REGENCY ROMANCE
Thorn, Son of a Duke
The Dukes of Desire - 3
by Sandra Masters
Sertsam Publishing © 2020
Copyright © 2015 to 2020 Sertsam Publishing and Sandra Masters, Author
Originally published in 2016 by Wild Rose Press
Second Edition published in 2020 Sertsam Publishing
All rights reserved.
No parts of this work may be copied without the author’s permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover – Kim Lambert
ISBN-13: 978-1-7333667-7-9
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dedications
To my plotster husband, Ron, for our endless conversations about characterization and plots.
~*~
Most of all to my editor, Arietta Richmond aka Kim Lambert for her enduring patience and encouragement.
~*~
To the many professionals who work behind the scenes.
~*~
To my exceptional readers for their continuing support.
Without you, I could not be here.
Table of Contents
Thorn, Son of a Duke
Disclaimer
Dedications
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Books by Sandra Masters
About the Author
Here is your preview of The Duke’s Magnificent Bastard Book 4 of the Dukes of Desire Series
Chapter One
Chapter One
Aboard His Majesty’s Clipper Ship en-route to England, 1817
Thorn Wick leaned over the railing of the ship, a queasy sensation roiling in his stomach as he watched the swelling of the seas. He closed his eyes and hoped that everything would go away and he’d wake up and find himself in his room in Barbados, on firm ground.
He preferred to be starboard, a term he’d just learned, so that he could breathe the salty air and, if necessary, heave his guts over the side without soiling his newly purchased clothes. He recalled when he was at his mother’s bedside and she’d made him promise to go and live with his father.
It was the first time she’d mentioned him in more than a passing comment.
She’d whispered to him, “Thorn, I am dying. It will make it easier for me if I know that you and your birth father are together. He’s a good man and because he contracted malaria, he was torn from me. Then later you were born.”
“Mother,” he’d asked, “what good will it do? I can make my way here. I refuse to believe that you’re at death’s door. You’re too young,” his eyes had blurred and glistened.
“Son, I am not so foolish as to think that I will survive this malady. It came on slowly and has sucked my strength minute by minute. Please listen to me.”
“Mother,” he’d pleaded and held her hand tightly. “I need you. Don’t leave me alone. Haven’t I provided for you?”
“Thorn, you’ve been the best of sons that a mother could wish for. Now, I’d like you to meet your father. In many ways, you are nobler than you think. The barrister in town has a letter that I want sent to the man who fathered you, to let him know that he has a strong, handsome son who bears his blue eyes and his tattoo.”
“No, I don’t want to go. My life is here on this island with you.”
“Thorn, promise me that you will see Mr. Morton Jones and ask to have the letter delivered by messenger. Funds have been provided. The Duke of Althorn is a prominent man and he will ensure that you grow up in the environment you deserve.” Thorn had moved to her bedside and cradled her to him, allowing unmanly tears to fall. He’d rocked her in his arms, closed his eyes, and prayed that she would not leave him. He was hers to love, and she was generous in that regard. “Promise me, Thorn. I can go to my death in peace if I know that you will have a good and prosperous life… that all we’ve done together was not a hopeless dream. You are older than your years, but it is time the Duke knows of you.”
She’d looked into his blue eyes, cupped his face, and exhaled slowly, each word more painful than the previous. There was only one answer he could give.
“I promise, mother. I promise. At least I will try my best,” and he’d seen her face relax into a serene expression.
She had gone to meet her maker.
“No, No, No,” he’d bellowed.
*****
Born in one world, he was about to enter the new one of his father’s as a bastard son. Wrenched from his native island, he wasn’t sure where he belonged. It was a difficult stance to have one foot in the island of Barbados he’d come to love, despite the bullying of boys his age. It was the other foot that concerned him since he didn’t know what to expect of the Duke of Althorn and — England.
Sir Tomas Martinez, his father’s friend, came to transport him and informed Thorn of the hierarchy. Simply put, Thorn had a half-brother, a step-mother and a grandmother.
The sun overhead glowed on his swarthy skin. His black hair shone with blue tints, like his father’s did, he was told. Eyes the colour of china blue Delft were a replica of the Duke’s. What signified most to Tomas and the young man was the tattoo that the witch doctor had inked him with, when he was eleven years old. Again, his father had the exact same one.
Thorn remembered the pain when the needle had perforated his glistening skin and the hours he’d stayed still without movement. Old Kondo could be fierce if his artistry was disturbed. As a young boy, he’d asked why it was necessary. Kondo had told him that he needed the protection of his ancestors who were of the lion clan. Evil would not follow him now that he bore the tattoo, Thorn was assured.
Thorn made a point to remember that Tomas should be addressed as Sir Tomas when they were in public.
The English tailor in Barbados had fitted the young man with London styled tailcoats with double breasted lapels worn open. A waistcoat was made from a brocade fabric. Two cotton shirts were provided, long and loose fitted with off the shoulder sleeves and a high collar which scratched his neck. The shirt hung to mid-thigh and served as the only undergarment. Even though a young man, he was fitted with breeches and riding boots. The cravat cloth further aggravated, rubbing his skin, and he remembered his words to the tailor that the fashion was a foolish circumstance since it had to be wrapped around the throat a few times. Obviously, Thorn preferred his light native clothing. However, he was used to tight fitting breeches and fine riding boots since one of his chores was to exercise the Akhal-Teke horses for a wealthy plantation owner. It was at those times that he became at peace with himself. They were not just horses, but those of special breeding and distinguishing features. His special advantage was that he knew everything about the prime horses of the acclaimed breed.
The boy squinted at the bright sun with salt water whipping at his face.
“Sir Tomas, how much longer do we have? We have been on the water for two weeks already.”
His English was impeccable since his mother had arranged for him to be schooled by the missionaries on the island. He was well-read, could write, cipher, and had a
superb knowledge of mathematics.
“I would venture to guess that we have two more weeks, possibly more. The good news is that the weather gets better as we near England. So the nausea should subside.”
“What of this England where my father lives. What is the weather there?”
“This time of year, it is rainy, windy, and cold. I should have thought to order you a woollen coat.”
“Wool?” the young man questioned. “We never wear wool in Barbados.”
“You will be glad you have such cloth in England,” Tomas laughed. “Come now, boy, let’s sit in the salon out of the wind. It might help you.”
Thorn was too quick to reply, “I am not a boy. I am a man.”
He held Tomas’ eyes with his fierce ones.
“Yes, Thorn, I should have taken note of that circumstance.”
They walked to the double doors which opened to the salon, went in, and sat at a table. Thorn’s gaze surveyed the room. Tables, chairs, a long, polished mahogany bar, portholes, and more swaying lamps, yet because of the dimensions of the large room somehow the pendulum swings did not cause him an upset stomach.
“I will be ordering a brandy. What will be your beverage of choice?” Tomas asked, in deference to the young man’s feelings.
“I do not have a taste for strange spirits, Sir. I prefer dark coffee and darker rum. Coffee will do.”
Tomas motioned to the sailor who served as the salon’s barman and waiter, and placed the order. He turned to the handsome lad.
“Something to eat? Bread perhaps? A savoury piece of Shepherd’s pie?”
“I have never liked English food, Sir Tomas. I like the spices of the Caribbean,” he smiled for the first time in a while. “My mother could cook a piece of goat and make it taste like food for the gods.”
“What is your religion?” Tomas asked.
“My mother insisted on the Church of England, and it is where I was baptised.”
“Young man, I do not wish to offend, but why are you called Thorn? It is an unfamiliar name.”
“My mother could not spell my father’s name, she later told me. She said it sounded like Thorn. I can now see that it is more like Althorn.” A grin crossed his mouth. “I am not sure of the last name. She mentioned that it was part of another name.”
“Yes, you might make such an observation.”
“Tell me about my father. What is he like? Will he reject me?”
The young man’s tone sobered, as they were served brandy and black coffee. Tomas took a large swig of the brandy, his stomach used to the ocean travels.
Thorn was still gauging his body’s reaction.
The Spaniard flexed his shoulders, his mind reeling at the challenge of where to start.
“Your father’s title is Duke of Althorn. He is Gordon Sedgewick, but his last name is rarely used. That’s probably where your mother got the name of Wick. I can only tell you that he is one of the finest friends a man could have.” His eyes bored into Thorn’s. “I know what you’re going through. I was once there, too. A fish out of water. Not knowing who I could trust.”
“You do not appear to have suffered much, Sir. I see before me a prosperous man.” Thorn glanced at the man from head to polished boot. “You like English boots. I prefer the Caribbean leathers.”
“When I met your father at the university, I couldn’t afford any kind. We happened to have the same size foot, so he gifted me with his brand-new pair. That’s the kind of man he is.” Tomas ordered another brandy. “Ready for more coffee? A sweet piece of pie?”
“Sir Tomas, how long did you say you resided in Barbados when you first came to the island?”
“About four months,” he answered.
“Just enough time to get a taste of our food?”
“Yes, my favourite was cou cou, corn meal and okra.”
The young man smiled.
“I especially like Conkies. It is a favourite treat. Coconut, pumpkin, flour, and sweet potato, with sugar wrapped in fresh banana leaves.”
Thorn remembered the sensation of relaxation as rain flowed over him on his beloved island. Then he spoke again.
“What does my father look like?”
“Very much like you, but with a lighter skin colour. You both have the same eyes. I’d know you anywhere in the world.” Tomas tilted his head back, closed his eyes for a moment. “I am getting tired. Thorn, I need you to understand that I am your friend. I will be as good a one to you as your father was to me.”
“Why did not my father come for me himself?”
The frown furrowing his forehead was prominent.
“So I’m not good enough for you, young man?” Sir Tomas joked. “Your father contracted malaria after his visit here. He almost died. You might have heard that Europeans are susceptible to the disease? He’s had a number of relapses. Best all around, to send me, since I’m so charming,” he guffawed.
“Sir Tomas, I do believe that you are also a man to be trusted on such an expedition. How could you be sure I would come with you?”
“Thorn, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been surprised if, when we were barely on the way, you had chosen to dive overboard and swim to shore, never to be seen again.”
“The thought did occur to me,” the young man smiled, “but I promised my mother. Promises are not made to be broken, especially those made to someone on a death bed.”
Sir Tomas searched the boy’s face for some expression.
“You are a clever young man. Behind those eyes, I see a story which one day you may want to tell us.”
“Good stories are not always told. It is all about the sentiment. Whilst I admit to a curiosity to see the man who helped give me life, if I do not like the situation, I will find a way to leave.”
“I doubt that anyone would want to hold you by force, but just let me say, your father is attending sessions in our English Parliament. He has important work to accomplish.”
“Does my father own horses?” Thorn asked.
“Yes, fine English stock. Thoroughbreds - Bays, Chestnuts. No Arabians anymore.”
“Arabians are far overrated,” Thorn said. “Once you have seen an Akhal-Teke horse, all others pale in comparison to their beauty and breeding.” Tomas leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table, watching the young man before him. “Will my father resent my Indian blood lines?”
It pained him to ask such a question.
“I cannot answer for him, but I would caution you to be respectful at all times. Get to know him, as he will try to know you. Do not go in with a chip on that rather large shoulder.”
“Do not underestimate me, Sir Tomas. I have an inquisitive mind. I may be young, but I do believe I was born old.”
“You sound and act much older than your years, I agree. Why not take one moment at a time. Your father could have let you lie in your hut forever, but he decided to send his best friend to protect you and bring you back. I understand your quandary, but do not let it influence your thinking. After all, he only just found out about you!”
“As I just found out about him. I am not easily won over, Senor.”
“He doesn’t have to win you over, Amigo. He is the Duke and can make or break you. Should you choose to make him your enemy, you’d be no more than a foolish native.”
At those words, Thorn arose, almost toppling his chair.
“We shall see, Sir Tomas. We shall see.” He turned to the older man, “Sir Tomas, to clarify, my mother and I lived in a small house on a large plantation. We never lived in a hut. I took good care of her.”
“Point taken, Thorn.”
Thorn strode out the door, his hands fisted, his knuckles white. He gritted his teeth and swallowed back the words that should not be uttered. Again, he stared into the vast ocean that separated him from his beloved island.
It wasn’t the best of lives, but it was the only existence he knew. Now it was gone, swept away with the wind and the snap of his father’s fingers.
What would the f
uture bring?
Chapter Two
Duke of Althorn’s Study, London, England, 1817
The Duke requested the presence of his wife and mother in his study. His mind was a mélange of thoughts. Words that used to come easily seemed no longer at his disposal. He’d read the letter from Mr. Morton Jones time and time again and had almost committed every word to memory.
The rain pelted the large window and the glistening cobblestones challenged the horses’ hoofs as carriages moved through the rain and passers-by sought refuge with umbrellas which could not survive the wind. Like his heart, the Duke thought. The message he would deliver could stun his loved ones. He prayed, as never before, that they would understand.
A servant tapped the door and entered with hot minted tea. He also had the decanters full in case one of his ladies swooned. Of concern, of course, was his wife, four months pregnant with their second child. He turned from the window and walked to his desk where the letter lay on top of his other most important papers.
His best friend, Sir Tomas Martinez, was most likely on the way back to England with a young man who had been a stunning revelation. Althorn spoke to the portrait of his father on the wall.
“When you sent me to Barbados, did you think to warn me about delightful native women whose culture revelled in lovemaking and producing children? Or did you think I would sow wild oats and get the desire out of my loins by the time I returned home? What would you do, Father, in my shoes today… right now, at this moment? Would you have made a decision without consulting your wife?”
He moved to the imported cognac decanter and poured a stiff three fingers of liquor into his crystal flecked glass. He inhaled the aroma first, and then took the first swallow. His lips parted as the welcome warmth slipped into him, and he worried his bottom lip. The revelation would be a true test of Cassandra’s love for him and of all she held dear. She’d said many times, ‘Family is the single most important thing, Gordon’. How he loved it when she called him by his Christian name. ‘It’s a testament to the endurance of our love for each other’.
Thorn, Son of a Duke: Regency Romance (The Dukes of Desire Book 3) Page 1