Rowland looked over at his steward, Linton. He stood just a few feet behind him, his hands clasped at his back. As usual, with his shoulders pulled backwards and his nose held stiffly in the air, he was the picture of propriety. He had come with his family to Australia and had stubbornly held on to not only his English accent but his English manners as well.
“Rowland,” Rowland grumbled unnecessarily. Ever since Linton came under his wing as a steward, he had been trying to get him to refer to him the same way his friends did. After all, he did consider Linton a friend. But the man was adamant in his ways. “Who is it from?”
Linton didn’t bother to look at the letter when he said, “Miss Peggy Flynn, Sire.”
Rowland tried not to react, at least not outwardly. But nothing ever escaped Linton’s eyes. He watched Rowland steadily as he turned away from him and faced the window again. “All right,” he said after a long moment. “Leave it on the desk.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Again, Linton’s footsteps were silent. It had taken Rowland a while to get used to his cat-like grace, expecting to see him appear out of thin air most of the time. For now, he simply placed the letter on the table and faced him again. “Is there anything you may need, Sire?”
“Not right now,” Rowland answered. He wasn’t in the mood for company right now. Usually, he would attempt to cajole Linton into sharing a drink with him, a feat he rarely ever pulled off. At most, he would get his stiff steward to at least take a seat and pass the time in idle chatter for a short while before Linton claimed he had to return to his duties. But, Rowland was too deep in thought to entertain anyone else at the moment.
Linton seemed to have noticed that because he lingered. “The letter you received from the Duke of Gresham,” he began. “What did it say?”
How like you, Linton.
How easily he spurted forward questions when it pleased him, then threw up walls between them when it didn’t. Rowland sighed silently. As much as the other man infuriated him, he was his oldest friend. “He wants me to visit his manor in England. He has no heirs.”
That was enough explanation for Linton. “Ah, I see. We haven’t given them much thought since the Duke’s poisoning.”
Rowland knew his tone was bitter when he muttered, “Can you blame me?”
Linton continued to point out what Rowland already knew. Rowland was well aware that Linton had family in Gresham—a sister—and that he liked being kept aware of the state of things despite traveling to New South Wales with Rowland’s father. Rowland couldn’t have chosen a better person to talk to about such a matter. “You two don’t know each other. It would be a good opportunity to learn more about your cousin.”
“I’m quite aware of that as well.”
“He has three daughters,” he went on. “The eldest came out during London’s recent Season.”
“Lady Hannah,” Rowland said. At her name, he pictured what he thought many of the ladies of England looked like—fair skin, fair eyes, fair hair. “How unlucky for me that she was not born a gentleman instead.”
“Aye,” Linton agreed absently. Rowland nearly smiled at that. He knew his steward was simply saying that because it was easier to agree than to argue when it came to Rowland. “So, what will you do about the ranches, Sire?”
“What do you think I should do?”
Linton’s response was quick, as if he didn’t have to think about it. “I can take over in your absence and keep everything running accordingly while you explore your duties as heir to the Dukedom. There’s no need to worry about your estate here.”
“Worrying is the last thing on my mind, Linton.”
“Then what ails you, Sire?”
Rowland thought about it for a moment. Having to put it into words…it was more difficult than he thought it would be. “I am comfortable with my life here. It suits me. But will I be able to do my duties as a Duke well?”
A thought occurred to him.
And what of Miss Flynn?
Rowland’s heart constricted at the thought of being away from her for too long, and he once again resisted the urge to glance at the letter sitting on his desk.
Linton thought about it for a moment. Or, at least, that was what Rowland thought he was doing. It was hard to tell with this man sometimes. “The Duke is not yet dead,” he finally said. “My sister works as kitchen help in the Duke’s manor and she tells me that he isn’t even unwell. He lives happily with his wife and his daughters, his subjects adore him, and they have been plenty blessed for the past years. For all we know, Sire, you may not have to think about inheriting the title for years to come.”
Then why does he call me now?
A tingle of worry rushed through him at the thought of leaving his ranches. He’d been the driving force behind their growth since he first started them. It concerned him to just leave.
Linton answered his unspoken question, never moving an inch. “But, the Duke is smart to put things in order. The future, as bright as it may seem, is not certain. In preparation for that, I think it is wise of him to ensure that the person who will be taking over is well versed with what to do. And it is wise of you to go, Sire.”
Rowland knew that. He knew that before Linton had to say it. He finished the rest of his drink.
There was little use lamenting over it, not when he already knew what his response would be. Linton was right; his steward was more than capable of running the ranches in his absence. He could be gone for a year or two and could come back, everything being just as he left it, perhaps even better.
He turned away from the window, looking at Linton. He raised his empty glass. “Care to share a drink or will I have to waste time trying to convince you once again?”
Linton shook his head. Not a single strand of gray hair fell out of place, the rest of his body hardly moving. “There are matters I need to take care of.”
“Right, right. Always busy, you are. Well, don’t let me keep you.”
Falling back into his role, he did a stiff bow. Rowland had long since tried to break him out of that habit, but Linton was not an easy man to break. “Sire,” he said and then made his way out the study, as silent as a cat.
Rowland watched him go, then shook his head to himself. His steward’s stiffness, as infuriating as it could be, amused him at times. This time in particular, it lifted his spirits—until he remembered why Linton had come to his study in the first place.
He looked at his desk, the letter Linton had brought placed right in the center. From this distance, he could see Peggy’s name written with a flourish and the sight of it only made him want to get another drink.
Another time, he told himself. He couldn’t think about her, nor what that letter entailed, right now. For the first time since he read the Duke’s letter, he preferred to focus on his impending inheritance instead.
Rowland didn’t look at the letter until the next day. He had decided to leave it on the desk, in the very same place Linton had put it, and forgot about it. Or at least, he tried to. But since the moment he woke up, his mind had been lingering on the letter, desperate to know what it said.
At the same time, he was much too scared to read it.
He hated the feeling of being scared. He’d never fancied himself an easily cowed man. In fact, Linton would often tell him that he was much too bold sometimes and that it wouldn’t hurt to refrain from being overly courageous in his actions. Yet when it came to a certain young lady, he was simply defenseless. He could do nothing about the way he felt and he suffered because of it.
That suffering carried him throughout the day. Rowland went about his business as usual. He visited a few of the ranches, chatting with the workers to ensure that everything was in good shape. The sheep were in good health, growing nicely, and his employees were even better. They smiled when he came around, and a few offered invitations to dinner. He politely declined them all, thinking that there was a letter waiting for him that would either fill him like a meal would or ruin his app
etite entirely.
The thought followed him, though he put on a normal face. As he continued through the ranches, not all but only those closest to him, Linton’s words struck even truer. He would have nothing to worry about if he were to leave right now. No doubt visiting Gresham would be a lengthy affair, perhaps a year or a year and a half, but the ranches would be in good hands. And Linton would be there to oversee everything. He trusted the man with his life.
It should make leaving easier, but he was still torn. On the one hand, he knew that he was going, that he should. But on the other, he longed for a reason not to.
Will Miss Flynn’s letter produce that reason?
Rowland didn’t know but the thought haunted him, even more so when he finally found himself back in his study, with another glass of brandy in his hand. He stood on the other side of his desk, staring at the untouched letter. His eyes roved over the swirls of her name and his stomach cramped.
He remembered the moment he first met Miss Peggy Flynn. It was at a small ball put on by one of his father’s friends. She had been surrounded by her friends back then, twittering to each while efficiently ignoring all the gentlemen around her. Rowland hadn’t been the only one who had been captured by her beauty back then—her apricot hair pinned up around her head, leaving a few tendrils trailing down her neck, those beautiful green eyes the color of turquoise. He had been the only one, however, she gave her attention to, the only one she had smiled at and offered her hand to for a dance.
Rowland had thought himself special. A beautiful lady who only seemed to have eyes for him was a dream come true, and as time went by, he knew he was falling for her. He fell for the way she would throw her hand over her mouth when she laughed, the splash of freckles across her nose that darkened during the summer, the slight arch of her eyebrow when she spoke.
Only a short time ago, he had asked for her hand in marriage in the central park they liked to frequent from time to time. He thought it the most romantic way of asking, showing her what a gentleman he could be by expressing his love in public. But she had rejected him immediately.
Even so, Rowland couldn’t find it within him to give up and had continued to court her until he thought it appropriate to ask her again, only six weeks later, through a letter. Now that her response was here, Rowland hardly had the courage to look at it.
Rowland set the glass down and snatched the letter up, ripping into it before he could give it a second thought. The memory of the last letter he had sent her flashed through his mind just as he began to read.
It took a few seconds for him to read it. Then he read it again, letting it settle over him. Then he read it a final time before he rested the letter aside like he had done the letter from the Duke of Gresham.
I should have known.
He really should have. Though he had tried his best to prepare himself for this outcome, it still cut deeper and rocked him harder than he expected it to. She rejected him.
It wasn’t a simple rejection. A rejection of his invitation to go on a simple horse ride together, or for him to visit her, he could handle. But this was a rejection of him, of his name. He had asked her to marry him and she declined.
Rowland preferred to read intellectual books rather than fictitious ones, but he was no stranger to renditions of affairs of the heart. He knew of heartbreak, even had a few friends who claimed they experienced it themselves. They all had different assertions of it—that the pain was as physical as it was emotional, that it was merely numbing, that it was hardening.
Rowland didn’t feel any of that, not at first. He simply felt...defeated. Not something he was used to.
He picked his drink back up and downed it all in a gulp. The burn of it didn’t help to chase away the pain he felt creeping in. In fact, it seemed to have bolstered it and though he knew it was a bad idea, he went about making another one.
Once he was on his third glass, and that blissful haze was settling over him, he called for Linton. His lithe steward appeared only a few moments after, watching him from the doorway. “Sire?”
“I need you to write a letter for me. In my state, I don’t think I’ll be able to make the words properly. Or perhaps I’ll even say something I shouldn’t.”
Linton approached the desk and sat. Rowland remained standing, then after a moment, prowled around the room.
“What would you like me to say, Sire?” Linton asked once he was ready.
“It’s for the Duke of Gresham. Tell him I will be joining him as soon as I am able. You can add a few more flourishes if you’d like. Perhaps even tell him that I’m looking forward to it.”
Linton seemed to ignore the slight slur to his words and went about writing. Rowland continued to pace the room. To an outsider, he looked idle. To Linton, he knew exactly how he looked. Like someone trying to act normal.
“I’ll ride into town tomorrow to find the soonest passage to England.”
“I’ll have your things prepared, Sire.”
“Don’t miss me too much when I’m gone, Linton.”
Linton’s response was simple and quick. “That’s impossible, Sire.”
Chapter 2
Joanna Albertson, née Bagley, the Duchess of Gresham, was a beauty who only seemed to grow more beautiful with time. As she stood in the foyer of Gresham Manor, her beautiful face split by her equally beautiful smile, Hannah couldn’t help picturing her only a few years ago. She had stood in this very spot, welcoming Hannah into the manor after the Duke had taken her out for her first horse ride. Hannah had thought she smelled terribly of horses that day, but her mother had folded her into her arms as if she didn’t.
They didn’t embrace this time. They simply held hands. “It’s great to be back at the manor, isn’t it?” Her Grace asked her, tipping her head as she drank in the sight of the familiar manor.
Hannah nodded in agreement. They had entered the manor together, holding hands, basking in the joy of being home once more. “I didn’t think I would be so happy to see these dusty paintings on the wall as much as I am,” she said with a chuckle.
Her mother laughed with her. “They aren’t dusty,” she chided lightly.
“Forgive me, Mother. I meant, boring.”
“That’s a little more believable.”
They erupted into a fit of giggles as if they were both young ladies with nary a care in the world. In truth, Her Grace was eight-and-thirty years while Hannah was only nineteen and though they looked very much alike, the difference in age was still clear as day.
“Can you believe the Duke is not here to welcome us?” Her Grace said. “And after months of being apart, too.”
“He may be busy, Mother,” Hannah said with a smile. She knew what she was doing, stoking the fire that was her mother’s hidden fury. Everyone in Gresham knew the Duchess was not a lady to be trifled with. She smiled easily enough, but she could snarl just as quickly, too.
She sounded only mildly miffed, though, nothing noteworthy. “Oh, busy nothing. I am his wife and you are his beloved daughter. There should be a ball to welcome us back home.”
“Forgive me, but I hope this will please you instead?”
Hannah turned toward the voice. The butler seemed to have melted into the wall the moment the Duke of Gresham appeared with a broad grin. No doubt to give the family their privacy. “Welcome home, My Dear,” the Duke said, taking Her Grace’s other hand.
Hannah’s father, Christopher Albertson, the Duke of Gresham, was quite unlike his wife. His handsomeness was more composed, as if made from his grace and nobility. It was clear just by looking at him that he had been born into nobility, and happened to be blessed with dazzling hazel eyes and mahogany hair that made the ladies swoon when he was younger. Or so Hannah was told. She was well accustomed to her father’s good looks, so his tales were not impressive to her.
Her mother, on the other hand, had a spirit within her that couldn’t be tamed. She played her role as Duchess well and the people loved her. But she was not like Hannah’
s father. Her upbringing hadn’t been encased with propriety and duty like the Duke’s. She had been untethered and had she not fallen for the Duke, Hannah liked to think she would have continued her life as a Traveller. That untamed spirit seemed to manifest itself in her looks, through Joanna’s long, black hair that required a lot for submission, through her unnatural eyes—one brown and the other green.
Hannah looked a lot like her mother, the biggest similarities being their different colored eyes. She shared her father’s tall and slender stature, though she was still dwarfed by him, and had thick, cascading hair like her mother’s, though it was auburn. But her inherited eyes were unmistakable. One glittered green, the other glowed golden.
Hannah slipped her hand out of Her Grace’s as her father drew closer. She prepared herself for the display of affection she was about to witness. “Ah, is this the Duke of Gresham coming to see who’s making a ruckus in his foyer?” her mother said drolly.
Her father shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Forgive me,” he said again. “I had been awaiting the arrival of you two, but I happened to get a little carried away with some business.”
“Understandable.” Her Mother’s easy response was suspicious. Hannah watched on, amused. “A Duke is a busy man.”
The Duke was not so convinced by her words. He leaned down and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. Then he looked at Hannah, eyes twinkling. “She’s upset with me.”
“As she should be,” Hannah said, raising her chin.
“Ah, and you’re upset with me, too. What did I go and get myself into?”
“It’s nothing, Christopher,” her Mother said, her tone light. “Your daughter and your wife returning from the London Season after months being apart from you should not distract you from the work you have to do. Surely not.” Hannah nodded to herself. At the start of the Season, her father had been tasked with hosting a diplomat from Prussia, which left Her Grace and Hannah on their own for the London Season. Neither parties were complaining, but Hannah would have liked to hear that her father missed them during the months apart.
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