Chapter Three
Blackwood House — London
Rain struck the windows of Blackwood House with a steady rhythm, turning the glass into wavering sheets of silver and shadow.
Anthony stood with one hand braced against the mantel in the drawing room, staring into the fire without truly seeing it.
London rain always seemed different from rain on the moors.
At Blackwood Hall, storms arrived with a kind of wild honesty, sweeping over the hills and beating against ancient stone as if nature itself had declared war.
London rain felt restrained, as though even the weather observed society rules.
The solicitor had departed only minutes earlier, and yet Anthony still felt the man's words lingering in the room like unwelcome smoke.
Across from him, Sebastian Ashford, Earl of Wrexham, lounged with complete disregard for posture or dignity in a wingback chair, one ankle resting over his knee and a glass of brandy in hand.
Sebastian possessed the sort of face that made mothers hopeful and daughters foolish.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with light brown hair that perpetually looked as though he had run impatient fingers through it and striking green eyes that rarely missed anything, he moved through society with effortless ease.
He was handsome in a warm way Anthony had never been, open-faced, quick to smile, perpetually amused.
Worse, he knew it.
The two of them had met nearly fifteen years earlier, when Anthony had still been a younger son and Sebastian an irritatingly cheerful university student who possessed the unfortunate habit of speaking to everyone as though they had been friends for years.
For reasons Anthony had never entirely understood, Sebastian had simply decided they were friends, and they had remained so.
Even after the war, after Anthony had returned changed and society had begun looking at him differently, Sebastian treated him exactly as he always had. That was why Anthony suspected he tolerated him. Barely.
Sebastian took a slow sip of brandy. "So," he said at last, "that was unexpected."
Anthony looked at him flatly as Sebastian raised a brow.
"No?"
Anthony turned away from the fire and crossed toward the decanter on the sideboard, pouring himself a measure of whiskey.
The sharp scent rose immediately, and he welcomed it.
The solicitor's words replayed in Anthony's mind with infuriating clarity.
A codicil to the late duke's will had surfaced among the inheritance documents, one his father had apparently considered important enough to preserve and inconvenient enough not to discuss while living.
Anthony was required to produce a legitimate heir within twelve months of inheriting the dukedom.
Failure to do so would result in several of Blackwood's most profitable estates, along with a substantial trust, passing into the hands of his cousin, Lord Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Anthony swallowed hard against the bitter taste in his mouth.
He felt stupid for being surprised. After all, his father had never done anything by halves.
Sebastian watched him carefully. "So Nathaniel inherits the profitable estates and trust holdings if there is no heir."
Anthony said nothing.
Sebastian sighed. "And naturally your father chose not to mention this until after he was gone."
Anthony took a long drink. The whiskey burned pleasantly down his throat.
"He likely assumed Edmund would marry and produce children long before it mattered."
Saying his brother's name out loud felt strange. For years Anthony had spoken his brother's name as little as possible.
Not because he had forgotten, but because he remembered too well.
Sebastian set down his glass. "Pity your father didn't choose another cousin to inherit. Nathaniel has always been a bit of a blackguard."
Anthony's jaw tightened at the mention of his cousin.
Lord Nathaniel Hawthorne had inherited every charm Anthony lacked and absolutely none of his conscience. Nathaniel could smile at a room full of people and have them laughing within minutes. Society adored him, but Anthony knew better.
Nathaniel gambled recklessly, pursued scandal with enthusiasm, and treated obligations as inconveniences.
Anthony remembered one tenant family years ago whose rent had doubled under Nathaniel's temporary oversight of neighbouring lands. The husband had nearly lost the farm entirely, and Nathaniel had just laughed.
"Sentiment is expensive, cousin," he had said as a way of explanation to Anthony.
Anthony's hand tightened around his glass.
Blackwood tenants had lived on those lands for generations, and families depended upon those estates. He had spent the months since his father's passing rebuilding what debt and neglect had nearly destroyed, and he would not watch it destroyed by Nathaniel.
"I will not allow him control of Blackwood."
Sebastian nodded. "I assumed as much," he said, leaning forward. "So then you must marry."
"I cannot."
"But you must."
Anthony moved back toward the windows. Outside, rain blurred the street below. Carriages rolled slowly over wet cobblestones while pedestrians hurried beneath umbrellas.
A wife.
The thought alone was absurd.
He could imagine precisely how such a courtship would unfold.
He had seen versions of it countless times already.
Young ladies would lift curious eyes toward him across crowded drawing rooms, only to look quickly away the moment they saw the scar.
Some would attempt politeness, though discomfort would inevitably creep into their expressions before long.
Mothers would whisper behind feathered fans while pretending discretion, assessing titles and fortune against appearance and reputation.
He had grown accustomed to the subtle pauses in conversation when he entered a room, the lowered voices, the stolen glances.
Society no longer looked at him and saw Anthony Hawthorne, the Duke of Blackwood.
Now they saw the scar first. They saw the stories whispered in ballrooms and gentlemen’s clubs.
They saw the war, the solitude, the dark clothing, and the man who rarely smiled.
Somewhere along the way, the man had disappeared beneath rumour and speculation, replaced by the figure society preferred to invent—the Beast of Blackwood.
"I have no interest in marriage."
Sebastian sighed. "You require an heir," he said. "And unless there have been some miraculous advancements in modern medicine that I am unaware of, that requires a woman, and society requires that woman be your wife."
Anthony looked back at him before taking another sip from his glass.
"If I am to marry," he said, the word sounding foreign on his lips, "then what I require is only practicality."
"And biology," Sebastian offered.
Anthony nodded. "I require no emotional complications."
Sebastian stared at him for a long moment, then grinned.
Anthony narrowed his eyes. "I fail to see amusement in my situation."
"No," Sebastian teased. "You wouldn't."
Anthony's expression darkened.
"So, what's your plan? You approach some poor woman and say: Good afternoon, would you care to produce an heir and avoid emotional intimacy?"
Anthony looked at him steadily. "Yes."
Sebastian groaned. "My God."
Anthony returned his attention to the rain. The truth was that no woman would willingly choose a life with him if she understood what it truly meant.
Blackwood Hall was isolated, and he was difficult.
He had spent years becoming a man no one approached too closely, and any woman who accepted him would do so only out of duty or desperation.
Certainly not affection.
The thought sat heavily in his chest.
Sebastian's voice softened. "Anthony." He looked over. "Many families would eagerly offer a daughter to a duke."
Anthony said nothing.
Sebastian leaned back again. "Necessity has begun a great many marriages."
Anthony looked into the fire. Necessity, not love or tenderness. Not the foolish dreams other men might entertain.
Perhaps necessity was safer for everyone.
After a moment, Sebastian spoke again. "The Duchess of Ashbourne's Midsummer Ball is next week."
Anthony's eyes narrowed immediately. "No."
Sebastian smiled slowly. "You have not even heard the suggestion."
"I do not need to."
Sebastian ignored him. "Every ambitious family in London will attend."
"I would sooner ride through artillery fire again than spend the evening with marriage-minded mothers and their daughters. In fact, I would go as far to say that hell itself likely resembled a ballroom."
Sebastian chuckled. "You've always had a flair for the dramatic," he said. "But it is the most efficient way."
Anthony looked away, yet Sebastian's words lingered. Because, despite his absolute dislike of the idea, his friend was correct.
Slowly, Anthony exhaled, then muttered under his breath.
Sebastian leaned forward. "What was that?"
Anthony glared at him. "I said I shall attend your damned ball."
Sebastian grinned triumphantly. Anthony pointed at him. "I am choosing a wife based upon practicality."
"Of course."
Anthony narrowed his eyes. He had known Sebastian long enough to know that expression meant trouble.
"Well, now that matter is resolved, I shall be on my way."
Anthony walked over and reached for the decanter again, pouring himself another drink.
"Chin up," Sebastian said, pulling on his gloves. "You've agreed to go to a ball, not a funeral."
"Is there a difference?"
Sebastian chuckled as he shook his head and reached for his hat. "Good God, Anthony. Try not to glower at anyone. The poor ladies may mistake you for Schedoni."
Anthony frowned. "Have you been reading your sister's novels again?" Sebastian grinned. "I cannot help it, Ann Radcliffe is a true wordsmith."
Anthony rolled his eyes. "I thought you were leaving," he said dryly.
"Yes," he agreed. "Here I go."
With that, Sebastian pulled open the door and left.
Anthony stood alone in the drawing room with the fire burning low and the papers from his father's solicitor spread across the desk before him.
The quiet was heavier now after Sebastian's departure.
Outside, evening had begun gathering over London. Rain still tapped steadily against the windows, though the storm itself seemed to be losing strength now, softening into a fine mist that blurred the streetlamps beyond the glass.
Anthony loosened his neckcloth and sat heavily in the chair before the desk.
For several moments, he simply stared at the documents.
Strange that a life could change because of a few words written on paper.
Slowly, he picked up the will once more. He had already read the relevant portion twice, and the words had not improved with familiarity.
Anthony's jaw tightened as he set the page down.
His father had spent his entire life believing duty came before everything else. The old duke had not been a cruel man exactly. But he had been demanding and distant. He had loved his sons in the way some men did—through expectation rather than warmth.
Anthony had spent years trying to earn approval that had always seemed beyond reach.
Edmund had managed it more easily, but that was because everyone had loved his brother.
Anthony closed his eyes briefly.
No, he thought. Not tonight.
After a moment he rose and crossed toward the windows. The drawing room reflected faintly back at him in the dark glass, the firelight behind him, broad shoulders dressed in black, and the pale scar cutting sharply across the left side of his face.
His gaze lingered.
How many years had it been now?
Nearly ten.
Long enough that he ought not care anymore. Long enough that he should have grown accustomed to the expressions people wore when they first saw him.
The way children often stared in the street and women tended to look away.
He supposed he could hardly blame them. The scar itself had never truly bothered him. One learned to live with pain. It was everything that had come after.
A bitter smile touched his mouth briefly.
Society did adore dramatic titles.
He wondered what sort of woman would agree to marry such a creature. It would have to be someone who valued security over affection. Certainly not someone looking for romance.
He had no use for romance, no use for soft words or declarations or impossible expectations. Marriage would be an arrangement and nothing more.
Yet for reasons he could not entirely explain, the thought sat heavily in his chest.
He looked away from his reflection and crossed back toward the desk.
The papers remained exactly where he had left them. Slowly, he gathered the documents into a neat stack and extinguished several candles upon the desk.
The room dimmed immediately; only the fire remained.
Next week, he would attend the Duchess of Ashbourne's Midsummer Ball.
He would endure the crowds and the conversations and the ambitious mothers.
He would find a suitable wife, and before the Season ended, he would secure Blackwood's future.
Whatever it required.