He had become a leader in his community, earning a seat at the table with other men of influence in London’s underworld. These men were called “dukes” for they were indeed considered nobility amongst the lower classes. Severin, in particular, was known as the Duke of Silk, a nod to his business interests and his smooth, collected manner.
Then a year ago, he’d made a startling discovery: not only was he a duke of the underworld, he was abona fideduke. A team of solicitors had tracked Severin down and brought him to see Arthur Huntingdon, the dying Duke of Knighton…and the father Severin had never met.
Severin’smamanhad kept his true origins a secret, all the way to her bitter end in Bedlam. On his deathbed, Arthur Huntingdon had explained that she’d done so in order to protect Severin. Knowing the sacrifices she’d made, how much she’d suffered because of his sire’s perfidy, had made Severin want to refuse the damned title.
A wiser part of him resisted the urge to cut off his nose to spite his face. It was too late to save hismaman, but it wasn’t too late to claim what was rightfully his. There was a delicious irony, after all, in bringing about what his mother’s in-laws had done everything in their power to prevent. His Huntingdon grandparents would be turning in their graves to know that the son of a seamstress was now the holder of their illustrious titles and estates. That his blood would run in the veins of any future Knightons he chose to beget.
The inheritance hadn’t come off without a hitch, of course. He’d had to fight some distant cousin in the courts to prove that he was, indeed, the legitimate heir to the duchy. It had taken close to a year, but thanks to the help of an unexpected ally—his father’s older sister, Lady Esther, Countess of Brambley—he’d secured the title last month. According to his sire’s will, he’d inherited something else as well: the guardianship of four half-siblings in their teens, his father’s bastards by two different mistresses, both deceased.
Severin did not wish to be responsible for four young humans. He was a busy man; he had factories, territorial skirmishes, and diversified investments to manage. Furthermore, he had no clue what he was supposed to do with his father’s unruly by-blows. What did he know about having a family?
For some infernal reason, however, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon them. His father had kept his siblings on a property in France, and when Severin had arrived, their situation had been disgraceful. He’d turned to his Aunt Esther, but on this matter she was less helpful.
Your half-siblings are animals,she’d said succinctly.I am far too old to manage a menagerie. You need someone with the energy and connections to launch them into Society. Moreover, you are thirty years old and ought to be thinking about your future issue—an heir and a spare, at minimum. In short, Knighton, what you require is a wife.
She had advised him to start shopping for a duchess. Given that the Season was over, pickings would be slim, but there were still suitable candidates to be found in London. Severin, however, had neither the time nor the inclination to browse for a wife he wanted because that ship had sailed. Five years ago, Imogen had wed the Earl of Cardiff.
Which circled Severin back to the irony of the situation: now that he was rich, titled, and a catch for any lady, the only one he wanted was out of his reach.
Hence, he’d made this foray into Staffordshire. If he couldn’t have the woman he wanted, he would make do with one who met the basic requirements. As it happened, the Duke of Hadleigh, a gentleman for whom Severin had done favors in the past, had mentioned that he had a sister who would make an ideal Duchess of Knighton.
According to Hadleigh, his sister Lady Beatrice Wodehouse was beautiful, sensible, and the ripe age of four-and-twenty. Because of an accident that had left her scarred, Lady Beatrice led a cloistered life at Camden Manor, an estate she ran on her own. Severin did not give a farthing about the scar. What he cared about was that Lady Beatrice sounded level-headed and mature, the sort of woman who would welcome the marriage of convenience he had to offer.
Arriving at the manor, Severin saw that it was well-maintained, surrounded by graceful oaks tinged copper by autumn’s approach. The property spoke well of its mistress’s management abilities, and Lord knew he needed someone who would keep a firm rein on his siblings. The ivy-covered house had an elegant design, wings flanking the main building, sparkling pedimented windows adorning the structure.
Nothing was out of place…except perhaps for the girl arguing with the donkey.
The petite female and beast were blocking the front steps. The former stood with her back to Severin, her thick, glossy plaits of chestnut hair reaching her waist. She was scolding a grey donkey, which was sprawled on the gravel at the base of the stone steps, obstructing the entryway to the manor.
“You can’t just plant yourself there pell-mell, Bertrand,” she lectured the beast. “’Ow are folk supposed to enter the ’ouse? Get up.”
The donkey gave her a bored look, its black-tipped tail swishing idly.
“You ’eard me.” The girl planted her small hands on her hips. “Move alongnow.”
The beast stretched out and laid its head on the bottom step.
“You ain’t the only one who’s tired, Bertrand. But we’ve supplies that need to be delivered to the fields,” she went on. “Seeing as ’ow you’re the beast o’ burden, you’re supposed to be ’auling that cart yonder instead o’metrying to ’aulyouoff the blooming steps.”
The donkey lifted its head, looked at her, and yawned.
“Sweet Jaysus,” she exclaimed. “Stop being such anass.”
A muffled sound escaped Severin, startling him. He could not recall the last time he’d laughed. The female whirled to face him, delivering another dose of surprise. Because of her braids and short stature, he had underestimated her age. She was no girl but a woman.
A rather pretty one.
Her heart-shaped face was dominated by large, doe-brown eyes, her thick lashes fanning rapidly as she stared back at him. Her skin was sun-kissed, her cheeks tinted a charming rose. She had delicate features…except for her lips which were lush and plump, the color of crushed berries. Just above the left side of her mouth was a tiny beauty mark, nature’s way of punctuating temptation.
Beneath her serviceable brown frock, her bosom was full and high, her waist narrow enough for him to span with his hands. The fullness of her patched skirts hid her lower shape, but he would wager his factories that she was nicely rounded, with hips that would cradle a man as he plowed her. He became aware of a tightening in his own lower regions, the faint hum of lust in his veins.
Devil take it,he thought with a frown.What is the matter with me?
He did not make a habit of ogling women. He found it particularly distasteful when men took advantage of servants like this young female, who had a right to go about her duties without harassment. The fact that he’d entertained debauched thoughts about her was unacceptable and, frankly, baffling. He prided himself on self-discipline, his ability to keep his baser emotions and urges in check. This quality had allowed him to transform himself from a guttersnipe to a gentleman in the truest sense of the word.
Yet this female stirred his most primal depths. He’d never seen a mouth as carnal as hers…as kissable. He chalked up his reaction to the fact that it had been years since he’d experienced the sweetness of lips against his own. That was no excuse, however.
He dismounted, using the time to get himself in check.
