Chapter 1
He was only six years old when Augusta came into his life. For nineteen years he tolerated his stepmother’s caustic interference, and upon his father’s death, Max Fernside became the Duke of Bromenville.
Presently, his only curse was she was still alive.
Whenever the Dowager’s icy pale blue eyes met his calmly, she fully expected him to comply with her demands – “wishes” she called them. Underneath her quiet demeanor and coolly polite façade lay an iron will and a tongue that could flay a porcupine.
This evening, Max tried to keep his expression calm and neutral, when in fact it craved to convey a heavy scowl. He gazed across the formal dining room table atthe meddlesome old bat, and once again tried to rein in his temper.When I’m ready to marry, I will let her know.
He finally had enough of her nagging.
“I believe I have told you before, Duchess,” he slammed his fist on the table, “I’m am not currently prepared to marry.”
She cocked an eyebrow and snorted. “Of course, you are not.” She laughingly shook her head. “You are far too busy playing with your horses and visiting your friend, the Viscount Mallen.” She returned her attention to her dinner plate.
Maximilian gripped his knife and fork, all but bending the soft silver with his fingers. “The horses earn their keep with the tens of thousands of pounds they bring in every year. And my friend is my affair, not yours.”
Augusta sniffed. “I am merely trying to secure you a wife, Maximilian, so you might have an heir to follow you. Like it or not, you are old enough to cease your childish games and settle down to perform your duties.”
She faced him, narrowed her eyes, and continued. “You have sown your wild oats with that girl long ago; it is time for you to become a proper Duke.”
He tightened his jaw. “I certainly know my duties. One of them is to marry and beget an heir.”
“Do you? Sometimes I wonder.”
Maximilian glanced at the third family member at the table, his half-brother, Wilmot. The weedy-looking young man pretended not to listen to the near argument and ate his roasted pheasant, drank his wine in gulps, and kept his head down. He had rounded his narrow shoulders and slumped in his chair, a trait that never failed to express his discomfort or feelings of awkwardness. The Duke did not dislike his younger half-brother, nor did he feel any affection for him, either.
“Wilmot,” his mother barked. “Sit up straight and behave like a decent human being while at the table.”
The young man did not glance toward the Duchess, but he did mutter, “Yes, Mother,” under his breath and straighten his spine. His lanky brown hair tumbled over his eyes as though he wanted to hide, and his gaze flicked everywhere, never still.
Maximilian despised the way Augusta treated her only son, a mixture of an iron rod and spoiling him rotten. In her eyes, the eighteen-year-old Wilmot could do no wrong, and yet she nit-picked him nearly to death. Often, Maximilian wished he could pull his brother away from her influence, yet recognized that the time for that was long gone.
Though not yet forty, Augusta’s brown hair, which she kept coiled in a tidy bun at the nape of her neck, had begun to grey. Her plump, soft figure spoke of her years dining excessively on sweetmeats and delectables. Ever since she married Maximilian’s father, he had never gotten along with her. When he was young, she frightened him. As he grew older, she bounced between annoying him and boring him silly.
“I have taken the liberty of inviting Lady Helena Reeves to Bromenville,” Augusta went on after sending her son an icy stare. “As you know, she is the daughter of the Earl of Whitington. Her breeding is impeccable and her reputation flawless. She is a good match for you.”
Maximilian ground his teeth as he sipped his wine.Do not rage at her, do not shout. It is what she is waiting for.“Indeed?” he asked politely, flashing her a mirthless smile. “I suppose I should thank you for taking the trouble.”
Augusta stiffened at the veiled insult but did not otherwise react. Instead, she picked up a morsel of pheasant with her fork and chewed it delicately. “They will be here in three weeks. I will also plan a grand ball, in honor of your fiancée, while she is here.”
“I do not recall agreeing to marry her.”
“Do not be absurd, Maximilian,” Augusta said, still inside her chilly calm demeanor. “You are the catch of the kingdom. Every peer’s eligible daughters are swooning over you and hope to catch your eye. I have merely saved you the trouble of meeting them all.”
Maximilian carefully set down his knife and fork, seething inwardly. “I will permit this ball of yours to continue forward, Madam. I will meet Lady Helena Reeves, and I will treat her as is her due with politeness. I willnot, however, permityouto choose my wife for me. Are we clear? Should you take it upon yourself to publicly declare her my fiancée, I will embarrass you at the ball by announcing to everyone present thatyouselected her, and I refuse to marry her.”
Augusta’s pale eyes narrowed. “Thus, you would publicly shame Lady Helena?”
“No.Youwould publicly shame her. Now if you will excuse me, I have things I must attend to.”
He rose, stalked out of the dining room, and felt her disapproving eyes on his back. The attending footmen bowed as he passed them, their powdered wigs in place, their black and silver livery impeccable. Maximilian learned long ago that displaying his anger toward his stepmother resulted in cold, sardonic forgiveness that somehow seemed far worse than a shouting match. During his teen years, he often provoked her and roused his father’s anger. Before he died, the old Duke all but begged him to treat Augusta well, and Maximilian did honestly try.
“It is difficult sometimes, Father,” he muttered under his breath as he continued across the vast stone castle. “Though I wish unto heaven you had never married her.”
“Your Grace?”
Maximilian glanced up, discovering that during his inner turmoil, he had almost walked right over his steward, Nigel Curry. The man had just stepped out of his office when the Duke nearly bumped into him while talking to himself. “Ah, Nigel. So sorry, I was not watching where I was going.”
