The Reclusive Duke's Found Family

Chapter 1

“There now,” Eric Sullyard murmured as he removed the saddle and drew the currycomb down his bay gelding’s shoulder, working with practiced, unhurried strokes. “You have better manners than most gentlemen I have met.”

The gelding shifted its weight, snorted softly, then leaned into the familiar pressure. Eric smiled despite himself and reached forward to rub the white star between the animal’s ears.

His estate, Wolverton Hall, still slept behind him, its windows dark, its stone walls holding fast to the night’s chill.

Eric had long preferred this hour, before his ducal obligations found him.

Horses demanded honesty. They neither cared for titles nor repeated whispers overheard in drawing rooms.

The crunch of boots on gravel shattered the silence. Eric turned too quickly, nearly dropping the brush to see the familiar form of his old valet standing in the doorway with both hands clasped behind his back, his gray hair damp from the morning mist.

“I seem to have startled Your Grace,” he said, and though several years had passed since he had retired, the old valet still dressed as neatly as if he expected to attend the duke before breakfast.

“You nearly frightened ten years from my life, Mr. Higgins,” he turned and offered his hand toward the man.

The older man chuckled without apology and shook Eric’s hand politely. “You never did hear anyone coming when there was a horse between you and the rest of the world.”

“I admit that I am most unchanged.”

“Yes,” Mr. Higgins said as his weathered face softened. “Though, that is unsurprising. You have always been your father’s son.”

Eric set the brush aside and rested a hand against the gelding’s neck. Mr. Higgins had earned the privilege of plain speaking long before either of them had grown gray at the temples.

If anyone remaining on the estate could say uncomfortable things without invitation, it was the man who had dressed him as a child and watched him grow into a reluctant duke.

“You’ve been out walking already?” Eric asked.

“As always. My legs wake before the sun whether I ask them to or not. Old habits are stubborn companions.”

“They suit you better than they suited me.”

“I’d argue that they suited you well enough once, Your Grace.”

Eric looked down, adjusting the horse’s bridle though it required no adjustment at all. “That was a different house. A different time.”

“It was.”

Neither man spoke for several moments. Outside, one of the mares stamped in her stall, impatient for breakfast, while Eric found himself studying the worn leather of the bridle in his hands rather than the old servant before him. Five years had done remarkably little to dull certain conversations.

After his father’s funeral, Eric had dismissed nearly the entire household.

There had been no need for footmen standing idle in marble halls, nor an army of servants waiting upon a single man who scarcely entered half the rooms. Society had called him eccentric.

Some less charitable voices had preferred lunatic.

He had ignored them all. Empty corridors did not require polishing simply because a duke owned them.

His cousin, Atlas, had gradually persuaded him to retain a skeleton staff, insisting the estate could not function indefinitely without help. Eric had yielded more from exhaustion than conviction.

“You have done well to ensure Wolverton remains quiet,” Mr. Higgins observed.

“I intended to keep it thus.”

“Well, you have succeeded beyond measure, Your Grace.”

“I fail to see the complaint.”

“Oh—” Mr. Higgins chuckled then and let his hand turn blithely in the air to emphasize its nonchalance. “No, I wasn’t making one. Solitude serves a purpose, lad. It also grows comfortable enough that a man mistakes it for living.”

Eric let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I am living.”

“No, Your Grace. You are existing.” The correction landed gently, which somehow made it worse.

Mr. Higgins stepped farther into the stable, folding his gloves together.

“Your father used to tell me you’d fill this place with noise one day.

Children racing through the galleries. Dogs underfoot.

Your sister forever pretending she wasn’t encouraging them. ”

At Violet’s mention, Eric’s hand stopped where it rested against the reins.

He remembered sunlight catching her hair as she raced him across the western meadow one summer, laughing because she’d cheated and both of them knew it.

The memory vanished almost as soon as it came, leaving only the stable around him. “That future ended years ago.”

“It needn’t have.”

“But it did.” Eric said, and while his voice remained level, his grip against the leather reins had whitened his knuckles. “I have no desire to begin another family only to watch fate discover fresh amusement. I buried enough.”

“You have buried no wife or child.”

“No.”

“Then why mourn ghosts before they’ve lived?”

Eric looked toward the open stable door where morning mist still clung low across the fields.

“Because children lose parents.” His answer came quietly.

“Sometimes they lose them too early. I know precisely what sort of life follows afterward, and I cannot willingly choose that risk for another innocent soul.”

Mr. Higgins regarded him with an expression too patient to argue with.

“There would have to be…” Eric hesitated, almost embarrassed by the thought. “Someone extraordinary to persuade me otherwise.”

“And if such a lady appeared?”

“She will not.”

“You sound remarkably certain for so young a person.”

“I know the only person who could have convinced me.” His gaze remained fixed beyond the paddocks. “My father—and he is no longer here.”

Mr. Higgins cleared his throat once, quietly enough that it might have been for the horse’s benefit. Eric busied himself fastening a strap that had been secure from the beginning. Neither pretended not to notice. “I see…” was all that Mr. Higgins could answer before hoofbeats echoed from the drive.

Atlas Sullyard rode into the stable yard with effortless confidence, dismounted in one smooth motion, and offered Eric the same easy grin he had worn since they were boys climbing oak trees instead of discussing ledgers.

“I thought I should find you here,” his cousin said, eyeing Mr. Higgins.

“Ah! Mr. Higgins, so very nice to see you this morning and in such grand spirits. What brings you to Wolverton?”

“I was on a stroll this morning, sir. One that I should get back to—Your Grace,” he said bowing slightly. “Mr. Sullyard,” he continued before taking his leave.

Eric watched for a moment, so distracted by the old man that he didn’t hear his cousin continue with whatever speech he had prepared on his ride over to the stable house.

“Ready?” he finally heard Atlas say.

“For what?”

“The steward has sent the quarterly accounts… If we begin now, we might finish before luncheon.”

Eric nodded and gave the gelding one final pat before following Atlas toward the yard. They spent the next hour walking boundary maps spread across the library patio table, discussing tenant leases, drainage repairs, and breeding stock until Atlas leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh.

“There is one matter you’ve rather avoided.”

Eric did not bother looking up. “If it concerns marriage, spare us both.”

“It concerns the future.”

“They are the same conversation, so I see very little need to discuss it.”

“They needn’t be.” Atlas rested his forearms on his knees. “You ought to consider an heir.”

“I have,” Eric said simply.

“And?”

“There will not be one from my line.”

Atlas frowned, almost reluctantly. “Then these lands fall to me eventually.”

“You are perfectly capable. You are already married, and no doubt have a child on the way soon. You know the estate. We grew up together, so you also know my father’s will.”

“I scarcely know what I should do with a dukedom, Eric. Loretta already dreams enough for both of us. If she had her way, there would be a nursery full of children before the year was out. She desires status where I desire none of it.”

“Then my decision improves your domestic prospects.”

Atlas laughed, shaking his head. “I am serious.”

Eric folded the map and set it aside. “So am I—the estate will pass where the law directs. There is nothing further to discuss.”

Atlas turned one of the brass paperweights between his fingers before setting it back precisely where he’d found it. “Violet would have hated hearing you speak so.”

Eric looked up so abruptly the chair gave a short scrape across the floor.

For an instant he heard another voice instead, his sister laughing somewhere beyond reach, followed by the memory of angry words shouted behind a closed study door, his father’s raised voice, his own decision to walk away rather than interfere. By morning, his sister had vanished.

Atlas, unaware or pretending to be, reached for another ledger while Eric stared at the grain of the oak desk, unable to shake the familiar conviction that if he had opened that door five years earlier, none of them would have buried what they believed was left of his family.

“You’ve gone quiet.” Atlas’s voice pulled Eric back into the library.

He blinked once, finding the ledger still open before him. The columns of figures had become little more than ink on paper while memory had done its usual work, dragging him five years into the past before depositing him, no wiser than before, behind his own desk.

“I should not have brought her up, but I just need you to see sense, cousin.”

“I have nothing further to add,” Eric said, closing the book and conversation with measured care. “The tenants will receive the reduced rents after harvest if yields remain poor. See that Mercer understands the new breeding schedule, and have the south wall inspected before winter.”

Atlas studied him for a moment, then gave an easy nod, understanding that he should not press the issue any further than he already had. “As you wish. I shall ride into the village tomorrow.”