Page 3 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
Winston had followed him into the library. “Would you care for refreshment, Your Grace?”
“Yes, I’m famished.” He paused, glancing at the carriage clock on the corner of his desk. It was just past eight o’clock. “I will wash off the dust of the road later. Right now, I need to see to important business.”
The butler departed. There was a small stack of mail on a silver salver on the desk. He looked over the correspondence, surprised to see letters from local creditors asking for payment on overdue accounts.
After Winston delivered a tray of food, Preston asked the butler to check on the whereabouts of his steward while he devoured the meat pie and root vegetables on the tray.
The typically composed butler returned several minutes later, unusually flushed and out of breath. “Mr. Sparks is gone! His quarters are a shambles, and one of the grooms informs me the steward rode away on one of the estate horses.”
Chapter Two
Barton Hall, Lancashire, July 1828
Miss Marina Davies felt her pulse quicken as the coach drew closer to Barton Hall. A new project. A new house to repair. La, how she loved the beginning of a restoration. Not knowing what one was getting into until you were amidst it all.
Her father knocked on the roof of the duke’s carriage as soon as the vehicle approached the courtyard of the Elizabethan house. The coach halted, and he and Marina alighted to get their first view of the structure.
Barton Hall, near the town of Preston, had been built circa 1609 around a Pele tower believed to be from the 12th century. The house of warm golden stone consisted of three floors of gleaming windows, the tower in the middle. Surrounded by woodland, some might think the hall was remote. Marina thought the location was perfect.
“What do you think of the house, my dear?” her father asked from his place beside her. “The architect is believed to have been Robert Smythson, who also helped design Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire and Longleat in Wiltshire.”
“I think it is a beautiful house. I’m surprised it didn’t receive extensive damage during the Civil War as I’ve read it was a target for Royalist forces.” Marina sighed happily as she added, “The Long Gallery apparently still has its original plasterwork ceilings.”
Her father chuckled. “Yes. Yes. Shall we go in or continue to stand out here admiring the house?”
“Oh, Father! How you tease me.” Marina looped her arm through her father’s, and they strolled up the remainder of the graveled drive and through a gated courtyard to the hall beyond.
An elderly gentleman answered their knock at an imposing oak door. “His Grace is waiting for you in the drawing room. Would the young lady like to wait in the Long Gallery on the second floor?”
“The young lady is my private secretary,” her father replied jovially. “She accompanies me in my work.”
The gentleman, whom she supposed was the butler, merely nodded in reply. A footman stepped forward to take her father’s hat and walking stick. Marina removed her large hat of lavender and primrose gros de Naples, along with her lavender gloves. A footman placed her hat on a nearby table. It was July and quite warm; she wore no outerwear over her new carriage dress.
The butler led the way from the massive entrance hall through an open doorway on his left, and they entered a room to find a tall gentleman standing with his back to them, gazing at the cold hearth.
“Sir Joseph and his secretary, Your Grace. Tea will be along in a moment.”
The duke turned to look at his guests, Marina dropped a curtsy, and her father bowed to his new employer.
The first thing she noticed about the sixth Duke of Preston was his height. He was well over six feet, with wide shoulders under a navy jacket. His dark hair fell over his forehead, his light blue eyes startling in their brightness. He glanced at her father before directing his attention to her. His gaze narrowed on her face, and his full lips tightened at the corners.
Despite her racing pulse, Marina schooled her features into a polite mask. She’d met a few dukes in her lifetime. The one before her was quite the youngest. And most handsome. It did not signify. He was a member of the aristocracy and of no interest to her.
The duke, dressed in the first stare of fashion, was an elegant figure, his bespoke clothing undoubtedly from Weston or Schweitzer and Davidson in London. In addition to her love of architecture, Marina had a fondness for clothes.
The duke returned his gaze to her father, allowing her to study him further. She quickly decided his aquiline nose and aristocratic chin were too perfect, and she must dislike him on sight.
“Sir Joseph, you brought along your daughter?” the duke asked with raised brows.
How did the man not know she was her father’s assistant? He was a duke. She’d expected he would discover everything about her father he could before employing him. If so, he should have known she traveled and collaborated with her father on his recent projects.
“Marina is the secretary I mentioned in our correspondence. She is quite indispensable.” Her father kept his tone of voice friendly.
The duke merely replied, “Please be seated.”
Her father sat on a nearby sopha. Marina settled next to her father, anticipating the tea tray.
The duke took a seat on a matching plush sopha and crossed one ankle over his knee, hands clasped in his lap. At the same time, a maid brought in a tea tray and deposited it on a long low table in front of Marina.
