The Duke Read online

  Dedication

  To my dad (with the angels).

  To my husband.

  To my brothers.

  And to all the good, kind, compassionate,

  loving men out there.

  You are my real-life heroes.

  Epigraph

  Come what might she would be wild, untrammeled, free.

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  Rule, Brittania! Rule the waves:

  Britons never will be slaves.

  —James Thomson (1740)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART I: 1817 Chapter 1: The Departure

  Chapter 2: The Storm

  Chapter 3: The Aftermath

  Chapter 4: The Captain

  Chapter 5: Lords of the Ocean

  Chapter 6: Awaken as the Beloved

  Chapter 7: The Promise

  PART II: 1818 Chapter 8: Courses Set

  PART III: 1822 Chapter 9: The Dark Lord

  Chapter 10: The Devil

  Chapter 11: The Journey

  Chapter 12: The Dream

  Chapter 13: Luck & Strategy

  PART IV: 1823 Chapter 14: A New Plan (This Time Better)

  Chapter 15: Black Magic

  Chapter 16: The Devil’s Keep

  Chapter 17: Prayer, of a Sort

  Chapter 18: The Knight

  Chapter 19: The Dungeon

  Chapter 20: Candles

  Chapter 21: The Seventh Sin

  Chapter 22: A Rooftop

  Chapter 23: A Prelude to a Kiss

  PART V: 1823 Chapter 24: The Secret

  Chapter 25: A Revelation

  Chapter 26: The Unexpected

  Chapter 27: Temptation

  Chapter 28: Kisses First

  Chapter 29: A (Desperately Conceived) Plan

  Chapter 30: Dissembling

  Chapter 31: For Love

  Epilogue

  Historical Inspiration & Thank-Yous

  An Excerpt from The Prince

  About the Author

  Praise for the Novels of Katharine Ashe

  By Katharine Ashe

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Plan

  April 1808

  Willows Hall

  Estate of the Earl of Vale

  Shropshire, England

  At the advanced age of eight, Lady Amarantha Vale announced to her elder sister, who was her closest companion, that she would not marry for wealth, title, or land.

  “For what will you marry, then?” Emily replied.

  “Love, of course,” Amarantha declared, adding, “Silly.” But she did not blame her sister for obtuseness. Emily had been betrothed since birth and had no choice in the matter. Obviously she hadn’t given it any thought.

  Amarantha had. She had given it lots and lots of thought. Moreover, from the stories her father read to them about the great heroes of yore, she knew precisely which sort of man would steal her heart.

  “He will be frightfully strong and fearsomely brave,” she said. “He will have blue eyes that sparkle like the sea, golden curls that shine like the sun, and shoulders so broad that he could carry a mountain upon them.”

  “To support all of that magnificence he must also have legs like tree trunks,” Emily said, turning the page of the book their father had lent her that morning.

  “Oh, yes,” Amarantha said, knowing her sister teased. But she never minded teasing when it was done lovingly. “He will be gentle and kind, too, especially to small children and animals, and always chivalrous with ladies. And he will be generous. He will give away his riches to anybody who needs them.”

  “That will be impractical. How will your family acquire food and shelter?”

  “With my dowry, of course. And when that is spent I will take in sewing projects, like Fanny Butterworth in the village does.”

  “Sewing?” her sister said skeptically. “You don’t even like to embroider.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Amarantha said, blithely waving away the obstacle. “I will do whatever necessary so that we will be happy. Anyway, I will have some time to do those sorts of things when he is off leading his men to victories against the enemy.”

  “The French, presumably.”

  “And any other villain that crosses him. He will ride a magnificent white steed, which will gallop valiantly into battle. And he will enjoy making snowmen.”

  “A horse making snowmen will be a sight to see, for sure.”

  Amarantha laughed, flopped onto her back, and stared at the crisscrossing branches above, which were dotted with new green leaves unfurling from their winter’s repose. It was springtime and even the air sang of expectation. “He will travel all over the world and get into all sorts of wonderful scrapes and adventures.”

  “Won’t you accompany him on these adventures?”

  “When I’m able, for I will have infants to care for. We will have six children. But he will definitely accompany me on my adventures.”

  “I think I am beginning to like this paragon.”

  “Good. Because we will always prefer staying at home, so you must visit often, and our sisters too. And he will love his mother and father as much as I love mine.”

  “It sounds like a fine plan, Amy.” Emily looked up from her book. “But you know that Papa will choose a husband for you, as he will for our sisters as well.”

  “I will ask him not to.” Amarantha jumped up, scattering the grass braids she had fashioned with fingers full of energy. She stepped out from beneath the shading branches. Mama always said direct sunlight made her freckles even more numerous. But the warmth of the spring day felt so good and she was simply bubbling over with anticipation. Her bridegroom wouldn’t dislike a few freckles, after all; he would love her too much to care about that sort of thing. “I will choose him myself, and I will know him the moment I see him.”

  “How?”

  “By his smile and kind words and good deeds.”

  “He sounds like a veritable Prince Charming.”

  “He will not be a prince,” Amarantha said, stretching her arms out at her sides. The sun in her hair was like a wild dancing of flames. “He will be an angel. My angel. And I will love him and no other with all of my heart until the day that I die.” She twirled, faster and faster on bare feet, until the trees and grass and sunshine blurred.

  PART I

  1817

  The Innocence

  Chapter 1

  The Departure

  August 1817

  Willows Hall, Shropshire

  Dearest Daughter Emily,

  A companion has been hired! The ship has sailed! Your sister has gone!!

  I am beside myself and have told your other sisters that if they ever so much as glance at a preacher, their father will disown them. How unfortunate That Man resembles the man in her childhood Plan!! If only he had black hair and a dark countenance, our darling Amarantha would never have glanced twice at that unsuitable Mister with his wretched Mission! I would curse golden curls entirely if not for the delightful lemon wash Sally prepares for my toilette, which has superb effects on mine.

  Amarantha’s suitors are deeply vexed. Upon hearing the news, Lady Witherspoon’s poor Eustace wept into his tea and experienced such a disturbance of temper that he did not leave his room for two full days. Sir Roger announced his intention of sailing after her at once. (Your father felt it necessary to remind him how last summer at the punting party he became ill from the rocking of his boat, which Sir Roger explained was due to taking four lemon custards that day rather than his usual three.) Lord Brill’s poem “Destitution Upon the Loss of a Strawberry Flower,�
� which I enclose here, speaks for itself. Yet I fear none of their manly tears will bring her home!

  I also enclose a message to you from your father. How devastated he is to have lost not only you to London, but also now our beloved Amarantha to the wretched colonies!

  I shall cry myself to sleep tonight and spend the entire sennight in bed with the draperies drawn, taking consolation only in the knowledge that Manchester is governor of that miserable island now, and his duchess is exceedingly stylish, despite now being a colonial. Our darling Amarantha simply must cling to her for guidance.

  Do come up to the Hall soon. We are at quite a loss now and a visit would cheer us.

  Grosses bises,

  Your Devoted Mama

  Encl.

  Dear Emily,

  Your mother is in high distress, as are your sisters and indeed the entire household. When Mr. Garland sailed two months ago I felt certain that, in his absence, Amarantha would swiftly come to her senses. Yet she remained steadfast. I am persuaded that the novelty of it all deserves some credit; she has always been my most dauntless daughter. I have little hope that Garland will make her truly happy. But I have every faith that our intrepid, big-hearted Amy will nevertheless wrest happiness from whatever adventure she throws herself into.

  With Affection,

  Edward “Papa,” Seventh Earl of Vale

  10 October 1817

  The Queen’s Hotel

  Kingston, Jamaica

  Dear Emmie,

  This is not at all as I anticipated! But I will try to describe it.

  The people seem English, yet how different from in Shropshire! Everywhere one sees great excess beside great want. Modestly prosperous gentlemen and gentlewomen wear monstrous loads of fashion—even as Mama and Papa do! Yet I have seen others so poorly clothed that they lack shoes. The hotel manager says the latter are slaves and cut sugar cane in the fields. (Without shoes?!)

  In fact it seems that most people one encounters here are slaves. I remember now that you told me this would be so, but how remarkable to actually see it! Some of the sailors aboard our ship and servants at the hotel, however, are freedmen. When I asked the chambermaid about this she said that some freedmen have shops and land, and that even the pastor of her church is a freedman. (Despite your attempts and Papa’s to teach me of the world, I had little notion of any of this before. How much I have now to learn!)

  My companion, Mrs. Jennings, thinks the gentry here are puffed up like mushrooms. She is nevertheless eager to visit with them. (She adores gossip and is very silly.) Several have already called on us here.

  The Duchess of Manchester sent an invitation to stay with her until the wedding, which I declined. My darling Paul says it would be unsuitable for the fiancée of a humble missionary to reside at the governor’s mansion.

  As to the island, all is lush and verdant beyond imagining. The heat is astonishing. There are glorious mountains and beaches with the whitest sand I have ever seen. Here are fruits I did not know existed before two days ago: guava, mango, pine-apple, and “bread fruit.” They are all delicious. (Mrs. Jennings dislikes them and demands marmalade.)

  The port itself is astonishing. The bay is filled with every sort of vessel and everywhere there are people speaking in so many tongues that one’s head spins. The greatest sight is the Fairway. Her captain and crew are heroes of an important battle (I do not recall which—you know I am a wretched study at History!). It is a spectacular sight: the Union Jack flying proudly from the mast of such a magnificent ship in the lapis waters of this world so far from home. In truth, I never understood the vastness of our empire until now.

  All is not entirely alien. My darling Paul’s church is blessedly quaint, although somewhat austere. He promises to make me known to the parishioners as soon as I have regained my bearings on land. I told him that I do not suffer from lingering “sea legs,” so he needn’t have concern. It was adorable how he blushed then, and implored me to lower my voice. I believe the notion that I have legs gave him pleasurable pause! I do not shrink to tell you, sister, that it is thrilling to be admired by a man in such a manner.

  (I am still astonished Papa allowed me to come here. He is the most generous, most kind, most wonderful father in the world!)

  A footman has just told us that a storm will arrive tonight, but that we must not fret, although we are across the street from the quays, for the hotel is tightly caulked. How singular of him to alert us to a storm, and how clever to know when it will happen.

  Beyond the windowpane I see there is now great activity at the docks. Rather than put this letter in the hands of the footman, I will walk to post it myself. Mrs. Jennings says we must not venture forth without Reverend Garland’s escort, but he has not yet come today and I simply must escape this confinement—or by the time he finally does call I will surely be in ill sorts. Also, I packed only one pair of boots. I should not like to cover them in mud when I walk to post this after the rain.

  With all of my love,

  Amy

  P.S. The Battle of Rappahannock River!

  Chapter 2

  The Storm

  He saw her for the first time ever in a storage cellar with rain slashing at her face, standing atop a crate, struggling to fasten a window, and the first words he heard from her lips were, “Damn and blast it to Hades!”

  Before he could duck his head beneath the lintel and move forward, she turned to him, eyes the color of cloverleaves and lit like lightning.

  “Don’t gape, you big column of shark bait,” she shouted. “Help me!”

  A blast of wind struck the building and the shop above them shuddered. Her grip slipped over the window latch.

  Gabriel shoved his shoulders through the narrow doorway and in three strides crossed the room. The wind blew hot and punishingly hard through the opening, but she did not release the latch. Covering her hand with his, he drove the frame shut.

  The building moaned, and Gabriel found himself looking down upon a nose both freckled and wet, lips both lush and damp, lashes both long and dripping, and cloverleaves that had gone entirely round. Her features were English, fine, and not unattractive. After five months at sea, he would have been one sailor in a million to resist following the trail of rainwater down her pale throat in which her pulse beat visibly to the gown laced tight around her collar, sodden, and clinging to her curves.

  Sweet curves.

  “Remove your hand from mine and your eyes from where they have fallen out of your head,” she said in such an altered tone that he barely heard it below the groaning of the walls and the pounding of the rain. Rather, the pounding of his pulse.

  Too long at sea.

  He removed his eyes and then his entire self. Stepping back, he offered his hand for her descent from the crate. She lifted a single brow.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said roughly, withdrawing his hand once again.

  She grasped her sodden skirts and climbed nimbly down. “You are pardoned, Shark Bait. This time.”

  “Lieutenant,” he corrected.

  Swiftly scanning the room with those eyes that even in the murky light of this day were like the green of Highlands mountains, she untied the ribbons at her throat, removed her dripping bonnet, and tossed it atop a barrel.

  “Have you got a handkerchief?”

  He reached into his waistcoat and proffered the square of linen. She glanced at his outstretched hand, then at his face, then at his hand again, and did not move forward.

  “You are a giant beast of a man, aren’t you?” she said.

  “So I’ve been told.” He set the linen on a crate and backed away, curling his fingers into his palm that had easily encompassed her whole hand.

  Taking up the kerchief, she unfolded it with trembling fingers and wiped the rainwater from her face. Wind and rain battered the building in frenzied fury, filling the tiny space with sound.

  “I wonder how you go along aboard a ship.” Her gaze passed up and down him anew. “The crown of my head
is barely to your chin yet I found the quarters aboard our ship frightfully cramped. Unless naval ships are much more spacious, you must spend every day bent over.”

  “Aye, but only the part o’ the day belowdecks.”

  The lush lips twitched.

  When she withdrew her gaze to look about the room, he felt the loss of that reluctant smile in his chest like the loss of air.

  Nonsense. He was muddled with exhaustion from preparing the Fairway for the storm.

  This storage room beneath the shop was minuscule, heavy with heat, and packed with sacks of rice and grain, barrels of sugar and ham, wooden parts for furniture, skeins of silk, boxes of nails and other tools, and even one small keg of gunpowder. She strode the circumference of it, rounding him, and then halting where she had begun. The wind blasted against the shop above and she tilted her face upward to peer at the ceiling that hung an inch above his head. Biting her lips between her teeth, she drew a hard breath, and then looked at him again.

  “I suppose you have experience with storms of this sort,” she said.

  Not of this sort. But spots of pink sat upon each pale cheek now. She had tucked her hands into her soggy skirts to hide their quivering. She was making a valiant effort to conceal her distress—more valiant than many a sailor he’d known.

  “’Twill blow over soon enough, lass.”

  “That was a lie,” she said, a dart forming between her brows. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I didna—” He bit back his retort. But his patience was frayed. There had been no sign of the Theia entering the harbor, though he had stood in the downpour until the swells were rising so suddenly and steeply over the quay he had finally been obliged to shelter here. And now this: a sharp-tongued English girl with the manners of a stevedore. Gabriel didn’t care much for social niceties. But a man wasn’t made First Lieutenant of a ship of the line at twenty-three by failing to mind his tongue.