Page 1 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
Chapter One
London, England, March 1828
Nicholas Barton, Duke of Preston, felt a hundred times a fool. Here he was, a duke no less, hiding from a debutante behind a pair of scarlet velvet curtains.
“Preston has already left the rout this evening.” The owner of the words was George Cranbrook, a duke in his own right. “I do believe he was eager to depart for his estate in Lancashire.”
“But I saw him enter this room,” Lady Verity Payne replied in a high, petulant voice. “I’m sure of it.”
“And why would an unmarried young woman follow a man into an empty room without a proper chaperone?” Cranbrook’s tone had shifted from solicitous to admonishing.
Before the girl could reply, Preston heard another voice.
“Verity? Verity, where are you!”
Ah, the mama. A countess looking to snare a duke for her daughter. He absentmindedly twisted the signet ring on his left hand. The ring was a symbol of the Wayward Dukes’ Alliance, an alliance that had served him well tonight.
Cranbrook called out, “Your daughter is here, in my library, but I do not know why.”
“Your Grace!” A long pause. “Verity must have gotten lost on the way to… to the retiring room. Come along, my dear.”
“But Mama, I saw the duke-”
“Come along, my dear. We mustn’t take up any more of His Grace’s time.”
A few moments later, Cranbrook gave a low chuckle. “Young man, the countess is determined to land you for her daughter. I suggest you open the French doors behind you and make your escape via the terrace.”
After stepping out from behind the curtains, Preston replied with a shudder, “Thank heavens you arrived before Lady Verity.”
“Thank heavens a sycophant baron overheard the plan and advised me of it. One of my footmen will be tossed out on his ear for helping with the countess’s machinations. Although he may not mind as I’m sure he was paid a year’s wages for his assistance.”
It was a paltry sum indeed for a young lady to secure a duke during her first season. Preston had returned to England a fortnight ago and was ready to flee the country again.
“Your aid is most appreciated,” he said to the elderly duke and then added with a grimace, “Without your intervention, I’m sure the lady and I would have been discovered in a compromising position.”
Although Cranbrook was close to seventy years of age, he looked years younger. His gray hair was thick and luxurious, his hazel eyes bright with vigor.
“Your grandfather was there when I founded the Wayward Duke’s Alliance. He was my oldest and dearest friend.” The other man paused. “Unmarried dukes are thin on the ground, so I suggest you leave London as soon as possible. You’ve been away from Lancashire for nearly three years. It is time for you to go home.”
Preston knew the old duke had the right of it. “If you ever need my help, Your Grace, you need only ask.”
Preston turned, pulled back a velvet curtain, opened one of the doors, and exited onto the terrace. He sprinted down three steps and along the gravel path of the garden to the mews beyond. The night air felt cool and refreshing against his heated skin.
“Your Grace!” A stableboy sprang to attention from a spot leaning against an open iron gate, a gate that led to the alley behind the mansion. “The duke had your carriage brought around.”
Bless old George.
The young man stood aside as Preston walked through the gate and into the lane to find his town carriage standing at the ready. The black coach gleamed in the moonlight, his gold ducal seal emblazoned on its side.
“Your Grace.” One of his footmen in the livery colors of blue and gray opened the door of the coach and dropped the steps for his employer.
“Home, Your Grace?” the coachman queried from his box.
“Yes, Hobbs. Preparations must be made for an early departure to Barton Hall in the morning.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Preston vaulted into the coach, and the footman closed the door. The carriage took off at a good clip, headed for his ducal residence in London, a large townhouse in Grosvenor Square.
