CHAPTER 1
Durbury—July 1817
Damn the Duke of Durham.
Adam Ashbury tossed a handful of dirt into the grave where his uncle’s coffin had been lowered and gazed into the hole where the duke’s remains would turn to dust. As far as the man’s soul, Adam knew that Durham would burn in hellfire’s eternal flames.
“Your Grace?”
He turned and saw Holmes standing nearby. The man had spent his life in service to Durham, first as the duke’s valet and then for the last two decades as his butler. Now in his mid-fifties with graying hair, Holmes would continue to serve the next Duke of Durham.
“Give me a few moments, Holmes,” the new Duke of Durham said.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Holmes gestured and the two men who would see to filling in the grave with dirt stepped away. The handful of mourners had left some minutes ago. Adam continued to stare at the hole in the ground, wishing he knew why his uncle had been so nasty. So willing to place his son and nephew in direct, vicious competition with each other throughout their boyhoods. He thought of all the times Durham had deliberately favored Adam over Roy, merely to stir up Roy’s hatred. It had led to an irreparable divide between the two boys.
And now his uncle and cousin were both dead—making Adam the last standing Ashbury—and thus, the new duke. Something he’d never wanted. Something he had no training in. Something he wondered if he could even be remotely successful at when all he knew was military life. He could strategize. Organize attacks. Coordinate with other officers. Lead soldiers into action. Kill the enemy.
But run a vast country estate? Be responsible for hundreds of tenants and servants? Sit in Parliament?
Adam didn’t even have a university education. When he’d finished school, he’d gone directly into the military, his uncle purchasing him a commission in the army, delighted that his only nephew refused to follow in his own father’s footsteps and join the navy. Adam despised the Royal Navy. He’d always blamed it for taking his father away from him. Captain Lawrence Ashbury had spent the bulk of his time at sea, ignoring his son and leaving him in the care of his older brother since Adam’s mother had died in childbirth.
When Adam turned seven, his father had told him he would be sent to school with his cousin, Roy, and return for holidays to Durbury. The navy needed Captain Ashbury at sea with the French threat of Napoleon growing. His father told Adam it was more important for him to protect the nation of England than one small child.
Adam had only seen his father twice after that. Once, when Lawrence Ashbury took a brief leave when Adam was ten. They’d had three days together, the most magical of his entire childhood. The last time he saw his father was when he was seventeen, following the Battle of Trafalgar. Captain Ashbury had died in the fighting at sea as England defeated Bonaparte. Adam demanded the casket be opened so he could look upon the man who’d sired him a final time.
The next year, upon graduation, he’d joined the military and never looked back.
He moved from Durham’s grave to his father’s and studied the tombstone’s dates. His father had been forty-two years old when he died. Adam had received letters from several of Captain Ashbury’s men, as well as his superiors, singing the praises of the man they’d fought beside for years. Those men had known Lawrence Ashbury far better than his only son ever could.
Adam gazed at his mother’s portion of the headstone, one she shared with her husband. She’d died at only nineteen. Adam had already lived ten years longer than she had.
What did he have to show for it?
Nothing.
Like his father, he’d devoted his adult years to the military. He’d seen both friends and his men perish in battle during his ten years in the army. Adam himself had come close to dying, thanks to the wounds he suffered at Waterloo a year ago. It had taken months to recover from his injuries, including the subsequent infections and high fevers. The nightmares still came at regular intervals. The one good thing his uncle had done was urge Adam to sell out and he’d done so recently, returning to live quietly at Durbury. He’d arrived to the news that Roy had perished the day before in a phaeton accident in London.
Two days later, he found himself at his cousin’s funeral.
Roy died as he lived. Dangerously. As the Marquess of Trumbull and heir to his father’s dukedom, Roy ran with a fast set and went through money quickly. He’d become estranged from his father soon after Adam left for the army and he’d never learned the origin of their quarrel. Adam became the new Marquess of Trumbull and had only held the title six weeks before his uncle dropped dead over cards from a heart attack.
Now, Adam was the new Duke of Durham, with no family to give him any kind of instruction or emotional support. All he had was Martin, his valet and former batman, and Raker, a groomsman in the Durham stables who’d served under Adam in combat. He’d trust either man with his life.
But what kind of life was it?
He’d be thirty next year. Half his life—maybe more—had already passed with nothing to show for it. Loneliness had been his constant companion for more years than he’d care to admit. He wanted the second half of his life to be entirely different from the first. He needed people in it. Peace. Joy. Laughter.
And love.
More than anything, Adam yearned for a family. He’d never truly been a part of one. He longed for a wife. More children than he could count on one hand. He desired happiness. And hoped he might find love to overshadow all the darkness that ate away at his soul after so many years at war.
Being a duke, he could buy some of what he wished for. The title would help him gain a duchess. Mothers in the ton would push their daughters upon him since it wasn’t every day that an eligible bachelor who was a duke arrived upon the social scene. He would have his choice among the most beautiful and clever girls available. He had numerous properties and an income beyond his wildest imaginings, learning this from a conversation this morning with Durham’s solicitor.
The expected thing would be to mourn his uncle’s death, which would keep him away from society until next Season. All his life, Adam strove to do the right thing.
This time, he would choose himself.
He would forego any mourning for a man he hadn’t liked, much less respected. In most cases, the ton would have judged him harshly for his actions. Adam knew, though, that as a duke he could write his own rules and be forgiven almost anything. He’d put his life on hold for too long, blindly serving his country. Now that the wars were over and England was finally at peace again, he would marry and have the family he so desperately desired.
Of course, he’d already found a young woman he was interested in—and she hadn’t even made her come-out yet. Only weeks earlier, while at Trumbull Hall for his cousin’s funeral, Adam had met Roy’s bride of less than a month. Lady Trumbull’s family had come to comfort her in her time of sorrow though, in all honesty, Adam hadn’t seen Amelia Trumbull shed a single tear.
But it wasn’t Amelia he was interested in. It was her closest friend—Lady Thea de Wolfe. Something about the dark-haired beauty had intrigued Adam beyond words. His desire to know her better helped to drive the decisions he was making.
He’d learned Lady Thea was supposed to make her come-out this Season but had broken her leg just prior to it and would postpone her debut until next spring. That meant she wasn’t participating in events now, as the Season wound down. For all he knew, she’d already returned with her brother, Lord Reston, to their home in Northumberland.
Adam decided to make it his business to find out where Lady Thea de Wolfe now was.
And how he could gain time with her. Before next Season began.
He stepped away from the graves and nodded to Holmes, who immediately gave a sign for the workers to return to the deceased duke’s grave. Martin waited in the distance for him and fell into step with Adam as they walked toward the house. The valet, who’d been dark-haired when Adam first met him a decade ago, possessed a headful of snow-white hair now. Martin, in his jovial way, claimed Bonaparte was the one who’d turned every dark hair to white.
“How are you holding up, Your Grace?” he asked.
Adam frowned. “You don’t have to use the title when we’re alone.”
The valet snorted. “I’m just pleased I didn’t call you Trumbull. I was barely used to calling you that and now I’ve got to switch to Your Grace. Who’d have thought Major Ashbury would ever turn up a duke?”
“It’s not something I ever wanted,” he revealed. “But I plan to be a kinder duke than my uncle was. And I know I’ll be a better one than my cousin ever would have been.”
“I’ve talked to enough of the servants. Who know everything, by the way. Durham was a pain in the arse and no one’s sad to see him gone. His son was disliked by everyone. Rude. Reckless. A blackguard of the worst kind. The stories I hear about Trumbull’s private life would turn your hair white, Your Grace. Especially how he treated Lady Trumbull.” Martin paused. “But I’m too much of a gentleman to share gossip with you.”
Adam laughed. “And I’m too much of one to ask. Suffice it to say, Roy was a bully and scoundrel. I never had one pleasant conversation with my cousin. He’s gone and will be forgotten.”
“Especially by Lady Trumbull,” Martin added. “But I’ll never tell.” He drew a finger across his lips, pretending to seal them.
They reached the house and entered, where a footman wore a look of alarm.
“Your Grace! You have a guest. I mean . . . that is . . . someone is waiting for you in your study. You need to come at once.”
He wondered who might be visiting on the day he buried his uncle and why that person’s presence would fluster his footman.
“Thank you.”
Adam proceeded to his study and opened the door. A woman stood near the decanter, pouring herself a brandy. She turned—and shock rippled through him as he recognized her.
“Aunt . . . Louise?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, a smile playing about her lips. “I decided it was time to come home.”
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