Chapter 1
Grayson Maxwell, Viscount of Rigsby, and future Duke of Devonmere, lay shirtless on the grassy bank of the pond, eyes closed against the afternoon sun. Water beaded in the grooves chiseled between the hard, muscular planes of his chest, a chest that moved up and down in a steady rhythm as his lungs fought to soothe his racing heart. “Gah!” he cried to a sky as blue as Henrietta Blake’s eyes before vaulting to his feet and plunging into the pond once more.
He swam its length and back. Then again. And again.
And still, eyes as blue as the sky laughed at him, loved him, then scorned him.
His heart clenched. A howl ripped through his chest. A year later, the thought of Henrietta Blake left him feeling feral, left him feeling raw, left him feeling like … like a volley of rocks were hitting him in the back?
No, that was no metaphor for his broken heart. Rocks really were hitting him on the back.
He stopped his smooth strokes and floated to an upright position, treading in the deep water.
Collins, his father’s butler stooped on the bank, gathering another fistful of pebbles.
“Can I help you, Collins?”
The butler dropped the pebbles, straightened to his full height of five feet and a few inches, and brushed the dust from his palms. “My lord, your father wishes to speak with you.”
Grayson didn’t have to ask what about. He sighed and waded up the bank.
Collins’s eyes widened, then drifted up to the sky. “I’m sure whatever your father wishes to speak with you about can wait for you to don appropriate clothing.”
His father had been waiting for months for an answer; it wouldn’t be respectful to keep the man waiting any longer. But if Grayson showed up in his father’s study in nothing but his smalls and dripping pond water, the little crease between his father’s eyes would deepen and his lips would thin, and he’d say, You remind me too much of your brother at times. It wouldn’t be a compliment.
Grayson ran his fingers through his dripping hair, dressed in pants and shirt, shoved his cravat and waistcoat into a pocket, and slung his coat over his shoulder before following Collins up the hill to the house. No use putting on the full kit if he only meant to change everything as soon as he entered the house. And he would change. Of course, he would.
Collins disappeared inside the house, and Grayson trudged up the stairs. In the pond he’d felt powerful and swift, alive and moving. Now each movement felt mired in treacle, slow, impossible.
The mirror in his room reflected him a man with blond hair and tanned skin, a man made strong by activity and swept wild by the winds. He rubbed the stubble dotting his angular jaw, smoothed his hair against his skull, then stood still as a statue while his valet flitted around him, sculpting him into a more presentable picture. He moved only once Willems, his valet, had finished producing a man whose muscles and tanned skin were hidden, whose coat constrained his movements, whose coifed hair had never been bothered by a breeze.
His father preferred such a man, so Grayson became such a man before knocking on his father’s study door.
“Come in,” a muffled voice on the other side called.
Grayson opened the door and slipped through.
His father met him with a wide smile and approving eyes. He rose to his feet and strode around his desk. Clapping one palm onto Grayson’s shoulder, he gestured across the room with the other to where a tall, dour man stood rigid as a fireplace poker.
Grayson bowed deeply. “Duke. What a surprise to see you this afternoon.” No surprise at all, actually. He’d expected the Duke of Valingford to intervene soon. Grayson couldn’t draw it out forever, and the duke’s presence meant Grayson’s could delay no longer. The Duke desired Grayson’s answer. No point in prolonging the inevitable. “I assume you are here in regards to your daughter, Lady Willow.”
The duke nodded. “Precisely.”
Grayson’s father’s head bobbed up and down like an excited pup’s as he towed Grayson closer to the Duke of Valingford. “You’ve been courting her all season, Grayson. Now’s the time, my boy.”
The word “courting” sent a shiver of unease rippling up and down Grayson’s spine. He cleared his throat and avoided his father’s gaze. “You said I could decide when to formally propose.” He’d also said Grayson could decideifhe would propose, but the possibility of the union left such a light in his father’s eyes, Grayson had found himself straying fromiftowhenin a matter of weeks.
“Yes, true. Arranged marriage or not, I wish for you to live a happy life with a woman you respect. But as the Duke of Valingford has rightly pointed out to me, if you propose now, you can wed at the end of the season, retire to the country when everyone else does, then return for the subsequent season with all the newlywed distractions out of your system.”
Had Willem knotted his cravat too tight? The air seemed thin in the room, hot and oppressive.
The Duke’s voice slid over him like the chill before a winter rain. “You and Lady Willow both must take your positions in society. I have no son to ensure my own living legacy, and I give nothing but a more than respectable dowry to my daughter. But I will ensure she takes her rightful place at the ton’s table. She cannot do so as a spinster. It is time.” Only the duke’s lips moved during his little speech.
How could he isolate his muscles like that? More baffling—the duke thought his attractive, though slightly-on-the-shelf daughter would remain unwed. Did he view her tendency toward silence as an insurmountable obstacle to marriage? Ridiculous. True, Grayson had found it deuced difficult to get to know the woman when she answered all questions in monosyllabic monotones. But he suspected she was nice, if you could ever become acquainted with her.
Still, he felt no overwhelming desire to marry the girl. Grayson shifted in his seat. “There’s no other man courting Lady Willow. Why the rush? Has Lady Willow expressed a problem?”
The duke’s voice echoed around the room. “No. And I assure you, she won’t. She’s a dutiful daughter.” He slanted his eyes at Grayson’s father. “Is he a dutiful son?”
