The Duke of My Desire (A Match Made in Autumn #1)

Chapter 1

London, England

If London Society knew anything about Gregory Mallen, the Eighth Duke of Paxton, it was that he was a devoted son.

Some mocked him for his devotion to his mother, claiming he was tied to her apron strings—or worse—but he did not let their opinions bother him.

At least, not overly much.

He knew most men of six-and-twenty weren’t as close to their mothers as he was to his, but the dowager duchess was really the only parent he’d ever known, and the only family he had.

She had always been there for him, his staunchest supporter, his friend and confidante, and he would forever be grateful to her.

That being said, just because he loved his mother did not mean he wasn’t annoyed by her on occasion. Especially when she was trying to make him do something he did not wish to do.

Like marry a woman he did not love.

“Mother, please,” Gregory said, leaning forward in the chair in his office, arms spread in supplication. “You know I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot marry Jane Withers.”

Araminta Mallen, Dowager Duchess of Paxton, sat ramrod straight in the large leather chair behind the desk—his desk—and glared down her long nose at him.

“Of course you can marry her,” she said, her voice crisp with authority. “Jane is a lovely girl and would make you an excellent duchess.”

Gregory suppressed a sigh, his gaze drifting to the window and the night sky beyond, the thick clouds concealing the autumn moon.

He had no reason to doubt his mother. If anyone should know the ingredients of an excellent duchess, it was her.

She’d been one herself for nearly three decades, and although she was slower than she used to be and her auburn hair had begun to turn white, she was as imperious—and opinionated—as ever.

“I have no doubt that you are right,” he replied calmly, though they’d had this discussion a hundred times before. “But Jane will have to make another duke an excellent duchess for I will not marry her.”

His head had begun to throb, undoubtedly due to the tension in his neck and shoulders, a tension he could not seem to shake ever since his return to England.

He’d suffered a great disappointment last year when he discovered the woman he loved—the woman he’d planned to marry—did not love him and, in fact, loved another man.

The rejection had left him reeling, heartsick and unmoored, and the only thing he could think to do was get the hell out of England.

So he’d fled to the Continent, and there he’d stayed for nearly three months, much to his mother’s displeasure.

She still hadn’t entirely forgiven him, and it had been nearly six months since he’d returned home.

Of course, that did not stop her from trying to run his life for him. He was beginning to suspect nothing short of death would accomplish that.

“I do not understand why you’re being so stubborn, Gregory.

” His mother’s frown deepened, her dark brown eyes sharp with irritation.

“You are a duke. A duke needs an heir. And in order to produce an heir, a duke needs a duchess. Jane is more than ready to be your duchess. Why will you not marry her?”

Gregory shook his head, his smile regretful. “Because I do not love her.”

The dowager duchess and Jane’s mother had been friends since they were girls and the two had long hoped their children would wed. Jane was a sweet-tempered girl and Gregory genuinely liked her, but he could not marry her, not even to please their mothers.

“Love will come later,” the dowager duchess said, waving her hand like a queen bestowing a royal decree.

“It never came for you and Father.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them and his mother flinched as if she’d felt them bodily.

Regret was swift and Gregory reached a hand across the desk, intending to apologize, but she spoke before he could.

“You’re right, it didn’t,” she said stiffly. “But in the beginning I thought it would. I hoped it would. I thought if I was patient enough, love would come. But that was before I learned that your father—” She broke off, her mouth twisting bitterly. “That was before I learned it was not to be.”

It was the most Gregory had heard her say about his father in some time.

They rarely discussed him, and never at length.

Gregory was only a boy of seven when he’d died, so he hardly remembered the man, but he knew he had treated his mother poorly, and even after all these years, time had not healed the pain he’d caused her.

“My marriage was not a happy one,” she went on, “but many marriages are, and I think if you give her a chance, Jane will make you very happy, indeed.”

Gregory rubbed his eyes with one hand, weariness settling over him like a cloak. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, taking the coward’s way out. “But I’m suddenly famished, so we will have to finish this conversation another day.”

He pushed to his feet and turned for the door, his mother’s stare a sharp pinch that followed him as he crossed the room.

“Where are you going?” she called out, her voice shrill with disapproval.

“Out.”

“But, Gregory—”

He stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him, cutting her off in an unusual display of rebellion. He had no doubt he would pay for it later, but he didn’t much care at the moment.

He simply wanted out. Out of the conversation, and out of this house.

Having no destination in mind, he told his driver, John, just to drive and as the carriage wheels began to roll, he finally expelled the sigh he’d been holding in by a thread.

“God’s bones,” he muttered, rubbing at the ache in his temples.

He loved his mother. Truly, he did. She was a strong woman, in both will and opinion, but she was decent, too, and though she did not like to show it, she had a kind heart. She loved him and only wanted him to be happy.

He knew that, and yet, he couldn’t help but resent her sometimes. She was unrelenting and single-minded in her efforts to see him wed, and he might have suspected she was afraid of dying before he took a wife if he wasn’t already convinced she would live forever.

Another heavy sigh escaped him as he turned to peer out at the passing row of terrace houses, their darkened windows overlooking an empty street, scattered with dry, rambling leaves and softly lit by intermittent street lamps.

The sight struck him as lonely, but perhaps that was merely his current mood. He was rather alone in the world, except for his mother, and they were at odds more often than not.

He wished he could make her understand what he was feeling, that this was his life and he should be the one in charge of it, at least occasionally, but he had no idea how to do so without hurting her feelings in the process.

“Mothers,” he grumbled, and he was just about to let his head fall back against the seat when a flash of movement outside caught his eye.

He frowned as he watched a woman exit through a terrace house door and hurry down the stairs to the pavement below.

She seemed to be running away from something, or someone.

A moment later, a man exited from the same door and vaulted down the steps after her, blocking her path and taking her roughly by the arms.

Gregory thumped his knuckles on the carriage roof, signaling for his driver to pull over. The wheels had barely slowed to a complete stop when he pushed the door open and jumped out onto the pavement.

“Good evening, madam,” he called out to the lady as he approached. “May I be of assistance to you?”

Her eyes met his, frightened but angry too, as she fought to free herself from the man’s grip. She was younger than he’d expected—no older than himself—and she wore a green silk gown under a black velvet cloak, her light brown hair loose around her shoulders.

“No, you may not,” the man said to Gregory, cutting off the lady’s reply. “This does not concern you. Do return to your carriage and be on your way.”

Gregory didn’t know the man, but he was clearly a person of means, dressed in a gentleman’s finery, though there was nothing gentlemanly about his behavior or the hard look in his eyes.

“I will first ask that you unhand the lady,” Gregory said calmly, though his hands itched to grab hold of the brute, his anger growing with every passing second he refused to let her go.

“’Lady’?” The man gave a scoffing laugh. “This is no lady, I assure you. She is no better than a common whore, but alas, she is mine, and I will put my hands on her any place I like.”

“Nigel, please,” the woman said. “Let me go. You are being unreasonable.” Her tone was calm, but he detected a thread of exasperation, too. Exasperation and fear.

“Unhand her,” he commanded, working to keep his voice even, though inside he was furious. “Now, sir.”

The man—Nigel, apparently—passed a derisive look over Gregory and smirked. “Or what, sir?”

Gregory tipped his head toward the waiting carriage behind him. “Or I shall have my driver do it for you.”

Right on cue, John jumped down from the carriage onto the street, crossed his massive arms over his chest, and gave the man a cold glare.

“John,” Gregory called out mildly, “if the gentleman does not release the lady in three seconds’ time, please take care of the matter.” He levelled an icy stare on the man. “By any means necessary.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Gregory wasn’t sure if it was the reference to his title or the threat of violence, but either way, it worked. The man let her go with a sound of disgust, his face contorted with anger.

“This is not over,” he growled with ominous promise before stalking up the stairs and slamming the door behind him.

A long beat of silence filled the now emptier street, and Gregory could hear the pounding of his heart as his pulse began to slow.

“Are you all right?” he said in a quiet voice, watching the woman as she rubbed her arms, her gaze fixed on the pavement at her feet.

“I–I’m fine.” She offered him a tentative smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He stepped back and motioned to his carriage. “May I take you home?”