Page 1 of For The Love Of A Widow

PROLOGUE

L ondon, England

May 1808

Thump, thump, thump.

Daniel brushed his knuckles against his palm as he glanced down at his attire and hastily smoothed his hands over his rumpled coat. The movement caused him to sway slightly as he steadied his stance.

“Hiccup.” Blast it all, but he despised ending his afternoon entertainments early to accompany Lady Lettie to yet another overly crowded ball, only to stand forgotten while she spoke, laughed, and danced late into the night. He’d done his best to avoid several afternoon entertainments over the last fortnight, including a garden party and a musicale recital.

The woman was his betrothed. She should, at the very least, see to him before wandering off to socialize with the other debutantes making their grand coming out in London.

It was exceedingly possible Lettie wouldn’t notice his less than proper garb or his tardy arrival.

Thump, thump, thump. He pounded the door once more as a resounding pain moved from his clenched fist and up his arm to settle in his stiff shoulder.

Could it be that Lord and Lady Percival, with their daughter in tow, had already departed for the soiree when Daniel didn’t arrive at the requested time?

He sniffed. It would be his luck to have disentangled himself from the lovely, raven-haired opera singer and dealt with her wrath, only to hurry to Carrolton Hall to find that his evening obligations and presence were no longer needed.

Which was in line with how Daniel had felt of late: unneeded, unwanted, and thoroughly disposable. His man of business and estate stewards at his various properties had no use for his attendance to keep his residences and business ventures turning tidy profits.

Leaving Daniel to spend his time—and money—however he saw fit.

The thought sparked an idea. If he turned around now, maybe he would arrive at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane before the enticing Mademoiselle Sabine saw fit to dress for her evening upon the stage.

His hopes of escaping another tedious evening in Lady Lettie’s shadow crashed when the Percival butler opened the door and gestured for Daniel to enter. He knew it was petty of him to blame Lettie for the absolute crush she was making during her season—and the attention it took off him—but he was annoyed by it all.

“This way, your grace.” The servant stepped to the side, allowing Daniel entrance. “My lord and the duchess are finishing their meal before departing. They are expecting you.” The servant’s words ran together as he inspected Daniel from head to toe. His pinched expression told him that the butler found him lacking—in more ways than one.

Bloody hell, but Daniel wasn’t in the habit of allowing a mere butler to cast judgment on his person. He stumbled across the threshold and into the foyer before following the man toward the dining hall. Another hiccup escaped, and Daniel pressed his hand to his mouth to stop the next.

He should have sent his regrets for the evening and stayed tightly in the willing arms of Sabine, his latest attraction—or was she a distraction? Yet beyond his own servants, Daniel hadn’t another soul to call friend. Lettie, or Lady Collette as she was known by the ton, was his oldest and dearest friend. When their childhood acquaintance had changed from friendship to courtship and eventually an official betrothal, was when Daniel had lost interest in it all. Odd that it was at the same time that Lettie was no longer his hidden gem, but polished and presented to society…taking her place as a diamond of the first waters.

He was more than a pet to be led around on a leash, no better than a basset hound, or a bauble pinned to her hat piece.

No longer were they children with the freedom to scurry about their respective homes or climb the plum trees in Daniel’s London garden—no, this year, Lettie had been introduced to society and needs must act with the decorum and grace expected of a future duchess.

His future duchess.

He laughed at the notion—Lettie was to be a duchess with or without her marriage to Daniel.

Lady Percival held one of the few English Dukedoms that had been granted letters patent to pass to a female relation if a male heir did not exist.

Daniel stumbled on unsteady legs as he waited for the butler to open the door to the dining hall. His chance to flee had passed.

The servant didn’t hesitate, but pushed the door wide and announced in a clear, crisp voice, “The Duke of Linwood, my lord.”

“Linwood!” Lord Percival boomed. “You are late.”

“My—” Hiccup. Bloody hell, could he not keep his body under control? “Apologies.” Maybe he should have taken the time to stop at his home and change into evening attire with a neatly tied cravat—and possibly allowed the spirits dulling his senses to subside—before arriving at Lettie’s home. “I fear the day slipped me by, my lord.”

“It is too bad you did not allow the scotch to do the same,” Lady Lettie said under her breath with a snort.

Daniel turned a glare in her direction. Her plum pudding sat forgotten on the table as her stare narrowed on him. Her soft brown hair was upswept and piled high atop her head, the candlelight from above glistening off its shiny, pinned curls. He knew if the pins were removed, her hair would hang in waves to the middle of her back. The sight of her never ceased to take his breath away. Unfortunately, her scowl did naught but remind Daniel of his tardiness and unacceptable attire.

“Barclay,” Lady Percival shrieked, motioning for the footman to remove her plate. “What is that dreadful stench?”