Page 13 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

Anthony slipped his shirt over his head and then dressed as best as he could without the help of a valet. He supposed he should start bringing Monkton with him to Gentleman Jack’s establishment. His valet tried to hide his look of horror every time his master returned from a bout of boxing. Bloody hell. How was he supposed to know how to tie a cravat? He was a soldier. His talent was for strategizing—and killing Frenchmen.

He claimed Bucephalus from a stable hand and rode to his Mayfair townhouse. It was one of the largest in London, or so he was told by his valet, who seemed to know everything about theton. He left his horse with a groom, wishing he could rub Bucephalus down himself but dukes weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing. Wanting to avoid his aunt for as long as he could, he entered through the kitchen, causing the scullery maids to titter, and made it to his rooms safely. Monkton awaited him. The valet quickly hid his disappointment and said he would see to a bath.

An hour later, Anthony was bathed and dressed to perfection. He’d told Monkton to let his aunt know he would receive her in the library and made his way there now. Entering, he saw her seated in a large chair, a glass of sherry next to her as she read. She had always been a great reader and anytime he thought of her, it was with a book in her hand. She looked up and smiled.

The invisible wall he surrounded himself with, keeping out others, began to crumble. This woman had been a mother to him. Confidant. Godsend. He went to her, kneeling and kissing her hand.

“Aunt Constance. It’s so good to see you.”

Her mouth twisted wryly. “If it is so good, then why did it take until almost three in the afternoon before you greeted me?”

“I had things to attend to,” Anthony said, rising and taking a seat in a nearby chair.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” she said knowingly. “Servants talk. Especially when someone my age demands answers.” Her brow creased. She reached and took his hand. “Oh, Anthony. I know how hard this has been for you. Why didn’t you come to me when you returned to England?”

He smiled evenly and withdrew his hand. No show of weakness. Not even before her.

“You say it’s been hard. It hasn’t. After all, who doesn’t want to be a duke?”

Yet even he heard the bitterness in his words.

“I am one of the wealthiest men in England now. I own multiple estates. Everyone wants to be my friend. Ask my advice. Hear of my exploits on the battlefield. I am sought after because of my title. A title I never wanted. I would renounce it if I could.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve gotten here just in time, it seems.” She stood, leaned over, and slapped him.

He looked up at her, stunned.

“You will stop acting like a petulant child who hasn’t gotten his way. You are Linfield now, whether you like it or not.” She softened her tone. “I know you associate the title with your father and brother. It’s just a name, Anthony. You will bring yourself to it. You will be the duke neither of them could ever be.” She seated herself.

“I hate it,” he admitted. “Every time someone calls me Linfield. It’s as if bugs are crawling along my flesh.”

“You’ll get used to it. The day will come when it won’t matter anymore. Then another day will arrive and you won’t associate it with anyone but yourself.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I would ask that you always call me Anthony, Aunt.” He knew once a man inherited a title, especially a duke, that even his close family members referred to him by it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her using the name Linfield when she spoke to him.

“Of course.” She paused. “I assume you know why I came to town.”

“Because my half-sister needs a come-out, I’ll daresay. I suppose she’s of that age.”

“Correct. And you need a wife.”

He shot to his feet. “What? No, Aunt Constance.”

She rose and clasped his shoulders. “What better way of starting a new life than with a bride, Anthony? You realize you will need an heir?”

“I don’t want children,” he said. “I certainly don’t want sons. Pitting them against each other.” He shuddered.

She squeezed him gently. “You would never be like that. You are not the man your father was.Youwill be a good father. You will love your children. Spend time with them.” She smiled gently. “I think having a family is what might save you.”

He’d never thought of taking a wife. He’d assumed his entire adult life would belong to the army. It rankled him that the very thing he loved had been taken from him. But marriage? He didn’t know the first thing about it. Or women.

“I know what you’re thinking. You don’t even know how to dance. I’ve arranged for a dancing master to come teach Hannah all she needs to know. The two of you can practice together. At least Monkton got you to a tailor. You’re dressed decently enough now but you’ll need much more than what’s in your wardrobe come the Season. All kinds of evening clothes. Clothes to drive through the park in. Ones to attend routs and balls. Garden parties.”

“I’d rather the enemy have gutted me than attend a garden party, Aunt.”

She smiled. “You will go. You may even learn to like it. Especially if you find a nice young lady to make an offer to. Somewhere out there is the perfect woman for you, Anthony. We’ll find her for you. It may not be this Season but you’ll be thirty soon. I expect you to wed by then.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound like Wellington, drawing up battle plans. Ready to attack the enemy head on.”

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