“I say, Maximilian.”
Augusta’s voice intruded upon his thoughts. Glancing up, he found every eye on him. “Excuse me, what?”
Her expression maintained its mild and half smiling veneer, yet her ice blue eyes bored into him like augers. “I asked what wine you might recommend for this evening.”
“Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Bordeaux, the seventeen eighty-nine vintage.”
Earl Whitington beamed. “Excellent choice, Your Grace. Most excellent. Did I not tell you, my dear, His Grace has a most definitive taste in wines?”
The Countess smiled at him. “He most certainly does.”
Maximilian felt his face heat, but he returned their smile and toasted them with his teacup. “I learned from the best. My father.”
As the topic of conversation turned to his sire, the old Duke, Maximilian let himself reminisce about his father, gone for less than a year. From the Earl, he learned that his father had known the Duke of Dentonshire quite well. They had shared the same political leanings at Parliament, and both had grown close to the Prince Regent.
“I did not know this,” he said to the Earl. “Thank you for informing me. I will certainly consider the Duke my friend as my father had.”
“Though I would not dare to imply you are not a well-versed politician, Your Grace,” Earl Whitington said, “but you would do well to listen to him. He knows more about our kingdom and what makes it run than anyone I know. With, perhaps, the exception of the Prince Regent.”
“I will, Earl Whitington,” Maximilian replied expansively. “I do try to listen and learn from those who know more than I.”
He ignored Augusta’s sharp, annoyed glance and Wilmot’s snicker into his bacon, and finished his breakfast without throttling either of them. Still, it was a close call. Afterward, he walked out of the dining hall with the Earl, promising to meet him in an hour for a game of chess before the Dentonshires arrived. The ladies followed after them, talking of the Season, and the upcoming ball.
As was his habit, Maximilian went to the stables to make his usual rounds and inspections. Accompanied by Fergus, he accepted reports on the health and condition of the mares and their foals. He went to the stallions’ block and scowled when the black pinned his ears and tried to bite him. “Do it again, and I will have you gelded,” he warned the beast. He spoke to his breeding manager about the current schedule and looked in on the young horses and their training.
“Your Grace.”
Turning, Maximilian found a footman bowing. “Yes?”
“A carriage has been sighted. Your guests are arriving.”
“Thank you. I am on my way.”
As he approached the castle, he found Augusta, Wilmot, and the Whitington family already assembled to formally greet the Duke and Duchess of Dentonshire. He looked for Eugenia among the footmen and servants but did not see her. Augusta looked him up and down and sniffed her disapproval but did not speak her evident criticism in front of the guests.
The black coach pulled by a team of four white horses drew to a stop in front of the castle and footmen leaped down from the rear step to open the carriage doors. The Duchess of Dentonshire emerged first, a tall, stately woman with her rich brown hair perfectly coiffed even during the travel. Streaks of grey within it added an air of regality to her, and her hazel eyes met Maximilian’s.
A lightning bolt of shock shot through him.Why does she look so familiar? I do not recall ever meeting her before, but I swear I know her.He stepped forward and gave her a bow and a smile. “Welcome to Bromenville, Duchess. I am Maximilian Fernside, the Duke of Bromenville. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
She offered him a grave nod and a smile. “Beatrice Creighton, Duke, the Duchess of Dentonshire. And my husband, Horace Creighton, the Duke of Dentonshire.”
Maximilian shook hands with the Duke, a man with hair similar to his wife’s and dark brown eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, Duke. Please, meet my stepmother, Augusta Fernside, Dowager Duchess of Bromenville.”
“It has been too long, Duchess,” Augusta said, smiling with eyes like chips of ice. “You remember my son, Wilmot?”
As the Dentonshires greeted their close friends, the Whitingtons, Maximilian wracked his brain trying to remember where he had seen the Duchess of Dentonshire before. But her husband he knew he had never met.Perhaps I saw her in London and did not realize who she was at the time.As the group made their way into the castle, the dukes fell in step with each other.
“How was your journey?” he asked politely.
“Not too terrible as trips go,” the older man replied. “As we took it in short stages, it was not all that exhausting. But we seldom travel these days.” He smiled at Maximilian. “However, my wife insisted we accept your gracious invitation to the ball you are hosting.”
“I am glad you did,” Maximilian said. “Though you and I have never met, I understand you knew my father?”
Dentonshire nodded. “A good man and my friend. I do apologize for not attending his funeral. My wife was not well.”
“I received your letter of condolences,” Maximilian said. “Thank you.”
Walking with the man into the castle, Maximilian found himself liking the older Duke. He did not speak much and carried an air of quiet intelligence and authority - a reserve that Maximilian found he could trust. “I have brandy and sherry in the drawing room whenever you are refreshed and ready.”
