Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  His father just looked at him in cold disgust bordering on hatred. Then he shook his head, turned his back on his penitent elder son, as usual, and slammed the door of his study in his face.

  Seth closed his eyes, flayed alive by his sire’s complete rejection. It merely redoubled his resolve.

  He took a breath, flicked his eyes open, and swore to God, or perhaps the devil, that if it was the last thing he ever did, the Fourth Duke of Amberley was going to die.

  CHAPTER 1

  A Lady’s Resolve

  Four Months Later

  Lady Maggie Winthrop nibbled a lemon macaroon, tapped a toe in time with the pianoforte and violin playing between dance sets, and tried not to listen to her sister droning on again about the rigors of choosing a wallpaper for the seventh guest chamber.

  While Delia, the Marchioness of Birdwell, prattled on to her audience of mindless followers, debating aloud between stripes and a handsome paisley pattern—and watching herself surreptitiously all the while in a large gilded mirror across from where the group of ladies stood—Maggie washed down her macaroon with a sweet, tart, fizzy sip of champagne punch, then took another discreet look around the ballroom.

  Let’s get on with it, shall we? Beyond the high arched windows of the Grand Albion’s fabled ballroom, a bright half-moon rode aloft in the black April night. But inside, the huge crystal chandeliers filled the lofty space with warm illumination.

  The ballroom shimmered, a sea of beautiful gowns on the ladies, their jeweled toques and feathered headdresses breaking like whitecaps as they nodded in the ceaseless roar of conversation.

  The men wore black formal coats with snow-white cravats and silk waistcoats, a few smart military dress uniforms shining out among the crowd.

  Brilliant red, navy blue. Silver dress swords, gold epaulets.

  Very dashing. Maggie took another watchful sip of punch, but still failed to spot her quarry. Lord Bryce, to be exact: the twenty-six-year-old heir of the Marquess of Dover.

  Where he’d wandered off to now, she could not say, but so far, she was pleased with their progress this evening. They were getting along well.

  Which meant that Delia hadn’t found a way to ruin it for her yet.

  Indeed, mused Maggie, things were moving along right on schedule, if she dared say so herself.

  It was the third Thursday night subscription ball of the new Season, and Maggie felt confident that, this time, she’d soon bring her target up to scratch.

  Admittedly, slight misgivings about the fellow in question did nag at the back of her mind. Very well, yes—obviously—Lord Bryce wasn’t ideal. But everyone had their flaws, didn’t they? And desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Besides, her sanity was at stake here.

  Why else would she risk her reputation by dancing three times in one night with the same gentleman?

  Indeed, the urgency of the matter was why Maggie was doing all she could—within the bounds of propriety, of course—to encourage her haughty suitor to pop the blasted question.

  Because the sooner those coveted words, Will you marry me? left Bryce’s sculpted lips, the sooner Maggie could escape out from underneath her sister’s thumb to freedom.

  Delia was now snorting with laughter at some innocent gaffe one of the maids had committed the other day.

  “I mean, honestly, what a fool! I know she’s only a maid, but is she blind?”

  “You should dismiss her,” one of Delia’s haughty followers opined. “I would.”

  “Edward won’t let me,” said her sister with a smirk. “He feels sorry for the world. The man’s ridiculously forgiving.”

  And you’re certainly lucky for that, Maggie thought, gritting her teeth. It was not that she did not love her sister and chaperone. It was simply that Delia had a gift for driving people utterly insane.

  No matter, thought Maggie. With any luck at all, she and Bryce would be married by July, and finally, she’d be in a position to establish her own household.

  No longer would she have to mouse around in Delia’s elegant residence in Moonlight Square, tucked away in an upper dormer like a Poor Relation, at the beck and call of the redheaded empress.

  She just hoped that Bryce had not persisted in drinking any more of that scotch he fancied when he came along any minute now to claim her for the promised country dance.

  The music should be starting up again shortly, and Lord knew he’d stepped on her toes and tripped over his own feet often enough in their quadrille of an hour ago, though he’d blamed it on everyone around him.

  Where is he, anyway? She was growing a little annoyed at her beau’s neglect as she scanned the other side of the ballroom, searching the crowd for his curly golden head.

  Meanwhile, Delia prattled on, holding forth on the most trivial details of her own existence, as though the fate of nations hung in the balance. “You know, I’ve heard that flowered wallpapers are all the rage just now, but I myself cannot abide them. Of course, Edward likes them, but what do men know? My feeling on the matter is this: why follow the fashions everyone else is chasing? I say, let them follow me!”

  Her devotees tittered in scandalized delight at Delia’s brash, devil-may-care attitude. But, then, a woman who’d landed a wealthy marquess who worshiped the ground she walked on could do and say as she pleased.

  “Oh, Your Ladyship is well known as an arbiter of taste,” one of Delia’s hangers-on said with a sigh.

  “Well, you know, one tries.” Delia preened, smoothing her golden dress and glancing at Maggie in smug satisfaction over how admired she was in London’s first circles.

  Maggie just looked at her. It was possible a white-gloved hand curled into a fist by her side, but lucky for Delia, someone in this family had to be a proper lady.

  Why her elder sister, though, had been in competition with her since the day she was born, Maggie had no idea.

  The one thing she did know was that the petty tyrant had relished the past year of lording it over her ever since Papa’s death had forced Maggie to move in with Delia and dear, unflappable Edward, the Marquess of Birdwell, here in London.

  Maggie still ached with homesickness at the thought of Halford Manor and the serene Kent countryside. But, alas, she’d had no choice than to pack up and leave the only home she’d ever known, for when Papa had died without male issue, his earldom and country house had gone to an unpleasant and repulsively handsy uncle.

  Actually, Uncle Wilbur had invited Maggie to keep her room and continue living there if she pleased. But she dared not stay.

  Everyone knew about Uncle Wilbur.

  No, thank you. Maggie shuddered. She had no intention of remaining at the manor just so the nasty fellow could grope her knee beneath the dining table when he thought no one was looking.

  Better Delia’s tyranny and tantrums than Uncle Wilbur’s infamously wandering hands.

  Blech.

  And so, she’d been nudged out of the nest.

  Losing her dearest papa had been awful enough, but with all her heart, Maggie missed having a home where she truly belonged.

  She could still visit the manor, of course, but it wasn’t the same. The house and gardens she had loved so much—the familiar sculpture of the hills, each of the beloved old trees, the way the morning sun shone through the bay window to burnish the oaken floors—none of it was hers anymore.

  It hurt to know she could never truly go home again.

  There was only one solution: to make a new home of her own. One that could never be taken away from her.

  And if she had to bring down a husband to make that happen, like a hunter after some big game, then that, by Jove, was exactly what she’d do.

  Even if the one man her sister hadn’t managed to scare away on her behalf was completely full of himself, with an unfailingly sarcastic sense of humor.

  But beggars couldn’t be choosers, so Maggie thrust the disloyal thoughts of Lord Bryce’s rude streak right out of her mind.

  He’d
better not forget about our dance. As she glanced around discreetly, trying to pick the handsome rakehell out of the crowd, frankly, it would not have surprised her overmuch to spy the haughty fellow flirting with some other girl.

  It was rather disturbing how little that thought bothered her.

  But Society marriages were not love matches. Toleration of one another was sufficient, so long as ranks were suitable, health was sound, family interests were aligned, and other worldly factors made sense. It was all a matter of practicality…

  Then her brisk, pragmatic thoughts trailed away when she noticed a man she had never seen at one of these weekly gatherings before.

  I say. She blinked, lost all awareness of the other several hundred guests around her. Who is that?

  Tall, sinewy, and broad-shouldered, he sauntered alone down the colonnade that girded the ballroom, keeping to the shadows behind the white pillars placed at regular intervals.

  The man was strikingly handsome, and for a moment, she was confused, wondering how she could’ve missed such a specimen on the marriage mart.

  But no, she decided cautiously, he was new. She certainly would’ve remembered seeing him here before.

  Built on heroic proportions, the black-haired stranger stood a head taller than most of the men he passed, and outweighed them visibly in hard muscle.

  Yet he had a guarded air about him—distracted, uneasy.

  Whoever he was, it seemed clear that, unlike her, he had far weightier matters on his mind tonight than snaring a spouse.

  She did not see him speak to anyone, though sometimes he nodded politely to people he passed. Observing him from this safe distance, Maggie got the feeling the fellow did not know a soul here.

  But he must be someone, as Delia would put it.

  Otherwise, the patronesses would’ve never granted him a voucher to attend Moonlight Square’s exclusive weekly ball. Those fearsome ladies could be high sticklers about such things.

  Yet with each passing moment, as the man wandered closer, he seemed all the more alone.

  Perhaps that explained his guarded air as he prowled along restlessly, tracking the perimeter of the ballroom, like a sentry keeping watch.

  Every now and then, he paused in his slow pacing and scanned the crowd through narrowed eyes.

  Which was how he suddenly noticed Maggie standing there, staring at him.

  Without warning, the stranger’s hooded gaze slammed to a halt right on her.

  She gulped, went motionless as their eyes locked.

  Even now, caught in the act of ogling him, she could not look away while the crowd buzzed about on all sides, and her sister droned on endlessly.

  Pulse thumping, Maggie held the stranger’s penetrating gaze for a moment, while a rush of awareness shivered all the way down from her earlobes to her toes. Heat blazed in her cheeks, and she suddenly felt like her stays were too tight.

  The stranger studied her, curiously. He reminded her for all the world of some dangerous wild animal who’d just wandered up to the edge of human civilization and was peering in, unsure what to make of it all.

  He flicked a wary glance over her, reading her, sizing her up. It was not a lewd gaze, but there was danger in it, nonetheless.

  She knew then at once, instinctively, that this was a hard man. A man not to be crossed.

  He made her think of rocky coastlines, wild, rugged places, where the fierce wind and the cold, stormy sea crashed against unyielding, jagged boulders, unable to break them down.

  His neat, short-cropped hair was glossy black, his eyes bright, astonishing blue. Even from here, she could see their cobalt gleam beneath his jet-black eyebrows. He had strong, even features; a smooth, straight forehead and prominent nose; a square chin and firm, unsmiling mouth.

  What struck her most, however, was his weathered, sun-bronzed complexion. His skin was tinged with a vibrantly tanned hue, as though he’d spent years outdoors in sunny climes.

  A soldier. The certainty of it whispered through her mind, though he was not in uniform.

  Instead, he wore an exquisite tailored coat as black as his hair; it showed off the sweeping breadth of his shoulders, his taut waist. His cravat was simple, unlike the showy concoctions her suitor favored; his silver waistcoat had the sheen of fine silk.

  Still, the gentlemanly clothes could not hide the fact that this man was a warrior. She saw it in the stiff set of his shoulders, the proud angle of his chin, the guarded glances, the sharp, wary watchfulness.

  The war was over now, she thought, but maybe not for him…

  Then she realized she’d been gawping at him like a mooncalf for at least thirty seconds.

  Though the sight of him had left her slightly breathless, she cringed as her wits returned. Oh, how dreadfully awkward. It was not her habit to gawk at good-looking men, let alone to be caught doing so. But she had just now, and he knew it. They both did.

  There was no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

  Not knowing what else to do, Maggie offered him an embarrassed smile, inclining her head in a polite nod, while the heat in her cheeks intensified.

  A midnight eyebrow shot upward.

  Then, to her inexplicably great pleasure, a rueful grin quirked one corner of his mouth, a quick, reckless flash of roguery and charm.

  Maggie could now barely breathe.

  They shared that fleeting little moment of private humor from across the ballroom, then he winked at her in amusement—and with that, simply dismissed her from his mind, it seemed, for he prowled off on his way.

  Heart pounding, Maggie turned away, confused, and, to her chagrin, all aflutter like a henwit. How unlike her! From the corner of her eye, she watched the black-haired stranger amble off into the shadows of the colonnade, continuing his vigilant pass around the outskirts of the crowd.

  Whew, she thought, still slightly out of sorts at the mere look they’d shared. But one thing was certain.

  For a moment there, she had forgotten all about Lord Bryce.

  * * *

  Welllll, at least there was one friendly face here, Connor mused, and a pretty one it was. Maybe London wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  As he strolled on down the colonnade, he couldn’t resist glancing back for another quick look at the girl.

  Aye, a fair English rose—if a man fancied that sort of thing.

  Wary of all things English as he was these days, still, Connor wondered who she was. All wide-eyed innocence, ladylike down to the tips of her dainty gloved fingers. Hmm. Maybe he should ask her to dance.

  But then he remembered that he’d have to figure out some way to get an introduction and sighed at the headache of it all. He did not know a soul here, so whom could he ask to provide one? Never mind the fact that these folk were leery of the Irish interloper. That much was obvious.

  She was lovely, though, he thought, slightly wistful.

  Slim and demure, with an unassuming air, the girl was a waifish creature with a heart-shaped face, dove-gray eyes, and a luscious, rosy mouth. Her glossy brown tresses were arranged in a fetching topknot with swirling tendrils that hung down to kiss her apple cheeks and brush her milky shoulders.

  She wore a diaphanous gown of pale mint-green gauze; below its short puff sleeves, white elbow gloves encased her hands. The square décolleté of her dress was moderately daring, he thought in amusement. Not too low, not too high—just right for a lass plainly born and bred to marry an English lord.

  Which he, to his astonishment, had somehow become about four months ago—a fact that Connor still found equal parts annoying and hilarious.

  Really, it was the most ridiculous situation.

  Me, a duke? he thought for the umpteenth time as he strolled along warily. It all seemed a jest. God knew he had better things to do.

  No one had been more surprised than he when that pasty, prune-faced solicitor had shown up in Ireland this past autumn to inform Connor that he had just inherited his granduncle’s feckin’ title. He barely remembered
the old man, Grandfather’s eldest brother. Granduncle Charles.

  Connor had laughed heartily at first, thinking it was naught but a prank from one of his old Army mates. McFeatheridge, most likely.

  Hadn’t the fat, jolly sergeant often teased that Connor ought to seize the family title somehow and go fight for Ireland in Parliament once the war was done? It seemed the trusty sarge had got his wish. For the pasty little solicitor had soon explained to Connor how, back in England, the toplofty branch of the clan had been having a dreadful run of bad luck.

  Over the past two years, no less than three previous Dukes of Amberley had wound up dead—one by natural causes, two by unfortunate accident.

  Supposedly.

  Connor’s gut—which had seen him and his boys through many a battle—had told him clearly from the start that there was mischief of the first order afoot.

  One way or the other, though, Cousin Richard’s death left only Connor to take up the title.

  Scion of the black-sheep Irish branch of the family.

  Grandfather must be laughing his head off in his grave; the soldier of the family, he’d never much cared for his two elder brothers, the duke and the vicar. They’d never approved when the third-born had married an Irish lass.

  In any case, as the last man standing, Connor had been apprized by the solicitor that if he, too, should fall to this mysterious run of “bad luck” to strike the Dukes of Amberley, then the title went extinct.

  Well, he had no intention of doing any such thing, thank you very much.

  Having seen far too much of death, he quite enjoyed living, and intended to continue doing so for as long as possible.

  By God, he had not survived fifteen years of highly varied, lethal missions for the Army only to come home and be murdered in his bed, poisoned at his own supper table, or otherwise dispatched by some faceless, cowardly assassin lurking in the shadows.

  Rather like the one who’d first greeted him upon his arrival in London, there at the docks. He’d barely stepped off the bloody boat, then came the attack.