Page 1

Chapter 1

"What a wretched excuse of a man."

Arthur Wellington, Duke of Buckingham, did not even spare a second to watch his bastard brother's carriage disappear down the drive before turning from the doorstep.

Malcolm paid an unannounced visit and occupied Winworth for four hours.

Four hours spent inspecting paintings, weighing the family silver in his hand, and asking entirely too many questions about the estate's revenues, as though he had already begun calculating what would one day be his. There were very few men on this earth who would dare behave as Malcolm did, and the only reason he still drew breath was that they shared the same blood.

Arthur had tolerated exactly four hours too many.

His boots struck the black and white marble floor of the vast, darkening corridor as he crossed the entrance hall. Large oak doors closed behind him, and Mr Ellis followed, keeping his customary two paces behind as he strode towards his study.

Every room at Winworth had been altered at Arthur's request. Curtains remained half drawn, lamps were shaded, and nowhere in the house was permitted to become uncomfortably bright. Even his own chambers remained in near darkness throughout the day.

Darkness no longer unsettled him, but it had given rise to no shortage of absurd rumours amongst the ton. Some claimed he had become more spectre than man after returning from the Continent. Arthur snorted quietly at the thought, because if he truly possessed a thirst for blood, Malcolm would have been drained dry before luncheon.

"I confess, Your Grace," his valet said carefully, "I expected him to be shown the door rather sooner."

Mr Ellis's hesitation had been warranted. A window or rooftop would have sufficed to throw Malcolm out instead. The image of the weasel's body striking the floor with a satisfying crunch of splintering bone almost coaxed a smile to his lips. Almost.

"I considered it, but I fear even you, Mr Ellis, could not have that pathetic excuse of flesh scraped pristinely from Winworth’s gravel in under an hour.”

"No, Your Grace, I could not," his valet admitted.

Silence settled between them. Mr Leroy Ellis had served the Duke’s family for almost twenty-five years, so he knew better than to assume he was joking. The staff who had watched him return from the Continent no longer believed he had the ability to jest.

Arthur pushed open the door to his study and strode immediately to his desk.

"I trust he won't return," Mr Ellis said neutrally Mr Ellis said neutrally, standing in his customary place at the threshold.

"He will."

Arthur lowered himself into the dark leather chair behind his desk and, with a controlled sigh, reached for his decanter. He poured himself a measure of whisky; the amber liquid swirled in his glass. Malcolm had been right about one thing: there were only two men left in their bloodline able to inherit. War had claimed uncles. Fever had claimed cousins. Only Malcolm and he remained.

It was not familial sentiment that had brought him to Winworth. It was arithmetic. Every Wellington male buried brought Malcolm one step closer to inheriting five centuries of history, and today's visit had been nothing more than an appraisal of his future.

Malcolm was the product of one of his father's long-standing mistresses. Arthur had never judged his father for keeping one; half the aristocracy did the same. What he could not forgive was the hurt it had caused his mother and his resulting failure to secure the Wellington line of succession. There were no legitimate brothers to shoulder the burden with him; if Arthur failed to produce an heir, the Dukedom entrusted to him would end with his death. Five hundred years of history, sacrifice, and carefully guarded legacy would fall into the hands of a man wholly undeserving of it.

"And if he does?" Mr Ellis asked.

He finally looked at him and, after a low hum, said, “I would rather reduce Winworth House to ash by my own hands than permit that grasping, half-witted parasite to inherit so much as a stone.”

Mr Ellis bobbed his head in acknowledgement, knowing the Duke was not known for idle threats, but something in his valet's expression caught his attention. After twenty-five years of service, he knew the man well enough to understand he had something on his mind; professional restraint likely kept the words he wished to utter at bay.

“Speak.” He had no patience for unspoken thoughts.

Ellis hesitated.

“Pardon, Your Grace?”

“What is it you wish to say?”

“With your permission, Your Grace, it is but an idea…”

“I have already commanded you to speak, so speak, unless you wish to take an early retirement.” He had little time for people who did not know their own minds, commanded their own thoughts, or, better yet, lacked conviction. Though such lapses in judgement were entirely unlike Mr Ellis.

"Well, Your Grace... Sir Malcolm was only here to appraise the estate because of your... well..." Ellis coughed into his fist. "...your alleged lack of desire to enter the marriage market."