The Foolish Duke

Prologue

Derrington Chase March 1811

Fast as lightning, they flew—horse and master—through the dark of night, over the hills that spread before them like the vast sea, running as though the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels.

Hell, an apt word, for that is where he was headed.

Cresting the hill, Royce pulled Titan to a stop as his ancestral home came into view, unprepared for what the message he received a few days ago might mean. He had pushed Titan harder than he should have, but the horse seemed to understand the urgency and never balked at the pace he had set.

Even with the sturdy beast obeying his every command, Royce prayed he would make it in time. He would never forgive himself if he did not.

Lightning streaked across the sky, casting an ominous halo over the usually peaceful fa?ade as fat raindrops slashed down from the dark, churning clouds, stinging his face. With a click of his tongue, Royce urged Titan forward, mud spattering his clothing with each beat of the horse’s hooves.

A young man came running from the stables as they approached, and Royce tossed the reins to him as he rapidly slid from the saddle. Scrivens, a tall and rather slender man—who had been with the family for years, as had his father before him—was already standing with the door opened to allow Royce entrance.

“I wish I could say good evening, my lord, but under the circumstances, may I just say we are all thankful you are here,” Scrivens said somberly, offering a weak smile.

“Thank you, Scrivens. Where is my father?” Royce tried to remain outwardly calm, though his thoughts were racing.

“He is in the Green Room, my lord.”

Royce bounded up the stairs two at a time and made his way down the hall, leaving a trail of water behind him. But dripped water was the least of his concerns as he made his way toward the Green Room. The enormous clock at the end of the hall chimed the hour, lending a dark resonance to the heavy silence that had seemed to settle over the estate.

Shaking his head to wipe the sense of foreboding the chiming evoked, Royce raised his hand to knock on the door, but hesitated. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked into the Ducal bedchamber to see the bed neatly made and empty. The sadness he had not allowed himself to feel now threatened to consume him, realizing that soon that room might belong to someone else.

Taking a deep breath, Royce turned back and knocked on the door. He waited for a reply, and when none came, he gently turned the knob, letting himself into the room. Immediately, the stench of sickness assailed his nostrils, accompanied by the cloying heat emanating from the fireplace.

“Royce.” A soft voice called to him.

Wilhelmina Derrington, the Duchess of Exeter, was sitting in a chair, leaning forward over the side of the bed. Her head resting upon the soft covers as she held onto the hand of the man she loved. It was painful for Royce to stand there, unsure of what he could do to lessen his mother’s heartbreak as small dark circles appeared on the covers with each tear she let fall.

“How is he?” Royce whispered.

“Not good, I am afraid. The doctors have seen him, but there is nothing else they can do. His heart is sick, Royce. He does not have much time left with us.” She sniffled softly, sitting up to dab her eyes with her handkerchief. “They gave him some laudanum to help ease the pain.”

Royce noticed a whisper of gray had become visible in his mother’s brown hair as he kneeled alongside her chair and pulled her into a loving embrace. No doubt caused by the years of dealing with the stubborn family she had raised and the man who now lay motionless in the bed.

His father was an imposing figure in his day; unbreakable, unshakeable, and had eyes that could take a man’s measure with amazing accuracy. Even the most hard-nosed man thought twice before crossing him for fear of what might lie beneath his calm and collected exterior.

He had a deep-seated affection for his family while still maintaining a clear sense of his responsibilities. For many years he grappled with the hardships his father before him had brought upon the Derrington family—leaving them nearly destitute. He had worked tirelessly since assuming the title, taking care of all tenants under his care, investing wisely, and ensuring that all partners involved with those investments could be trusted. Trust, understanding, and the ability to compromise had been the foundation he had rebuilt his dukedom on.

“If you cannot prove that you are worthy of your position, a title is merely a title, Royce. You need to show those under you that you hear what they say and do your best to help them. When investing, be sure you know who you are dealing with, and do not back down until you feel you have reached the best compromise for all involved. You can be tough, but fair.”

Royce remembered riding atop his father’s broad shoulders while they played in the garden. His siblings always played the soldiers, while he and his father played the pirates.

“Looks like it be us against many!” His father would bellow, waving the wooden sword he swiped from one soldier. “One last kiss before I go into battle.” Royce’s mother would laugh as his father pulled her in for a kiss.

In his boyish eyes, his father was above reproach, honorable, and just, but the man Royce saw lying in the bed did not resemble the man he held in his memory. His father lay there barely breathing, and his face—which usually laid claim to prominent features—was now ashen and gaunt.

“Have you rested?” Royce whispered to his mother, his voice filled with concern.

“I have been by your father’s side since he collapsed.” She looked at Royce, her heartbreak showing in her eyes.

“Great gods, Mother. It has been three days. You must rest,” he gently reprimanded her.

“I belong by your father’s side, and I will not abandon him when he needs me most,” she chided.

“Where are my brothers and sisters?”

“Margaret was keeping me company for a while, but I could tell she was getting restless. I sent her down the hall to help the governess keep Samuel and the twins occupied,” his mother said as more tears streamed down her face. “I have sent for Grayson and Desmond, but they have yet to arrive.”

Royce’s eyes slowly swept across the room. The walls were light green damask, faded by the years of generous sunlight that poured through the large doors leading out onto the balcony, now shut off by an immense number of heavy drapes.

A quill and parchment lay forgotten on a desk, next to miniatures of him and each of his siblings. He looked at their smiling faces and over to the large portrait of his mother hanging above the mantle decorated with a jumble of items. Among them was a small, oddly shaped gray lump. Royce smiled as he recalled how that dull, colorless lump had become something proudly displayed on the mantelpiece.

Digging in the dirt was probably not a commonplace thing for the future heir to a dukedom, but his father had insisted that he learn every tiny detail of what he would one day oversee.

So, on a warm day, when Royce had been about five, he helped their estate gardener pull various weeds and vines out of the flowerbeds. His mother and father watched on from where they sat in the shade of a large tree. A small three-year-old Grayson toddled around as a plump rosy-cheeked baby Desmond bounced on their mother’s knee.

The gardener watched in amusement as Royce pulled and pulled on a vine that would not release its hold on the ground. Feeling very discouraged by his lack of progress, he began searching for something that might help him, and spotted a small shovel. He lifted it up and plunged it down in the soft, wet soil, striking something hard.

Royce was so curious about what he might have discovered that he began to dig. He eventually uncovered a rock which seemed to act as an anchor for the roots of the vine that were coiled around it. Determined to show his father what he could do, he planted his feet firmly on either side of the hole—his tongue sticking out in concentration—and pulled with all the might his little body could muster. With one last tug, the rock and vine broke loose, causing Royce to land on his backside with a hard thump.

Realizing he had succeeded, a smile broke across his face, and he ran to show his father, waving the rock wildly. His mother had praised him for a job well done, and here that rock sat these many years later, still gracing the mantel as though it were the greatest treasure in all the world. His eyes continued to trace down the fireplace, and he spotted a book that lay forgotten on a small table.

Every evening before going to bed, Royce and his siblings would come together around the chairs that had been placed a comfortable distance from the fire, excited about the next adventure in the book their mother had been reading.

This was the room that his mother had given birth not only to him, but to his brothers and sisters as well. It seemed only fitting that the room, which was once used to bring life into the world, was now being used by those leaving it.

A knock sounded at the door, and Scrivens—always attuned to what was needed—carried a tray laden with a light repast and tea. Royce thanked him and fetched a cup of tea for his mother, gently placing it into her shaking hands when his father stirred. Wilhelmina immediately set the cup on the table by the bed and leaned in closer, placing her hand gently on her husband’s arm.

“Reginald, darling, I am here, and so is Royce.” she said comfortingly.

“Royce?”

“I am right here,” Royce uttered as he walked to the other side of the bed and took his father’s hand. He looked down at those all-too-familiar green eyes and smiled. Unwilling to let his father see how scared he was.

“I know that we have not always seen eye to eye, but I have always strived to do the right thing. And no matter how hard I tried, there were things I could never get through that thick skull of yours,” his father grumbled.

“Like father, like son,” Royce quipped, his voice cracking a bit.

His father’s brief rumble of laughter ended in a fit of coughs.

“I am proud of you, my boy. Watch out for this family and become the duke this family needs.” Reginald turned his head and reached for Wilhelmina’s hand. “I love you, my dear wife. Eventually, we will come together again, but likely not soon. Your presence is still needed here,” he uttered hoarsely. “One last kiss before I go into battle?”

“I love you too.” Gently, Wilhelmina rose to her feet and kissed her husband’s lips, her love for him expressed through her tears and smile.

Royce heard their goodbye in the words left unspoken and bowed his head, watching his father’s breaths grow slower and slower, until they ceased. The deep, reverberating bong of the clock echoed through the silence, announcing that his father’s time had come to an end. Leaving Royce to start his life as the new Duke of Exeter.