Dedication
For the Cover Girls
Who share their love of good books,
robust laughter, excellent wine,
and amazing friendship.
To Kathy and Becky for getting us started.
To Wendy, Jenn, and Felicia
for keeping us together.
Book clubs rule!
Contents
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
By Lorraine Heath
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
On the night of November 15, one of the most horrific disasters in British railway history occurred when a passenger train collided head-on with a train transporting flammable goods. Several cars were instantly engulfed in a fireball of orange flames. It is impossible to adequately describe the horrendous carnage of mangled bodies, impaled and dismembered travelers, and blackened corpses. Twenty-seven souls were lost …
Reported in the Times, 1858
As the coach rattled over the rough, uneven road, Nicholson Lambert, the recently anointed Duke of Ashebury, stared at the passing landscape that was as bleak and dreary as his soul. He felt hollow, empty, as though, at any moment, his body would simply crumple in on itself and cease to exist. He didn’t know how much longer he could continue to breathe, to carry on, to—
“Don’t touch me,” the Earl of Greyling, sitting across from him, demanded.
Nicky glanced over in time to see the earl’s twin, Edward, shove on his brother’s shoulder. The earl pushed back. Edward slapped at him. The earl scrambled onto the seat, resting on his knees, his new position giving him height as he made a fist, brought his arm back—
“That’s enough now, lads,” Mr. Beckwith said, quickly setting aside the book he’d been reading and lurching forward to put out an arm to shield Edward from his brother’s attack. Still, the earl let his balled fist fly. It landed with an undamaging thud on Mr. Beckwith’s forearm.
Any other time, Nicky might have laughed at the younger boy’s ineffectual fighting technique. Only a few months before, shortly after Nicky turned eight, his father had taken him to view a boxing match, so he was quite familiar with the sound of a punch that carried power behind it as flesh met flesh. The earl’s fist could have been a rose petal floating to the ground for all the impact it had made.
“That is not the sort of behavior that a lord of the realm displays,” Mr. Beckwith admonished.
“He started it,” Greyling grumbled, not for the first time since they’d begun this arduous and horrendous journey from London.
“Yes, and I’m finishing it. Your Grace, please trade places with the earl.” The order was spoken easily as though Nicky—he was having a difficult time thinking of himself as Ashebury, wondered if he ever would—had the ability to move at will, as though he didn’t have to dredge up the strength from some hidden reservoir buried deep inside him.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Mr. Beckwith arched a brow over blue eyes that seemed to see far too much. “Your Grace?”
Taking a deep breath, Nicky summoned up the fortitude to push off the bench until his booted feet thudded to the floor. With a great deal of effort, he maintained his balance and swapped places with the Earl of Greyling. Once they were all situated to Beckwith’s satisfaction, the solicitor adjusted his spectacles and returned his attention to reading his book. Edward stuck his tongue out at his brother. Lord Greyling crossed his eyes and pushed up the end of his nose until he resembled a pig. Nicky looked back out the window to the passing scenery, wishing Mr. Beckwith would read aloud so his voice might drown out the screeching of the wind over the moors. He wished—
“I’m not staying,” Edward announced. “I’m going to run off. You can’t make me stay.”
Nicky looked over at Edward. He appeared so confident, so assured, his chin held high, his dark brown eyes penetrating as he glared at the solicitor. Was that all it took to end this nightmarish journey to Dartmoor? To simply make a proclamation that it wasn’t going to be so?
Slowly, Beckwith lowered his book, his eyes filling with understanding, compassion, and sorrow. “That would not please your father.”
“My father’s dead.”
The earl gasped. For Nicky, the words were a physical blow to his chest. He could hardly breathe at the stark truth that he’d not dared whisper even to himself. He kept thinking if he never thought the words, they wouldn’t be true, his father wouldn’t be gone, and he wouldn’t be the Duke of Ashebury. But he was struggling to hold on to the illusion that his world hadn’t shattered.
“Still, he would expect you to behave in a manner befitting your station,” Mr. Beckwith assured him kindly.
“I don’t want to be here,” Edward said with vehemence. “I want to go home.”
“And you shall … in time. Your father”—he looked at Nicky—“both your fathers knew the Marquess of Marsden quite well. They went to school together, were mates. They trust him with your upbringing. As I’ve explained before, they left instructions that in the event of their deaths, the marquess was to serve as your guardian. And so it shall be.”
His lower lip beginning to quiver, Edward looked at his brother. “Albert, you’re the earl now. Tell him we don’t have to go. Make him take us home.”
With a quiet sigh of surrender, the new Earl of Greyling rubbed his right earlobe. “We have to do it. It’s what Father wanted.”
“It’s stupid. I hate you. I hate you all!” Edward brought his feet up to the bench seat and, turning his back on them, buried his face in the corner of the coach.
Nicky could see his shoulders shaking, knew he was trying hard not to let on that he was weeping. He wished he could cry but knew it would disappoint his father to show such weakness. He was the duke now and had to be strong. It didn’t matter that his mother and father were dead. His nanny had assured him that they could still watch him, would know if he were misbehaving. If he were a bad boy, he’d go to hell when he died and never see them again.
“There it is, lads. Havisham Hall. It’ll be your home for a while,” Mr. Beckwith said solemnly.
Pressing his face to the glass and looking back, Nicky could see the behemoth silhouette standing ominously against the darkening gray skies. The manor house in which he’d been growing up had been as large, but it didn’t appear as foreboding. He swallowed hard. Perhaps Edward had the right of it, and they could run away.
The coach came to a shuddering halt. No one came out of the house to greet them. It was as though they weren’t expected. A footman climbed down and opened the carriage door. Mr. Beckwith stepped out.
“Come with me, lads.” His voice carried no doubts that they were supposed to be here, that this was the correct place, and that they would be welcomed.
Nicky darted his gaze between the earl and his brother. They’d both gone pale, their brown eyes too huge and round. They waited. He was the oldest, the higher rank, so it fell to him to go first. While everything wi
thin him screamed to stay where he was, he gathered up his resolve not to be cowardly and clambered out. He sucked in his breath as the cold winds buffeted against him. The brothers fell into place behind him. In silence, they followed Mr. Beckwith up the steps. At the stoop, the solicitor lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall. A clang echoed eerily around them. Again, Beckwith knocked. And again, and again—
The door swung open, and a decrepit old man stood there, his black jacket and waistcoat faded and threadbare. “May I be of service?”
“Charles Beckwith to see the Marquess of Marsden. I’m expected.” With a practiced flick of his wrist, Mr. Beckwith produced his card.
Taking it, the white-haired butler opened the door farther. “Come in, and I’ll alert his lordship to your arrival.”
As grateful as Nicky was to get out of the wind, he wished he’d stayed where he was. The entryway was shadowed and just as chilly as outside. The butler wandered away into a darkened hallway that Nicky feared led into the very bowels of hell about which his nanny had warned him. He could see no end to it. A quick glance at the twins did not reassure him. They looked as though their wariness had increased tenfold. As for his own, it was at least double that. He wanted to be strong, brave, and courageous. He wanted to be the good son, to please his father, but staying here would kill him. He was sure of it.
They waited in the oppressive quiet. Even the tall clock in the hallway wasn’t ticking, its hands weren’t moving. The silent sentry caused a shiver to race up Nicky’s spine.
A tall, thin man stepped out of the sinister-looking hallway. His clothes hung on his frame as though they had been fitted for a man twice his size. Although his cheeks and eyes were sunken, and his hair was more white than black, he didn’t really appear particularly old.
Beckwith snapped to attention. “My lord, I’m Charles Beckwith, solicitor—”
“So your card said. Why are you here?” The rasp of his voice hinted that it wasn’t accustomed to being used.
“I brought the lads.”
“What use have I for lads?”
Beckwith pulled back his shoulders. “I sent you a missive, my lord. The Duke of Ashebury, the Earl of Greyling, and their wives were tragically killed in a railway accident.”
“Railway. If God meant for us to travel in such contraptions, He’d have not given us horses.”
Nicky blinked. Where was the man’s sympathy and sorrow at the news? Why was he not offering comfort?
“Be that as it may,” Beckwith said evenly, “I had expected to see you at the funeral.”
“I don’t attend funerals. They’re ghastly depressing.”
Nicky didn’t think truer words could have been spoken. He’d hated the one for his parents. During the wake, he’d wanted to open the casket to be sure they were there, but his nanny had told him that he wouldn’t recognize them. His parents had been burned to cinders. They knew which body was his father’s because of his signet ring, a ring that Nicky now wore on a chain about his neck, but how did they know that the woman they’d buried with his father was really his mother? What if she wasn’t? What if she wasn’t with him now?
“Which is the reason that I’ve brought the lads to you—since you didn’t retrieve them yourself,” Beckwith said.
“Why bring them to me?”
“As I stated in my missive—”
“I don’t recall a missive.”
“Then I offer my apologies, my lord, for its being lost in the post. However, both the duke and earl named you as guardian of their sons.”
As though only just becoming aware of their presence, Marsden homed his dark green eyes in on them. Nicky felt as though his heart had been stabbed with a poker. He didn’t want to be left in the care of this man, who didn’t seem to possess an ounce of kindness or compassion.
Furrowing his brow, the marquess gave his attention back to Beckwith. “Why would they be foolish enough to do that?”
“They obviously trusted you, my lord.”
Marsden cackled as though it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said about him. Nicky couldn’t bear it. Rushing forward, he balled up his fist and punched the marquess in the gut, again and again.
“Don’t you laugh,” Nicky cried, mortified that tears were burning his eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh at my father!”
“Easy, lad,” Beckwith said, pulling him back. “Nothing is accomplished with fisticuffs.”
Only that wasn’t true because the marquess had stopped laughing. Breathing heavily, Nicky was prepared to go at him again if he had to.
“Sorry, boy,” the marquess said. “I wasn’t laughing at your father, merely the absurdity of my seeing to your care.”
Ashamed by his outburst, Nicky turned away, taken aback when he spotted the scraggly boy—wearing only breeches that looked to be too small and a white linen shirt—crouched behind a large potted frond. His long black hair fell into his eyes.
“But you will honor their request,” Beckwith stated emphatically.
Shifting his eyes back to the marquess, Nicky saw him give one quick nod.
“I will. For friendship’s sake.”
“Very good, my lord. If you could send some footmen out to retrieve the lads’ trunks—”
“Have your driver and footman bring them in. Then be on your way.”
Beckwith seemed to hesitate, but eventually he knelt before Nicky and the twins. “Keep your chins up, be good lads, and make your parents proud.” He curled his hand over Edward’s shoulder and squeezed. Then Greyling’s. Finally, Nicky’s.
Nicky wanted to beg not to be left behind. Please, please, take me with you! But he held his tongue. He’d already shamed himself once. He wouldn’t do it again.
Beckwith stood, eyed the marquess. “I shall be checking on them.”
“No need. They’re in my care now. Be off with you as quickly as possible.” He looked toward the windows. “Before it’s too late.”
With a slow nod, Beckwith turned on his heel and walked out. No one moved. No one spoke. The trunks were brought in. Shortly afterward, Nicky heard the creaking of the coach’s wheels, the pounding of the horses’ hooves as though Beckwith had ordered the driver to hurry, as though he couldn’t escape fast enough.
“Locksley!” the marquess shouted, making Ashe jump.
The boy behind the frond rushed forward. “Yes, Father?”
“Show them upstairs. Let them select the bedchamber they want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll be dark soon,” the marquess said, a faraway look coming into his eyes. “Don’t go out at night.”
As though no longer aware of their presence, he wandered back into the dark and foreboding hallway from which he’d originally emerged.
“Come on,” the boy said, turning for the stairs.
“We’re not staying,” Nicky suddenly announced, deciding it was time he took charge, time for him to be as dukish as possible.
“Why not? I’d like to have someone to play with. And you’ll like it here. You can do anything you want. No one cares.”
“Why isn’t your clock working?” Edward asked, stepping nearer to it as though suddenly intrigued by the craftsmanship.
Locksley scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”
Lifting his hand, Edward drew a circle in the air. “It’s supposed to be ticking. The hands are supposed to move around the numbers.” He reached up—
“Don’t touch it!” Locksley shouted as he darted in front of the clock. “You’re not supposed to touch it. Ever.”
“Why not?”
Looking confused, Locksley shook his head. “You’re just not.”
“Where’s your mother?” Greyling asked, stepping nearer to Edward, as though he needed the comfort of a familiar presence in this dreary, ominous place.
“Dead,” Locksley said flatly. “That’s her ghost shrieking over the moors. If you go out at night, she’ll snatch you up and take you away with her.”
A cold, icy
shiver skittered down Nicky’s spine. He looked toward the door, the windows on either side of it revealing the darkness descending, and he feared it would claim him as well, that when he could finally leave this place—like his parents—little of him would remain except ash.
Chapter 1
London
1878
ETIQUETTE dictated that a gentleman caller did not extend his visit beyond fifteen minutes, so it was that Miss Minerva Dodger knew that her time in the company of Lord Sheridan would be drawing to a close within the next one hundred and eighty interminable seconds. Sooner, if luck was on her side, but the gentleman sitting to her left on the sofa in the front parlor was apparently determined to eke out his maximum stay. Since she had handed him a cup of tea shortly after his arrival, he seemed to have forgotten his purpose in coming here. The fine bone china with the red roses hadn’t once left the saucer that he balanced so expertly on his thigh.
This visit was his third within the past seven days, and all she’d really garnered from their time together was that he used a little too much bergamot cologne, kept his fingernails well manicured, and periodically released sighs for ostensibly no reason whatsoever. And that he cleared his throat to signal the end of his calling upon her.
She now welcomed the harsh gurgle as he set aside his cup before standing. Placing her own cup and saucer on the low table in front of her, she pushed to her feet and fought not to look too pleased that the ordeal was finally over. “Thank you so much for coming, Lord Sheridan.”
“I hope I may call on you tomorrow.” The earnestness in his brown eyes alerted her that he was not truly asking for permission but was merely stating his intent.
“If I may be so bold, my lord, allow me to ask if this is truly how you want to spend the remainder of your life—sitting about in heavy silences with only the ticking of the clock to remind us of the passing of time?”
Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) Page 1