Chapter 1
London
Regent’s Park
1807
M iss Portia Miller loved London, life, and curricles even more than she loved New York City. It was a challenge, having grown up on both sides of a rather large ocean, and yet she liked the fact that it had given her such a unique perspective on the world and those who inhabited it.
She’d had the experience of growing up without always being at the center of the ton. In the United States, she’d had many opportunities and liberties she simply did not have in England.
Her mother loved to act upon the New York stage.
Her father was an important printer, both in New York and London.
But above all, Portia loved England, for all her cousins were here, and now she had returned with her parents for her very first Season. Quite possibly her only Season, because she wanted to marry and stay in England.
Perhaps that was sacrilege to all the people in the United States of America. It was such a brilliant country, but the truth was Portia loved her family.
She loved her cousins so dearly, she loved her aunts and uncles, she loved her grandmother, and frankly, she wanted to spend the rest of her life surrounded by them. So, she was determined to find an English husband.
He did not need to be a great duke, he did not even need to be a lord, but she would marry, and she would marry well enough that she would eventually be able to drive curricles on her own.
One of the great frustrations of being in London for the Season was that she could not drive a curricle in the city. It was not something that unmarried ladies did. Even ladies who belonged to the Briarwood family.
But how she loved them! So Portia did the only thing that one could when one needed to at least appear to be ladylike in such circumstances.
She went driving with her male cousins.
Regent’s Park was full of the very best sorts of people, or at least the sorts of people who the ton deemed the best.
The park was such a beautiful addition to the city, and she loved the Greco-inspired buildings and the glorious green there.
Her cousin Nestor extended his gloved hand. “Come along then, Portia,” he called. “Are you daydreaming about your first ball? You’ll be the Diamond for sure!”
She would not. Her mother had been the Diamond of her Season, but since Portia was the daughter of two people who’d chosen their own paths, she knew the only way she was going to be accepted by the ton was through sheer boldness and her family connection to a duke.
She rolled her eyes, took Nestor’s offered appendage, and then launched herself up into the precarious vehicle.
It only had two wheels and the horses danced excitedly, for they were eager to have their way.
Her cousin Calchas shoved in behind her. “Right, budge up, budge up, old thing,” he declared.
The twins were a formidable pair, but she knew how to handle the wild, dark-haired, dark-eyed, yet oh-so-loving fellows.
The three of them had spent their lives running through the countryside of England together with their many, many other cousins. They had been in each other’s pockets for as long as she could remember.
As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember life without them in some capacity. She’d always been heartsick those times when she’d had to go to New York and be away from her family, though she’d tried to hide that from her parents, for they loved life in the New World so very much.
Now, as she was facing her first Season, she was incredibly glad that Calchas was home.
He was captain of a ship and was shockingly young to have his own vessel, but when one was the son of a duke, such things seemed to happen. It might have also been his sheer nerve and bravery, for he had been in more sea battles than years she’d been alive.
Calchas was incredibly capable and had been at sea since he was twelve years old. It had been a shocking thing for the Briarwoods, but Calchas had been determined. He’d had a passion for the sea. He’d said it called to him like a mother.
Mercy, Portia’s aunt and Calchas’s actual mother, had been dubious about that, but she’d been unable to argue with her son, and the tradition of English boys going to sea at a young age could not be ignored.
Perhaps it was because he had been so enamored with the writings on Admiral Nelson. It was hard to say. Nestor, his older brother, though only by mere minutes, could not go to war as so many of the young men of the country had done. As all her male cousins old enough to fight and not destined to inherit a title were doing.
But Nestor was the heir to a great dukedom, and he was not allowed to put himself at such risk.
So he tested himself in other ways, curricle driving being one of them.
The twins were astonishingly handsome, as all Briarwood men were, and their youthful zeal made them the envy of the ton. They had reputations, of course, but not for cruelty.
They were young men who lived and lived well.
She positioned herself between her two cousins, braced her feet on the footboard, and grabbed ahold of the seat. “Let’s go,” she called out.
Nestor laughed, his dark hair shining in the morning sun. “As you command, Portia,” he said. He whipped up the horses and then they began to trot through Regent’s Park, gaining speed.
She let out a delighted laugh, for it was the best thing in the whole world. She felt completely alive when racing along in a curricle. It had to be the closest thing to being a bird on the wing.
Her cousins laughed with her, and she urged Nestor, “Faster! Faster!”
It was a tradition in this part of town for young men to come and drive wildly. Sometimes, there were races between two drivers, and she thrilled at it. If she could have, she would have raced her own curricle. But that was impossible.
It was another reason to get married as soon as she could! Unmarried ladies had to follow so many rules. But all her aunts? They had seized life and were living as they pleased.
Taming herself for the next few months would be a bit difficult, and she did hate that she couldn’t entirely be herself. She could never abandon who she was, but she knew she could not yet behave exactly as a Briarwood might wish to.
No, she would have to wait for marriage for that. Or, she supposed, spinsterhood. But she had no wish to be a spinster. She wanted to marry and have a horde of children.
That was the life for her. The Briarwoods had taught her the more the merrier, and that no matter what life brought, it was a jolly old affair.
Another curricle raced across the park.
“Who’s that?” she asked, trying to make out the driver, feeling suddenly intrigued by his large form.
Nestor groaned, though it was in good humor. “That is my nemesis,” he supplied.
“Your nemesis?” she queried. “He appears to be rather fashionable for an enemy.”
For, whoever it was, he was driving one of the latest curricles.
“That’s because he’s a duke,” Nestor stated with a sigh.
“Oh, dear. He outranks you, does he?” Portia teased. Her cousin was the eldest son of one of the most powerful men in England, and one day he wouldn’t often find men to outrank him.
“Only for as long as my father is alive, so hopefully forever,” Nestor replied.
It was such a complicated thing. Nestor would only have his true power when his father died.
The Duke of Westleigh was so beloved by the whole family that they all hoped he would live forever. Especially his sons, which was a testament to the nature of the man.
Such a thing was not possible, but none of them would ever choose to think about Uncle Leander’s end. And she rather thought that Nestor was quite pleased with the position he had.
He was capable of doing so much without having to achieve his father’s position. And the two of them loved each other so well that she knew Nestor had no desire to seize a ducal coronet.
She adjusted herself on the seat, trying not to sound too curious. “A duke? Who is he?”
Much to her annoyance, her breath caught in her throat.
There was something magnificent in the way he was tearing through the park, whipping up his horses as if he did not care for his own life and limb. Yet, he did not harm the beasts but rather seemed to be encouraging their energy.
Dukes usually cared a great deal for their life and limb. They had to. They were in control of a great many things. But this duke was racing across the green, his horses sleek, his curricle as smooth as butter, as if he and Death could dance a fine waltz with no ill effects.
Yes, the formidable duke looked as if he was flying through space. His dark hair was wild underneath the sun, a hat seemingly unnecessary. Or impractical, given his speed.
He’d taken off his great coat, and the fine tailoring of his clothes emphasized his broad shoulders and waspish waist.
“That is the Duke of Ferrars,” Nestor intoned.
“He’s boring,” pointed out Calchas.
“Boring,” she gasped. “How can a man who looks like that and who is driving a curricle be boring?”
Nestor shrugged as he held his reins easily. “When he is racing, that is the only time he’s interesting,” he replied. “When he’s out here like this, he’s a fearsome sight.”
“Doesn’t say a peep in company though,” added Calchas, folding his arms over his blue naval uniform.
“Truly?” she asked, looking back and forth between her cousins.
Calchas nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “The Duke of Ferrars is notoriously quiet, always judging everybody, looking down his nose, off on his own, but he does like to come out and race us. He’s not a bad fellow. Just…well, a typical duke.”
“Would you like to meet him?” Nestor asked.
“Oh yes, please,” she said. “I’d love to meet a man like that.”
And she would because he was clearly a strange conundrum. Silent but fierce. Wild but dutiful.
Yes, she’d like to know him quite well. Nestor whipped up the horses and then raced towards the duke.
The Duke of Ferrars slowed his curricle and inclined his dark-haired head. “Good day, Huxton,” the duke said to Nestor, using her cousin’s courtesy title.
“Good day, Your Grace,” Nestor said with a touch of melodrama.
When one was a Briarwood, melodrama was a way of life. Portia adored it. She was the daughter of an actress after all. So drama was her specialty.
“This is my cousin, Miss Portia Miller,” Nestor said simply.
The duke looked to her as his hands played easily with the reins. His eyes—beautiful, bright, shining sapphire eyes—locked on to hers, and for a single moment, she saw his pupils flare.
He arched a dark brow ever so slightly, then inclined his head. “Miss Miller,” he drawled as if he had been introduced to a pillar.
She couldn’t have that. She was certainly worth more attention than a pillar.
“How do you do, Your Grace?” she said jovially. “I hear you are terrible company but a marvelous driver.”
His jaw dropped.
“Portia,” Calchas said from the corner of his mouth, elbowing her.
She turned to him. “What? Is it not true? Have I heard a pack of lies?” she asked.
The duke’s brow furrowed and he narrowed his gaze. “I suppose it depends on what you consider terrible company,” he said. “I certainly don’t speak when it’s not necessary.”
His voice was so full of disdain she nearly laughed. She had poked a nerve, and he was certainly insinuating that she spoke too much. How wonderful. It would be so easy to drive him around the bend. So how could she resist?
“Oh, Your Grace,” she began, “perhaps it’s simply because you have nothing to say.”
“Portia,” Nestor warned, turning towards her.
“Oh, forgive me, Your Grace,” she said quickly, bringing her hand to her heart. “I am being terribly American, aren’t I? Horribly bold in speech, and it does help that my uncle’s a duke, and so I’m not afraid.”
“ Afraid isn’t the word that I’d use,” the duke returned, his voice a low rumble, and yet she could feel it. He was intrigued, possibly mystified, by the way that she was speaking to him. He was fairly crackling with it.
The energy suddenly rolling off him came straight towards her, and it seemed like her cousins couldn’t sense it at all, but she did. There was a connection racing right between them. Yes , she thought to herself, smiling at him, he wants someone to jar him from his boring life .
I understand you, Your Grace. I understand what you are hiding from the rest of the world. There’s someone inside you who longs to come out to play but cannot, isn’t there?
The duke cocked his head to the side and, as their gazes held, he sucked in a long breath. As if he was shocked, as if he could almost hear the thoughts in her head.
He let out a low growl. “Too much talking, not enough racing. Isn’t that why you pulled up beside me, Huxton? You wish to race?”
“Oh, indeed,” Nestor rushed, now clearly sensing the tension. “I do. Let’s show Portia what real driving is like.”
“She drives?” the duke challenged.
She sniffed. “Of course I do. But not here. After all, here, I must behave.”
The duke swung his gaze back to her and arched his brow again. “Do you often misbehave?” he queried.
“Oh, most certainly,” she replied jauntily, giving him a grin. “It’s the only way to thrive in this mad existence.”