An Inconvenient Duke
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Anna Harrington
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Cover image by Shirley Green
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, and imprint of Sourcebooks
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Excerpt of A Duke Too Far
One
About the Author
Back Cover
Dedicated to Bruiser
for keeping me company during the long hours on the porch writing this.
And a very special thank you to
Sarah Younger, Sarah Otterness, and Cat Clyne.
Prologue
April 1814
To General Marcus Braddock
Coldstream Guards, 2nd Battalion,
Household Division
Bayonne, France
Dear General Braddock,
It is with a grieving heart that I write to you to tell you of the passing of your sister Elise.
There was a terrible accident. She was on her morning ride in the park and was thrown from her horse. The horse guards who found her assured me that she did not suffer. While there is nothing I can write that will lessen your pain, I pray you might find some comfort in that.
I know that your attention must now be fixed on your men and on the fight you are waging against Napoleon, but please be assured that I will do everything I can to support your sister Claudia and Elise’s daughter, Penelope, while you are away.
Yours in shared grief—
Danielle Williams
June 1814
To the Honorable Danielle Williams
No. 2 Bedford Square, Mayfair
London, England
Dear Miss Williams,
Although the news was bitter, I thank you for your kind letter. It brings me solace to know that Elise was so dearly loved by you. I am more grateful than I can express to know that you are looking after Claudia and Pippa during this time of mourning.
With gratitude—
Marcus Braddock
January 1816
To the Honorable Danielle Williams
No. 2 Bedford Square, Mayfair
London, England
Dear Miss Williams,
My regiment’s work in Paris will be ending soon, and I will be returning to London. I would very much appreciate the opportunity to call on you. I wish to thank you in person for the kindnesses that you and your aunt have shown to my family during my absence.
Yours sincerely,
Marcus Braddock
February 1816
To General Marcus Braddock
British Embassy
Hôtel de Charost, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré
Paris, France
Dear General,
Your appreciation is more than enough. Please do not feel obligated to call on us, as I know how busy your homecoming will surely be. I wish you the best with your new endeavors. Please give my love to Claudia and Penelope.
Yours in friendship—
Danielle Williams
April 1816
To the Honorable Danielle Williams
No. 2 Bedford Square, Mayfair
London
Dear Miss Williams,
I have returned home but discovered unsettling information regarding my sister Elise. I must insist on meeting with you. Please reply with the best day and time for me to call upon you.
Marcus Braddock
April 1816
To the General His Grace the Duke of Hampton
Charlton Place, Park Lane
London
Dear Duke,
While I wish to congratulate you on your new title, I must decline your offer to receive you. Elise was my dearest friend—in truth, more like a sister. To speak of her death will only refresh our shared grief and remind us of all that we have lost when your return should be met with joy. I could not bear it and wish to grieve for her in peace. Please understand.
Sincerely,
Danielle Williams
May 1816
To the Right Honorable the Viscountess Bromley
& the Honorable Danielle Williams
No. 2 Bedford Square
Mayfair, London
You are cordially invited to attend a birthday celebration in honor of the General His Grace the Duke of Hampton, on Saturday, May 5, at 8 p.m. Please send your acceptance to Miss Braddock, Charlton Place, Park Lane, London.
And the handwritten note tucked inside with the invitation…
Danielle, please attend. The party will not be the same without you. And to be honest, I will need your support to survive the evening. You know how Marcus can be at events like this. That it is for his own birthday will most likely make him all the worse. And Pippa misses you as much as I do.
~Claudia
Danielle Williams bit her bottom lip as she read the note, dread and guilt pouring through her in equal measure.
God help me.
There was no refusing this invitation.
One
May 1816
Charlton Place, London
Marcus Braddock stepped out onto the upper terrace of his town house and scanned the party spreading through the torch-lit gardens below.
He grimaced. His h
ome had been invaded.
All of London seemed to be crowded into Charlton Place tonight, with the reception rooms filled to overflowing. The crush of bodies in the ballroom had forced several couples outside to dance on the lawn, and the terraces below were filled with well-dressed dandies flirting with ladies adorned in silks and jewels. Card games played out in the library, men smoked in the music room, the ladies retired to the morning room—the entire house had been turned upside down, the gardens trampled, the horses made uneasy in the mews…
And it wasn’t yet midnight.
His sister Claudia had insisted on throwing this party for him, apparently whether he wanted one or not. Not only to mark his birthday tomorrow but also to celebrate his new position as Duke of Hampton, the title given to him for helping Wellington defeat Napoleon. The party would help ease his way back into society, she’d asserted, and give him an opportunity to meet the men he would now be working with in the Lords.
But Marcus hadn’t given a damn about society before he’d gone off to war, and he cared even less now.
No. The reason he’d agreed to throw open wide the doors of Charlton Place was a woman.
The Honorable Danielle Williams, daughter of Baron Mondale and his late sister Elise’s dearest friend. The woman who had written to inform him that Elise was dead.
The same woman he now knew had lied to him.
His eyes narrowed as they moved deliberately across the crowd. Miss Williams had been avoiding him since his return, refusing to let him call on her and begging off from any social event that might bring them into contact. But she hadn’t been able to refuse the invitation for tonight’s party, not when he’d also invited her great-aunt, who certainly wouldn’t have missed what the society gossips were predicting would be the biggest social event of the season. She couldn’t accept and then simply beg off either. To not attend this party would have been a snub to both him and his sister Claudia, as well as to Elise’s memory. While Danielle might happily continue to avoid him, she would never intentionally wound Claudia.
She was here somewhere, he knew it. Now he simply had to find her.
He frowned. Easier said than done, because Claudia had apparently invited all of society, most of whom he’d never met and had no idea who they even were. Yet they’d eagerly attended, if only for a glimpse of the newly minted duke’s town house. And a glimpse of him. Strangers greeted him as if they were old friends, when his true friends—the men he’d served with in the fight against Napoleon—were nowhere to be seen. Those men he trusted with his life.
These people made him feel surrounded by the enemy.
The party decorations certainly didn’t help put him at ease. Claudia had insisted that the theme be ancient Roman and then set about turning the whole house into Pompeii. Wooden torches lit the garden, lighting the way for the army of toga-clad footmen carrying trays of wine from a replica of a Roman temple in the center of the garden. The whole thing gave him the unsettling feeling that he’d been transported to Italy, unsure of his surroundings and his place in them.
Being unsure was never an option for a general in the heat of battle, and Marcus refused to let it control him now that he was on home soil. Yet he couldn’t stop it from haunting him, ever since he’d discovered the letter among Elise’s belongings that made him doubt everything he knew about his sister and how she’d died.
He planned to put an end to that doubt tonight, just as soon as he talked to Danielle.
“There he is—the birthday boy!”
Marcus bit back a curse as his two best friends, Brandon Pearce and Merritt Rivers, approached him through the shadows. He’d thought the terrace would be the best place to search for Danielle without being seen.
Apparently not.
“You mean the duke of honor,” corrected Merritt, a lawyer turned army captain who had served with him in the Guards.
Marcus frowned. While he was always glad to see them, right then he didn’t need their distractions. Nor was he in the mood for their joking.
A former brigadier who now held the title of Earl of Sandhurst, Pearce looped his arm over Merritt’s shoulder as both men studied him. “I don’t think he’s happy to see us.”
“Impossible.” Merritt gave a sweep of his arm to indicate the festivities around them. The glass of cognac in his hand had most likely been liberated from Marcus’s private liquor cabinet in his study. “Surely he wants his two brothers-in-arms nearby to witness every single moment of his big night.”
Marcus grumbled, “Every single moment of my humiliation, you mean.”
“Details, details,” Merritt dismissed, deadpan. But he couldn’t hide the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“What we really want to know about your birthday party is this.” Pearce touched his glass to Marcus’s chest and leaned toward him, his face deadly serious. “When do the pony rides begin?”
Marcus’s gaze narrowed as he glanced between the two men. “Remind me again why I saved your miserable arses at Toulouse.”
Pearce placed his hand on Marcus’s shoulder in a show of genuine affection. “Because you’re a good man and a brilliant general,” he said sincerely. “And one of the finest men we could ever call a friend.”
Merritt lifted his glass in a heartfelt toast. “Happy birthday, General.”
Thirty-five. Bloody hell.
“Hear, hear.” Pearce seconded the toast. “To the Coldstream Guards!”
A knot tightened in Marcus’s gut at the mention of his former regiment that had been so critical to the victory at Waterloo yet also nearly destroyed in the brutal hand-to-hand combat that day. But he managed to echo, “To the Guards.”
Not wanting them to see any stray emotion on his face, he turned away. Leaning across the stone balustrade on his forearms, he muttered, “I wish I could still be with them.”
While he would never wish to return to the wars, he missed being with his men, especially their friendship and dependability. He missed the respect given to him and the respect he gave each of them in return, no matter if they were an officer or a private. Most of all, he longed for the sense of purpose that the fight against Napoleon had given him. He’d known every morning when he woke up what he was meant to do that day, what higher ideals he served. He hadn’t had that since he returned to London, and its absence ate at him.
It bothered him so badly, in fact, that he’d taken to spending time alone at an abandoned armory just north of the City. He’d purchased the old building with the intention of turning it into a warehouse, only to discover that he needed a place to himself more than he needed the additional income. More and more lately, he’d found himself going there at all hours to escape from society and the ghosts that haunted him. Even in his own home.
That was the punishment for surviving when others he’d loved hadn’t. The curse of remembrance.
“No, General.” Pearce matched his melancholy tone as his friends stepped up to the balustrade, flanking him on each side. “You’ve left the wars behind and moved on to better things.” He frowned as he stared across the crowded garden. “This party notwithstanding.”
Merritt pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it on a nearby lamp. “You’re exactly where you belong. With your family.” He puffed at the cheroot, then watched the smoke curl from its tip into the darkness overhead. “They need you now more than the Guards do.”
In his heart, Marcus knew that, too. Which was why he’d taken it upon himself to go through Elise’s belongings when Claudia couldn’t bring herself to do it, to pack up what he thought her daughter, Penelope, might want when she was older and to distribute the rest to the poor. That was how he’d discovered a letter among Elise’s things from someone named John Porter, arranging a midnight meeting for which she’d left the house and never returned.
He’d not had a moment of peace since.
He rubbed at the kno
t of tension in his nape. His friends didn’t need to know any of that. They were already burdened enough as it was by settling into their own new lives now that they’d left the army.
“Besides, you’re a duke now.” Merritt flicked the ash from his cigar. “There must be some good way to put the title to use.” He looked down at the party and clarified, “One that doesn’t involve society balls.”
“Or togas,” Pearce muttered.
Marcus blew out a patient breath at their good-natured teasing. “The Roman theme was Claudia’s idea.”
“Liar,” both men said at once. Then they looked at each other and grinned.
Merritt slapped him on the back. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to convince us that the pink ribbons in you horse’s tail were put there by Penelope.”
Marcus kept his silence. There was no good reply to that.
He turned his attention back to the party below, his gaze passing over the crowded garden. He spied the delicate turn of a head in the crowd—
Danielle. There she was, standing by the fountain in the glow of one of the torches.
For a moment, he thought he was mistaken, that the woman who’d caught his attention couldn’t possibly be her. Not with her auburn hair swept up high on her head in a pile of feathery curls, shimmering with copper highlights in the lamplight and revealing a long and graceful neck. Not in that dress of emerald satin with its capped sleeves of ivory lace over creamy shoulders.
Impossible. This woman, with her full curves and mature grace, simply couldn’t be the same excitable girl he remembered, who’d seemed always to move through the world with a bouncing skip. Who had bothered him to distraction with all her questions about the military and soldiers.
She laughed at something her aunt said, and her face brightened into a familiar smile. Only then did he let himself believe that she wasn’t merely an apparition.
Sweet Lucifer. Apparently, nothing in England was as he remembered.
He put his hands on both men’s shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone in the garden I need to speak with. Enjoy yourselves tonight.” Then, knowing both men nearly as well as he knew himself, he warned, “But not too much.”
As he moved away, Merritt called out with a knowing grin. “What’s her name?”