Duke of Thorns (Heiress Games 1)

by Sara Ramsey

  He bowed. “At your service, cousin.”

  Another duke. Maidenstone Abbey was positively rotten with them. He seemed friendly enough, despite his overly proprietary treatment of her cheeks. He was taller than her, but not so tall as to be domineering. An uncharitable person might have said that his hair was red, but in the soft light of an English summer evening the auburn strands were charming rather than unfashionable.

  After a pause, she curtsied for him. It was brief, but it was more than she’d done for Thorington. The Duke of Rothwell was family, after all, in a tenuous sort of way — he was her grandmother’s brother’s grandson, which made them second cousins. And she didn’t have a dark urge to do him violence like she did with Thorington.

  “You aren’t much for ceremony, are you?” he asked.

  “I only find it appealing when it’s deserved, your grace,” she said.

  Everyone in his party laughed. To her ears, they sounded charmed rather than judgmental. She unbent another fraction of an inch.

  “Spoken like a true daughter of the republic,” the duke responded. “I can’t abide ceremony myself. You must call me Ferguson if you don’t wish to use my title.”

  She must have looked startled — such intimacy was usually reserved for only the closest friends. The woman next to him laughed. “Don’t let yourself be shocked by him, Miss Briarley. He asks everyone to call him Ferguson.”

  The other man in their party sighed. “You can be shocked, Miss Briarley. I am shocked every day when I remember I am related to him — it must be worse for you, knowing you share bloodlines.”

  Ferguson didn’t look offended in the slightest. “I forgot myself. Miss Briarley, allow me to present to you my wife, Madeleine.” He gestured to the woman who had just spoken, smiling as though he couldn’t help but do so when he said her name. “Her cousin is, unfortunately, Lord Salford, but I accept him as the cross I must bear. And he has somehow claimed the lovely Lady Salford as his new wife.”

  Madeleine, the Duchess of Rothwell, gave Callie a warm smile as she embraced her — again more affectionately than Callie expected, but genuine enough that Callie slowly began to relax. “I look forward to knowing you better, Miss Briarley. If you Americans can give us advice on how to overthrow our ducal masters, I would appreciate it.”

  There was a vaguely French lilt to her voice, but it was her warmth that made her irresistible. Ferguson pulled her close to him. “Careful, Mad,” he warned her, with fake severity. “I think you like being a duchess too much to advocate treason against me.”

  “Madeleine should have considered treason before she agreed to marry you,” Lord Salford said drily.

  “It’s lucky for us our wives didn’t think too hard about their situations, or you never would have won Prudence,” Ferguson retorted. “Begging your pardon, of course, Lady Salford.”

  Prudence, Lady Salford, shrugged. “There’s no accounting for taste, as you like to say.”

  For all that they were insulting each other, it was clear that the four held each other in the highest esteem. They were older than her — the women were perhaps in their late twenties, and the men in their mid-thirties. Was it their age that made them so confident? Their titles? Their wealth?

  Or was it the bond they shared — some connection that seemed strong and unassailable?

  Callie didn’t have that depth with anyone. She smiled and hoped her sudden jealousy didn’t show in her eyes. “Are you truly responsible for this affair, Ferguson, or did someone steal your name for the invitations?” she asked.

  She had heard of his name even before she’d received his invitation. Anyone who had stumbled across a newspaper from London the previous year knew his name. He had inherited the dukedom unexpectedly, after losing his father and brother in a carriage accident, and the gossip sheets from early 1812 were full of rumors about his family’s insanity.

  Ferguson lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence. “The party rests on my shoulders. But your grandfather deserves the blame.”

  Then Ferguson really was insane, even if the rumors had died down after he’d married. Having a party to settle the will was not a common endeavor. “There must have been a better way to divide the estate than this,” she said.

  “Your grandfather was eccentric in the extreme,” Ferguson said.

  “As is Ferguson,” Salford muttered.

  “Quiet,” Ferguson said to him. “You’ll ruin my reputation.” Then he returned his attention to Callie. “As I was saying, your grandfather was eccentric in the extreme. If he could have, he’d have had you fight to the death for it. Said it was the family tradition.”

  “I’ve heard nothing to dispute that,” Callie said. “There is a special symbol in the family Bible for Briarleys who died at the hands of a relative.”

  “Have you already sought out the library?” Ferguson asked. “You might find Salford tolerable if you like books so much.”

  “No, the Bible is in one of my trunks. My father stole it when he left England. He was rather fond of it.”

  Rather more fond of the family Bible than he was of most of the other things she’d had as a child. A keen tracker could have found them in Baltimore by tracing the dolls, dresses, and books Callie had been forced to leave behind in their hasty maneuvers across Europe and the West Indies. But Tiberius had always managed to keep the Bible with them.

  “There won’t be any blood shed when the estate passes this time. A duel would have settled it all faster, but we shall have to endure a party instead.”

  “I hope the party won’t be a chore for all of you,” Callie said.

  Salford sighed. “House parties are rarely entertaining.”

  “Cheer up, Salford,” Ferguson said. “If one of the ladies finds herself compromised, I’ll let you do the honors and force the man to own up to his faults. You excel at it.”

  Salford brightened perceptibly.

  “How likely is that to happen?” Callie asked suspiciously.

  “You’re quite a prize, Miss Briarley. I’d set the odds at one in three,” Ferguson said.

  Madeleine shushed him. “You’ll scare her.”

  “Yes, but she should know the chances,” Ferguson replied. “I only invited gentlemen, but they might be tempted to do something unforgivable in order to inherit Maidenstone.”

  “You can make it understood that anyone who compromises one of the Briarley heiresses won’t win,” Madeleine said.

  “True,” Ferguson mused. “But then again, if all the suitors are boring, how am I to decide which one would have most impressed Lord Maidenstone? The old earl probably would have preferred any man who took the estate by force.”

  “This sounds positively medieval,” Callie interjected. “I don’t want to be fought over or forced into anything.”

  “No one does,” Ferguson said. “But there it is. You have three months to find the right consort before I judge them. The party won’t last that long, but if you’d all settle this before I return to London in September, I’d be much obliged. There are plenty of potential husbands for you to choose from here. As long as the suitors behave themselves and don’t kidnap you, of course.”

  Callie looked beyond him to the other people in the room. She didn’t see anyone, immediately, who struck her fancy, let alone anyone who seemed capable of kidnapping. They all looked entirely dull.

  But then, she should be looking for dull. Someone so dull that he wouldn’t notice her running a privateering company under his nose, for example.

  “Who would you recommend I marry?” she asked. “If you want speed, I’ll take your advice on how to win.”

  Ferguson arched an eyebrow. “Attempting to influence the judge?”

  “It’s the best strategy I have at the moment,” she said. “I’m at a disadvantage to Lucretia and Octavia.”

  “Lucretia and Octavia both abandoned London years ago, after Octavia’s brother died — his death is what started this whole mess,” Ferguson said. “But I wasn’t in L
ondon when they were. I know them as little as I know you. So you aren’t at a disadvantage with me, even if you’re less knowledgeable about society than they are.”

  “Do you know where they are?” Callie asked as she looked around the rooms again. She didn’t particularly care to see them, but she needed to better understand her competition. “I haven’t seen Lucretia since I arrived, and I’ve yet to meet Octavia.”

  “Octavia hasn’t arrived — I assume she will at some point, but I’ve heard no confirmation from her either way,” Ferguson said. “Lucretia went out onto the terrace with Thorington and Lady Maidenstone. She’s probably being compromised as we speak.”

  Thorington. “Is he such a devil, then?” she asked.

  “The very worst,” Ferguson assured her.

  Salford flexed his fingers. “I’m ready to do the honors if you need someone to teach the man another lesson, Ferguson.”

  Prudence shushed them both this time. “You don’t have anything to fear, Miss Briarley,” she said. “But I would recommend not going about without a chaperone. Did someone accompany you downstairs?”

  Captain Jacobs’ wife had been the nearest thing to a chaperone she’d had, and the woman had refused to come to England. Callie suddenly felt uneasy. “She wasn’t able to make the voyage.”

  “Did you travel alone?” Prudence asked.

  “I had my maid. She was previously my governess.”

  Madeleine nodded. “Good enough, although not ideal. I shall chaperone you for the duration of the party.”

  “I’m sure I don’t…” Callie began to say.

  Ferguson interrupted her. “And I shall act as guardian.”

  “I’m sure I don’t…” Callie started to say again.

  “Someone must negotiate your marriage contracts,” Ferguson said. “I shall be honored.”

  “I’m sure…”

  Salford interrupted her this time. “You’re taking on rather a lot, Ferguson. Guardian and judge of this contest? I know you like matchmaking, but this is a bit much even for you.”

  “It’s no burden. And I can use the practice so that I may negotiate better contracts for my sisters when the time comes.”

  Callie finally cleared her throat. The sound was unladylike, but it stopped them from talking about her like she wasn’t there. “I don’t need your assistance,” she said, when Ferguson finally looked at her. “I have negotiated my own contracts for the last five years. I’m capable of seeing to my own affairs.”

  “I’m sure you can, Miss Briarley. But I am your nearest male relative — or at least as near as any of your other cousins on your grandmother’s side. You’re my responsibility now.”

  He said it as though it was an immutable fact. And she was sure he meant it as something noble. To men like him, everything was their responsibility.

  Even if she had dreams that she was perfectly capable of achieving on her own.

  But she couldn’t achieve those dreams if she was transported for assaulting a duke.

  Before she could do something regrettable to the man who would decide whether she won Maidenstone, Thorington stepped through one of the open French doors. He was alone. If he’d compromised Lucretia on the terrace, there were no screams or tears to indicate it.

  She saw him an instant before Thorington saw her. But then he met her gaze unerringly, as though he had known exactly where to look for her. Had he seen her through the window, or did he just always know where to find his prey?

  She dropped her gaze, discouraging him. But he joined them anyway. “Miss Briarley,” he murmured, nodding at her. “You should know better than to converse with dukes and duchesses.”

  Ferguson’s eyes turned cold. “Thorington. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He said it as though Thorington really was the devil himself. Thorington nodded at him, utterly composed. “Rothwell. Duchess. Lord and Lady Salford. You all look well.”

  They all stared at him. Finally, Salford nodded. “Thorington. Good to see you again.”

  He sounded like he wasn’t sure he meant it. Callie didn’t understand the undercurrents, but the chill would freeze her if she stayed there.

  “I can’t seem to help but stumble across dukes and duchesses, can I?” she said to Thorington. “I’d rather find an honest farmer or ship captain.”

  “I ran out of invitations before we sank that low on the guest list, Miss Briarley,” Ferguson said. “Besides, Madeleine will tell you dukes aren’t so bad. Thorington excluded, of course.”

  His tone was completely friendly to her, but his comment about Thorington had a ring of truth to it. Thorington ignored it and offered her his arm. “I’m sure you’d prefer to converse with my sisters. You’re of an age, I believe.”

  She looked past him to where his sisters sat with their heads bent together, watching them. “I don’t believe they are interested in conversing with me.”

  “Don’t pay Thorington any attention,” Ferguson said. “His siblings are all charming enough, but he’s not a candidate for your hand.”

  Thorington gave him a cool, assessing stare. “It was my understanding the ladies could choose whomever they wish for this contest.”

  “They can. But I can choose whomever I wish as the winner.”

  Neither of them said anything more. Anything else might have been an insult too great to remain unanswered. In any physical contest between them — whether it was swords, pistols, or fisticuffs — Callie guessed that Thorington would come out the winner. He wasn’t substantially bigger than Ferguson, having only a couple of inches on him in height. But his cruel determination made him far more dangerous.

  Still, he seemed to know when it wasn’t in his interests to force a battle. He nodded instead. “I wish you luck with your meddling, Ferguson. You do excel at it.”

  Salford snorted at that, but managed to cover it with a cough.

  Thorington walked away and joined his siblings. Lady Portia, Lady Serena, and Lord Anthony didn’t look like him at all — they might have been three strangers who’d drawn lots and then been forced into his company. Serena, at least, had his eyes, if Callie remembered correctly from their earlier introduction — bright, inquisitive green, but topped with blonde hair rather than brown. But Portia’s red hair and Anthony’s blue eyes matched nothing about Thorington.

  When he reached them, the girls pulled their heads away from each other as though he wouldn’t notice that they had been gossiping. Anthony scowled at something Thorington said to him. They all looked mutinous, not amused.

  Callie should have been appalled. His siblings, Ferguson, the other members of Ferguson’s party — none of them seemed to like Thorington very much.

  But the memory of his green eyes, and the realization that he didn’t laugh very often but had laughed for her, still dazzled her.

  “Do not pay him any mind, Miss Briarley,” Ferguson said. “He’s not suitable.”

  Ferguson’s tone made her itch. “If I decide he is suitable, though, can I choose to marry him?”

  All four were silent, as though the very idea made them vastly uncomfortable. Finally, Ferguson shook his head. “You can marry any other man at this party. You can even marry a farmer, if you can find one. But if you marry Thorington, you’ll be condemning yourself to a life of misery. And I won’t reward you for it with this estate, even if he fits your grandfather’s ideals.”

  Where Thorington never seemed to laugh, the lines around Ferguson’s eyes suggested that he always did. But he wasn’t laughing now.

  And Callie was left to wonder how Thorington had earned his enmity — and how she was going to follow through with her plan to win Maidenstone while Thorington’s gaze followed her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You’re holding the stick like you plan to club someone over the head,” Rafe said as he walked into the billiard room after dinner.

  “I must have known you planned to interrupt me,” Thorington said.

  Rafe shrugged. “If you’re i
n one of your moods, you shouldn’t have come to the billiard room. Not my fault you didn’t seek solitude somewhere more private.”

  Thorington raised an eyebrow. Usually that gesture was as effective as slamming a door — particularly when accompanied by an icy, uninviting silence. But rather than leave, Rafe leaned against the wall and smirked at him, as though he knew the exact reason for Thorington’s ire.

  That was the problem with these blasted house parties. There was no solitude anywhere. He could hide in his room, but the only entertainment waiting there was the stack of letters from his creditors.

  And hiding never suited his purposes. He had to stay, to watch, to further his goals.

  But staying in the drawing room and watching Callista examining the other men like so much breeding stock made his heart cold, even as it made his blood hot.

  “Make yourself useful and play with me, if you won’t leave me alone,” Thorington said.

  “Are we putting money on the outcome?” Rafe asked as he selected a billiard-stick from the rack on the wall.

  “Your pot of nothing for my pot of nothing? Not much excitement there.”

  “Better than going back to the drawing room,” Rafe said. He shuddered in an entirely exaggerated fashion. With his flair for drama, one might have thought that Rafe, not Portia, was the bastard their mother had gotten off a Covent Garden actor.

  But Rafe shared Thorington’s blood. And Thorington couldn’t dispute Rafe’s assessment of the drawing room. Dinner had been an interminable affair. The food had been as delicious as could be expected when the kitchens were too far from the dining room, and the flowers Lucretia had arranged were an inspired touch. But all of Lucretia’s preparations couldn’t save the conversation from being insipid.

  Nor did the flowers block the sight of Callista, sitting with the Duke of Rothwell. That corner of the dining room had enjoyed itself, even if no one else had. Thorington had been stuck between Lucretia and Lady Maidenstone — unpleasant, to say the least, since he had rejected Lucretia’s suit. There hadn’t been time for her to change the seating arrangements. He suspected that he would spend the next dinner in some hellish position, stuck between whatever poor neighborhood spinsters Lucretia had dug up to balance the table. Watching Callista with one of his sworn enemies, too far away to know what he said to her, required something far stronger than the claret in his glass to ignore.