Love, the Duke by Amelia Grey (Excerpt)

CHAPTER 1 MAN’S PRACTICAL GUIDE TO APPREHENDING A THIEF SIR BENTLY ASHTON ULLINGSWICK Never refuse sincere help. Following two cold and dreary days of an interminable carriage ride, all Drake Cheston Kingsley, Duke of Hurstbourne, wanted was to sit by a blazing fire with a brandy to take the chill off his bones. He always looked forward to a stay at the private hunting club with his two friends. Though he seldom spent time with them anymore. Fortunately, for them, he thought as he took in the other two dukes sitting with him in front of the fire, each swore he’d found the love of his life, and they were usually reluctant to be away from home for more than a few days. Hurst understood. Somewhat. He didn’t begrudge them their happiness, but he, still a bachelor, missed the days when pleasure was wilder and more plentiful. Marriage had reined in those carefree days, given the men’s responsibilities both as dukes and husbands. Rick and Wyatt now seemed to talk more about what it had been like to settle down. Regardless, he was looking forward to their time together. However, this night, a disturbance to his much-anticipated week began before he’d taken his second sip of brandy. The butler of the establishment approached the trio saying a messenger had arrived and would speak to no one other than Hurst. Strange since he didn’t know a soul who lived anywhere near the club. Curiosity caused Hurst to give a brief nod for the butler to show the man into the richly paneled drawing room of the lodge. “We haven’t been here long enough for our boots to warm,” Rick complained, not trying to hide his annoyance at the interruption. “True, but I am interested in whatever missive the courier has for me.” “Perhaps we could have finished our first drink before you agreed to see the man,” Rick scoffed before taking a sip of his brandy. Wyatt lifted his glass in salute to the grudging comment. They were all fatigued from traveling the entire way in bad weather, so Hurst ignored his friends’ quarrelsome remarks as he caught sight of a young, clean-shaven man walking toward the trio clutching a leather packet to his chest as if he guarded the king’s crown. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, may I approach?” His question ended with an audible gulp. “I have a letter and was told to give it to no one but the Duke of Hurstbourne.” Shaking off his road weariness and irritation at the intrusion, Hurst placed his drink on the table by his chair, rose, and stood with his back to the crackling fire. “How the devil did you find me?” “It wasn’t easy, Your Grace.” “I would hope not.” The reason for choosing such an exclusive place to hunt, and paying handsomely for it, was to make sure no other guests would be allowed for the week. The dukes didn’t want to be bothered by anyone seeking their attention. Wary, the messenger seemed to consider his next words carefully before saying, “I offer apologies, Your Grace. I expended great effort to catch up to your carriage before you arrived but failed.” “When a man is on a hunt, he isn’t usually the one being hunted,” Rick mumbled. Wyatt smiled into his brandy. “Your butler reluctantly agreed to tell me your destination when I insisted what I had was urgent.” Hurst motioned for the man to come closer. “Give it here then.” After fumbling with the leather strips binding the closed packet, the young man finally produced a letter in his trembling hand. “I-I was told to wait for your reply and return with it immediately.” Hurst’s curiosity increased along with a sudden sting of tension. A quick glance assured him the seal wasn’t one he recognized, so it couldn’t be from anyone in his family, his solicitors, or managers. What could be the reason for such haste to find him? He broke the wax but didn’t unfold the letter when he noticed the courier continued to stand stiff-necked before him. “Wait over there.” Hurst nodded toward the door. “Yes, Your Grace.” He tucked the folder under his arm again, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a quill, a jar of ink, and several sheets of folded foolscap. Keeping his gaze on Hurst as if he expected to be stopped at any second from continuing, he slowly bent and placed the writing implements on the small table beside Hurst’s glass. Hurst stared at the man in disbelief. Glancing at his friends, he saw they also appeared astounded by how prepared the courier was. Clearing his throat, the man explained, “When I was told your destination, I knew I needed to be ready in case you were in a field or forest when I caught up to you. I wanted to make sure you would be able to respond.” He certainly did. Perhaps whatever was written in the letter was more urgent than Hurst first assumed. The man walked over to the door and Hurst retook his seat between his friends. “After all that,” Wyatt remarked, “you must read the message aloud.” “What are you saying?” Hurst huffed a laugh. “Are you telling me to read my personal correspondence to you before I peruse it myself?” “You must,” Rick added to Wyatt’s bold statement, and pointedly looked at the quill and ink while stifling a grin. “If you don’t, the suspense of it will finish us off. The chap followed you for two days in a sleeting storm to deliver that. By the looks of him you would think someone had fetched him from the Thames.” In truth, Hurst had few, if any, secrets from his two broad-shouldered friends who wore their privilege as well as they wore their clothing, which was damned well. He’d known them since their last year at Eton. All three were restless and reckless, but only Hurst had already learned to manage and harness both impulses. He’d had to. Over the years he’d kept the two from attempting one daring and risky escapade after the other. Until their marriages, of course. That had finally settled them down. Wyatt and Rick were shrewd enough to know they needed a sensible friend. And Hurst was. Most of the time. He’d had to be sensible when he was growing up. His father never was. But, with his father long passed, Hurst did his best not to think about those days anymore. He rolled his shoulders to ease stiffness from the carriage ride and brushed his blond hair away from his forehead, a long-held habit he’d had no success breaking. Without guilt, he muttered a couple of oaths under his breath, opened the letter, and read aloud, “Dear Your Grace, we haven’t spoken in years, but I hope you will remember me.” Hurst glanced down at the signature. His heartbeat thumped up a notch. Yes, he remembered Winston Stowe. Having been stricken with an illness that has left me weak and unable to fight off the fatigue of it, I feel my days growing shorter. I’ve had time to contemplate life. When you made the vow to help me in any way, I knew it was only an emotional promise given the moment I rescued your life. I’m not insisting you repay your debt, but only asking that you consider marrying my sister. Ophelia has a good heart and an even better soul. I know you could easily love her and be a good husband. I will always be thankful for our years of close friendship. With much respect and admiration, I am always gratefully yours, Winston Stowe. A stitch of concern tightened the back of Hurst’s neck as he stared at the page. Marry? That was an incredibly serious matter. Hurst remembered Winston had a sister, but she was still young enough to be in the nursery when Hurst last saw him. Even if she’d been older, girls wouldn’t have been allowed to tromp around in the icy snow or boggy woods the way Winston and he had when they were together. Wyatt casually leaned forward and rested an elbow on his knee. “I don’t recognize the name.” “No reason for you to,” Hurst answered, his eyes scanning the words again as he tried to assimilate what he was feeling about Winston’s unusual request. “Who is he?” Rick asked. “A childhood friend who lived on the estate next to where I lived at the time. We were like brothers and often explored the woods, ponds, and marshes together.” Hurst recalled fondly the tawny-haired boy with rounded cheeks and a friendly smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen or heard from him in several years.” “More importantly,” Wyatt remarked dryly, “did he save your life?” “Yes. And then he taught me how to swim.” Hurst stared at the serious expressions on their faces and realized he didn’t want to relive that memory from his past any more than he wanted to think about the years with his father. Bad memories made a person feel bad, and Hurst was at the private lodge to hunt, drink, play cards, and enjoy himself. He folded the letter and laid it on the table before picking up his drink and downing a hefty swallow. “I’ll also add,” Hurst continued, “he was always a gentleman about saving my life and never mentioned it again.” “Until now,” Rick responded. “No matter how veiled it was, it’s presumptuous of him to ask you to marry his sister.” “Presumptuous or desperate?” Wyatt asked. “And really, what has the man to lose by asking? He’s not the first person to want you to marry his sister, or daughter, or cousin. Nor will he be the last. With you being the only eligible duke in all of England, when the Season starts you will be sought by families of all the belles in London. You can be sure that right now every young lady and her parents are plotting to take you off the marriage mart and straight to the altar to say, ‘I do.’” It was true. Hurst grunted. Ever since he became a duke, fathers, brothers, uncles, and strangers had been approaching him with promises of lucrative dowries in exchange for offering their daughters’ hand in marriage. At parties, dinners, and balls, mothers unashamedly praised their daughters’ admirable qualities. He’d always listened to what they had to say but had no interest in any of them. Whenever he met the lady he was to spend the rest of his life with, he’d know it. He was sure. It wasn’t any kind of mental powers he had, but a feeling inside him. He couldn’t say with 100 percent certainty but felt sure he could live with any of the bevy of young ladies looking for a husband. They were all beautiful in their own way. The issue had always been that he didn’t just want a lady he could live with. He wanted the one lady he couldn’t live without, and he had to believe he would know her when he saw her. However, Hurst couldn’t forget the concerning fact that he was getting older and had no heir for the title. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and pushed aside that thought. The blaze from the fire and the potency of the brandy heated him. “I suppose what concerns me most is that he says he’s ill and the urgency of having his messenger wait for an answer.” “With fever probably,” Rick replied. “Perhaps the same type of intermittent fever that comes over me time and again without warning.” “Whatever the case…” Wyatt leaned forward again and gave first Rick and then Hurst a questioning expression. Hurst had a feeling he knew what his friend was going to ask, and he didn’t have an answer. “What do you suppose he meant by she ‘has a good heart and an even better soul’?” Wyatt’s unwavering gaze stared straight into Hurst’s green eyes. That comment had lingered on Hurst’s mind too. When he remained quiet, Wyatt offered, “Perhaps she’s not as comely and fashionable as most young ladies of the ton, so he’s touting her other attributes.” “Possibly frail?” Rick’s thick, golden-brown brows rose before he added, “Though maybe he only meant she wasn’t willful or easy to provoke, and to assure you of her calm nature and unblemished virtue.” “Or could it be that his words meant nothing other than she has few options?” Hurst’s jaw tightened, but he remained quiet and took another gulp of brandy while he listened to the suggestions about what Winston’s words had meant. Every idea was possible and reasonable, but true? He had no way of knowing. “Her lineage?” Wyatt asked. A disgruntled laugh rose from Hurst’s chest. “Solid. Stowe’s grandfather was a younger son of the former Earl of Canterfield. Stowe’s father was a vicar, and I’m quite sure he is too.” Suddenly it was so quiet among the three of them that Hurst heard every spit and crackle of the fire. His friends looked uncertainly at each other before Wyatt stuttered a cough. Rick shifted from one side of his chair to the other and then back again. “What’s with you two? It’s a common occurrence for younger sons of titles to become a vicar,” he argued, if only to pacify himself. “You both know I seriously thought about becoming one myself when the duke suggested I should be a clergyman to plump my allowance.” If the title of the family didn’t buy the sons a commission in the military or set them up to become rectors or vicars like Stowe’s, they usually disintegrated into lonely, old, and woefully indebted wastrels as Hurst’s father had. When only a young boy, and often with no money to see there was enough food in the house, Hurst promised himself he’d never allow that to happen to him as he grew older. He would have gladly been a vicar or captain in the army if the title hadn’t unexpectedly become his when his uncle and cousin perished. However, Hurst wasn’t going down that memory path tonight either. Brushing unwanted thoughts of the past away, he considered what Winston asked. It was a shock. It would be madness to agree to marry someone he’d never met. More than that, it felt wrong. “Forgetting that for now,” Wyatt said while motioning for their glasses to be refilled, “is what your friend said true? Did you promise to help him in any way?” “Yes, but I’d forgotten until now. I couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, but I’m certain I meant it at the time.” Hurst pressed his head against the back of the chair and found himself staring up into the face of a wild boar that had been mounted over the fireplace. He suddenly felt just as snared. He had made the promise to Winston, no matter their ages, yet he found himself saying, “I don’t want to promise to wed someone I’ve never met. I know marrying ladies you didn’t know worked well for the two of you, but I don’t want my bride to be a stranger.” “Damnation, Hurst. We knew them,” Wyatt grumbled, and nodded to Rick for confirmation. “For a short time, yes,” Rick replied with an easy air of amusement, pulling at the corners of his mouth. “A very short time,” Hurst mumbled, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Days, not weeks. You both had complicated reasons for needing to wed quickly. I don’t have anything to spur me other than a slight prick of my conscience for an oath made years ago to someone who meant a lot to me at the time. If I married his sister, I would probably meet a lady the next day and fall deeply and madly in love with her and not be able to do a damned thing about it.” He placed his glass on the table with a thunk. “Yet, I did swear to do anything he might ask of me.” Copyright © 2025 by Amelia Grey.