Page 1 of A Virgin for the Cruel Duke

CHAPTER 1

The Duke of Westall, Stephen Wilkins, stood in the entrance of the Rosenburg estate and watched the servants milling around him in a panic with a cold eye. One was hanging his coat, another offering him brandy, a third dashing back and forth between the rooms as though trying to find something useful to do and a fourth trying to ask him a fifth time about the nature of his visit.

One might have thought that the devil himself had come to call.

It was not far from the truth.

“Your Grace, can I offer you refreshment?” asked a young valet, eyes wide in alarm. “Is there anything that I can bring you after your journey?”

“No,” he said crisply, used to command and used to the sight of unease or even fear in the eyes of other men. “Send word to thefamily that I have arrived as we have agreed. The rest of you may leave, I have no need of you.”

They glanced among themselves, clearly trying to communicate their concern. A Duke of Westall had never in the history of the two houses set foot on the Rosenburg estate without bringing war in his hand and death at his heels. The bad blood between the families went back centuries, and even now they could not meet without attempting violence upon each other.

Stephen had no qualms about violence himself. When he had been in university, still a young strapping boy, not yet weighted down with the pressure of taking on the mantle of the Dukedom, he had been known to his friends as Mars, the god of war.

Too big, too fierce and too quick to fight.

He had always had too much inside him, too much rage and darkness. It had not gotten better as he had grown. It had grown with him like his shadow.

But then his younger brother, dearly loved and impulsive Herbert with youth and the certainty of immortality in his veins had fought the cursed heir of the Rosenburg estate, Dudley Barnes and both had been badly wounded.

He cared nothing at all about the young Lord Barnes, but seeing Herbert in a sick bed had brought to him how the feud would be if it were allowed to continue, the death and grief and horror that would be dragged in its wake.

For the sake of his brother and for the red eyes and pale faces of his sisters he would not allow that to happen. Which was why he was here, growing mightily impatient with the flutterings of the servants around him.

He was about to break with good manners and walk past them to find his own way when the butler rushed towards them, face flushed in embarrassment and irritation.

“Your Grace,” he said, waving the others off quickly. “I apologize for the delay, there was a little confusion about the time you were expected. Please, let me lead you to the family.”

Confusion, hm? Stephen would have wagered that the confusion was engineered by the family themselves, never willing to waste an opportunity to cause him or his embarrassment. But he nodded curtly and let the man lead him back towards the drawing room at the front of the house. It was a strange place for a man to do business, but Albert Barnes, Duke of Rosenburg was a strange man.

He was shown into a grand drawing room, distinctive with green chairs and a white plush carpet. He made a bow to the room, noting that his Grace was seated in a broad chair with a great spreading back and carved wooden arms next to his son, in a smaller chair, and that four ladies were seated on two settees a little way off.

It was said that no member of the Wilkins family had ever entered the Rosenburg estate in the long centuries the twofamilies had been feuding. Stephen certainly would never have set foot here had he not been driven by necessity.

The ladies he barely knew, having seen them only in the distance at events but he burned at the sight of the Duke of Rosenburg and his son.

God forgive me, he thought.For making a pact with the devil himself but there is nothing else to be done.

“Westall,” Albert said, waving off the servant with one hand. “I believe you know my son.”

Stephen nodded at Dudley Barnes, his heart thudding in his ears. A rush like a fever of rage swept through him. His heart still ached with rage and fear that he might have lost his brother the way that Albert had taken his father all those years ago.

He could not imagine hating anyone as much as these two men. “We have met,” he said instead, his voice cool and level.

The old man did not offer a seat and Stephen did not take one, too certain that if he were to sit he would no longer be able to conceal his anger. Instead Albert took a pinch of snuff from a small box on the table next to his chair and passed the box on to Dudley.

The younger man followed suit, but Stephen noticed how he moved carefully and smiled to himself in dark furious delight. Herbert had done that. Herbert, his wonderful fool of a brother.

“You had matters you wanted to discuss,” Albert said, gesturing as though Stephen were a serf that he could command.

“Indeed, as did you, Rosenburg,” Stephen said. “The matter of the wedding.”

“Ah, yes. The wedding. The dowry shall be three thousand pounds,” Albert said, his eyes sharp and piercing. “There is no need of a long engagement. I’m sure you will agree that our families can only benefit from being brought together as quickly as possible.”

Stephen snapped his head to stare at Albert sharply, then at the ladies and back to Albert. It was an insultingly low amount, one that a duke’s family would barely offer a mere gentleman, let alone a duke. “There is no need of a dowry,” he said coldly.

“A dowry is traditional,” Albert said, his own cheeks flushing slightly insulted in turn. “To give none would be insulting to our daughter.”

---