A Season of Hope Read Free Page A

generous glasses full of the brown brew. He glowered at the shimmery liquid. He’d sworn years ago he’d never touch anything French but had made an exception in terms of brandy. When a man had to deal with the physical pain and secret demons that haunted Marcus, well, then partaking in bloody French liquors was a minor betrayal of his promise, really.
    He slid into the comfortable folds of the seat.
    The duke took a sip of brandy and frowned back at him. “Must you always wear that nasty scowl? I’m the only one who's supposed to scowl in this household.”
    A partial grin tilted the corner of Marcus’ s lips until he flinched. Even after five years, the scar tissue still ached.
    He took another sip. “How can I help you, Your Grace?”
    The duke rolled his tumbler back and forth in his hands. All the while he studied Marcus the way he might an insect trapped under a glass.
    “It’s Christmastide and you’re here with my miserable self. Why is that? Don’t you have any family of your own?”
Marcus hesitated. Remembrances flashed through his mind. He’d returned from war. His father had taken a single look at him and a sea of horror and revulsion had swept away any warmth the Viscount had felt for his son.
    “I don’t,” he replied truthfully. Nor, for that matter, would he leave his responsibilities for the Christmas season.
    “ Humph,” the duke said. “I’m expecting company for the season.”
    Marcus shifted in his seat. Now that was a surprise. The duke didn’t receive guests.
    “Damn you, Wheatley. I swear you’re the only blighter not nosy enough to ask questions. Don’t you want to know who I’m expecting?”
    Marcus shrugged and took another sip. “Not particularly, Your Grace.”
    The duke chuckled. “That’s why I like you, Wheatley. You’re one of the only ones who don’t stand on ceremony with me.” He glanced out the window over Marcus’s shoulder. “Should have been here yesterday.”
    “Is that correct?”
    The duke appeared unimpressed with Marcus’s feigned interest. “You never asked how you got out of that rotten French prison.”
    The blood froze in Marcus’ s veins. His entire body went immobile and he blinked one good eye at the unexpected shift in conversation.
    Danby waggled his brows. “Ahh, I see I’ve nabbed your attention now.”
    Two years in a French prison had made a mark on him. Marcus had been tortured. Beaten. Humiliated. He came out of prison a patient man.
    The duke rapped the desk with his fist. “Come now, in the three years you’ve been in my employ, you’ve not acknowledged who I am.”
    Marcus downed the remaining contents of his glass. “And who is that, Your Grace?”
    His Grace slammed his glass down on the desktop. “You rapscallion. I’m Olivia’s grandfather.”
    “Olivia….”
    The duke’s hand slashed the air. “Oh, come, now….don’t take me for the fool. You think I’d allow my granddaughter’s love to remain in the hands of the French? You think I’d let you return and be the subject of gossip and scorn? But I’ve been patient long enough. You owe Livvie more than this. So get that angry frown off your face, son. We’ve got company and I want you on your best behavior.”
    For the first time, a frisson of unease traveled down his spine, a sense that all was not well.
    “Your Grace?”
    The duke grinned back at him.
    A knock sounded on the door and the butler appeared.
    “Your Grace, the young lady has arrived.”
    The duke folded his arms across his chest. “Finally,” he muttered under his breath. “Have her brought down immediately.”
    A dull humming filled Marcus’ s ears. The young lady could be anybody and yet, Marcus knew with the same sickening insight that had saved him countless times in battle that this wasn’t just any lady.
    Lady Olivia .
    He closed his remaining eye.
    Christ, the Duke of Danby had plunged him back into hell.
    ***
    Olivia squinted at the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle in the