At the Duke’s Pleasure Read Free Page A

their footfalls, or the staccato rhythm of their excited chatter, she reached again for the letter. Smoothing it out, she reread the words, pausing on the most important passage:
    …I hope to renew our acquaintance. Should it prove acceptable, I shall wait upon you in a fortnight hence. I have taken the liberty of apprising your father of my intentions as well. Pray be of good health and felicitous spirits until next we meet.

Yours,
Clybourne

    A fortnight. A mere two weeks that would pass by in a flash, and then Edward Byron would be here.
    The duke was coming to claim his bride.
     

    You don’t have to do this, you know .
    The words repeated themselves in his head as Edward Byron, tenth Duke of Clybourne, drove his curricle up the country lane that led to the Earl of Edgewater’s estate.
    Oh, but I do , he thought in reply, barely aware of the winter-dormant fields that surrounded him on both sides, or the trees that stretched their bare limbs over the frozen earth like clusters of dark, bony fingers.
    The sunny blue skies overhead were what had tempted him to ignore the January temperatures and drive himself today, rather than relying upon the wiser—and far warmer—option of traveling in his coach-and-four. His need for solitude had taken preeminence—the cold barely seeping through his heavy black greatcoat, leather gloves or hat, as he sped toward his destination.
    Additionally, driving himself provided a soothing measure of distraction—one he found himself uncharacteristically in need of today.
    “You realize, sweetheart, that you aren’t obligated to honor this betrothal,” his mother had told him a few days ago after learning of his plans to go through with the decades-old promise. “This was your father’s doing and I have never approved. As much as I loved my dear Robert, he was wrong to force this arrangement on you two children.”
    “I’m three-and-thirty, Mama,” Edward replied. “Hardly a child now. I know what I’m doing.”
    “Do you?” she questioned in a soft voice, concern dimming the clear green of her eyes. “And what of this girl? What of Lady Claire? Even after all these years, the pair of you are scarcely more than strangers. How many times have you even met her? Once? Twice?”
    “Thrice,” he defended, deciding not to mention that the first time had been as children and the last occasion when she’d been a girl of sixteen.
    “I implore you to think about this before you proceed,” Ava Byron had continued. “Consider how this will affect not only your life, but hers.”
    He had thought about it—a very great deal, in point of fact—spending the past several months mulling over the advantages and disadvantages of proceeding with the marriage.
    As a boy, he’d reviled the idea of the match. As a young man, he’d chosen to ignore it altogether. But now that he was mature, he could see the merit of his father’s actions—no matter how high-handed they might have been. In the end, he’d decided that his father had been right, and that Lady Claire Marsden was the most logical, most expedient choice of bride.
    She had an excellent pedigree, for one. She was pretty and—if past observation was to be relied upon—gracious and biddable, even if a bit shy. She carried herself well and had been trained from birth in the duties that would be required as his duchess. She was reported to be in excellent health and should be able to provide him with robust sons.
    In return, he would provide her with a comfortable life—more than comfortable, since he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. With him, she would never want for anything.
    As for love? Affection would come with familiarity, he was sure. And if it did not? Well, theirs would be no worse than most Society marriages, based on mutual respect and lineage.
    It was true that two of his younger brothers had recently fallen in love and settled into extremely happy marriages. Cade and Jack were deuced lucky, he judged.