poor health, he had figured they would be able to spend some time together. Now, he was being cheated out of that.
As they went up the grand staircase, Redding said, “Lord Edgethorne did not relocate to the ducal rooms upon your father’s death. Dr. Brown thought it unwise to move him.”
“I see.”
The butler led him to the rooms Peter had always had and opened the door without knocking. The two men slipped inside the darkened room, the heavy curtains having been drawn against the incoming sunlight.
A man stood at the bedside, and August determined him to be Dr. Brown. He turned and motioned August over.
He moved slowly, his eye focused on his brother. Peter lay in the bed, looking so frail and pale, August wondered if he still might be breathing.
He came to stand at the foot of the bed. “How is he?” he asked the physician.
“It is the end,” the doctor said bluntly. “He will not live to see another day. I assume you are his brother?”
“I am.” Anguish filled him as he studied Peter. “Can nothing be done?”
“Lord Edgethorne suffers greatly, Captain Holt. The rheumatic fever from his childhood caused permanent damage to his heart. He has also developed rheumatism, unrelated to the fever, but it has inflamed his joints and muscles, causing him constant pain. I was about to give him more morphine to ease his suffering.”
“Don’t, yet,” Peter said weakly from the bed. “It dulls my mind. Makes me sleep.” He gave a half-hearted smile to August. “Good of you to make it home, Brother.”
He moved to the side of the bed and sat, taking Peter’s hand in his. “I came as soon as I could.”
His brother winced, moaning softly. “I see you have suffered as I have. At least you did so in honor of king and country.” Peter sighed. “I’m certain there’s a story to tell behind that eyepatch.”
“Not to mention the scars,” August said lightly. “You must grow stronger so that I might tell you about it.”
“No,” Peter said softly. “My strength is gone, August. My life is at an end.”
“Don’t say that,” he insisted, his insides crying out, his love for Peter great.
“I am ready to go,” Peter admitted. “I have suffered greatly these last two years. I am just sorry to be leaving you in such a mess.”
“What mess?” he asked.
“Father never cared much for Edgefield. You must do a better job and see that it runs the way it should. That its people are cared for.”
“I will do so,” he promised solemnly.
“You must also wed.”
“What? You talk of marriage at a time such as this?” he protested.
“I do. You are all that is left, August. You will soon be Edgethorne. You need to wed and have a house full of children.”
He shook his head. “Has your sight also been affected, Peter? What woman would have me, looking as I am?”
“Several. You will have a title and money. Looks won’t matter. You will have women chase you, wanting to be your marchioness. Promise me you will wed, August. That you will attend the Season next spring and choose a bride.”
He said nothing, thinking Peter wrong. What woman would want to be with a scarred beast of a man such as himself?
“Promise,” his brother insisted, his voice growing weaker. “That you will attend. Marry. Have children. Have many of them, August. Love them. Shower them with love. I know Father was so hard on you. I think you can teach children respect and love them without spoiling them.”
Peter suddenly shuddered, groaning loudly, arching in the bed.
“No more talk,” Dr. Brown said. “Lord Edgethorne, I am giving you the morphine.”
August stood and stepped away from the bed as the physician injected Peter. It only took a few moments for a dreamy look to appear on his face.
“August?” he said, his voice faint.
“I am here, Peter,” he said, returning to sit on the bed, holding his brother’s hand once more.
“This is it. Promise . . . me. You’ll wed . . .”
“Dammit it, Peter.” Frustration filled him, but he wanted his brother to have peace. “All right. I promise. I’ll find some chit this coming Season.”
“Thank . . . you. Love . . .you . . .”
“I love you, too,” August said, his voice breaking.
He was aware of Dr. Brown’s presence in the room as he concentrated on his brother’s face. It grew peaceful. Peter’s breathing evened out—and then slowed.
Minutes later, a stillness set in, and he knew his brother was now gone. Still, he held onto Peter’s hand, already regretting the promise he had made.
One which he was honor-bound to keep.
Despite his brother’s warning, August thought it would be difficult to find a woman in Polite Society who would agree to wed him. If he did find a lady desperate enough to do so, at least they could couple in the dark so she wouldn’t have to look upon him.
Releasing Peter’s hand, August stood.
“He is gone,” he told Dr. Brown.
Now, he was the Marquess of Edgethorne.
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