As far as funerals went, this was one of the more aggravating.
Standing by the graveside as the vicar droned on, Anthony Carey, Duke of Strickland, resisted the urge to swat a fly that buzzed past his nose. He felt like a fraud presiding over the entombment of a woman he detested. But there was no one else to bury his stepmother. The late Duchess of Strickland had no children and her blood relatives were an ocean away. Deena Darwish Carey was proving a nuisance in both life and death.
“This turnout is pathetic,” murmured the Honorable Mr. Guy Vaughan. “I do hope more than a dozen people show up when they put me in the ground.”
“You should probably try to be nicer to people,” advised Basil Trevelyn, Earl of Hawksworth. The three men, close friends since university, stood shoulder to shoulder. They were joined by a handful of servants and villagers who came to attend the duchess one final time.
To Strick’s surprise, he experienced a pang of sympathy for Deena. He’d never wondered whether the flamboyant American ever felt lonely in England with no family or close friends. Strick assumed she’d take a string of lovers after losing her much older husband, but Deena led a surprisingly quiet life after being widowed two years earlier.
“At least Strick finally gets his castle back.” Guy spoke quietly. “Assuming Deena kept her word and left Tremayne to you.”
“It should have been mine all along,” Strick muttered. The bitterness of losing his childhood home to a foreign interloper lingered. As did the shock of discovering his late father had deliberately allowed the entail on the castle to lapse so he could leave the property to his wife, rather than his son and heir to his title.
“Who else would the late duchess leave the castle to? She has no relations in England.” Hawk waved a hand in front of his face. “Damn flies.”
“True,” Guy put in. “And Deena did say, on more than one occasion, that the late duke wanted the castle to stay in the family.”
Hawk shooed another fly away. “Let’s hope she obliged him.”
Anticipation shot through Strick’s veins. The reading of the will was scheduled for immediately after the funeral. Castle Tremayne, home to eight generations of Careys, was in Strick’s blood. He knew every turret, each battlement and every inch of the bailey by heart.
He and his sisters had played attack on the castle countless times as children, defending Tremayne against imaginary invaders, only to have Father surrender the castle to one very real transgressor. Hopefully, the Deena disaster could finally be put into the past, a tiny blip in the long history of Castle Tremayne and the Dukes of Strickland.
Strick surveyed the familiar faces assembled in the churchyard—some somber, others obviously bored. The mourners included Tremayne’s butler and housekeeper, the local seamstress and her husband, who ran the village tavern, and Elton Foley, the local railroad factor who wanted to lay tracks through Strick’s property. An offer Strick repeatedly rebuffed.
A loud sniffle cut
through the air. Strick looked in the direction of the noise, his gaze landing on the lone unfamiliar face in the small crowd, an elegant, well-dressed woman draped in black lace. He had the fleeting impression of enormous dark eyes before she looked down, obscuring her face. She dabbed a snowy kerchief against her cheeks. Was she crying?
“Finally,” Guy muttered. “I need a drink.”
Strick belatedly realized the vicar had stopped talking. The gravediggers approached with shovels in hand. People scattered, returning to the business of the day. Life went on.
“Good luck with the will,” Hawk said before going off with Guy. “Join us at the tavern after?”
Strick nodded. He watched for a moment as the gravediggers shoveled dirt onto Deena’s coffin. When they were almost done, he thanked the vicar and prepared to depart. He paused, glancing around for the mysterious woman. But she was gone.
Putting her out of his mind, Strick strode out of the churchyard to reclaim his castle.
“My stepmother did what?” Outrage slammed through Strick. That witch saved the very best for last, delivering one final wallop from the grave. He should have known. What a fool he was to hope.
“Her Grace left the castle to a Miss Raya Darwish of New York City.” Combs, his late father’s solicitor, looked suitably sympathetic as he repeated the terms of the late Duchess of Strickland’s will. “But, naturally, you retain all of the land, including the tenant houses and—”
“Those are already mine,” he snapped. “Father left them to me.” The late duke’s will gave Strick most of the land while Deena got the castle, the gardens and a small adjacent meadow. His head felt as if it was about to explode. Losing Tremayne once was bad enough. But twice? It was a serrated dagger straight through the heart. “Who the devil is Raya Darwish?”
“That would be me,” a smoky, American-accented feminine voice said from behind him.
Strick pivoted in his chair. It was her. On the threshold to the library stood the woman in black lace from the funeral. “And who the devil are you?”
Huge, almond-shaped eyes with uptilted corners met his. “Who is asking?”
Few people, and even fewer women, looked him straight in the eye. Most were intimidated by his title. “I am the Duke of Strickland.”
She did not cower. Far from it. “Is that your actual name?” She pronounced her letters softly, the words much less crisp than the King’s English. “Or do you have a name like the rest of us mere mortals?”
“Anthony Carey, at your service.”
She lifted a dark brow. “Somehow I doubt that.” Miss Darwish focused on the solicitor. “Do forgive me for being tardy, Mr. Combs. I had to settle my aunt at the inn. She isn’t feeling well.”
Combs stood. “Not at all. It’s only a few minutes past the hour. His Grace was eager to begin.”
“Begin?” she asked
politely.
Strick reluctantly came to his feet. A gentleman did not sit in the presence of a lady. “How did you know Deena?”
“What business is that of yours?” She shot him a cool glance. “Are all dukes rude, or is it just you?”
Strick gritted his teeth. Few people dismissed a duke with such casual disregard. He was accustomed to being treated with deference. But this woman was American. What did he expect?
Combs’s face reddened. “The contents of the will have proven upsetting to His Grace.”
“Who’s Grace?”
“No, no.” Combs smiled, obviously dazzled by the woman. She wasn’t a standard beauty, but those dusky luminous eyes, sharp-cut cheekbones and smooth olive-toned skin drew a man’s notice. “‘His Grace’ is how one refers to a duke.”
She looked bored. Ignoring Strick, Miss Darwish focused on the solicitor. “I do not mean to be rude but why have you asked to see me? I really should return to my aunt.”
Strick stared at her. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly before tipping that arresting gaze to meet his. “I do not believe I was speaking to you.”
Strick rolled his tongue in his cheek, struggling to keep his temper in check. “You expect us to believe that Deena just sprang this on you?”
She looked at Combs. “To what is Grace referring?”
Combs pressed his lips inward. “The Duke of Strickland is referred to as His Grace, not Grace. And His Grace is referring to the fact that the late Duchess of Strickland has left her castle to you.”
Her plush mouth dropped open. “She what?”
“Left. Her. Castle. To. You.” Strick emphasized each word like he would for someone with hearing problems. Or for an imbecile.
“This great big pile of rocks?” Surprise lit her face, adding a luminous quality to her skin. She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“On that, we agree.” Disbelief pumped through Strick. “What was your relationship to Deena?”
She blinked. “She is . . . she was my father’s cousin.”
“Well, she bloody well never mentioned you,” Strick snapped. “What a convenient time for Deena’s mysterious relations to finally make an appearance.”
“My aunt and I journeyed here from New York,” she told him, still obviously
dazed. “We departed America shortly after Cousin Deena invited us to visit.”
“New York? I am acquainted with a family that lives on Fifth Avenue, the Van Ackers. They’re of Dutch origin, I believe.” Maybe she’d go running back to her New York life as soon as she realized how far in debt the castle was. “Perhaps you are acquainted with them?”
“That is doubtful.” She shook her head, as if still trying to fully comprehend her sudden change in circumstances. “We do not keep company with the sort of people who live on Fifth Avenue. And our people are Arab, not Dutch.”
“Is that so?” Deena never mentioned having Levantine origins. But it made sense given her gently bronzed skin, and the dark hair and eyes shared with the woman before him. He wasn’t surprised Deena lied about her background. He’d pegged her for a fraud the moment she arrived on his father’s arm. “Deena said her family had a home on Fifth Avenue and a country seat in New Jersey at Fairlawn, near Paterson, New Jersey.”
“My uncle lives in Paterson and he owns a shop.” She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “There are many Arab businesses in Paterson, but I’ve never heard of any of the Darwishes owning a country estate. We are a merchant family.”
“I see.” Confirmation that Deena was a fraud wasn’t as satisfying as Strick might expect. Especially not now. “And what sort of work does your father engage in, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She lifted her chin, the light in her eyes burning so brightly that he almost blinked. “Darwish and Company manufactures and distributes the finest silk embroidered table linens along the entire eastern coast and possibly in the west as well.”
“You’re a factory worker.”
“Hardly.” Disdain punctuated each word. “My family owns the enterprise. We employ thirty-six workers.”
“I see.” Deena had handed his castle over to the daughter of an American merchant. “And when did you last see your cousin?”
“Never.”
“Never?” he repeated.
“We corresponded regularly and were supposed to meet for the first time this week. But I arrived too late.” She swallowed, her eyes watering. “And now, I will never have the opportunity to know my cousin.”
Deena gave his castle away to some girl she’d never even met? He stared at Raya Darwish. “Perhaps she invited you here to tell you that she intended to leave my castle to you.”
“If it’s your castle, how could Deena leave it to me?”
“Well, technically . . . What I meant . . . It’s—” He allowed the words to die on his tongue. Frustrated disappointment ripped through him. He had to escape. Strick stormed out of the library. He’d entered just minutes earlier, hopeful that this was his library. That the halls leading to it all finally belonged to him.
Not that Tremayne belonged to any duke. If anything, the dukes belonged to the castle. Like the eight dukes before him, all the way back to his Cornish ancestor who built the castle centuries ago after wedding the daughter of a local lord, Strick was supposed to be a caretaker. His responsibility was to hold the castle and all of its valuables in trust for future generations. He owed it to Tremayne’s past inhabitants.
And to the ones yet to be born.
But restoring and protecting Tremayne was out of his hands now. First Father, and now Deena, had seen to that, carelessly giving away a treasure neither of them earned. All it took to thwart four hundred years of history was one debauched duke and his grasping American wife.
Miss Raya Darwish, a Yank with no understanding or apparent appreciation for English customs and conventions, who’d never set eyes on Castle Tremayne until a few minutes ago, was free to do whatever she wanted with the treasure that had been home to generations of Careys.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Raya tightened her mantle around her as the duke stomped out the door. He was well-built and not unhandsome, with a structured jaw and pale brown eyes hooded by a heavy brow bone. His tawny hair was neatly combed except for a cowlick that sprang from the back of his head. But any physical appeal he might have was negated by his boorish behavior.
“Well,” she remarked to the solicitor after the duke made a slammed-door exit, “his manners leave something to be desired.” Not that she expected any better. She’d recently learned to anticipate the worst from men.
“His Grace is understandably upset,” Mr. Combs said soothingly. “This is the second time he’s been disinherited.”
“If what I just witnessed is his usual graceless behavior, then it is no wonder.” She was practically disinherited herself when her brother tossed her out of the family business after Baba died. But she hadn’t behaved like a spoiled brat and lashed out at everyone.
“You may take possession of the castle immediately,” Mr. Combs was saying. “Would you like the staff to remove your things from the inn?”
“Oh . . . I think my aunt and I can manage on our own.” Raya couldn’t believe she was expected to take possession of a dilapidated old castle. She shivered at the thought of moving into the drafty fortress. Strolling barefoot in a New York blizzard sounded more appealing. “May I ask, how did Deena die?”
“Her Grace fell from the ruins of an old abbey on the property. It’s quite the tragedy.”
Unease rippled through Raya. “Are you certain she left the castle to me?” she asked, half hoping it was a terrible mistake. “There isn’t some error?”
“Quite sure. You may see for yourself.” He handed a document to her. Deena’s will. Feeling light-headed, Raya lowered herself onto the nearest seat, a worn, cracked leather chair. Inhaling the cool stale air, she tried to digest the words before her.
“As you can see,” the solicitor said, “all is in order. You are the new owner of Castle Tremayne. You are a very fortunate
young lady.”
She didn’t feel lucky. The musty stone walls seemed to be closing in on her. “And I can move in immediately?”
“Of course. The castle is yours. You must treat it as such.”
“But . . . Where will the duke live?”
“He owns a comfortable house on the property.”
“I see.” Taking up residence in a decaying mausoleum was the very last thing Raya wanted to do. Especially without Deena. But her funds were running low and staying at the inn was costly. Renewed anger toward her brother burned behind her collarbone.
The company is no place for a girl, Salem had said. You should marry. But they both knew the true reason he pushed her out of Darwish and Company. Raya understood more about running a business than Salem ever could and her brother didn’t care to be shown up by a woman.
It was Raya’s idea to expand from tablecloths to include matching napkins and towel sets. She alone thought to hire the local Arab women on Washington Street to embroider the goods, using traditional Palestinian stitchery to make Darwish linens stand apart. Raya convinced the uptown shops to carry their products and, once the society ladies discovered Darwish’s unique silk embroidered goods, company profits more than doubled. Thanks to Raya’s initiative, Darwish and Company’s embroidered linens could now be found in some of the finest homes on Fifth Avenue.
But none of those accomplishments mattered now. With no income and meager savings, Raya was reduced to depending on Salem’s largesse for her daily expenses. Visiting Deena was supposed to be a respite from all that. And now this.
It was altogether too much to process at once. But Raya resolved to tackle the problem in her usual way.
“Thank you, Mr. Combs.” Rising, she shook out her skirts, the floorboards groaning beneath her half boots. “This has all been a terrible shock, but I suppose we must get on with it.”
“A castle?” Aunt Majida repeated in Arabic when Raya returned to the inn to find her snuggled in bed with her tatreez. Majida didn’t look up as she stitched neat silk thread patterns into the linen fabric. “What is it like?”
Raya grimaced. “Old and smelly. And the walls make strange noises. Wallah, I swear it sounds like there is something alive in there.”
“Why would Deena leave her castle to you and not the son? Boys are supposed to inherit.”
“I have no idea.” Raya plopped into the nearest chair. “And why shouldn’t girls be allowed to have anything of their own?”
“A girl has a husband to support her.” She looked up from her tatreez just long enough to throw Raya a pointed look. “Unless the girl is too stubborn. But a boy, he has the responsibility of taking care of his family. That’s why your Baba, Allah yerhamo—may God have mercy on his soul—left the business to Salem.”
“Men cannot be trusted,” Raya retorted. “I put all of my faith in Salem and look where that got me.”
Auntie’s mouth twisted. “Salem takes care of you, Naila and your mother. He pays for the house and the food and takes care of your Baba’s business. He’s a good boy. You should be ashamed to talk bad about him.”
“We shall see how well Salem manages the business on his own.” Her brother was affable and charismatic, but lacked the drive and acumen required to make a business thrive.
“If your head wasn’t so hard, you’d already be married. Boys don’t like girls who are too strong-willed. Or too smart.”
Raya’s brother was certainly proof of that. They’d worked well together for the longest time. Raya thought they were close, but then Baba died and everything turned upside down. “I’m not going to pretend I’m a habila to make a man feel better about himself.”
The windows rattled as wind whistled through them. Rain spattered against the panes.
“Curse the devil,” Auntie Majida grumbled, setting her needlework aside to pull the stiff bed linens up to her neck. “The weather here is so cold and damp.”
“You did not have to accompany me.” Once Raya announced her intention to travel to England against her mother’s wishes, her late father’s widowed sister insisted on chaperoning.
“Of course I did. A young girl cannot travel alone. Although,” Auntie amended, “you are not so young anymore.”
“Exactly. I am twenty-six, far past marriageable age and, therefore, well past requiring a chaperone.”
“If you acted shy and quiet when eligible boys came to meet you, you’d be married by now.”
“I refuse to behave like someone I am not.” She had this same conversation with Mama dozens of times. “I have a brain.”
“Then use it!” Auntie shook her head. “Both you and your sister Naila are not clever enough to get married. Nadine is shatra.” Nadine, their eldest sister, was married with children. Naila, the middle sister, remained unwed at the age of twenty-eight.
“I don’t see what is so clever about getting married. Women take a terrible risk when they depend on a man to guarantee their future.”
“Hakki fathee. Stop with the empty talk. A girl is meant to get married.”
Raya fell back on her usual argument. “What can I do? It’s not my fault that
my naseeb hasn’t shown up.” Arabs believed in fated mates, which meant that destiny would deliver your life partner at the right time.
Majida ignored that comment. “I cannot believe Deena left her house to you. You never even met.”
“We knew each other through our letters.” She and Cousin Deena had exchanged weekly missives for the past year. “When Baba died, she wrote to Mama to express her condolences. She also sent me a very kind note and we corresponded regularly after that. Deena told me Baba always said I was like her.”
“God forbid! She was dashra. Deena did whatever she wanted without thinking about how it would hurt our family name.”
A knot formed in Raya’s throat. “I looked forward to her letters and came to value her advice.”
Majida’s lips turned downward. “The last thing any respectable young girl should do is listen to that dashra.”
Deena’s letters were full of amusing anecdotes and observations about life in England. Even though they’d never met, the two women bonded through their letters. “I wrote to Deena about Salem making me leave the company. She knew how much it upset me and was very kind and consoling.”
Auntie blew out her lips, making a derisive sound. “Only women whose families need money should work. We are not poor. You working makes the entire family look bad.”
Raya resisted the urge to lash out. Baba had expected Raya and Salem to continue working together after his death. She and her brother were once close. Raya focused on the nuts and bolts of business operations while Salem, with his warm charisma, was the salesman and face of the business. That’s how Baba had set things up but, on paper, her father left the business to his son.
But right after Baba died, Mama pushed Salem to banish Raya from the business. Maybe now she’ll stop being hardheaded and find a husband to marry. Salem laughed it off at first but changed his tune after he and Raya butted heads over business matters in the weeks after Baba died. Her brother’s betrayal stunned Raya. She’d never forgive him.
“And now Deena is dead.” Auntie sighed. “What a mushkila. A big problem. What are we supposed to do now?”
“We are going to get on with it.”
“How do we do that?”
“We start by packing our bags and moving into my new castle.”
“A factory worker?” Guy exclaimed when Strick joined his friends at the tavern. “Your evil-but-glorious stepmama left your castle to an American
factory worker?”
Strick reached for his tankard. “Deena was far from glorious.”
Guy sipped his ale. “Given the chance, I would have bedded her in an instant.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.” Many men found Deena alluring. Strick was not one of them. He drew deeply on his hand-rolled cigarette, an expense he might not be able to afford for much longer, given the sorry state of his financial affairs. The rents and meager crop yield barely covered servants’ wages and minimal castle upkeep.
Guy sighed. “Pity she isn’t an heiress. One could more easily overlook her common roots if Miss Darwish possessed a substantial fortune like all of these American heiresses wedding into the nobility.”
“Buying into English society,” Hawk corrected. The earl was a bachelor with a dim view of love and marriage. “Purchasing an aristocratic husband as if they were shopping on Bond Street.”
“Bartering a title for wealth is hardly a new concept.” Strick’s father wed his mother, a viscount’s daughter of considerable wealth, for her dowry. It was an unhappy match, one Strick had no intention of emulating. “I am personally against marrying for money. I saw firsthand how miserable it made my parents.”
But Strick could understand the temptation. The noblemen needed the cash infusion for their crumbling estates. Agriculture had sustained noble families like Strick’s for generations but lower crop prices and rents were making modern life difficult. ...
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