The Duke's Runaway Bride
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Jenni Fletcher
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Prologue
Quinton Everett Maximilian Roxbury, Twelfth Duke of Howden, squeezed on his reins, slowing his mount from a canter to a trot to a sedate, almost snail-paced walk. Unfortunately, no amount of squeezing, or leaning back in his saddle, or even willing his horse to sprout wings and fly off in the other direction, could prevent him from arriving eventually, and so it was only a matter of minutes before he found himself dismounting in front of the grey stone exterior of Howden Hall, low in spirits and heavy of heart. It made a sorry contrast. Just five minutes before, his heart had felt comparatively light. Not weightless, that condition being little more than a boyhood memory, but lighter. Now, looking up at the vast facade of his ancestral home, he felt as though one of the stones had just settled in his stomach. And he detested those stones, every last one.
At least he was doing something about them these days, he consoled himself, as the sound of distant hammering attested. Thanks to his newly acquired fortune, he’d finally been able to order some essential repairs, just in time in the case of the roof, though even that wasn’t enough to make him like the place. He never had. He never expected to. And yet there he was, trapped for ever. He was Howden and Howden was he; their identities entwined for life.
‘Will that be all, sir?’
A groom came running from the direction of the stables and he nodded, forcing himself to relinquish the reins. A few moments of self-pity and resentment were all very well, but he had duties to attend to, a towering heap of them, in fact, and ten o’clock in the morning was quite late enough to start.
He made his way up the front steps, wondering if he looked as beleaguered and weary as he felt. Since inheriting the estate, he’d developed at least two new frown lines across his forehead, not to mention a seemingly ingrained furrow between his brows. Thankfully, his hair was still as thick and black as ever, but he expected it to start falling out and turning grey any day now.
It was almost comical in a bleak kind of way. Thirteen months ago, he’d been considered a prize catch in the Marriage Mart: young, handsome and the heir to a supposedly thriving dukedom to boot. Twelve months ago, on the other hand...well, it was fair to say that his reputation had suffered a blow, in the most mortifying and public way possible. After that not even the most ambitious Society mamas had sought him out, unwilling to lose their daughters to a life of public scandal and probable ruin. Which had been both a compliment to them and a lesson in self-worth for him.
He inclined his head to the footman who opened the front door and then stopped in the middle of the hallway, allowing himself to be divested of his outdoor garments while he waited.
One, two, three... He glanced longingly in the direction of his study door. Could he reach it in time? No, experience had taught him that any attempt would be futile. Better to stay and get it over with... Four, five... He planted his feet more firmly apart... Six, seven... That was unexpected. He didn’t often get this far. Usually they were lying in wait... Eight, nine... Ah, there they were, footsteps approaching; three sets, if he wasn’t mistaken. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his neck from one side to the other, bracing himself... Ten.
‘You won’t believe what he’s done!’ Seventeen-year-old Antigone was the first to exclaim, pointing accusingly in the direction of the library.
‘Justin?’ Quinton arched an eyebrow as their fourteen-year-old brother loped after her.
‘It’s a disgrace!’ These words from his mother, descending the staircase. ‘I’ve never been so insulted!’
He rubbed a hand over his chin, doubting the truth of that particular statement, though he supposed there was no way to avoid asking. ‘How so?’
‘Mrs Padgett is holding a soirée next week and I’m not invited!’
‘I thought you didn’t like Mrs Padgett?’
‘I don’t, but that’s hardly the point. I’m still the Duchess.’ A small crease appeared between her brows. ‘Of sorts anyway. I ought to be invited everywhere, whether I choose to attend or not. Instead I have to read about it in a letter from Lady Fortescue.’
‘How thoughtful of her to tell you.’
‘She’s a spiteful old cat. The next time I see her, I’ll—’
‘He read my diary!’ Antigone refused to be ignored any longer.
‘What?’ Their mother’s head snapped around. ‘Justin, is this true?’
‘Yes, it’s true! I was writing in the library, but I had to get up to...you know, and when I came back he had his nose buried between the covers, the little sneak.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so bothered.’ The accused finally spoke up for himself. ‘There was nothing interesting. She saw some daffodils yesterday, did you know? Fascinating.’
‘You’re an insensitive pig!’
‘Justin, one does not invade another person’s privacy.’ His mother lifted her chin expressly for the purpose of looking down her nose. ‘Although, I believe we’ve discussed your use of the library before, Antigone.’
‘You always take his side!’
‘I am not taking anyone’s side. Strictly speaking, however, the library belongs to the gentlemen of the house. A lady ought to write in the comfort of the drawing room or her own bedchamber, where you have a perfectly charming escritoire, I might add.’
‘I prefer the library!’
‘And a lady does not use the words “sneak” or “pig”.’
‘This one does.’ Antigone’s green eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I could call him other names, too. Corin taught me.’
‘Go on.’ Justin perked up immediately. ‘I want to learn them, as well.’
‘Enough!’ Quinton held up a hand before his sister could open her mouth again. ‘Justin, you were in the wrong. Mother, rise above Mrs Padgett and Lady Fortescue. Antigone, whatever those names were, I order you to forget them immediately. In exchange, I’ll take you out riding tomorrow. The woods are filled with daffodils.’
‘Oh, yes, please!’
‘What about me?’ Justin sounded as if he’d just regressed to toddlerhood. ‘I want to come, too!’
‘Absolutely not. You can write an essay about why you were wrong and then translate it into Latin. It’ll be good practice for school. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have some paperwork to attend to. I trust that we can save any additional drama until luncheon?’ He gave them each a stern look, making sure there were no additional protests before escaping swiftly towards his office.
‘Masterfully done,’ another voice drawled just as his hand touched the door handle.
Quinton closed his eyes, counting to ten—again—before turning around and lifting his gaze to the minstrels’ gallery that ran along the top of the great hall. At twenty-five, Corin was only three years his junior, but sometimes the difference felt more like fifty.
‘You’re up early.’ He couldn’t resist the dig.
‘I know. So much shouting...’
‘I need to get on with some work.’
‘I don’t keep a diary myself,’ Corin persisted, tapping his nose confidentially. ‘It would be far too bleak.’
‘Quite. I’ll see you at luncheon, then.’ He took a second look at his brother’s unkempt hair and what appeared to be yesterday’s clothes. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could make yourself look a bit more presentable by then.’
‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises.’ Corin lifted his shoulders. ‘You’d know better than to believe them anyway.’
Quinton gave a tight smile, opening his study door and then shutting it firmly behind him. His family were...well, they were his family. He loved them, he was prepared to lay down his life for any one of them if necessary, but the constant complaining and shouting and bickering and insinuating was exhausting. Even on good days he was tempted to throw the whole lot of them out onto the street, Helen excepted. And where was Helen anyway? Hiding under a table somewhere, probably. Life would be so much easier if he could join her.
He leaned his shoulder against the door jamb for a few moments, relishing the sudden descent of peace. His study was his haven, his escape, the one place in the house his family knew not to intrude upon without some life-threatening situation that required his urgent attention. Which was exactly the reason he spent around eighty per cent of his time there.
Slowly, he crossed the faded red carpet to his leather-embossed, walnut desk and sat down. At least Justin would be going to Eton soon. That ought to reduce the amount of shouting, though no doubt Antigone would then begin wailing about how much she missed him. She needed a companion, another woman to talk to, or else she’d be left essentially alone with their mother and that hardly bore thinking about. He ought to start making arrangements, but it was difficult to decide anything until...well, until a certain other matter was settled. It was taking somewhat longer than he’d expected, but, as it turned out, people were even harder to manage than stones.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ His secretary, Harker, appeared in the doorway that connected their two studies. ‘I trust that you had a pleasant ride? Not too cold?’
‘Very cold, but still enjoyable.’ He placed his hands flat on the table, determined to get straight down to business. ‘However, it occurred to me that we ought to take a second look at those plans for the new labourers’ cottages. I’m not sure the designs are quite large enough.’
‘Of course, Your Grace, I’ll go and find them now, only...’
‘Yes?’ Quinton quirked an eyebrow, surprised by his secretary’s reticence. Usually he was straight to the point. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Not exactly. Only the thing is...that is to say, a messenger arrived this morning. He brought a letter.’
‘That’s not so unusual, surely?’
‘No, except that he came from Bath.’
‘Ah.’ It was a good thing, Quinton thought, that he was already sitting down. At that precise moment he couldn’t have vouched for the stability of his own legs. ‘I see.’
‘Naturally, I haven’t looked at the contents.’ Harker pulled a folded piece of parchment from his inner pocket and passed it across the desk. ‘Although I took the liberty of keeping it about my person.’
‘To avoid prying eyes, you mean? Good idea.’
Harker took a tactful step backwards. ‘I’ll leave you to read it in peace. If Your Grace would excuse me?’
‘Yes, thank you, that will be all for now.’
Quinton waited until his secretary’s door had closed behind him before looking at the letter, then at a point in mid-air, then at the letter again. There it was, the very thing he’d been waiting for, and yet now that he held it between his fingers he was aware of a strange sense of foreboding. The very parchment itself felt hot, as if the words inside might actually brand him if he wasn’t careful. Not that speculation was going to do him any good either... He took a deep breath, unfolded the parchment and read. The handwriting inside was small and neat, without any loops or flourishes, and the message itself concise, only two paragraphs long, containing no excuses or explanations, no pleas for help or declarations of feeling, just an expression of regret and an offer.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the parchment drop from his fingers onto the desk. Well, he had to hand it to her. Just when he thought that his wife was out of surprises, she gave him the biggest one of all.
Daffodils would have to wait. It was time for him to go to Bath and avert another scandal.
