Page 1 of Taken By the Dangerous Duke

PROLOGUE

Garriot Estate, York, 1796

“The doctor says it is good news, Father.” Arthur knelt by his father’s bedside, trying to determine if the color was coming back to his cheeks or not.

“Doctors like to peddle good news when it suits them, and bad when they need to sell you more medicine. It is in his best interest to keep me alive for as long as he can.”

“He just spoke to Aunt Bertha, and she is sure you are going to be out of bed within a week.”

“Who said that?” asked Leonard Bolton. “The doctor? Or your Aunt?”

“Well, Aunt Bertha said it, but she would not have said that if the doctor had not told her it was true, Father.”

“Let me impart another lesson, my boy. Hope is the strongest thing there is, but it can also kill you.” Leonard coughed, the phlegm stuck in his throat. He barely managed to set himself up and wipe his mouth with the handkerchief on the table by the bed.

“Aunt Bertha has been praying for you.” It was an afterthought, but Arthur was sure it would prove something to his father.

“I have been praying too,” admitted Leonard. “I never went to church enough. Come closer so your mother cannot hear.”

Arthur leaned in close, waiting for his father to reveal the secrets of the world.

“Your aunt is a good church-going woman, and so she should be. But, remember this: if you need to go to a building to prove you are a god-fearing man, then you are not.”

“What do you mean?” asked Arthur.

“Look for your beliefs inside yourself and not inside a building of brick and wood.”

“I don’t understand,” admitted Arthur.

“Maybe not now, but you will when you are older.” Leonard reached out a hand and patted Arthur’s arm. “Help me take some water.”

Arthur quickly reached for the pitcher on the table and poured some more into the glass. He noticed that there were flecks of red on the rim where his father had drunk from. Arthur had been praying too, every night with his mother, and alone in bed too. Surely, more prayer meant a better chance.

He helped his father sit up more and pressed the glass to his lips. Leonard brought his hands up to take the glass, but the tremors running through his fingers halted his progress, and he let his son tilt the glass so he could drink. As it had been over the previous week, a raging cough followed the swallowing of the water.

“Thank you,” managed Leonard. “Come closer once more, your mother mustn’t hear this.”

Arthur leaned in again, but something told him he was not going to like whatever his father said next.

“I can feel it,” said Leonard. Before Arthur could reply, his father squeezed his arm, informing him not to speak. “I do not care what the doctor says, nor how much your aunt prays. I am not long for this world anymore.”

“No!” blurted Arthur.

“Shh, shh, shh,” consoled his father. “I have made my peace with it, and you need to also. I can feel it in my bones, and the pain running through my body is so great that I will be happy when it comes. It is my time and that is all there is to it.”

Arthur was at a loss for words. It was too business-like, and that was what silenced Arthur. His father was an adept businessman, and when he made a decision, it would not be changed.

“My name lives on in you now,” whispered Leonard. “You will soon be the last Bolton. I have no brothers to rely on, so I am placing the burden on your shoulders. I know that is a lot, but you are almost a man, and you have already shown me that you are strong.”

“I am strong, Father,” said a determined Arthur.

“Just as I carried on the Bolton legacy through you, so must you carry it on. When you reach manhood, find yourself a good woman and bear her a child. I shall not be around to see my grandson, but I know you will make it happen. You are a good boy, Arthur.”

CHAPTER1

An Irritating Interruption

London, 1808

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