May the Best Duke Win
highlight_author
Paulia Belgado
highlight_reads
15,6K
highlight_chapters
27
Chapter One
If Kate Mason could understand men as well as she did steam engines, life would be so much simpler.
Treat a piece of machinery well, and it would run smoothly. With a little bit of fuel, water, and heat, engines could do marvellous things, like pump water from underground or move hundreds of people across miles and miles of track. And if they broke down and turned temperamental, you just needed to look inside and simply fix or replace the missing part. Truly, there was no mechanical problem that Kate couldn’t solve.
But men—what made them tick, how their minds functioned, and what fuelled them—were a mystery to her.
Take her father, for example.
Kate wished she could just look inside his head and figure out how he worked. That way, his words this morning wouldn’t be catching her by surprise.
‘By now you must have realised why I brought you to England, Kathryn.’ Her father’s hawklike gaze pinned her. ‘You must find a husband so we can begin building a Mason locomotives factory here. Marriage to an influential lord will also ensure we can gain the necessary rights to acquire the land needed for our railway lines.’
Kate should have suspected something when her father—despite dragging her three thousand, four hundred and fifty-nine miles from New York to London—would not tell her more details about the new locomotives factory they were building, nor take her to his meetings with solicitors, bankers, even the architects and builders. When they’d arrived in London a few days ago he’d simply deposited her in their suite at The Ritz, in the care of another American family they had travelled with, and had not spoken to her until today as they’d sat down to breakfast.
But, then again, that was how industrialist and business magnate Arthur Mason had grown his fortune from practically nothing into the empire it was today: by being completely ruthless and never revealing his true intentions until it was too late.
Kate, however, would not give up so easily. Taking a sip of tea from the delicate china cup, she composed herself. ‘But, Father, you never mentioned anything about marriage. I thought you said you needed me to oversee the building and operation of Mason Railroad & Locomotives here in England.’
There had even been a hint that she might be able to build an engine of her own design once the facility was up and running.
‘Did I?’ her father challenged. ‘I don’t recall any such thing. Did I say those exact words?’
And that was when Kate knew Arthur Mason had outmanoeuvred her.
Ever since he had first brought up the idea of going ‘across the pond’ to take advantage of England’s booming railway industry, her father had dangled the prospect of her managing a factory of her own. ‘I need you to start the factory, Kathryn’, he had said. ‘Your Pap would have wanted you there.’
And appealing to the memory of her grandfather had worked. There was no one in the world she had loved more. Right after his wife had died after giving birth to Kate, Arthur had left West Virginia to seek his fortune in New York, leaving her in the care of his father. Henry ‘Pap’ Mason had taught her everything he knew about engines from his days working in the coal mines. Eventually, when she was about seven years old, Arthur had sent for them and established Mason Railroad & Locomotives so his father could put his talents to good use.
Growing up, she had worked side by side with Pap, even helping him with his greatest creation—the Andersen steam engine. It had been one of the most efficient engines of its time, and it was because of the Andersen they’d been able to build farther west and north than any other railroad company, their rails stretching past Illinois as well as into Canada. It was unfortunate that Pap had died four years ago, before he’d been able to see his invention make Mason R&L a true success.
Despite the fact that Kate had helped with the building of the New York factory, the design of the Andersen, and managed operations after his death, all had ultimately been Pap’s accomplishments, his pride and joy. So when her father had planted the seeds of going to England she had thought this was her opportunity to prove herself—that this would be her legacy. In fact, she’d even allowed herself to start thinking about her own engine design.
She now realised she had been mistaken. Or rather, misled and outwitted.
‘You’re twenty-one years old,’ her father continued, now barely looking at her as he unfolded the newspaper beside his plate. ‘Leaving you alone with only your grandfather for company growing up was one of the worst mistakes of my life. If your mother were alive she would have taken care of this years ago, and you would be wed and bred by now.’
Her father’s coarse words shocked her, and yet she shouldn’t have been surprised. Despite his vast fortune and great success, Arthur Mason did not make any secret of the one disappointment in his life—that his only offspring was female. And no matter how hard Kate had worked with Pap, and how efficiently she had run the factory after his death, in Arthur’s eyes she would only ever be a woman.
‘The sooner you are married off, the sooner we can build. And then you can begin producing sons. Healthy, strapping boys who can one day take over from me.’
Kate’s heart plummeted in her chest. She knew, of course, that as a woman she had very limited choices in life. But to have her father state the obvious so bluntly nonetheless struck her like a knife to the gut.
After skimming the headlines, he sent her an ominous stare. ‘We will be attending a ball with the DeVrieses tonight, and hopefully by morning you will have secured some offers for your hand.’
Little did she know those words were sealing her fate.
Sebastian Wakefield, Duke of Mabury, stared down at the cards in his hand as if contemplating his next move.
‘Your Grace?’ the dealer asked. ‘Do you stand or choose another?’
He placed the cards face down on the table. ‘Another, if you please.’
Beside him, Viscount Derry let out a snort. ‘Overly confident tonight, aren’t you, Mabury?’
Sebastian nodded to the dealer as he accepted the card, glancing at it briefly. With his expression barely changing, he flicked his gaze to Derry. ‘There is confidence, and then there is skill.’
The young pup didn’t know the difference, and never would if the way he’d been playing in the last hour was any indication. Or even in the last four years he’d been a member of Brooks’s. Indeed, Derry was known as an easy mark amongst the more seasoned card players in the club.
The dealer cleared his throat. ‘Your Grace?’
‘I stand.’
‘Thank you. Now, gentlemen, if you please, reveal your cards.’
Without a trace of emotion on his face Sebastian turned his cards over—the jack of hearts, five of spades, and six of diamonds. Twenty-one.
‘Devil take you, Mabury!’ Derry exclaimed. ‘How could you possibly win three rounds in a row and now get a twenty-one?’
The other players around the table grumbled unhappily but did not express their displeasure as vocally as the young Viscount.
Sebastian turned his freezing gaze on Derry. ‘Are you accusing me of something, Lord Derry?’
‘I—I’m merely pointing out the impossible,’ Derry spluttered.
‘His luck is extraordinary—especially at vingt-un.’ Devon St James, Marquess of Ashbrooke, was the only one at the table who held no expression of disappointment, derision, or controlled fury on his face. In fact, he looked amused. ‘Good game, Mabury.’
The glint in the Marquess’s eyes said he knew Sebastian had been counting cards, and everyone else at the table was just too slow-witted to have realised it. It was something Sebastian had always been able to do—ever since he’d learned the game as a lad of twelve—and for the first few years he’d thought everyone else could do it. And as for Ashbrooke... Well, perhaps he was either bored or a glutton for punishment as he lost round after round.
Sebastian acknowledged the Marquess with a stiff nod before rising to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? I am running late for my next appointment.’
‘Appointment!’ said Sir Harold Gibbet, the gentlemen beside him, with a glint in his eyes. ‘I can guess what kind of “appointment” His Grace is off to.’
The other men chuckled and elbowed each other. ‘Did you not get rid of your mistress months ago?’ Derry asked. ‘Have you not found a suitable replacement yet?’
‘Maybe he’s still in the process of taking applications,’ Gibbet added.
‘I don’t recall you being so choosy,’ Ashbrooke said. ‘What was it we said during our university days? Any flirt in a skirt!’
A cold chill ran through Sebastian. ‘I really must go.’
Ignoring the protests from the other men, he strode away from the table to the exit, and accepted his cloak from the waiting valet. He was about to cross the threshold when he heard someone call his name.
‘Mabury! One moment!’ Ashbrooke was just behind having followed him out. ‘Where are you headed off to in such a hurry?’ he asked, narrowing his gaze at him.
Sebastian stiffened, wondering if he should walk away from the Marquess. However, experience told him that Ashbrooke would never let go of a subject until he got his answer. ‘If you must know, I’m headed to the Houghton Ball.’
‘The Houghton Ball?’
From the expression on the other man’s face, one might have thought Sebastian had said, I’m off to the gallows. But, then again, to notorious rakes like Ashbrooke, such an event as the Houghton Ball would be the equivalent of death.
‘Why ever would you go there?’ the Marquess exclaimed. ‘Have you finally decided to enter the marriage mart and leave our club?’
Sebastian frowned. ‘I’m not giving up my membership at Brooks’s.’
‘I mean, leave our club of confirmed bachelors.’ Ashbrooke let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I truly was betting on you sticking around as long as I. In my case, that would hopefully mean they carry me out of Madame Claudette’s at the grand old age of eighty, with a smile on my face and my little marquess—’
‘Ashbrooke,’ he warned. ‘I am not looking for a wife.’ Never. ‘I’m simply meeting my mother at the ball. She asked me to escort her.’
‘Ah.’ Ashbrooke looked visibly relieved. ‘Thank God. You’re my only friend here, and I’d hate to lose you to the bonds of matrimony.’
‘Your only friend?’
Years ago—in another lifetime—he might have considered Ashbrooke a friend. In fact, they’d once run in the same circles and indulged in the same vices. But not any more. Now Sebastian had no friends at all. Acquaintances, yes. Employees, servants, and tenants, definitely. But he didn’t count anyone as a friend. Not in the last five years, anyway.
‘Yes. Friend. Confidant. Comrade. Call it what you will.’ As if to prove his point, Ashbrooke clapped him on the shoulder.
‘I couldn’t call it anything. We are not friends. We haven’t seen each other in years.’
‘So?’ Ashbrooke looked completely serious.
But, as Sebastian recalled, that was the kind of person he was—Ashbrooke could part ways with someone and not see them for a long time and then would just pick up where he’d left off.
‘Good God, man,’ he continued, exasperated. ‘We’ve been playing and drinking together since our university days. Of course we’ll always be friends.’
Sebastian did the only thing he could think of—he stared back. Ashbrooke was not the kind of friend he wanted these days.
‘Anyway, old chap,’ Ashbrooke said cheerily. ‘How is the Dowager Duchess these days?’
Sebastian didn’t know how to answer that question. ‘The Dowager Duchess is...well.’ That was the truth, he supposed. He cleared his throat. ‘Now, if there is nothing else, I must leave now or I’ll be late.’
Ashbrooke let out a bored sigh. ‘Are you certain you’d rather go to that stuffy ball than stay? I know about a dozen other ways to spend an evening that would be more enjoyable.’
Sebastian knew exactly what those dozen ways were—which was why he was eager to decline. Five years ago he would not have thought twice about joining Ashbrooke. He might even have suggested it himself.
‘I’m afraid I can’t keep my mother waiting.’
‘Of course...of course.’ Ashbrooke’s head bobbed up and down. ‘Please send my warmest regards to Her Grace, and make sure you avoid those marriage-minded mamas of the ton when they throw their daughters in your path.’
That almost made Sebastian smile. ‘I will. Good evening, Ashbrooke.’
‘Good evening, Mabury.’
He continued on his way out, towards the waiting carriage emblazoned with his ducal crest, its door held open by a footman. As he settled into the plush velvet seat and the carriage began to move he contemplated Ashbrooke’s words.
With the Season in full swing, the Marquess was not incorrect. Many mothers of unmarried young ladies and misses would fix their gazes on him. Indeed, to members of the ton an eligible bachelor like him attending such a ball at this time of the year was akin to declaring his intentions to seek a wife. And that was why Sebastian hardly went to such affairs—not even before inheriting the Dukedom. He had not been eager to find a wife then, and he certainly wasn’t looking for one now. Or ever, he added silently, bitterness coating his tongue.
And it was rare for his mother to attend any social event—at least since the death of Sebastian’s father five years ago. In fact, if he recalled correctly, this was the first time she’d shown any sign of wanting to leave her home at all.
A strange tightness formed in his chest. Thankfully, the coach stopping distracted him, and as he peered outside he recognised the Earl of Houghton’s home in Hanover Square. Damn, he was already late. He should have left earlier, but he’d miscalculated how long it would take him to get here. His mother would be cross with him, for sure. She was probably already inside.
Sebastian rushed up the steps into the house. A servant stopped him immediately and, having no patience tonight, he mumbled his name and title. The man had barely finished announcing his arrival before he rushed inside. He scanned the guests crowded into the ballroom for any sign of the Dowager Duchess, all the while ignoring the whispers beginning to grow around him.
‘Mabury? Is that you?’
Sebastian’s shoulders tensed and he turned around. ‘Lady Caulfield,’ he greeted the matronly woman who had approached him. ‘Yes, it’s me.’
Lady Caulfield peered up at him. ‘My, my, I thought I had been transported back twenty years.’ Her hand went to her chest. ‘You look so much like your father. I thought you were him.’
Thankfully, the retort he wanted to hurl at the old crone got caught in the thickness coating his throat. Would he never get rid of the previous Duke of Mabury’s long shadow? It was like the stench from something on his shoes he could never scrape off.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Lady Caulfield? I’ve just arrived and have yet to greet our host and hostess.’
With a quick nod, he walked away from her and found a quiet corner. Pausing, he unclenched his fists and his jaw, then continued to search the room for his mother.
Minutes ticked by, and despite his calm demeanour he became increasingly anxious as he found no sign of her. He ignored anyone trying to catch his gaze, lest they see it as an invitation to conversation—especially the bright-eyed mamas who, as Ashbrooke had predicted, looked ready to toss their daughters at his feet.
Perhaps his mother was resting in one of the retiring rooms somewhere. Or maybe she had been delayed and had yet to arrive. Or had planned to be fashionably late. In any case, the crowd made the ballroom stuffy and overheated, so he decided to head to the main reception room and wait for the Dowager Duchess to arrive.
A hush followed him as he wove through the crowd. And, try as he might, he could not shut his ears to the whispers around him.
‘Mabury’s here...’
‘Dear God, he’s the spitting image of his father...’
‘And from what I heard, the similarities don’t end there...’
‘Well, we know how he turned out...’
‘Five years,’ Sebastian grumbled under his breath.
He’d stayed away for five years and the ton still hadn’t forgotten about his father. Forgiven him, perhaps—because he did hold a coronet after all. But never forgotten.
Growing up, his father had been the ideal loving, doting parent, and Sebastian had returned his affection fiercely. He hadn’t spent much time with his mother as Charles Wakefield had been his world and everything he’d needed. When he was young Charles had taught Sebastian how to ride and hunt. And as he’d got older there had been a different sort of hunting and riding that Sebastian had learned on his own. As a young man, he’d been a notorious rake and hadn’t cared to hide it. He was the heir to a dukedom, after all.
Unbeknownst to him, his father had been pursuing his own pleasures. His world had shattered that day his father had died in a brothel fight. The father he’d adored had turned out to be a womaniser and a wastrel. The Mabury coffers had been drained and the estate in ruins. His love for his father had shrivelled and died.
And what had followed... Well...
Sebastian swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He would never do that to anyone. Could never subject another human being to that. Which was why he had vowed never to marry. No, the Wakefield line would end with him. It was better that way.
As he discreetly made his way to the other side of the ballroom, a high-pitched laugh caught his attention. ‘How clever you are, my lord!’ a nasal female voice said.
Sebastian halted and winced. It was hard to ignore it—surely everyone in the ballroom had heard it.
‘That’s them, isn’t it?’ said a man.
The stage whisper caught his attention, and he tuned his ears for more.
‘Which ones? The Gardner sisters?’
‘No, no,’ the first man replied. ‘The Americans.’
Americans? Here at the Houghton Ball?
His curiosity piqued, Sebastian turned his head, locating the two men who were just behind him, then following their gaze towards the corner of the room, where two young women stood surrounded by a gaggle of finely dressed gentlemen. He could clearly see the pretty face of the blonde one as she let out another godawful titter.
Sebastian was about to continue on his way when he noticed the woman next to her—and it was as if he had no choice but to continue staring.
The first thing he noticed were her dark locks, swept up artfully and gleaming like burnished mahogany under the light of the hundreds of candles in the ballroom. The same light made her creamy skin glow, adding an ethereal quality to her. She was not beautiful in the classical sense, yet there was something about her striking features that he could not ignore...not even from a short distance. He wondered what colour her eyes were.
‘Rumour has it that the dark-haired one’s father owns half of Manhattan Island.’
He stiffened as the two men behind him continued their conversation, but he was unable to stop himself from listening in.
‘No wonder Newbery is circling her like a hawk looking for its next meal.’
‘Hawk? More like a weasel.’
Sebastian scoffed to himself. That did sound like Newbery. The young lord was known to have run up his accounts at all the London clubs. And now he eyed the woman like the aforementioned rodent. A strange tightness gripped Sebastian’s chest as she glanced over at Newbery, whose face lit up as he soaked up this minuscule bit of attention from her.
‘I must admit she’s quite pretty. Not as fashionably beautiful as the blonde. But she is...comely.’
Comely? Were these two men blind?
‘Of course, there is the issue of her background...’
‘Her dowry will more than make up for her lack of breeding and pedigree.’
‘Yes, well...in Newbery’s case, beggars should really be no choosers.’
They laughed in unison. And as the two men continued to gossip like a pair of old society matrons, Sebastian forced his gaze away from her. Another American heiress on the hunt for a titled husband, he huffed to himself.
Though he steered away from ton gossip, even he hadn’t been able to escape the news about the Earl of Gablewood, who had been trapped by a rich American fur heiress two years ago. He wasn’t surprised that more of these colonial princesses had now trickled into London’s ballrooms and drawing rooms, hoping to lure in impoverished lords with their deep pockets.
Sebastian would never put himself in such a situation. Indeed, the very idea made his insides twist. After all, he’d spent the last five years undoing what his father had done and making up what that wastrel had lost.
And with the reminder of the old Duke his thoughts once again turned to his mother. So, as he’d attempted to do before he was distracted, he strode out to the main reception room, leaving all thoughts of the dark-haired beauty behind.
Once again, he stood to the side, scanning the arriving guests. Half an hour passed, and Sebastian knew he had to face the truth: His mother was not here and was clearly not coming to the ball after all.
Years of learning control—over his emotions, his actions, and reactions—allowed him to prevent the deep disappointment from showing on his face. He swallowed the lump in his throat and marched towards the exit. However, he stopped short when he saw the hostess herself, the Countess of Houghton, giving instructions to the butler who guarded the door.
Sebastian knew that if she saw him he would either have to explain to the Countess why he was leaving, or why his mother hadn’t turned up. He had to make his escape—but to where?
It didn’t matter where—only that he could wait somewhere until he could slip out unnoticed. And so, on a whim, he pivoted on his heel and headed towards the first door he laid eyes on.
