Her Guardian Duke (The Regency Guardians #3)

Chapter 1

“You cannot be serious.”

Lady Eleanor Whitcombe set down her teacup with the sort of precision that spoke of decades navigating drawing rooms where a single misplaced word could spell absolute ruin. Her grey eyes, sharp as flint despite her two-and-fifty years, fixed upon Maribel with undisguised concern.

“You intend to present yourself at Blackwood, uninvited, to enquire after a child the Duke has made abundantly clear he wishes to raise without interference?”

Maribel’s fingers tightened around her own cup, the porcelain cool against her palm. Beyond the window of Lady Eleanor’s modest Mayfair sitting room, the October sky hung low and sullen, threatening rain that had not yet decided to fall.

“He is four years old,” Maribel said quietly. “He has lost both his parents within a fortnight. And the man now responsible for his care believes that children require nothing more than discipline and distance.”

“The Duke of Blackwood is one of the most powerful men in England.”

“Which makes him no less wrong.”

Lady Eleanor exhaled slowly, the sound carrying the weight of a woman who had witnessed too many young women destroy themselves through pride and principle.

She had been Maribel’s grandmother’s dearest friend, and when the Ashcroft scandal had torn through society like wildfire—when doors had closed and invitations had ceased and whispers had followed Maribel through every ballroom she dared enter—Eleanor had been the only one to extend her hand.

You shall be my companion, she had declared, in a tone that brooked no argument. Society may have forgotten your family’s worth, but I have not.

It was charity dressed in the garments of employment, and they both knew it. But it was also survival, and Maribel had learned that pride made poor company when one’s choices had narrowed to a single, precarious path.

“My dear girl.” Eleanor’s voice softened, though her gaze remained steady. “I understand your attachment to the child. But you must consider what you risk. The Duke despises you—”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

“—and your position is not so secure that you can afford to make enemies of men who could destroy what little remains of your reputation with a single word.” Eleanor leaned forward, her weathered hands folded in her lap.

“You have already lost so much. Your father’s debts, your mother’s health, and with Lady Margaret…

” She stopped, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she caught herself.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you pain.”

Maribel looked away, her throat tight. Margaret. Even now, three months since the fever had claimed her, the name struck like a blade between the ribs.

.

And now she was dead. Nicholas too. And Oliver—bright, sensitive, achingly vulnerable Oliver—had been handed to a man who viewed affection as weakness and love as liability.

Maribel could not save her sister. But she could save her sister’s son.

“I must go to him, Eleanor.” She met the older woman’s gaze, her voice steady despite the turmoil beneath.

“If you wish to dismiss me for it, I shall understand. But I cannot sit in this room, sipping tea and discussing the weather, whilst that child suffers in a household that I know in my heart does not know how to care for him.”

Eleanor studied her for a long moment. The calculation in her eyes gave way to resignation, and she shook her head with a slow exhale.

“You are the most stubborn creature I have ever encountered,” she said at last. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

Maribel’s lips curved despite herself. “I choose to take that as a compliment.”

“It was not intended as one.” But there was warmth beneath Eleanor’s tartness, and when she rose, it was to cross the room and take Maribel’s hands in her own.

“Go, then. See the child. But you must be careful—one more scandal, and even I cannot shield you. The Duke is not a man who forgives easily, and you have already given him reason to view you with contempt.”

Maribel thought of the wedding. Of Thaddeus Blackwood’s cold eyes and colder words, the way he had spoken of reputation and marriage, of loyalty and order. The man was incapable of feeling, thought of love as a weakness. She was certain that was how he would attempt to raise poor Oliver.

The boy who had clung to her dress when the correspondence came that he was to live at Blackwood Manor from now on.

“I am not afraid of the Duke of Blackwood,” she said.

Eleanor squeezed her hands, her expression knowing. “That, my dear, is precisely what concerns me.”

The journey to Blackwood took the better part of four hours.

Maribel watched the landscape shift beyond the carriage window—London’s grey sprawl giving way to rolling countryside. The sky remained overcast, clouds hanging low as though uncertain whether to weep, and the light that filtered through the glass was thin and pallid.

She had dressed with care that morning, choosing a travelling gown of deep burgundy that she knew flattered her colouring without appearing ostentatious.

Her dark chestnut hair was pinned simply, practically—she had long since abandoned the elaborate styles favoured by women who had maids enough to maintain them—and she wore no jewellery save the small garnet pendant that had been her grandmother’s.

She looked, she hoped, like a woman who meant business. A woman who could not be dismissed or intimidated.

She did not feel like that woman. Beneath the composed exterior, her stomach churned with anxiety she refused to name, and her thoughts circled endlessly around the same worn grooves. What if Oliver did not remember her? What if the Duke refused her entry altogether?

Stop, she told herself firmly. You have come this far. You will not falter now.

She thought of the last time she had seen Oliver before the fever struck, at a quiet afternoon visit Margaret had arranged whilst Nicholas was away on business.

The boy had shown her his collection of painted soldiers, explaining with grave solemnity which were cavalry and which were infantry, and Maribel had listened as though he were delivering a lecture of the utmost importance.

You are the best listener in the world, Oliver had declared. Even better than Mama.

Margaret had laughed at that, her eyes bright with the contentment of a woman who had built exactly the life she wanted. High praise indeed, my darling.

Maribel’s chest tightened at the memory.

She had not known, then, that it would be one of the last peaceful moments they would share.

She had not known that within a month, both Margaret and Nicholas would be gone, and the next time she saw the boy, he’d be confused and afraid, weeping with grief.

Even then, however, she believed they would manage.

She would take care of him, she thought.

Then that letter came. He had signed all the right letters and by law, he would be the one to raise Oliver.

The Duke of Blackwood.

Even thinking his name sent a spike of irritation through her veins. Their interactions after the wedding had been cold too. There was only once or twice—the last time, when Margaret was still expecting.

The Duke had made it clear that he thought children ought to be raised with strict structure and order. When she had objected to this, he had dismissed her as though she were naught but a bothersome insect.

Maribel sat up a little straighter when the carriage slowed. This was it.

Blackwood rose before her like something from a dream. It was beautiful, of course. But there was a coldness about it that sent a shiver down her spine.

This was the house that Thaddeus Blackwood had built into a fortress of control.

This was where Oliver now lived.

The carriage halted before the entrance, and Maribel drew a steadying breath before allowing the footman to hand her down. Her heart raced wildly as she approached the door, each step carrying her closer to a confrontation she had rehearsed a hundred times and still did not feel prepared for.

The butler who answered was precisely what she might have expected—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, with stark blue eyes that she was certain saw everything.

“Lady Maribel Ashcroft,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am here to see the child. Oliver.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch—a monumental display of surprise for a man of his profession. “I regret to inform you, my lady, that His Grace does not receive visitors without prior arrangement.”

“I am not here to see the Duke. I am here to see Oliver.”

“The young master is—”

“Maribel?”

The voice came from somewhere behind the butler, small and uncertain and achingly familiar. Maribel’s heart seized as a figure appeared in the shadowed doorway—slight and pale, dark hair falling across his forehead, those brown eyes that were so much like Margaret’s it hurt to look at them.

Oliver.

He stood frozen for a moment. Then his face crumpled, and he was running toward her, small feet slapping against the marble floor, his whole body trembling as he threw himself into her arms.

“You came,” he whispered against her shoulder, his voice ragged with tears. “You came, you came, I knew you would come—”

Maribel gathered him close, her eyes burning, her hands trembling as they smoothed across his back. He was thinner than she remembered, his small frame sharp beneath his clothes, and when she pulled back to look at his face, she saw shadows beneath his eyes that no child of four should possess.

“Of course I came,” she murmured, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Did you think I would forget you?”

Oliver’s lower lip quivered. “Everyone else did.”