A Duke By Any Other Name

Chapter One

August 1860

Northamptonshire, England

W hat had promised to be a fair day when William Rothwell had left Cambridge had gone beastly wrong. Thunder-laden clouds rushed over his head as he hurried his stallion Pharoah onward toward home. He turned an eye skyward only to have a big drop of rain splat against his cheek. When his luck went bad, it always went spectacularly bad.

The first indication that he was in for a very rough patch had been losing Sylvia. His ongoing courtship of Sylvia Becham had come to an unexpected halt only the week before when the lady had abruptly announced her betrothal to Lord Chaswell. Will could scarcely blame the young lady for preferring a titled gentleman to a mere mister. But he’d rather thought Miss Becham better than that, especially as she’d led him to believe her affections were firmly fixed on him.

Her defection had precipitated his journey to Cambridge, to console himself with the company of his friends from university. But after only two days of their drinking and incessant chatter about inconsequential school matters, William had begun to feel worse than ever, his bruised heart longing for the quiet and comfort of home.

Which led to the next piece of folly—neglecting to take Old Peter’s warning that it was about to storm. The ancient groom at the university’s stables had never been wrong about the weather when William had been a student there. Under other circumstances, he’d have heeded the warning and spent another night in Cambridge. But the high spirits of his mates had begun to grate on his nerves and he’d simply wanted to go lick his wounds at home in private.

Of course, once there, he’d have to endure his mother’s heavy sighs and looks of pity. She’d decreed he needed to marry this year, and had in fact suggested he court Miss Becham. Lacking any other suggestion, William had been more than agreeable to the scheme. He’d been busy with estate business since his father’s passing five years before, when William had been a mere twenty-one years old. Now he was of an age when he saw the need to settle down, find a wife he could love and who would love him and give him an heir to continue the Rothwell family name. And as he’d wooed Sylvia, he’d become more than a little enamored with the comely lady. So his misery was actually doubled, not only with the pain of her rejection, but also with the guilt and shame that he would be letting his father and his family down if he failed to find a wife.

Plink! Plink! Plink! The spitting rain was about to become a downpour, proving once more his luck was truly out. William tapped Pharoah’s flank and the horse obediently sped up. They might not be able to outrun the rain, but perhaps they could reach a town before the worst of it began in earnest. Linton was still a ways ahead, probably more than an hour. He’d be properly soaked by then. Perhaps he should turn around and head back to Kettering before it got—

All of a sudden, Pharoah snorted, tossed his head, and his easy canter became a limping walk.

“Whoa, boy.” William pulled the horse to a stop, now more concerned about his mount than the rain. “What’s happened, old man?”

The horse shifted his weight, favoring his front right foot.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” William climbed down and lifted the horse’s leg. “Damnation. You’ve lost a shoe.” This was an even worse piece of luck, made threefold bad because William had chosen not to travel in state for his visit to Cambridge. Occasionally, he liked to go about what he deemed as “incognito,” without his valet to attend him. In his distracted state, this trip to see to his friends had been one of those jaunts, a decision that now seemed as idiotic as his disregard of Old Peter’s advice.

William looked up and down the road, but of course it was completely empty and turning quickly into a quagmire. Thunder rippled through the air and Pharoah neighed. “Right you are, old boy. We need to get out of this as quick as quick. Come on.” He grabbed the reins and started down the muddy road at a jog, trying to bring to mind a map of the county and the next village he might pass. If he wasn’t mistaken, the village of Twywell should be just ahead. William had never been there, but his father had spoken of it several times. Now it would prove a godsend.

Another ten minutes jogging brought William to a rough stone marker indicating the turning to the village. With a grateful sigh, he led Pharoah off the main road onto an even muddier path that led into a stand of trees so thick the rain seemed to have miraculously stopped. William slowed to a walk to give both him and the horse a breather, hoping it wouldn’t be long before he could find a blacksmith for Pharoah and an inn with a hot bath for himself. That comforting thought spurred him on and he picked up his pace again. Finally, the trees thinned and the village of Twywell came into view, a blessed sight for one as thoroughly wet as William.

The mucky path led him quickly to a weather-worn tavern, but the mean nature of the shelter mattered not a bit to William, now soaked to the skin and beginning to shiver. As he entered the courtyard, a young lad of no more than twelve hurried toward him. “Puttin’ up for the night, govna?”

“My horse cast a shoe a mile or more back. Is the blacksmith close at hand?” William glanced about, but the smithy must have his own establishment in the village. He untied the saddle bags that held his hopefully dry shirt and hose.

“’E’s a new ’orse, ain’t ’e, Will?”

William’s head snapped back toward the scruffy boy, every bit as soaked as he, and peered more closely at the bedraggled child. “Do you know me, lad?”

“Course I do.” The waif looked up at him as if to suggest William was daft as a lunatic. “Everyone in the village knows you, Will.”

Frowning, William reluctantly handed over the reins to the stableboy. “They do?” He’d never been to Twywell before, but likely the villagers knew his father—he’d conducted business here regularly over the years, according to the ledgers. Something to do with the stabling of horses, William believed, for there had been regular monthly payments to someone named Fitzwilliam, similar in nature to other such payments listed as stable fees. As there had been a strong likeness between him and his sire, the people here would likely make the connection. Still, the boy shouldn’t be so familiar with him. “Well you and they had better be more respectful.”

The scamp made a scoffing noise, then made an awkward bow. “Oh, beg pardon, your worship.” Then laughing, he scampered off, pulling Pharoah behind him.

Totally befuddled, William watched him go, belatedly shouting after him, “Don’t forget to have the blacksmith look at his hoof!” The boy’s bizarre behavior had William shaking his head as he turned toward the tavern door. Better get out of the wet and into some dry clothes before he caught a chill. The stableboy’s manner nagged at him still, but William managed to shrug the incident off as he entered the warm, dry house, replete with the comforting aromas of ale, hearty stew, and sweet tobacco.

The men gathered around the tavern tables laughed and talked in between pulling on pints and stoking the well-smoked pipes. They glanced up at his arrival, but instead of the hushed respect he’d usually known, the men nodded to him—if they took notice of him at all—and went back to their conversations. William glanced down at his soaked frame and began to wonder if the sight of a drenched gentleman was an everyday occurrence in this village.

“What can I get you, Will?” A rotund little man approached him from the kitchen, a ready smile on his face.

“A room with a hot bath to begin with,” William said warily. Perhaps when he got the tavernkeeper alone, he could discover how everyone in the town seemed to be familiar with him.

“I’d have thought you’d be home getting ready for the party.” The man cast a skeptical eye at him.

“Party? What party?” Had everyone gone mad or had he? “My horse lost a shoe and I had to walk the better part of a mile in the rain. I’m in search of a blacksmith and a hot bath, not a party.”

The tavernkeeper shook his head. “Well, Lucinda’s going to be mighty sorry to hear that. She’s been looking forward to her birthday and this party for months, so my daughter tells me. Just so she could dance with you, Will.” He gave William a stern look. “Don’t disappoint the lass, so. If you don’t fancy settling down with her, then that’s between you and the fence post, so to speak, though many’s the man who’d want a comely lass like that to warm his bed, especially one that comes with a dowry the size of hers.”

“How can she even know who I am?” William was at his wits’ end trying to figure out if he was addled or if all the villagers had an enchantment placed on them so they knew him even though he didn’t know them.

“The whole village knows who ya are, Will. We’ve known since you were a wee lad; you’re the son of William Rothwell.”

Stunned, William stared at the little man, more befuddled than before. “My father told you this?”

“He didn’t have to. It’s as plain as the nose—and everything else—on your face.”

William guessed that was true enough. He and his father had been mistaken for one another a time or two in Kettering. But that didn’t explain why this Lucinda would expect him to show up at her party. He wasn’t even supposed to be here.

Before William could raise that question, the tavernkeeper shook his head again. “Go upstairs to the first room off the stairs. I’ll send up hot water for your bath. While you soak, just think about doing right by Lucinda. Your attending the party will mean ever so much to her, my Gertie says. And even one dance with you will be the best birthday gift she could have, don’t you know?”

Confused and getting chillier by the minute, William nodded, more to keep the man from talking further than anything else. He turned and headed up the stairs, soothed by the promise of the hot water to warm his freezing flesh. Once he thawed out, he’d give the party and the dubiously fair Lucinda another thought. After all, he could not discover why she wished to have him at her party unless he actually attended the gathering. His attendance seemed unlikely in his present frigid state, but his curiosity might get the better of him—once he thawed out.

*

Rain falling on her birthday could be taken as an ill omen, Lucinda Harcourt mused as she gazed out the window of her bed chamber, counting the minutes until her party would begin and she could officially pursue the man of her dreams. She, however, was determined to see the bright side of the situation. The cold drizzle might deter lesser men, but she doubted it would stop the town’s most handsome rake from attending her party. Especially a party at which the very-well-dowered guest of honor would make it crystal clear she wanted him for her husband and no one else.

With a sigh, Lucinda turned away from the window to gaze at her room—the familiar pink-and-green wallpaper she’d known almost all her life, the roaring fire with the green-silk-covered chaise pulled up invitingly before it, and the finishing touch of the beautiful Aubusson carpet that helped banish the chill in the air. A more inviting chamber Lucinda couldn’t imagine. But then, her life had been more pampered than any other girl in the entire village.

Her cousin Adriana and her husband Ralph had seen to it that she wanted for nothing when she’d lost her parents at the tender age of ten years. They’d spoiled Lucinda terribly, especially when they’d given up hope of having children of their own. They’d indulged almost every whim Lucinda had wished for. And now, as a young woman of eighteen, she’d asked for one last thing: a party to celebrate her birthday—and set in motion her seduction of the man she wanted to marry.

Not that Lucinda had told Adriana her plans. Her cousin would certainly not have agreed to such inappropriate behavior in her own house. But if Lucinda could just get her man alone, she was certain she could convince him to come up here and have his way with her. With his reputation, she suspected it would take very little encouragement to get him into her bed. And having done that, of course he would act the gentleman and agree to marry her.

With a sigh, Lucinda plopped herself down before the fireplace, enjoying the warmth as she stared into the flickering flames. The only flaw in her plan, however, might be the man himself. William Fitzwilliam was not what one would call a gentleman.

“Here’s your new gown, Lucinda.” Her cousin bustled through the door carrying a long box that had come from the modiste in Leicester just that morning. “We can hang it up here now near the fire and I’ll send Kitty up with a steaming kettle that will make any wrinkles fall right out.” Adriana lay the box on the bed and opened it. “Come look at the beautiful work Mrs. Currie has done.”

Lucinda rose and hurried to the bed. “Was she able to embroider the flowers around the bottom as I’d asked?”

“Let’s see.” Adriana lifted the pale-peach silk garment out of the box, its sheer folds falling to the floor with a soft whirr .

“Oh, yes. How lovely.” Lucinda knelt to look at the series of white rosebuds embroidered in a neat satin stitch, each rosebud holding up a flounce all around the garment’s deep hem. “William simply cannot ignore me in such an elegant gown.”

“Are you still determined to set your cap at Mr. Fitzwilliam?” Her cousin made a face as she hung the dress on a clothes hook to the side of the fireplace. “How many times have I warned you about the man, Lucinda?”

“Too many to count.” Undeterred, Lucinda returned to the chaise and the warmth of the fireplace.

“And none of those times has managed to change your mind, more’s the pity.” Hurrying over to the bell pull, Adriana gave the cord a strong tug then went to hover over top of Lucinda. “You know the man’s a terrible rake, my dear.”

“I do. I also know the old adage that rakes make the best husbands.” Lucinda had taken comfort in that saying. If so many women had repeated it, it must be true, mustn’t it?

“Reformed rakes make the best husbands.” Her cousin shook her head. “And I do not see William Fitzwilliam becoming a reformed rake for the love of you, my dear. He scarcely knows you.”

“We’ve danced and talked at the Assembly Rooms in Leicester this past spring, as you very well know. And we’ve met many times in the village.” She’d known the man for years, although she’d only just begun to regard his handsome face and excellent form as husband material most recently. “He was very complimentary to me at the last assembly we attended. He asked me how I’d managed to grow up so quickly right before his eyes.”

“I’m not certain that was particularly a compliment, Lucinda.” Adriana narrowed her eyes. “He’s noticed you’ve grown into a woman, which makes you suddenly a possible conquest.”

Exactly what Lucinda was hoping for this evening. “If he did manage such a thing—not that I think he would—then surely he’d ask for my hand in marriage, wouldn’t he?”

“Rakes do not make a habit of asking to marry the women they ruin. Kitty…” She turned to the maid who’d just appeared in the doorway. “Bring up a kettle and set it on the fire here. We need to take the wrinkles out of Miss Lucinda’s gown.”

“Yes, mum.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and hurried back downstairs.

Once she’d gone, Adriana turned back to Lucinda, her mouth pursed. “You’ll not trap Fitzwilliam into marriage, my dear. Many a maiden has tried and come to grief.” Her cousin sighed. “And neither do I understand why you’d wish to leg-shackle him. He’s handsome enough, to be sure, but you could do so much better for yourself in London this summer. Ralph has said we can rent a house there during the month of June. Who knows whom you may meet.”

“I’d much rather have a man I know, who has good connections to a wealthy family.” William was the most well-born person in all of Twywell.

“Illegitimate son of a wealthy gentleman, you mean.” Her cousin settled herself on the chaise next to Lucinda. “That is not quite the same as being a favored relation.”

“Still, you cannot deny Will is a desirable catch.”

“I can deny he’s the best catch for you, my dear.” The look on her cousin’s face would have soured milk. “He’s too handsome by far for his own good. Always has been. His escapades have been legendary in the village since he was a lad of fifteen. There isn’t a girl within five miles of Twywell he’s not managed to have his way with, saving you. I’m truly surprised he’s not caught the pox yet.”

Lucinda frowned. “What’s the pox?”

Adriana rose swiftly. “Never you mind. Only mark me, you don’t want to catch it. Promise me, Lucinda you won’t do anything rash tonight. If Will wishes to court you, he must come ask Ralph properly. If he’s willing to settle down, then perhaps—”

“So you will give Will leave to court me if he asks Ralph?” Lucinda jumped to her feet, heart beating like a frantic bird. This was the first time Adriana had held out any hope of getting her and her husband’s approval for the match. “You promise?”

“If he has an honorable proposal, then yes.” Adriana shook her head. “But I somehow doubt that will be forthcoming, my dear.”

Lucinda danced up on her toes, ecstatic. “You just leave that to me, cousin.”

One way or another, she’d make certain Will would make a proper proposal. And if the enticement of her generous dowry didn’t do the trick, then perhaps she could tempt him with something else he’d find even more pleasing—her.