The Duke’s Absolutely Audacious Debutante (The Notorious Briarwoods #10)

Prologue

Yorkshire

1789

K ites soared in the bright summer sky.

The village boys raced back and forth over the fields, laughing. They seemed so happy. Rufus Barret, future Duke of Ferrars, could not recall ever being so happy. His life was one of duty, of seriousness, of being quiet and listening. That’s what he was always told.

Be quiet and listen .

After all, the son of a duke had to know how to run a dukedom and could not engage in such frivolous pursuits as the boys of the village did. Yet, as Rufus watched them run merrily, playing, he felt such longing in his heart that he could not describe it. It ached almost like a wound.

He glanced back over his shoulder at his tutor, who had fallen asleep underneath the tree. They’d had a particularly long lesson on mathematics this morning. At least it had been out-of-doors instead of in his rooms in the castle. Little light pierced the thick walls of his wing of the place.

Still, even here by the tree under the blue sky, it was not enough. He hungered to be like those boys. To laugh, to run, to play, to have friends. But he did not have friends. One could not call servants or tutors friends, and he had no siblings, so he was lonely. There was no other way of putting it, and a call deep inside him urged him to dart across the field and speak to the children at play.

Did he dare?

It seemed impossible, and yet he glanced back again at his tutor, who was now snoring. Mr. Munroe’s cravat had been pulled slightly askew. The leaves of the willow were shading him from the bright sun. He was lost in whatever dreams tutors, of middle age and determined to shape a young man into his father’s ideal, dreamed.

Yes, Rufus would dare. He did dare. Rufus swallowed and raced across the ground. His leather-clad feet ate up the earth, and he did not know if he should be full of triumph or terror at his boldness. He’d never done anything like this in the past. He couldn’t pass up this chance, could he? This moment of sheer bliss and joy?

He watched the kites dance in the air like jewels, dancing against an azure background, guided by strings in the hands of boys who made them bob and weave and dip like magical creatures. The children all stood together in their ratty clothes. Most of them had no shoes. Several of them had clothes with frayed hems.

All of them were in short pants. Their faces were dirty but joyful.

“May I join?” he asked, his voice nearly catching in his throat, but he managed to get the question out with conviction.

The boys stopped their chatter and turned to look at him. There were six of them. Freckles danced across their faces, mud streaked some of their cheeks and foreheads, and they all looked at each other warily before looking back at Rufus.

Their eyes traveled over his clothes. For a moment, Rufus felt terribly self-conscious. He knew he looked nothing like them, not in his pressed linen suit, his elaborate cravat, and his pomaded hair. His clothes were carefully chosen every day by his manservant.

After all, boys of his stature looked a certain way. They dressed in particular clothes. They weren’t sent out of the house to run madly through the fields.

“Please,” he said, rather desperate to set them at ease. “I should very much like to fly a kite. I never have.”

The boys again exchanged a look as if they were uncertain.

“You won’t get into any trouble,” Rufus rushed. “My father…”

“We know who your father is,” one of the boys cut in.

“But if you want to,” the tallest said, “I suppose we’ll let you. Would you like to handle my kite?”

Rufus’s eyes widened, stunned. “Yes, thank you,” he said, and he strode forward.

The tallest boy gave him a surprisingly kind look. “Everybody should know how to fly a kite,” he said. “Now, come here. Take this ball of string.”

He did as he was told, taking the piece of wood with string spooled around it into his hands. Immediately, he felt the tug of the kite.

“Don’t let go,” the other boy instructed.

“Oh, I won’t,” he promised, a smile pulling at his lips. “I won’t.”

But he could feel the kite in the air being yanked by the wind. The power of it astonished him and he laughed. The other boys laughed too and started doing tricks as if they were accustomed to the wild nature of kites.

Rufus was not accustomed to the wild nature of anything. His entire life was carefully curated.

“It’s wonderful,” he breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from his kite, which was fluttering in the gusts of wind. “How did you make it?” he asked the taller boy.

“My sister sewed it for me,” the tall boy said.

“What’s your name?” Rufus asked.

“Tom,” he said.

Tom . A very common name amongst English people, Rufus thought to himself. He liked it, he liked Tom, and he liked watching the kite soar through the air, dancing.

He laughed again; he was so happy.

The kite pulled him forward and he ran with it for a few moments.

“Yes. That’s it,” Tom called, clapping his hands together. “Run. Make it fly.”

And he did.

Rufus ran and ran until his shoe caught on a rock. He fell to his knees, but he did not let go of the string.

He glanced up into the sun and laughed again, so full of joy. He did not hear the sound of approaching horse hooves. So wrapped up in controlling the kite, he did not hear the sound of the other boys’ laughter dimming, and he did not know that his own father had jumped down to the ground until it was too late.

The bootsteps thundered toward him. Then a hand grabbed him and pulled him up. “What are you doing, Rufus?” his father demanded.

“I am learning to fly a kite, Father,” he admitted, his stomach knotting.

His father yanked him a step forward and the strings slipped out of Rufus’s hand. The kite soared up into the air. He watched with horror as it spiraled in the wind for several moments and plunged down to the earth. Its framework cracked as it crashed into the ground.

His eyes stung with tears, but he blinked rapidly. Tears would not go well for him. But the agony of what he’d done rushed through him. He’d let Tom down. He’d broken the kite and that was nothing compared to the disapproval of the duke.

He had let his father down.

It was clear. His father stood in his beautiful black riding attire. His ringed hand glowed in the sun and his carefully curled wig shone white, glinting, almost like a mirror.

“You are Viscount Northley,” the duke growled. “You do not play with village boys. You do not associate with these sorts of people. You are above all of them. Do you understand?”

Something snapped in him at his father’s censure of the only boys who had been kind to him. He seemed to be in the mood to dare many things today. So, he countered, “But Father, they are perfectly—”

“They are nothing compared to you,” his father cut in, bending down, his gaze furious. “You rule over them. You do not play with them. Do you understand?”

He swallowed. “Yes Papa, but I…have no friends. I thought—”

“You do not need friends,” his father ground out. “You are going to be a duke. Dukes do not have friends. Dukes have people who do what we say.”

Rufus’s hands were shaking. He knew what a terrible mistake he’d made to dare—to dare to be different, to dare to be happy, to dare to want more.

Dukes did not need to be happy. Dukes had power instead. They had land, and they had people who followed their orders. A duke need not be content. A duke need not laugh.

His father certainly never did.

“Now, come along,” his father commanded. “I am taking you back to your tutor, who will be lucky to have a position by the end of the day.”

Rufus winced. He had not meant to get his tutor into trouble, yet he did not like the man either for keeping him a veritable prisoner in such a beautiful place. For that’s what he was in many ways. A prisoner of his family, his title, his fate. It might seem a grand prison, but it was isolating.

The boys had all scattered to the wind. His happiness had gone with them. That brief chance he’d had at a bit of joy slipped away. His father strode back to his stallion, who was obediently waiting, for no one—not even a horse—would defy the Duke of Ferrars.

His father mounted with surprising ease for a big man. He was well over six feet tall and a sight which always sent fear and intimidation wherever he went. Then, without another word, his father hauled Rufus up on the stallion before him, wheeled them around, and charged back towards the willow tree where the tutor was waiting.

His father lowered Rufus abruptly and commanded, “Mr. Munroe, you will discipline him. You will make certain that he understands what his true position is. If you cannot make him see this, you’ll be replaced by someone who can. I shall see you later, Rufus,” his father said with the sort of cold tone that predicted a harrowing evening, “and we shall discuss this.”

He nodded, trying to stop himself from letting his voice pitch up in fear. “Yes, Father.”

He spent so little time with his father. And it often seemed the only time he did spend with him was when he proved that he was not the son his father hoped he’d be.

But everyone disappointed the mighty Duke of Ferrars.

With a final look, his father wheeled his stallion about and took off across the fields.

Rufus stood before his tutor, who was now definitely not asleep.

Mr. Munroe’s eyes crackled with fury. “Well then, Lord Rufus,” he began in a carefully and frighteningly quiet tone. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Munroe,” he said, but he couldn’t bring himself to lower his gaze or hang his head. Surely, he was allowed to want more than this?

“You’re sorry?” his tutor mocked, folding his hands behind his back. “I think you must understand that just because you’re a future duke, my boy, does not mean you don’t need a bit of correction. Discipline is what your father requires. Discipline is what he shall get.”

Discipline was his father’s favorite word. And he believed that children were to be shaped, especially with force.

With that, Mr. Munroe looked to the tree, then back at him and said, “Find me a switch.”

He winced, his heart beginning to pound against his ribs.

He knew exactly what was about to happen. It had happened before when he dared to step a little bit out of line, to want a little bit of something for himself…to be himself.

But dukes could not be themselves. That was a lesson he had yet to learn. He had to learn it or else he would suffer. Quickly, he picked up a thin branch from the ground.

Mr. Munroe shook his head, causing his wig to tremble. “Not that one.”

Rufus swallowed. He knew the sort of branch Mr. Munroe was looking for. One that would whip well and whistle through the air. Though dread filled him, Rufus spotted one about five feet long. Resigned, his body tensing in anticipation of the pain to come, he took it from the ground and carried it over to his tutor.

And prepared to learn his lesson.