Felton had a large splint on his leg but was managing quite well on his crutches. He even made a point of taking the stairs in the entry hall two at time when rushing down to breakfast—late as usual.

Burlington Abbey—the Stapleton Ducal seat—had, indeed, once been an abbey, destroyed by Henry VIII when he declared himself head of the Church of England and sacked the Catholic abbeys and monasteries. The land had been granted to the Windham family for services rendered, and Charles Windham had been made the first Duke of Stapleton.

The house was a rather plain, rectangular, three-story building with little outside decoration. It did, however, maintain fine formal gardens both front and back. However, the inside was a different matter. It was opulent with towering marble halls, ornate baroque sitting rooms, and many bedrooms to entertain large numbers of guests. But the house had a surprisingly modest amount of artworks. None of the previous Dukes had had much taste for art but Felton was resolved that when he became the Duke, that would change. He found the house to be rather cold. He loved fine paintings and sculpture—often traveling to London to browse the galleries and museums.

Fortunately, the Stapleton Dukedom was well established and endowed financially. He would not need to consider how much something might cost. He looked forward to spending lavishly on his taste for the finer things in life, but that was still some time off, as his father was healthy, robust and still very much alive.

Felton took his place at the breakfast table and looked over at his mother and father who were nearly finished with their morning meal.

The Duke had the same coloring as his son, but he was not as tall and had put on a great deal of weight over the years with his fondness for feasting. He still wore a powdered wig in the old style, which constantly shed onto his shoulders. He was red-faced with deep-set eyes that one could barely see as he seemed to have a perpetual squint.

“Father… Mother… I am taking a trip to Siler Hall later this morning. Are there any messages?”

The Duke glowered at his son. “And why are you going there?” he demanded.

“To visit Uncle Silas, of course. I understand he has a quite beautiful new painting and I should like to see it.”

“No,” his father said forcefully. “If you must go gallivanting about, it should be to visit Miss Sinclair. You have neglected visiting her for too long.”

Felton had to hold himself back from showing his anger. “Father, I have been somewhat incapacitated, as you well know,” he said stretching out his mending leg for his father to see.

“If you are well enough to visit your uncle then you can just as easily visit Arabella. After all, she is your intended and deserves a visit from you.”

“But she has not come to visit me since I was incapacitated. Why should I visit her?”

“Because she is to be your wife,” the Duke said slapping his hands flat on the table.

“Might I remind you, we are not yet engaged, and I have told you many times I have no interest in marrying her. I agree she is quite charming. However, the times we have met there has been no spark between us on either side.”

“And what difference does that make? She is the daughter of the Earl of Denham and by far the most suitable young lady for you in the entire county. It would be a great honor for their household to merge with ours. Not to mention the enhancement of our mutual estates.”

“Ah, so that is it. The merger of our estates. No thought as to the two individuals involved in this union. Just the land and the prestige.”

The Duke waved his hand in the air. “What else is there? I have every reason to believe the young Miss Sinclair is intelligent and should make an excellent companion in running the dukedom, in time.”

“My darling,” the Duchess said to her son, “Your father and I had absolutely no love between us when we married and look at us now?”

Felton could not help but smile and, in fact, needed to stifle an outright guffaw at that absurd statement, as it was abundantly clear that neither had any affection for the other—let alone love—and never had.

His mother was slender—one might almost say emaciated. She poked at her food and hardly partook of any substantial nourishment. Her face was pinched and she wore far too much makeup. It made her look like a painted porcelain doll.

Felton grabbed hold of the edge of the table and lifted himself out of his chair, taking hold of his crutches, and preparing to leave the breakfast room.

“Thank you for your considered opinions on how I should live my life but after a great deal of thought and consideration, I believe I will spend my morning visiting Uncle Silas and a very good morning to you both.”

Silas Higginson was as unlike his cool and calculating sister as sunshine is from moonlight. The Duchess’ younger brother represented everything in life that his sister did not—spontaneity, joy, laughter, and celebration. Against their parents’ stern demands, Silas had run off and married his true love, Hannah Pence. Fortunately, his wife had a substantial living, and he controlled a bequest from his grandmother that allowed them the freedom to live as they pleased. The rest of his family had no control over him and he was the only relative that Felton cared for and looked up to for inspiration.

Felton should have taken the small buggy to visit his uncle—because of his broken leg. But, as he was always disregarding what was prudent, he decided to take his horse—partially to prove to himself he was on the mend but also because it was faster and more fun.

It was a forty-five-minute ride to his Uncle’s estate. As he rode up to the modest but very attractive house surrounded by trees, shrubs, and flowers, he could see his aunt and uncle seated in an arbor waving to him.

“Have you come to see the new painting?” Hannah called out as he came within hearing.

“I have,” he said as he reined in his horse and unfastened the crutches, trying to dismount. “and my two adorable cousins.” He looked around. “Where are they?”

“Playing at a neighbor’s house. They will be back for lunch.”

“Here, let me help you,” Silas said as he came running up. “Why ever did you ride?”

“Foolishness on my part,” Felton said as his uncle grabbed his arm as he slid from the saddle.

Silas was not an imposing man. He was slight of build and his nearly bald pate shown in the late morning summer sun, but his eyes twinkled, and with his broad smile, he was as warmly welcoming as any middle-aged gentleman could be. His stout wife came running over behind him, her skirts aflutter like sails rapidly losing wind.

She ran up to her nephew, grabbed his face and plastered it with wet kisses—her face as red as an apple. “Look at you all broken like a china plate, but how good it is to see you. Come, I only recently made a dandy pitcher of lemonade. Would you like some?”

“Sounds wonderful.” Before taking up his crutches he put his arms around the shoulders of his favorite relatives and asked, “How are you two faring?”

“Good as can be,” Silas said. “We wanted to visit you after your riding accident, but you know how your parents are about us visiting unless we are invited.”

“You always have my invitation,” Felton said, steadying himself on the crutches and following his aunt and uncle.

“Yes, but you are not the Duke, and unfortunately, his word still rules at Burlington Abbey.”

“Only partially,” Felton said with a laugh. “I am doing everything I can to thwart his all-powerful reign.”

“Be careful. Your father is a cunning man and I have seen his wrath. He will only stand for so much from you,” Silas advised.

The arbor was cool in the shade and a gentle breezed wafted through the boughs of the trees. The lemonade had been served and the three had fallen into a comfortable chat when Felton said, “I want to see your new painting, but first I need your advice.”

“Of course, Nephew,” Silas replied.

“Both Father and Mother are determined I marry Arabella, the Earl of Denham’s daughter, and, while she is pleasant enough, we are not at all interested in marrying.”

“How do you know? Have you asked her for her position?”

“Oh, yes. We discussed it in detail. But it is all political and neither of us wants to be put into a marriage of power and property.”

“And is there anyone else who interests you?” Hannah asked.

Felton hesitated but after giving it some thought said, “Wel-l-l, there might be.”

“Oh?”

“But we only just met. I know it is mad to talk about a young lady I barely know but she is from a good family and we had the most delightful first meeting.”

“Hmm. I would advise against rushing into anything. Do not let your animosity to your father drive you to make any rash decisions just to thwart him,” Silas cautioned.

“Who is she?” Hannah asked, always ready for any romantic tale.

“Her name is Louisa Turner. Her father is a well-established cotton merchant and we met just after my accident. She was out walking, and stopped to give me water, and offer me solace.”

Silas laughed. “Oh, then it was probably your delirium. I would highly recommend seeing her again now that you are more clear-headed. She might have three ears, a wart with hair growing out of it, and no teeth.”

“Highly unlikely, Uncle. I may have been woozy but not blind. We chatted for some time and I found her to be witty, intelligent, and learned. She wishes to be a teacher.” And, oh yes—very, very pretty, he thought to himself.

Hannah clapped her hands. “Oh, dear boy, she sounds most promising.”

At that moment, a carriage came up the driveway, and after stopping, his cousins, the twins Ruth and Daniel, came bounding out. They caught sight of Felton and raced over to him, throwing their arms around his neck. They were eight-years-old and looked like the mirror image of each other.

“How are my favorite cousins?” he asked.

“We are your only cousins,” Ruth insisted.

“Perhaps so, but that does not mean you cannot also be my favorites.”

“When is lunch, Mommy?” Daniel asked. “All they had for morning tea was some horrid, old, dry biscuits. I am starving.”

Hannah gathered her two children to her and directed them toward the house. “Let us go see what Cook has prepared for us this afternoon, shall we?”

Silas was smoking his pipe and watching the smoke drift off into the upper branches of the trees above them. “I am going up to London in a couple of weeks on business and to visit a few galleries. Want to come along?”

Felton’s face lit up. “Oh, yes… most definitely. Hopefully, I will be out of my splint by then.”

“If not, I shall pull you by a rope tied to the back of the carriage,” he said mischievously.

Felton looked at his uncle and sighed. “How did you ever survive in my mother’s family? They must have thought you were as strange to them, as I am to my family.”

“I think there must be a teeny-tiny amount of pixy blood in the two of us that skipped the rest of the family entirely.”

“Very likely,” Felton said, standing up and readying his crutches. “Now, how about showing me your new painting?”