At The Duke's Pleasure Read online

  At The Duke's Pleasure

  Byrons of Braebourne [3]

  Tracy Anne Warren

  Avon (2009)

  Rating: ***

  Tags: Historical Romance, Regency, Regency Fiction, Historical Fiction, Tracy Anne Warren - Byrons Of Braebourne - 03 - At The Duke's Pleasure, Romance, Historical, England, Love Stories

  * * *

  All the Byrons are just as "mad, bad, and dangerous to know" as their famous non-relation . . . but now the time has come for the eldest son to marry . . .

  Edward Byron, Duke of Clybourne, has everything a man in Society needs . . . except a wife. Duty requires he wed, so he decides that a long-standing arranged marriage will do nicely. He knows his bride is beautiful, biddable, and bright enough to run his household and nursery. He expects his betrothed, Lady Claire Marsden, will be thrilled with his decision—unfortunately, she's not!

  Claire has longed for Edward since she was sixteen, but how can he expect her to agree to his proposal when he barely knows her and doesn't love her? Nothing will convince her to accept a loveless marriage. And so she begins a battle of outrageous resistance, forcing Edward to learn that he must lose his heart in order to win his bride.

  Tracy Anne Warren

  At The Duke’s Pleasure

  To the Friday Night Dinner Crew—

  Jacque, Gail, Sue, Jeri, Barb,

  Laura, Sheila and Leslie.

  Thanks for all the fun and laughs

  and for reminding me to take a break

  and get away from my computer

  every once in a while.

  Table Of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Books By Tracy Anne Warren

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Marsden Manor

  Nottinghamshire, England

  June 1789

  The crack of a cricket bat and ball split the humid afternoon air. A triumphant round of whoops and shouts followed, as a group of boys raced across the immaculately manicured lawn to see who could capture the most runs.

  Above them, inside a second-floor drawing room, stood Edward Augustus Joseph Byron, Marquis of Hartsfield. He drew an encouraging fist at his side as he watched his younger brothers play, observing the game’s progress through one of many lead-paned, Tudor windows that lined the west side of the Earl of Edgewater’s grand manor house.

  Stifling an envious sigh, he leaned closer to the open window, the scents of oak pollen and ripe summer breezes redolent in the air. How he wished he could be down there with them now.

  Racing over the grass.

  Feeling the grip of the smooth-handled willow bat in his hands, his arm muscles singing as they absorbed the impact of a fresh hit.

  The score wouldn’t be so evenly matched, he knew, if he were among them. Not that Cade and Jack weren’t holding their own—and admirably too—considering the size and age of some of the other boys playing. Twelve- and thirteen-year-olds against the Byron brothers’ ten and eight.

  Even four-year-old Drake was doing his utmost to insert himself into the action, ignoring the strictures of his nursemaid as he raced to collect the occasional out-of-bounds ball.

  Were he anyone else, Edward knew he would have been free to join in like the other children of the guests assembled for today’s christening celebration. But even at the youthful age of eleven, he understood that the heir to the Duke of Clybourne had far more important duties to attend to than an afternoon spent playing cricket—no matter how tediously boring those duties might be.

  On the grounds below, Cade stepped forward and shook out his lanky arms with great fanfare as he prepared to pitch the ball. Edward grinned and silently cheered him on.

  Suddenly a large male hand wearing a gleaming emerald signet ring cut across his line of sight—a strong adult hand that reached out to draw the window closed with a soft snick of the latch.

  Edward stepped back, the noise of the game grown dim beyond the sealed portal. Shoulders straight, he turned a respectful gaze on his father, eyes moving upward to the powerful man, who wore a mature version of his own features.

  Everyone said one day Edward would look exactly like him. Sometimes when he gazed into a looking glass, he found himself wondering if their predictions would prove true.

  “Those boys make a great deal too much noise,” the duke observed. “I could hear Jack shouting all the way across the room.”

  Not sure how best to respond to such a remark, Edward stayed silent.

  “Ought to send down word and tell them enough’s enough, but I suppose they are only boys and know no better.”

  And so they are. So too am I.

  Wisely, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “What’s the score, then?” his father asked.

  Edward’s stance relaxed slightly at the casual inquiry. “Cade’s team is down by two, but I think they’ll make up the necessary runs during the next at-bat.”

  “I trust they shall. Well then, come along, Edward,” his father said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Important matters to discuss. You can watch the game later.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  As he turned to follow the duke’s lead, he caught sight of his mother watching them from across the chamber where she sat among a group of other elegantly attired ladies. Faint lines creased the smooth plane of her beautiful forehead, her soft lips drawn together. His gaze met hers and the lines vanished as though they had never been, her mouth turning upward as she sent him a gentle, loving smile.

  He smiled back, puzzling for a few seconds over her initial look. Then he forgot all about it, as he hurried to keep pace with the duke.

  They drew to a halt in front of a trim gentleman of moderate height, his thick blond hair brushed in careful waves, a diamond pin winking from the folds of his precisely creased neck cloth.

  “My lord,” the duke began. “Allow me to make you known to my son and heir, the Marquis of Hartsfield. Hartsfield,” he said, nodding toward Edward. “This gentleman is a great friend of mine. Make your bows to the Earl of Edgewater.”

  Well versed in his manners, Edward bent at the waist. “How do you do, my lord? Thank you for inviting me to your home today, and on such a happy occasion as the christening of your new daughter.”

  The earl bowed in return, smiling as he straightened. “You are most gracious, my lord, and most welcome, though I would expect no less based on everything Clybourne has been telling me about you. I must confess I am vastly impressed. Understand you took top marks at Eton this past year and are even now being considered for early admittance to both Cambridge and Oxford.”

  “He’ll be at Oxford outside of two years, and make no mistake,” the duke stated in a firm tone, as if the matter were already settled. “My duchess thinks it’s too early for a boy his age to be considering university. But she’s merely being a cautious mother hen, who doesn’t want to see her chick fly from the nest too soon. Hart
sfield is up to the challenge, though. Aren’t you, son?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Edward murmured, swallowing against the sting of nerves in his chest at the reminder—and the expectations.

  “But come, Edgewater, we didn’t bring the boy over here to discuss his educational prospects. We came to tell him the good news.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the earl agreed, puffing out his slender chest with obvious anticipation and pleasure. “Should you like to do the honours, Clybourne?”

  The duke waved a languid hand. “No, go ahead, Edgewater. It was your idea, after all.”

  “But you set me to thinking on it, so the credit must be mainly your own.”

  Standing between them, Edward forced himself not to show any reaction to their mysterious exchange. Whatever the “good news” might be, the sooner it was revealed, the sooner he would be able to find a way to escape outside and join the game.

  “Perhaps you are unaware,” the earl began, turning his gaze on Edward, “but a section of my property here in Nottinghamshire and one of your father’s lesser estates share a common boundary.”

  “Yes, your lordship. The line runs contiguous for a few miles along the southernmost edge, I believe,” Edward stated.

  The earl beamed, a twinkle in his gaze. “Just so. You’ve taught him well, Clybourne.”

  “Of course. The title and land shall be his one day. He ought to know the extent and locations of his own holdings.”

  “What you may not know, however,” Edgewater continued, turning back to Edward, “is that your father and I have been friends since boyhood. We went to Eton together and then to Oxford. For years it has been his dearest wish and mine that our two families might be even more closely and permanently allied. Which is why we decided to come to an arrangement.”

  “What sort of arrangement, my lord?” Edward asked, unable to keep from voicing his thoughts aloud this time.

  “You shall see, Hartsfield. You shall see. But first, come meet my new daughter.”

  Edward frowned, wondering what the baby had to do with this particular conversation. But he supposed the earl had some purpose, if for no other reason than the pride of wanting to show the infant off.

  Following behind his father and the earl, he made his way across the room to a place not far from where several of the ladies were gathered.

  “Just going to borrow her for a moment,” the earl informed his wife, as she cast him an inquiring look.

  The infant, who until now had been peacefully sleeping, roused with a startled cry at being jostled awake. Her cries grew louder as the earl lifted her out of an immense rosewood cradle that had obviously been carved sometime in the last century.

  Unfazed, Edgewater set her in the crook of his arm and brought her across to Edward. “Here she is, my lord. What think you of my Claire?”

  Having worked herself into a near tantrum, Edward thought she looked as red and wet and angry as a lobster that had just been dropped into a vat of boiling water—her tiny features scrunched so tightly together that he couldn’t tell if she even had eyes.

  She sure has a mouth though, he mused ruefully. And a fine pair of lungs. The next time the earl has reason to sound an alarm, he should prod this one awake again.

  “She’s…um…quite healthy,” Edward observed.

  Edgewater chuckled. “That she is. Proof she’ll grow into a fine young woman someday. Here, Hartsfield, why don’t you hold her?”

  Hold her! I don’t want to hold that furious, squalling little creature.

  But before he could refuse, the baby was thrust into his arms, leaving him no choice but to take her. She settled against him—warmer, softer and faintly heavier than he’d expected. Her tiny fists waved like a pair of batons in the air, her misery clear as she continued to wail.

  Then, as abruptly as her crying had begun, it ceased. Blissful quiet descended once more over the room. As he watched, tension eased from her face, her fury-rouged cheeks standing out like burnished coals.

  Her eyes popped open, her irises an entrancing pale blue that reminded him of a robin’s egg he’d once found dropped out of a nest. They were red-rimmed, those eyes, and glistening wet with tears. She was staring now, her interest fixed on him as if he were the most fascinating thing she’d ever observed.

  She sniffed and made a burbling little cooing noise, then waved one fist again, but not with anger this time. Instead, she seemed to be reaching out.

  For him.

  Bemused, Edward stared back, amazed at the change in her countenance now that he could adequately view her features.

  Not so awful, he mused. He supposed he might even say she was pretty.

  For a baby.

  He’d been around babies all his life, as one brother after another was born. But he certainly wouldn’t have called any of them pretty.

  She waved her tiny fist again and blinked, her mouth curving in a faint smile.

  “Well, look at that,” the earl said in an amazed voice. “She’s taken a shine to you already. I knew how it would be.”

  “Knew how what would be, your lordship?” Edward asked, still gazing at the baby.

  “That the two of you are meant for each other. My Lord Hartsfield, meet your future bride.”

  “What!” Edward’s gaze flashed up to meet the earl’s, his hold wavering so that he nearly dropped the child lying so trustingly in his arms. Clutching her against him, he stared at her father.

  Surely I cannot have heard him right? Surely he hadn’t said bride!

  “Your father and I have agreed on a betrothal between you and Claire. There’s a parcel of unentailed land that will come to you through her dowry. Some excellent pasture which will increase your own holdings in this part of the country.”

  Land! What do I care about land? What about me? I didn’t agree to this!

  A heated refusal trembled on his lips, a violent protest that would denounce this appalling scheme. But then he caught his father’s eye and knew any objections he offered would be completely useless. He would only create a scene, embarrass the earl and draw his father’s ire. Besides, as he knew only too well, once Papa made up his mind, there was no trying to change it.

  Swallowing past his anger, he held himself steady, jaw pulled taut as a rope. The baby shifted contentedly in his arms, oblivious to the turmoil at war in his chest.

  “This union is years and years away, Edward,” the duke reasoned in a quiet tone. “So think nothing more of it for now. When the time for the marriage arrives, you’ll see the wisdom of this alliance and be grateful to have your future so easily arranged.”

  Grateful! How was he supposed to feel grateful when his entire life had already been decided for him? When he had no say over his own destiny?

  Suddenly he couldn’t bear to stand there another moment, fearing he might start screaming or something equally inappropriate.

  Luckily, Lady Edgewater chose that moment to approach, halting beside him as she gazed with shyly loving eyes at her now sleeping infant daughter. Without a word, he pushed the baby at her, uncaring when he heard the child awaken again and begin to cry.

  Pausing only long enough to execute a clipped bow, he mumbled an excuse and turned on his heels. He half expected his father to recall him, but he did not. Yet even if the duke had ordered him to return, he would not have obeyed. No punishment, he knew, could be worse than remaining now in this room.

  Striding toward the door, he moved out into the corridor, his pace quickening with every successive step. He flew down the main staircase, then past a pair of footmen, who cast him curious glances but made no effort to impede his progress.

  He burst outside into the moist summer air that clung to him like a suffocating hand. Or maybe it was his cravat that was doing the suffocating? All he knew was that he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Couldn’t slow the breakneck speed of his heart.

  Stripping off his neck cloth, together with his coat, he dropped both garments on the lawn, forgetting them in an
instant. From just over the rise, he heard sounds of the cricket match, as the game continued on.

  Rather than going toward it, though, he turned away, staring across the surrounding grounds—out across the wide green fields, the manicured gardens and the nearby forest with its mass of towering trees.

  Without any conscious sense of choice, he moved toward the forest, wanting to lose himself inside those sheltering branches and leafy boughs.

  He went faster, then faster still, until he was running.

  Running as if he might never stop.

  Chapter 1

  Marsden Manor

  Nottinghamshire, England

  January 1811

  Lady Claire Marsden drew her dark blue woollen shawl tighter over her shoulders and thought about adding an extra log to the fire. She would have liked to light a candle as well to better see the fine stitches in her embroidery, but Papa frowned on the use of candles during the day. Not because the household couldn’t afford them. Quite the reverse actually, since the Earl of Edgewater was a wealthy man. But he abhorred waste of any kind, and the burning of candles in daylight hours was chief on his list of forbidden indulgences—even on dim, dreary winter afternoons, such as this one.

  Snipping off the end of a thread with a scissors, she listened with half an ear to her sisters bickering.

  “Give me back that lace! I’m trying to trim my hat.”

  “Try all you like,” taunted fourteen-year-old Nan. “But it shall do nothing to improve the ugly thing. I’ve seen canine rectums that had a prettier shape and colour.”

  “Did you hear what she just called my bonnet?” demanded Ella. “She said my velvet hat looks like a…a…a dog’s bottom! How dare you, Nan Marsden. How dare you say such a horrid thing to me.”