“Damn it. Stop!”
Simon placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’d love to stop this whole thing. To see you happy. I’d sayagain, but ever since I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you truly happy. Not really.”
“Just leave me.” Every muscle in Drake’s body felt numb and heavy, leaving little strength to argue with Simon. “You’ll need to be back downstairs for drinks before supper soon anyway.”
“You’ll join me, won’t you? I wasn’t bamming Stratford when I said having you by my side gives me solace. If you don’t select a bride soon, I’ll suffocate in lilac and rose water. Those predatory women are merciless.”
Although the mention of Stratford soured his stomach, Drake couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ve never heard you complain about female attention before.”
“That was different. These women have one thing on their minds—something I wish to avoid for reasons you well know. This is your new life, not mine. And it’s damn tiring to be this popular.”
Drake nodded. “Go. I’ll join you soon. I just need some time alone.”
At theclickof the door latch, Drake’s shoulders eased. He trudged back to the window and gazed out at the expanse of his estate.
His estate.
Not Simon’s.
His.
The weight of the dukedom pressed down on him, and he recalled the moment he learned the truth.
Heat from the Bombay sun had baked him. Entering the small apartments he occupied as a first lieutenant in the military, he’d swiped the sweat from his forehead. One of the servants raced forward and handed him the life-changing missive.
He’d barely believed it when he read the correspondence from a solicitor informing him of his true identity and heritage. Anger roiled at the man who’d raised him. Francis Merrick, who’d given him his name, had lied to him.
His mother had lied to him.
He strode to the desk, pulling out the dog-eared letter.
My Lord Duke,
I realize this salutation must come as a shock. It has taken us years to locate you. Your true father was Henry Crispin Pendrake, the youngest son of the Fifth Duke of Burwood. Upon your parents’ marriage, your grandfather, Percival Eustace Pendrake, disavowed your father and sent him away. With three older sons, he gave little consideration to the possibility of your father inheriting.
A large liquor stain smeared the words that followed. He’d wanted to crumple up the damn letter and toss it in the fire, giving it the same regard his grandfather had shown for his father.
His father. A man he’d never known. After receiving the letter, he’d written to his mother, hoping she would deny the allegations.
She not only confirmed them, she also told him why. They’d fallen in love, but Henry—his father—was promised to an earl’s daughter. Taking matters into their own hands, she and his father eloped. Henrybelieved his father would forgive him once the die was cast. Instead, they were thrown out and told never to return.
A year after his parents’ marriage, he was born. They named him Pierce Henry Pendrake. Although his parents struggled, they were happy and in love. But Henry succumbed to influenza when Pierce—Drake—was two, leaving his mother a young widow with a child and little in the way of prospects.
She did what she could to feed and clothe them both, working as a seamstress in Somerset until she met Francis Merrick, a bright young man with ambitions to become the steward of a grand estate. When he learned about her story, Francis offered to marry her and raise four-year-old Pierce as his own. To shield Pierce from the shame of rejection by his own family, they called him Drake in homage to his true surname.
Drake knew the rest. How his father—that is Merrick—accepted a position as steward for the Marquess of Stratford at his seat in Somerset. Merrick had come highly recommended by Baron Harcourt, for whom he’d worked apprenticing. Stratford no doubt knew a bargain because Drake’sfatherhad told the marquess that his son, a strapping young lad of thirteen, was excellent with horses and could work as a groom.
He glanced down at the letter again and read the final words.
As your grandfather’s three elder sons predeceased him with no legitimate progeny, you are the last of the direct line, Your Grace. I implore you to return to England posthaste and assume your rightful place as the Sixth Duke of Burwood.
But Drake didn’t return posthaste. He’d spent days agonizing over the news, the deceit of his mother and the man he’d called father, the heartless act of a grandfather he’d never known, and the grief over the father he didn’t remember.
Like trying to force a puzzle piece into the wrong spot, throughout his whole life, he’d never felt he quite belonged. Memories of his mother telling him he was born for great things, but what great thingscould a groom do? Knowing in his heart he belonged with Honoria, but judged not good enough for her. The letter made everything snap into place.
And it chafed.
It had been Simon who pulled him from the bottle and convinced him to return. “Show them all,” he’d said. “And find your Lady Honoria.”
