Chapter One
Anthony Shackleford had long been acquainted with the wordduty. Indeed, since the moment he could walk, it had been drummed into him every Friday between the hours of two and four in the afternoon, accompanied by tea and Mrs. Tomlinson’s apple cake. His mother was especially partial to apple cake.
The essence of his obligation was this. The Duke of Blackmore could not be expected to keep his in-laws into their twilight years—though God knew if his mother continued to take her revolting tinctures, she’d be unlikely to reach her mid-afternoon years, let alone the twilight ones. And despite the fact that his sisters had all made extremely advantageous marriages, as the only son, it was his job to ensure his parents a comfortable dotage.
In all honesty, Anthony doubted his father had any intention of sliding gracefully into boring old age, although the loss of his faithful foxhound Freddy three years earlier had certainly taken its toll.
So, for the most part, hisdutyhad always appeared very simple. Marry an heiress, preferably with a title.
Simple that is until he got to Eton and learned about the class system. In fairness, he didn’t so much learn of it than have it beaten into him. At least in the beginning. Fortunately, his connection to the Duke of Blackmore ensured that nothing was broken aside from his pride.
As he got older, he also learned how to defend himself, until the bullies decided he was no longer worth their trouble. It helped that he was an affable young man, always ready to kick up a lark and well liked by those of his peers who were less hidebound by tradition. A riot of hair the colour of burnished copper and eyes that could deflower a virgin with just a single look - according to the numerous maids who regularly fought to clean his room – one would be right in assuming he was also well liked by members of the opposite sex.
There was one other thing that set Anthony apart from many of his fellows – aside from his fondness for causing mostly harmless mischief. And that was an inexplicable urge to defend and protect. Mayhap because the worddutythat had been so thoroughly drummed into him, he was entirely unable to remain aloof from the problems and misfortunes of any man, woman, child or indeed animal with whom he came into contact.
Naturally, in the intervening years since leaving Eton, such a disposition ensured he was rarely without company – either on two legs or four.
And now, here he was, six and twenty, propping up the wall on the edge of his brother-in-law’s ballroom eying the first crop of young ladies being wheeled out for his scrutiny. Anthony was entirely certain that coin was no object for nearly all of the twenty or so twittering debutantes. The newly affluent merchant classes would do anything short of murder to align themselves with the powerful Duke of Blackmore. But on the other hand, there were no more than a couple of titles in the whole room. And those were there for much the same reason, though minus the necessary overflowing coffers.
His reverie came to an abrupt end with the arrival of Peter, Viscount Holsworthy and the Duke of Blackmore’s heir in waiting. Despite their five-year age difference, he also happened to be Anthony’s best friend. ‘Anyone take your eye?’ the younger man queried with a grin. Anthony rolled his eyes and grimaced.
‘I doubt any one of them is over seventeen,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody hell, Pete, it’s like a cattle market.’
Peter chuckled unsympathetically. ‘Now mayhap you know why Aunt Prudence declared she’d rather remove her own extremities with a set of rusty pliers than take part in the marriage mart. And she wasn’t the only one.’
‘How the devil can I take a sheltered chit to the wilds of Dartmoor? Especially to a house that’s likely only standing through sheer bloody-mindedness?’
‘It’s on the fringes of the moor and is perfectly hospitable,’ Peter scoffed. ‘And anyway, Father offered to foot the bill for the repairs, but being a ridiculously stubborn oaf, you insisted on doing the reparations for yourself.’
Anthony sighed. ‘Gifting me Bovey Manor and twelve acres of prime farmland is beyond generous of him. I couldn’t in all conscience ask him to do more.’ Anthony cast Peter a mischievous grin. ‘And anyway, I wouldn’t want to deplete your inheritance any further. What kind of friend would that make me?’
‘An idiot one,’ retorted Peter. ‘You could have your pick of these lovely ladies and become a gentleman farmer, nary lifting a finger except to issue instructions to your estate manager.’
Anthony shuddered. ‘Dear God, that sounds horrific. What the bloody hell would I do all day?’
‘Take afternoon tea with the neighbours,’ Peter suggested with a wicked grin. ‘Learn to play whist, and of course, keep your beloved happy by bringing her up to Town once a year to keep her in fripperies whilst you indulge in your annual visit to White’s.’ He gave a mock sigh. ‘Such is the sad lot of a gentleman farmer whose wife is swimming in lard.’
For a few seconds, Anthony didn’t answer. He stared out over the sea of simpering misses. He wasn’t in his best friend’s enviable position. There was no pressure on Peter to find a wife. Indeed, it was fully expected he would sow his wild oats before getting leg shackled, and given that the Viscount was only twenty-one, he had plenty of time. Anthony had no doubt that thisparticulararea of his friend’s education would begin during his upcoming six-month trip to Europe.
Duty. The word that had shaped his life, no matter how much he’d bucked against it.
Every one of his sisters had been fortunate enough to have made a love match. But for him, there would be no such luxury. He shook his head. God knew he’d been blessed and had no right to bemoan his fate. Love matches were rare, and if he was lucky, he’d find a wealthy young woman who was reasonably easy on the eye and in possession of a little wit. A wife he could rub along with in relative harmony and most importantly one his mother approved of. God help him if he didn’t get that small matter right. He gave an inward chuckle.
And given that it really wasn’t in his nature to wallow in self-pity, Anthony pushed himself away from the wall and went to claim his first dance.
∞∞∞
Georgiana glanced back into the bedchamber before climbing carefully out of the window. Straddling the sill, she uttered a small gasp at an ominous creak. For one awful moment, she thought the whole frame was about to come free of its moorings. It was certainly not beyond the realms of possibility since she suspected the window might actually predate the house - or rather hovel – she was endeavouring to escape.
She swivelled her head back towards the darkened room. Dawn was still a couple of hours away, but the moon outside rendered the interior almost pitch-black, and she could no longer see the four sleeping forms snuggled together in their two cots. She held still for a second, heart in her mouth, convinced she’d discerned movement, but after a minute,
relaxed. There was no sudden shout, only soft snores, almost in concert.
She smiled grimly. Old Bridy’s sleeping tincture was worth the two pennies she’d filched for it. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously lifted her other leg over the sill until both feet were dangling in mid-air. This next was the tricky part.
The window was too far from the ground to jump. When she was first trying to devise a means of escape, she’d considered going upwards, rather straight down. There was a small lean-to on the other side of the roof she could easily have jumped down onto and thence to the ground. But the thatch had more holes than her drawers, and she suspected she’d end up falling through and likely land bang smack between the Grimms. And no tincture would prevent them waking fromthat. Not that old man Grimm would have objected, she was certain, since the lecherous old jackanapes was the reason she was currently balancing precariously on a windowsill in the middle of the night.
In the end, she’d opted for straight down,hopefully,via the large sycamore tree with a convenient branch a mere foot from the window. It had seemed like a small distance during her planning. Right now, the limb might as well have been on the bloody moon.
