A Duke By Any Other Name

Chapter One

O wen Severington, Duke of Calstone, stared at the missive in his hand with a scowl. His hand slammed down on his desk, sending a ledger tumbling to the floor.

“They wanted me to do what ? This is outrageous!”

“What’s wrong?” the Marquess of Leeds, his oldest friend, casually leaned back in the leather armchair, setting his paper down with one brow cocked—not exactly amused, but far from disinterested. “You only ever get this riled when she is involved.”

“ She has run away from home.” He waved the letter as if it were a particularly vile creature, his lips curling in a sneer. How could that family allow this to happen? She’d already been gone for a fortnight. A fortnight!

“Why?” Leeds asked.

“Her uncle didn’t say,” Owen grumbled, his scowl deepening. All they had written was that they needed his help to find her. How entirely expected. Whenever something of great distress happened, they would always call for him. Not that he minded, but to wait a fortnight to inform him of her disappearance?

He grabbed a dart from his desk and flung it at the portrait of his father hanging above the fireplace, striking the nose dead-on—a ritual he had perfected whenever she became the subject of his day.

Thalia.

Leeds shook his head. “The late duke will be cursing you in the afterlife. Again.”

“He is the one who made me swear on his deathbed that I’d keep an eye on this little menace. He doesn’t get to curse. Besides, that’s not the real portrait. It’s a copy I commissioned.”

Leeds shook his head. “Her father was your father’s best friend. It’s only natural.”

“Natural, my arse.”

Leeds grinned. “You would have done the same in your father’s shoes.”

Would he have? He glanced at Leeds, thinking about his future offspring—a little daughter. Fine, he probably would have. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t deuced inconvenient. “Unless you’ve got any actual wisdom to impart, kindly shut your mouth.”

“Just marry the girl already,” Leeds said. “How is that for sage?”

“Marry that country hoyden? Are you mad?”

“Yes, yes, love is a disease—”

“ That woman is a disease.” Owen shot his friend a nasty look. “And what does love have to do with anything?”

“—and affection breeds torment and suffering,” Leeds finished in a dry tone.

Owen threw up his hands. “For the love of all that’s holy, don’t say it . You know how I hate having my thoughts verbalized.”

Leeds grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “What? You don’t want to change your mind about husbands being slaves to their wives?”

“With you walking about town as living proof?” Owen scoffed. “Never.”

Leeds’s face softened. “Well, I quite enjoy being a slave to my wife.”

“Your wife is a gentle breeze. Lady Thalia... she’s a damn tempest.”

“Love, my friend, is a breath of fresh air.”

“Kill me now.”

“No need. Seems like Lady Thalia will finish the job when you inevitably rush to the country to retrieve her. But while you’re at it, why don’t you confess your feelings for her already?”

“I don’t have feelings to confess,” Owen spluttered. Why the hell would his friend say such a thing? “Please, don’t ruin my carefully cultivated image of a mysterious and distant duke with talk like this in public.”

“If the ton but knew you are a recluse who loves to stay at home and sculpt breasts of women.”

“They are busts, not breasts,” Owen said with a dark look. “And of a woman, not women.”

“So, you finally admit that you’ve been sculpting Lady Thalia.”

“Don’t be bloody absurd,” Owen muttered.

“How many busts have you sculpted over the years?”

“What does it matter how many? When I reach a thousand, I shall move on to another part of the body.” He would never admit that Lady Thalia was his muse. Of sorts. “You are thinking too much.”

Leeds snorted. “ The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool .”

A fool?

Owen’s gaze narrowed on his friend. Who was the real fool here? The caged eagle or the one whose wings still swept freely across the skies, unbound by emotional tethers?

*

Thalia Rothwell, daughter of the late Earl of Emberstone, dropped a stack of dry branches she’d gathered at the entrance of her little hut. Fortunately, this was the last one.

Nestled within the small, remote village of Larden, her modest home blended seamlessly with its surroundings. The village wasn’t much—a handful of huts near the river, self-sufficient and quiet. It wasn’t even considered a proper village by most, more a scattering of dwellings where simplicity reigned. Water was never a concern with the river nearby, and the residents grew their own vegetables and raised chickens, while the men hunted rabbits or, on lucky days, a deer. And she could hunt with the best of them.

Her father had brought her here once years ago, and she had fallen in love with the way of life. It was uncomplicated. No drama. No theatrics. No arranged marriages.

And that was precisely what she had fled from.

Thalia stretched her arms over her head, satisfied with the haul of firewood she’d gathered. Life here was predictable, in the best way. There were also no suitors hounding her, no stuffy drawing rooms filled with gossip, no expectations. Just the hum of nature and the occasional chatter of the villagers, who had accepted her presence without difficulty.

Or at least, they had accepted the new boy’s presence without difficulty.

Her lips twitched at the thought. It wasn’t as if she’d meant to deceive anyone. It was simply easier to avoid questions and curious glances, and her figure didn’t feature so many curves as to give her away without a closer inspection than she was inclined to let anyone make.

“Dammit, how difficult is it to answer a few simple questions?” A man suddenly asked, shattering the quiet of the woods.

Thalia froze, her heart stumbling in her chest. That voice. Low, frustrated, and always overbearing when it came to her. She knew it all too well, for it haunted her dreams.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Owen. He was here. Just hearing that tone, she could practically see his broad, infuriatingly confident stance, probably waving his arms about in exaggerated frustration.

Of course, he was here. Who else would her uncle send after her?

“Perhaps she isn’t here,” another man suggested.

“And we still have some other places to search,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hey, you!” Owen called. “Boy! Have you seen a young lady around here?”

Thalia cursed inwardly. Of all the places in England to run to, how had he found her here? She tugged her cap lower over her brow, praying he wouldn’t recognize her, not like this. She wasn’t ready for the inevitable scolding, the many commands, or the—

“Boy, I’m talking to you!”

She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to toss a stick at his head. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes landed on him—and her breath caught, despite her best efforts. Criminy!

Why did the man have to be so handsome?

He sat atop his horse like some kind of regal monarch surveying his kingdom, his back straight and his jaw set, completely oblivious to her glare. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp curve of his cheekbones. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind, only adding to his charm, making him look effortlessly roguish.

Lofty. Unreachable. Arrogant.

And yet, dear heavens, he was handsome. Handsome in a way that made her lungs clamor for air.

Her gaze involuntarily trailed down the length of him—broad shoulders filling out his coat, muscular thighs gripping the sides of his horse. He was every inch the powerful duke, and she hated that about him. Hated how he made her feel small and uncertain. Hated how the sight of him turned her normally steady knees into a ridiculous pair of jellyfish.

Of course, he didn’t even bother to look at her. Why would he? He never did. Not really. Whether she was dressed as a boy or not, to him, she was always someone to be managed, handled, or lectured.

Still, her traitorous heart gave a little flutter.

How bothersome!

She turned around, facing him. “No, I haven’t seen a lady around here.”

“Dammit.” His gaze fell on her briefly before he flicked his eyes over her hut. She blinked at him. The glance had been fleeting, yes, but surely, even dressed as a boy, he should still recognize her face. He should at the very least recognize her voice.

Insufferable goat.

Even when he looked at her, he still didn’t see her. Just like when she dressed as a girl. Some things, it seemed, never changed. She snorted and went back to stacking—or, more accurately, rearranging—wood.

“Boy, are you ignoring me again?” A curse followed. “Just what the devil is wrong with these forest people?”

“Wouldn’t we have found her by now if she were here?” the woman asked. “The village is very small.”

“She must be hiding in the woods. Or in a tree. She lives to make my life miserable.”

Miserable?

A stick snapped between her fingers.