Chapter 1
Anthony Burke, bastard son of the Duke of Aston, loved women. Well, he loved life really. Everything about it. In his opinion, life was one great, never-ending banquet and the difference between those starving and those guzzling wine and having a merry old time of it was largely in how they viewed the world.
Some might find this a disagreeable view, but there it was.
In his rather wide experience, those who were always moaning about it had quite a squinty view of life. Now, he recognized that many had a very rough time of it. But his life had not been one of roses and gilded silverware throughout his entire existence. The first half of it had been wrought with poverty and a glimpse into a world which could turn violent in an instant.
So, he did understand the propensity to look at the world as if it meant everyone harm. But he? Well, he’d always embraced the vagaries of this life with wide-eyed wonder. Even now, he could hear his mother’s lilting Irish voice, For even in the darkest cave, there are glorious things to see, darling boy, if only one can simply look about and find them.
It was a sentiment she’d expressed in his very first memories and repeated often with a glorious smile on her never downtrodden face.
The adoption of this way of seeing things did make him irritating to the skeptics of this world, but he didn’t mind. What cared he for people who insisted on misery? He felt sorry for them, but he would not be brought down by them either.
No. Nothing ever really got him down. He’d been through fire and emerged, phoenix lie, stronger. Yes, his childhood had been a brutal one, despite his loving mother. There was little cruelty that he hadn’t seen at some point in his youth. He’d known hunger, cold, deprivation, and violence. But, he’d been given a great gift from his mammy. Hope. Hope was the thing that drove Tony’s heart.
Perhaps, it truly was all due to his Irish traveler of a mother who’d always moved on to the next village when things grew perilous, never letting the world press her optimism to dross. Or perhaps. . . Just perhaps, it was his father, too, who he had not known until he was four and ten years of age, who had a passion for life that most could hardly ever dream.
Whatever it was, Tony absolutely loved to live and loved to see others live well, too.
So, when he was very calmly informed on an early Sunday morning that the king had decided to settle a title on his shoulders, he hadn’t felt undeserving or hesitant. What was the point in that?
In fact, he’d clapped his hands together in his father’s sumptuous study and decided that he was going to be the best lord that had ever been seen.
As the sun spilled in through the beautifully polished, diamond pane windows of the Aston London house, dancing a rainbow pattern across the elaborately woven red and blue Axminster rug, he asked cheerfully, “A baronet is it?
His father, the Duke of Aston, and Lord Blakemore, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the country, stared back at him, their expressions full of burgeoning information.
The two men were quite a pair. One was a model of civic duty, clean cut, dark-haired, hawk-eyed and dressed in an austere black coat adorned with silver buttons, his cravat tied to perfection. Then there was his father, a veritable lion of a man with his black hair that brushed his impossibly wide shoulders, knowing eyes, and a face which dared one to punch it. His dress was the opposite of austere. No, it was rich, embodied in a red velvet coat, gold buttons, and embroidered waistcoat. Tony knew the outrageously billowing linen shirt beneath hid tattoos.
They were as opposite as night and day, these two powerful men. Yet both of them were determined to see the same changes in their country.
Tony glanced from one powerful man to the other, stunned but thrilled to be so honored. With a title, there was really quite a lot he could do that he couldn’t as a bastard. For one, he could make changes in government.
It had been difficult in the last months, watching his father reach out to other powerful men in England to make change in the world. But, Tony had understood. He might have a great deal of money in the bank and proximity to a powerful family, but he, in the sense that English people valued, did not have political sway. Bastardy came with certain limitations that could not quite be scaled.
Their silence stretched.
“Not a baronet then?” Tony nodded, happy to accept anything which might allow him to enter the arena of genuine change. “Perhaps then a—”
“A duke, Tony,” his father said softly, proudly, his lips quirking in a pleased grin. “A duke.”
Tony, who had achieved thirty years now and was, in many ways, his father’s equal, felt suddenly amazed. For never had he thought he would be in equal status with his important father. Never. Tony’s hands fell to his sides as he did something he wasn’t wont to do.
Tony gaped.
Given his rather varied background and his general attitude towards life, Tony did not ever gape but took things in stride. But this? This was something altogether different. ’Twas as if the proverbial rug had been whipped out from under him, and it was all he could do to keep on his well-made, polished black Hessians.
“I beg your pardon?” he finally managed.
His father quietly turned to the grog tray in his study, poured out three excessively large brandies at eleven in the morning into Irish crystal snifters, and handed first one to his guest Lord Blakemore, then one to Tony.
“A dukedom,” Lord Blakemore repeated. He wore a dangerous smile on his usually unreadable face as he palmed the ornately-carved snifter and swirled the dark liquor around and around.
“How the devil did that happen?” Tony asked, as he lifted the brandy snifter to his mouth and took an indelicate gulp. The spicy and layered notes of French brandy washed over his tongue but he barely felt the burn, he was in such shock.
When neither man immediately replied, apparently happy to let him draw his own conclusions before they were forced to explain, Tony lowered the glass and groaned. “It’s about that bit with the king three months ago, isn’t it?”
Blakemore said nothing. His dangerous smile widened as he gave a nod.
Tony groaned again and took another drink. He swung his gaze to the window which overlooked St. James Park. The last notes of summer were in the air and the flowering trees outside the window danced prettily.
He’d always known that those flowers, those trees, this part of London never really belonged to him. He was an accepted guest. But now?
If this was true, there wasn’t a door that would be closed to him, not a place where he did not belong. In fact, he would be the center of prestige in almost any group he was in.
“Cabinet owes you a great debt of gratitude,” Aston said, leaning against his hulking mahogany desk. “Many men may have lost their sway that day had you not intervened.”
Intervened. Tony barely suppressed a snort. That was one way of framing it.
Given his status as a bastard, one would have thought that being within a few feet of the King of England was unlikely. But when one’s father was the Duke of Aston, and when one got on as well with his father as he did, well. . . There were only a few places he could not go. Being a bastard was the devil, but being a bastard of someone who was virtually one step down from a Royal, wasn’t so very terrible. Visits to Hampton Court, the king’s preferred residence and seat of governance, were regular occurrences. That was wonderful, for he loved the old Tudor pile. On more than one occasion, he’d felt the echoes of Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn. Not to mention poor, old Cardinal Wolsey.
On this particular instance not so many months ago, his father had been petitioning a minister on the cause regarding the importance of slave ships being intercepted by the Royal Navy. Tony wasn’t allowed into the actual cabinet meetings. So, he had headed into one of the painted halls off the most important receiving rooms, whereupon he had come face to face with the king.
Face. . . To face was actually putting it quite nicely. It had actually been naked, old monarch to young, Anglo bastard.
He wasn’t entirely sure who had been more shocked.
The king had stopped dead in the middle of his activity, hopping on one bare foot. For the king had been merrily taking off bits of clothing, leaving a trail of expensive garments behind him.
It seemed he was making a mad dash straight for the very crowded presentation chambers which were where people were kept while they waited to hopefully gain access to the more hallowed rooms. It was a room that was always full to the brim of avaricious, desperate, gossipmongers.
The side hall that they were in was somehow miraculously unpeopled.
Tony, realizing the king was about to do something that would ensure a Regency with that idiot Prinny in charge, had gone into full traveler mode. A jaunty smile, tilted his lips, he’d taken on a joyful and familiar swagger and he’d marched right up to the king as if they were the dearest of friends.
Now, there was something Tony had confessed to very few people. He’d told his father, of course, but the truth was, he was an exceptional confidence man. One had to eat after all, and he’d supported himself and his mother for quite a few years.
And he was always very, very persuasive. So, he hadn’t hesitated as he made ready to play the clearly deranged king into his hands.
As the king whipped down his breeches and tugged them off his ankles, Tony had thrown out his arms, offered a merry bow to his majesty. Tony then proclaimed how happy he was to see the king, and how delighted he was that they were going for a swim.
The king had furrowed his brow like a child unable to remember what he’d planned on doing next. But then he’d nodded, called Tony “Osborne”, and then as happily as a small boy, had gone off with Tony down another hall which led out of doors. The king had declared how lovely a day it would be for a swim and perhaps they might see a few ladies splashing about, too.
His majesty may have mentioned bubbies. It had been a completely absurd moment in Tony’s rather wild life.
Tony was certain a helpful event would occur. And it did. Just before they reached the doors which led out to the gardens, one of the king’s men, the Earl of Trowbridge, had come running down the hall, his face ashen with sheer panic.
The naked monarch had gone off with the Master of the Bedchamber in some consternation, professing that, though he could not today, that they would have go swimming very soon.
As the memory dimmed, Tony shoved a hand through his thick hair.
“I should have let him wander into the hall in all his kingly splendor,” sighed Tony.
“Should you have, indeed?” his father asked, his lips twitching. “If you must know, that particular act of noblesse oblige was combined with the fact it’s become known what you did to three French frigates off the coast of Spain four years ago.”
Tony whipped towards his father, alarmed. “How?”
“Rumors were made fact by several eyewitness accounts,” Blakemore said simply, no further explanation needed, apparently.
Tony looked at his father carefully, but the duke gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Tony’s actions were not always exactly legal. Truth be told, he and his father had been privateers for a good many years in the West Indies and some in government might particularly approve of all his methods. He had not engaged the ships to receive acclaim. He’d had his reasons and a title wasn’t one of them.
“You’re about to be lauded as a veritable hero,” Blakemore declared.
Tony drank deeply then flung himself down into a deep, brass-studded, leather chair before the banked wood fire, trying to make sense of it all. “I like my bad reputation quite a lot, thank you.”
“You needn’t give it up entirely,” his father said, happily crossing over and clapping him on the shoulder. “I don’t think anyone would imagine you to turn out as boring as the Duke of Devonshire.”
The Duke of Devonshire. Tony shuddered, hooking one knee over the chair arm, his favorite sitting position in intimate company. The man was as dull as tombs. Effective in work but, good Lord, the man was boring.
“I must admit,” Tony said as he gripped his snifter tightly, trying to find the right words. He knew it was too early even for him and his father to have a second glass. “The prospect of dukedom is harrowing.”
“Tony, you’re more capable than most men I know,” his father assured him. The Duke of Aston’s hand was firm and supportive on his son’s shoulder.
“Thank you for that. But I’ve seen what it is.” Tony looked to his father’s desk which fairly bulged with papers, rolled parchments, and ledgers. “It’s a great deal of work.”
Aston arched a brow. “And you’d rather continue to laze about, scamp?”
Tony gave his father the eye, a skill he’d learned from his stepmother, Rosamund.
“Oh I know, you’ve worked since childhood,” his father said softly. “I never would have encouraged this, if I didn’t believe in you, Tony. You will do so much good.”
Tony swallowed then nodded, honored by the compliment. “Thank you, Da.”
“Now, how does Your Grace, The Duke of Ayr, sound?” Blakemore ventured as he examined his nails casually.
“Scotland?” Tony bellowed, the idea thundering through his head.
Blakemore nodded, pleased.
Tony tossed back the rest of the brandy. Not because he didn’t like Scotland, but because he knew it very well. He’d spent a great deal of time there since his stepmother was Scottish.
“Did Ros arrange this?” Tony demanded.
His father cleared his throat. “Your stepmother may have mentioned that she’d like to have you in Scotland. Though, when she agreed with it, she said if any English mon could do it, it was you.”
“As you very well know, they aren’t exactly overly fond of their English overlords,” Tony pointed out with a good deal of sympathy. He’d been raised to loathe the English himself. Only proximity to actual English people had alleviated his dislike and suspicions. “Why give them another one?”
“Because you are you, Tony,” Lord Blakemore said factually. “You’re a charmer. And not exactly a member of the elite, so to speak. You weren’t born trotting off to Eton, believing yourself superior to everyone that lives and breathes outside of England. You can help to heal old wounds.”
Healing was a painful and long process. He knew it well. And he doubted it would go easily. Was it worth the attempt? Of course it was. He loved the Highlands and lochs in a way no other part of England could reach him. He supposed it was the Irish in him. He loved the wildness of those lands, and the rebels who still, in their hearts, longed for freedom.
He sat up straight, his leg slipping off the chair arm. “Wait. Didn’t Ayr die rather suddenly last year?”
“He did,” his father confirmed.
Tony nodded, glad he knew which dukedom they were discussing. But it felt odd to triumph out of another man’s misfortune.
He stared into the banked fire for a moment, understanding how the devil one’s life could so entirely change in just a few hours. He knew that there was nothing certain in this world. His life, too, had once changed in just a few moments. It should come as no surprise that it would do so again. Even so, it would take some adjustment.
Doing his utmost to see the best in all of this, he said, “Well, Scotland is beautiful and I will be very happy there.”
“Glad to hear it, old boy,” Blakemore said. “Glad to hear it.”
Suddenly, his father gave him a slightly duplicitous look. “Now, there’s just one more thing.”
“The investiture?” asked Tony, hoping he’d been mistaken in his father’s attitude. “I’m happy to also be a supporter for the Whig party—”
“Your marriage,” cut in Blakemore without any attempt at mercy.
The wind went out of him, leaving him doing naught but blinking. Finally, he stuttered, “My. . . I beg your pardon?”
“It has been advised that you marry, Lady Eleanor Paisley.” Blakemore’s face transformed into a determined but rather unreadable mask. “The ward of the former duke.”
Lady Eleanor.
Tony felt his own throat tighten and he tugged roughly at his cravat. It felt, at present, remarkably like a noose. In the short years he’d been in England, he had met very few people who had genuinely made him consider going abroad again. Lady Eleanor was one of them.
As the full weight of it hit him, he roared, “Not her!”
His father and Blakemore stared at him with twin looks of astonishment.
“You’ve met the lady, then?” Blakemore asked, smoothing down his plain, cream waistcoat, apparently put off guard by Tony’s vehemence.
“I have had that misfortune,” Tony confirmed, scowling. Few people put him in a foul mood upon the mere mention of their names. “She’s. . . She’s. . .”
“Wealthy,” supplied Blakemore.
“Yes,” Tony bit out, struggling to hold back his full horror.
“Scottish,” supplied his father optimistically, though he looked like he was concerned Tony was about to erupt.
“Yes,” Tony replied, a mixture of disbelief and outrage running through him.
Blakemore arched a dark brow. “A legitimate link to your new dukedom.”
Tony shoved himself out of the chair, standing as tall as the other men. “Yes, but—”
“But?” queried his father.
Tony blew out a harsh breath before he condemned, “She’s a bloody snob.”
Aston grinned before he chortled. “The lady does have a reputation for reservation.”
“Reservation?” Tony swung his gaze to his father. “Da. What can be going through your head? She’s the worst choice for me!”
Aston grew serious and he asked with care, “Is she, lad?”
“We have nothing in common,” Tony declared swiftly with a swipe of his hand.
“She’ll be ideal in helping you transition to your new role,” Blakemore said solidly, a hint of warning in his voice.
Tony blinked, feeling as if a boulder had been dropped upon him. “Is the title contingent upon our marriage?”
“Let us simply say,” Blakemore said, his voice quiet and hard, “it would be unwise to either turn down the title or the marriage.”
“But. . .” Tony appealed to his father. “Da, you married for love. . .”
Aston smiled, a roguish smile, apparently unconcerned. “Who’s to say you won’t fall in love with Lady Eleanor? I quite like the lady myself.”
Tony snorted. His father clearly had not met the lady in the same capacity as he had. “I’d sooner love a statue.”
“Think of all the good you’re going to do,” Blakemore interjected. “Does the lady’s personality truly matter?”
Tony swallowed, looking back to his father. Over the last year, it had grown more and more apparent that, as an untitled bastard, he would never be able to compete in his father’s realm. He would not truly be able to work beside his father, the great duke. And it had begun to have a most deleterious effect on his usual unflappable moral. That was a shock. He’d quite enjoyed his years of wine, women, and song. But there it was. He was ready to make change. . . Something he could not presently do.
Glancing to the window again, studying those beautiful summer trees, he brought Lady Eleanor to mind and another summer and the glitter of a ton season.
They’d met at the Talbot ball. He’d been in fine spirits when he’d looked across the room and seen her standing alone, with her chaperone. Not a single fellow asked her to dance which had seemed odd because Lady Eleanor was beautiful.
Tall, slender, fearsome, she’d looked like a sleek hawk amidst pigeons. And he quite liked hawks and he certainly hated to see a lady neglected. So, he’d taken himself across the room to ask her to dance.
My God, that woman had a look that could shrivel a man at ten yards. Her disapproval of him and everything about him had been so evident as he’d approached that he’d nearly stopped dead in his tracks. Certain he was mistaken, he’d continued, bowed slightly, and inquired if she were engaged to dance. . . She’d stared at him for a long moment, fairly sneered, then looked away.
It had occurred to him that she was declining due to his bastardy. It had not been a pleasant moment.
Could his father truly mean this?
He glanced from his father to Blakemore, both of them waiting with bated breath for his answer.
With a dukedom, he could truly right so much injustice. He could directly help people. He’d be a fool to say no. So what if Lady Eleanor was a self-appointed saint?
Saints could be appeased.
Surely, he could find a way for them to be at least content together. After all, he’d always been a most persuasive sort. Perhaps her sneering had come from a rigid childhood, he argued with himself.
A slow smile pulled at his lips. It might be great fun ruffling her feathers. Yes. He could do this.
So, he squared his shoulders, faced the two men offering him power beyond his imagination and said, “When’s the wedding?”