CHAPTER 1
Darton Hall, Darton-on-Rye, West Sussex
December 2, 1816
My dear Philip,
Christmas is fast approaching. And, as I’m sure I’ve no need to remind you, the terms of your late uncle’s will dictate that you and your brother return to Darton Hall over the holidays if you wish to retain the estates and titles he so generously bequeathed you.
Since you are well aware of the legalities, I’m certain you’re planning to take up residence shortly. I await your imminent arrival.
Fondest Regards,
Aunt Agatha
Blast. Lord Philip Hartness, fourth Duke of Darton-on-Rye, set the letter carefully down upon his gleaming mahogany desk. His initial impulse had been to crumple the paper into a ball, cast it into the fire, and watch it burn merrily down to ashes.
But that was something his impulsive younger brother would have done. Philip, however, was a man of responsibility, cognizant of the burdens of his title. The obligations he’d inherited weren’t so easy to dispose of. Besides, a flippant gesture like setting his unwanted correspondence on fire was beneath him.
“Would you like to reply to Her Grace?” Mr. Smith, his secretary, asked, preparing to dip a pen into the inkwell.
“Of course.”
Philip always did the correct thing, though in this case he didn’t particularly relish it. Still, Aunt Agatha was the Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye. Not to mention she was absolutely right: he was a duke because of his late uncle’s demise, and said uncle had made a few unconventional stipulations concerning the inheritance. Namely, that ridiculous Christmas Clause.
He ran a hand through his black hair, then straightened his shoulders and nodded at his secretary to begin taking dictation.
“To the Dowager Duchess of Darton-on-Rye,” he began. “Dear Lady Darton, it would be my pleasure to attend upon you for the holidays, and carry out the required activities. I will arrive in West Sussex on the twentieth of December. Regards, Philip.”
There. That should suffice.
He noted Mr. Smith had stopped writing.
Raising one brow at his secretary, he asked, “What is it?”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but aren’t you required to help coordinate certain events in the village prior to Christmas?”
Had he been prone to drinking, Philip would have tossed back a brandy at the reminder. Again, something his brother wouldn’t hesitate to do. In fact, wherever he was, Christopher was probably imbibing at that very moment.
“Yes.” Philip firmed his lips. “Thank you for the reminder, Smith. How long does it take to plan such things as an Assembly Room cotillion?”
His secretary blinked at him. “I’m sure I don’t know, Your Grace. More than a day or two, certainly.”
Very well. Philip pondered for a moment. His mother had used to throw lavish parties, before his father passed away. For all he knew, she still did, but he could hardly summon her from Italy to find out.
“Tell Lady Darton I will endeavor to arrive on the eleventh,” he said.
Two weeks ought to be enough. And in truth, he wouldn’t be able to stand more than a fortnight in Christopher’s company. His brother knew just how to get under his skin. The day after Christmas, Philip would depart for the peace of his London townhouse.
Perhaps, if he were lucky, his feckless brother wouldn’t arrive at Darton Hall until a few days before Christmas. It was a distinct possibility. Which meant that, as usual, Philip would shoulder the burdens of the family while Christopher fritted away his time and neglected his obligations.
With a sigh, Philip signed his name to the letter. He didn’t look forward to it, but duty called.
From the Desk of Lord Christopher Hartness, Viscount Heatherton
December 3, 1816
Dear Agate,
