Never Dare a Duke

  Never Dare a Duke

  Wendy Soliman

  Never Dare a Duke

  Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2020

  Edited by Perry Iles

  Cover Design by Clockwork Art

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of

  The Author – Wendy Soliman

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  Contents

  Never Dare a Duke

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  ‘Damn it, Baron, behave yourself!’

  Brinley Wentworth reined in his lively grey stallion, narrowly avoiding being deposited in the mud as the young horse with too much energy fought him every step of the way. Satisfied that he had Baron more or less under control, he paused on a slight rise in the ground to look down on his sprawling estate, Wentworth Abbey, and its surrounding acres. The view afforded him a vast amount of satisfaction, despite the fact that some of his fields were now heavily waterlogged. A cold day for the time of year, the river Exe on the northern border of his land threatened to break its banks due to the rains that had set in at the start of October and showed little sign of abating.

  The old Abbey stood proud and impervious to the conditions in the centre of the formal gardens, having survived various assaults upon its structure and inhabitants over the centuries. It had been restored to its former glory thanks to Brin’s efforts to fill the family’s depleted coffers through his own heavily frowned upon endeavours.

  ‘Ye gods, Brin, that stallion of yours has a turn of speed,’ Nyle Gower said in an admiring tone when he and Kent Hardy caught up with Brin and drew rein. ‘If you ever decide to sell him, give me first refusal.’

  ‘If he doesn’t succeed in breaking my back before then.’ Brin patted Baron’s sweaty neck. ‘The confounded animal thinks he’s in charge.’

  Kent chuckled. ‘Baron needs to pick his fights. No one gets the better of the Duke of Exeter.’

  ‘Except my blasted mother,’ Brin complained. ‘Why the devil she feels such a compelling need to hold a shooting party in this weather is beyond me.’

  ‘The weather’s bound to improve,’ Kent said with a wry grin. ‘The elements wouldn’t dare to defy such a formidable adversary.’

  ‘Besides,’ Nyle added. ‘If memory serves, she couldn’t pin you down for long enough to secure your attendance earlier in the season.’

  ‘Still beats me how I let her catch up with me this time,’ Brin groused. ‘I let my guard down for a second and…’ Brin threw up a hand in irritation and didn’t bother to complete his sentence. His friends were already familiar with his objections to his mother’s machinations.

  ‘The estate looks to be prospering,’ Nyle said, taking in the view himself. ‘Or at least what I can see of it through this intermittent rain, cloud and ground mist appears to be orderly. Must be satisfying for you. All that filthy lucre you accumulated toiling away for the East India Company has clearly been put to good use.’

  ‘Toiling?’ Kent scratched his chin. ‘Hardly. He just swanned about India, telling everyone he was a duke, and the maharajas fell at his feet in their anxiety to give him the best possible trading agreements.’

  ‘Keep telling yourself that,’ Brin replied nonchalantly. ‘Had to do something to save the ancestral home. It was crumbling around the pater’s ears, but he pretended not to notice and continued to squander his wealth on hedonistic pleasures.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a little hedonism,’ Nyle replied, backed up by a decisive nod from Kent. ‘You work too hard, my friend.’

  ‘A minute ago Kent had me trading on my title.’

  ‘You’d be a damned fool if you didn’t,’ Kent admitted. ‘You didn’t ask to be born a duke, but had little choice in the matter and inherited a raft of responsibilities to go with that position. Your tenants’ conditions were that bad before you spent ten years of your life lowering yourself to put things right that they threatened to rebel.’

  ‘Hardly lowering,’ Brin confessed. ‘I enjoyed India. At least I could be myself there.’

  ‘Well anyway, you’ve earned the right to kick up your heels now,’ Nyle insisted.

  ‘My mother forcing a parade of eligible females on me for a sennight is hardly my idea of enjoyment,’ Brin said gloomily.

  ‘Hey, I thought this was supposed to be a shooting party!’ Kent cried indignantly. ‘I sincerely hope that I have not been misinformed. You wouldn’t have got me here for fifty guineas otherwise. I have quite enough of my own mother attempting to marry me off as it is. I don’t need yours aiding her cause.’

  ‘She knew I’d suddenly think of somewhere else I needed to be if she called it anything else,’ Brin replied. ‘She can hardly host a shoot herself, and we have too many birds, so…’

  ‘You have no brothers to step up in your place.’ Nyle nodded his sympathy. ‘Your mother also has three daughters to marry off, so having eligible men in your house for a whole week will suit her very well.’

  ‘God forbid,’ Kent mumbled. ‘No offence to your sisters, Brin, who are all charming, but I’m too young to become leg-shackled.’

  Were they charming, Brin wondered? He barely knew them. He had tried to rectify that situation upon his return to England but none of them appeared to have much conversation and cared only about the amount of money he was willing to spend on their come-outs.

  ‘We’re not, though, are we?’ Nyle pointed out. ‘We’re all three of us eight-and-twenty and our carefree days at Oxford are long past. We can’t put it off indefinitely.’

  ‘You two can, if you so wish,’ Brin pointed out, envy in his tone. ‘You both have older brothers to keep the family name ticking over.’

  ‘You’re rather making your mother’s point for her when you come out with comments like that,’ Kent observed.

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ Brin glowered at Kent. ‘If and when I decide to embrace the parson’s mousetrap, I shall choose my own duchess without any interference on my mother’s part.’

  Kent and Nyle exchanged a knowing look.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Nyle said unconvincingly, taking one hand off his reins to pat Brin’s shoulder.

  ‘All mother’s friends’ daughters are of excellent pedigree, obviously, with spotless reputations, endlessly accomplished and…’

  ‘Dull as ditch water,’ the three friends finished together, laughing.

  And that fact, Brin knew, lay at the heart of his disinclination to do what he knew he inevitably must. He had enjoyed a variety of e
xotic liaisons during his years in India that had left him oddly reluctant to settle down to a life of English mediocracy, if being a duke with vast estates and wide-ranging authority could be considered mediocre.

  Brin had found it hard to readjust to life in England, where so much more was expected of him simply because of who he was. His friends were right. His mother wasn’t getting any younger and it was only natural that she would want to see the family’s future secured.

  His problem was that he didn’t like his mother very much, and had little respect for her opinion or her circle of friends. He had seen little of her during his childhood, having been packed off to boarding school at the tender age of seven. All her attention had been taken up with her daughters, the first of whom came along several years after Brin, at a time when she had almost despaired of having more children. She was desperate to produce a second son, but had spared precious little time for the one she had—until now.

  Having restored the family fortune, Brin received considerably more maternal attention than he was comfortable with.

  ‘What are you looking so cynical about?’ Nyle asked.

  ‘I was just reflecting upon the arguments that raged between the pater and my dear mother when the old man gave me permission to join the company and seek my fortune in India. Mother was appalled. A future duke resorting to trade? She was horrified. When she failed to get the pater to withdraw his permission, she set about me for days on end, imploring me not to denigrate the family name by getting my hands dirty.’

  ‘But now that she’s benefited from the results of your travails, she’s singing a very different tune, I dare say,’ Kent said sympathetically.

  ‘Quite, and I cannot abide hypocrisy. She told me before I left that all I needed to do was marry an heiress and our problems would be at an end.’ Brin firmed his jaw. ‘She failed to understand that I would not be manipulated by her or anyone else.’

  ‘A man in your position could have taken your pick of the heiresses and saved yourself from the unrelenting heat of India,’ Nyle pointed out. ‘But of course you knew that before you left. Not only are you a duke but I’ve heard it said in some quarters that you’re quite handsome too.’ Nyle lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. ‘Not that I can see the attraction myself, but still…’

  ‘And now she’s at me again, day and night, which is why I keep finding reasons to be elsewhere. She tells me that I now have the freedom of choice, given that we as a family no longer have pockets to let. Mind you, the lavish plans she has to launch my sisters on society, will likely alter that situation, God help us.’

  ‘Women have no sense of economy,’ Kent said, rubbing his chin. ‘It’s all about appearances and outdoing their neighbours and friends. It would bore me rigid, but then what do I know about such capers?’

  ‘It would be easy enough to select one of the chits from among mother’s dreary circle, then follow father’s example and lead a separate life from my duchess once she’s given me the required heir.’

  ‘Cheer up!’ Kent said. ‘It’ll need a bit of an effort on your part when it comes to creating the heir in question, so it’s not all bad news.’

  Brin chuckled. Few men in his circle married for love. Many didn’t even like their wives very much. But Brin preferred to set trends rather than follow them.

  ‘Has your mother got anyone in particular in mind for you?’ Nyle asked. ‘Just so that I know whom to avoid.’

  Brin sucked air through his teeth. ‘I swear that if I hear one more time just how lovely, biddable and accomplished Lady Hazel Beardsley is, I shall not be responsible for my actions.’

  Kent grinned. ‘Your mother’s right, though. I’ve met her a few times and she is exquisite. But her own mother…’ Kent rolled his eyes. ‘Tread cautiously, my friend. I wouldn’t wish her on anyone.’

  ‘Choose someone your mother definitely won’t approve of,’ Nyle said. ‘Just to remind her that you’re your own man.’

  ‘Now there’s a thought.’ Kent grinned. ‘I dare you.’

  ‘Never dare a duke,’ Nyle advised. ‘In my experience, they can seldom resist a challenge and almost always come out on the winning side.’

  ‘I would gladly take you up on this particular challenge,’ Brin replied, ‘but for the fact that no unsuitable person will be permitted over my threshold, make no mistake about that.’

  ‘Ah well, there are other places to go hunting,’ Kent reasoned.

  ‘Come on,’ Brin said, when the rain started falling again and Baron shifted impatiently beneath Brin’s weight. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  The three friends spurred their horses forward and entered the grounds of Wentworth Abbey at a canter that churned up mud, sending divots flying into the air. They dismounted in the pristine stable yard, where grooms scurried forward to take their horses.

  Brin led the way into the house through a side door, hoping to reach his room without encountering his mother.

  ‘Ah, Brinley, there you are at last.’

  Brin inwardly groaned. Even if he hadn’t recognised his mother’s strident voice echoing down the passageway, he would have known it was her addressing him since she was the only person who ever used his full name. She sailed into view and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Brin’s mud-splattered clothes.

  ‘Good heavens, you’re not fit to be seen, and the first of the guests will be arriving momentarily.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mother,’ he said absently.

  ‘Really, Brinley, you should have more consideration than to…Oh, Lord Nyle, Lord Hardy, I did not see you lurking there behind the duke.’ His mother’s entire demeanour changed with a coquettish smile that had no place on the face of a woman her age; especially since it was contrived. ‘You are very welcome, as always. My daughters will be delighted to reacquaint themselves with you.’

  Brin rolled his eyes. Even by her own standards, his mother was being particularly unsubtle. ‘Walker.’ She snapped her fingers and Brin’s butler materialised. ‘Show our guests to their chambers. I believe your valets have already arrived, gentlemen, and we were beginning to wonder what had become of you all.’ A condemning look in Brin’s direction accompanied the veiled rebuke. ‘I trust you will find everything you need in your rooms.’

  Kent and Nyle, to their credit, bowed and said all the right things, when all his mother really deserved was a good dressing down.

  ‘Not you, Brinley. A word, if you please,’ she said imperiously.

  ‘Not now, Mother. I need a bath. Whatever it is will have to wait.’

  His mood soured by his mother’s autocratic manner, Brin walked away from her—possibly the only person in the world who would dare to. Brin had been back from India for little more than a year and had thrown himself into supervising the renovations which had started under the eagle-eye of Harlow, his trusted right-hand man, two years before Brin himself could take control. Since coming home, he’d made it clear to his mother that he had his own methods and would not be bullied.

  The battle of wills was ongoing.

  Brin strode towards the stairs which he took three at a time, slammed open the door to the master chamber and closed it behind him with a resounding bang.

  It was, he decided, going to be a very long week.

  *

  Farrah Dorset accepted the hand of Lord Robert Beardsley. He held onto it for far too long as he assisted her into his mother’s carriage, earning himself a frown from the mother in question, who had already made it abundantly clear that she suffered Farrah’s presence on this journey under…well, sufferance. It was a point that she emphasised at every opportunity.

  Farrah reclaimed her gloved hand as soon as politely possible, thanked Lord Beardsley for help that had been unnecessary and resumed her seat beside her close friend, Lady Hazel Beardsley, their backs to the horses. Naturally, the dowager countess took one forward-looking seat and her younger daughter and mirror image, Lady Ellen, sat beside her, her demure appearance hiding a spitefu
l character that was completely at odds with Hazel’s temperament and that of her brother.

  ‘Two more hours should see us at Wentworth Abbey,’ the countess declared, waving to her son, who was escorting the carriage on horseback. ‘Just remember, Hazel, that first impressions are paramount. Not that the duke can fail to appreciate your beauty, accomplishments and sweet nature, but even so it’s best not to leave anything to chance. You will have competition for his attentions, you know. I heard Lady Melody Kirkham is to be there, which is most vexatious. Not that the duke could possibly prefer her to you, especially if you go out of your way to encourage his attentions. I can assure you, Hazel, that I shall not be best pleased if Lady Kirkham’s daughter beats you to the spoils.’

  It wasn’t the first time that Lady Beardsley had mentioned her supposedly close friend in such disparaging terms, Farrah realised, and wondered what she had let herself in for.

  ‘The duke is bound to fall desperately in love with you,’ Ellen said, her tone imbued with a wealth of envy since she bridled against being constantly unfavourably compared to her sister.

  ‘Love has nothing to do with the matter,’ the countess responded briskly. ‘Everything has been arranged between the duchess and me.’

  In which case Farrah wondered why she was so worried about competition from other quarters.

  ‘With the duke’s agreement?’ Hazel asked, raising a worried brow.

  Farrah knew that her friend resented being paraded in front of one of the most eligible bachelors in the country like, as she put it, a prize broodmare. Farrah squeezed her hand, aware that she had developed a secret passion for another gentleman; one who had also wangled an invitation to this party, but of whom her mother did not approve. He was not nearly grand enough to satisfy her ambitions for her fragrant daughter.

  ‘Bah!’ The countess flapped a hand. ‘He will do what his mother tells him, if only for an easy life. But if you make a good impression upon him then things can be resolved within two days, I am absolutely sure of it, and then we can all relax.’ The countess turned her attention to Farrah. ‘And you, Miss Dorset, I hope you fully appreciate the honour of our invitation being extended to include you.’