“Dance?”
“I don’t think she’s ever danced with anyone. I deuced hope not anyway. If she has, I’ll have his guts for garters.”
“Conversation?” Percy was getting desperate.
“Nonexistent. I don’t think she’s spoken more than half a dozen words to me since she was in the crib.” The Reverend was becoming increasingly despondent.
“Does she cut a good mother figure to her sisters?”
The Reverend snorted. “I don’t think any of ‘em are without some kind of scar where she’s dropped ‘em at some time or another.”
“How about her brain?” Percy now resorted to clutching at straws.
“Now that’s something the chit has got. Every time I see her, she’s got her nose in a book. Problem is, that’s the one attribute any well-heeled gentleman will most definitely not be looking for…”
Chapter One
Nicholas Sinclair, the new Duke of Blackmore looked up at the imposing house in front of him and sighed, knowing he couldn’t remain in the carriage for much longer. After a month of travelling, he longed for nothing more than a warm bed and a glass of brandy. Regrettably, it was only late afternoon, so the bed would have to wait, but certainly not the brandy.
The door was opened by the footman, and Nicholas forced himself to move, taking his time on the step so he could climb down without falling on his face.
It had taken nearly six months for him to be well enough to attempt the journey home. His father had been dead for three of them.
“Your grace, welcome home.”
Nicholas straightened his coat before moving up the steps toward the imposing front door where the aging butler stood waiting patiently. “Huntley? By God man, I didn’t think you were still alive.”
The butler’s expression did not change as he bowed before Nicholas. “I still have some years in me, your grace.”
Nicholas allowed a small smile to cross his face before it disappeared just as quickly. He’d never thought to be back in front of this house and certainly not as the Duke of Blackmore.
Moving from the steps, he allowed Huntley to open the door before stepping inside the house. The few staff were lining the long hall, waiting for him to address them as their new master.
His collar suddenly tight around his throat, Nicholas cleared it. “Carry on with your duties.” He did not need to know their names nor their positions, only that they stayed out of his way.
“Your grace, this is Mrs. Tenner,” Huntley stated, motioning to a plump woman wearing a tentative smile as she curtsied before him. “She is your housekeeper.”
Nicholas acknowledged her with a nod. “Mrs. Tenner. I will not require anything but my meals in my study.”
“Of course, your grace,” she stated. Nicholas moved past her and continued down the hall slowly, feeling the stares of his staff burning in his wake. The home was as he remembered, with dark wood and portraits of the previous Blackmores bearing down on anyone that walked through the hallowed halls.
There was a faint hint of disuse, likely because the house had been in mourning since his father’s death. And since there remained only a handful of servants, it was clear that most of the house had simply been closed off.
Nicholas waited for the pain of his father’s demise to strike some sort of chord within him, but it never came. There had been no love between the father and son for years, ever since Nicholas had stormed from this house at the tender age of fifteen and joined the Royal Navy. There had been no letters, no calls for him to come home, no words of praise for everything that Nicholas had accomplished during his time in uniform. Even when he was appointed Captain – one of the youngest in the fleet - and called upon to join Admiral Lord Nelson to fight at Trafalgar, there had been no word from his father.
In the old Duke of Blackmore’s eyes, Nicholas had not existed.
The feeling was mutual.
Finding the door to the study, Nicholas pushedit open, the faint smell of his father’s favourite cigar lingering in the air. He didn’t enter nor did he glance at the portrait that still hung over the massive fireplace. The study still felt like his father’s.
Sickened, Nicholas turned away from the room, unable to take the step forward. The walls seemed to be closing in suddenly, and he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. His father was at every turn, the row between them heavy in the air still, even after twenty years.
He needed to get out.
His pace frustratingly slow, Nicholas stumbled back to the front door. Luckily, the servants had already dispersed so weren’t privy to his sudden desperate need for some air. As he emerged onto the terrace fronting the house, he heaved in a lungful of air like a dying man. Which was how he felt much of the time. His chest felt as though it was encased in iron. Slowly, the feeling of panic began to fade, and he was able to breathe a little easier. The air was redolent with spring flowers, nothing like the salty air he’d been used to.
He would get no more of that here in Blackmore.
