Today's Reading
Ah. Jon had forgotten it did that sometimes. He'd been five the last time the great river had frozen, but it had been considered too unsafe for him to be out on the ice, so only his half brothers had been allowed to venture there.
Good God, Alban and Aubrey. What a horrible way for them to die. Even they hadn't deserved that. He tried to drum up some grief over their untimely end, but considering how they'd tormented him his entire childhood, and how long it had been since he'd seen them, he couldn't feel much of anything.
The footboy waved his hand at the house. "The last duke started this renovation before he died. Now the duchess is trying to finish it for when the new duke arrives. They say he's on his way from France."
Oh, damn, the new duke. That must be him. He was now Duke of Falconridge? Father's heir?
God help them all if he had to be duke. He could barely fathom the changes to England, much less the changes to a dukedom.
His dukedom.
His hands grew clammy inside his pathetically worn gloves. No. How did that make any sense? He'd been in a prison for years—how could he now be a man of such lofty rank?
Jon stood there lost. No one had ever expected him to be duke, and he'd never been trained to be duke. It was madness.
His stomach churned at the thought.
A voice cried from above him, "Your Grace!" and startled him.
Get hold of yourself, man. You're duke now whether you accept it or not.
"Good afternoon, Kershaw," he said as formally as he could manage.
Their butler marched down the front steps with distress and concern on his weathered face. Kershaw had aged a decade since Jon's departure, and it showed in his gray hair and wrinkled brow.
"We did not expect you until tomorrow," the man said in a choked voice. "Forgive me for not watching for you—"
"No, no, nothing to forgive. I hadn't expected the roads from Dover to have improved so much in eleven years. We arrived faster than even I thought we would."
"It's so good to see you...Your Grace." Kershaw gestured to a footman in the doorway, who came running.
"It's wonderful to be here at last, Kershaw." What an understatement.
The footboy Jon had hailed earlier was gaping at him as if at a god. "You don't look like a duke," he said, with a hint of suspicion.
Jon managed a smile. "Don't feel like one, either."
Kershaw waved the lad off. "Where is the rest of your luggage, sir?" he asked as the footman hauled Jon's battered trunk from the back of the carriage.
"That's all of it, I'm afraid." Jon was wearing his only good suit of clothing. Through the years, most of his belongings had been sold or stolen. What remained was in no shape for wearing, especially after the weeks-long trek he and a few other détenus had endured from Bitche to Paris in less than decent weather.
"Well, you're home now, Your Grace," Kershaw said softly. "I can recommend an excellent tailor, bootmaker, glover, hosier—"
"Thank you. I'll need all of those, I'm afraid."
"You're most welcome, sir." Kershaw flashed him a kind smile. "I will have your valet, Mr. Gibbons, examine your belongings and make a list of everything you require, sir."
"No need. Assume that I require everything, and just burn the clothes in my trunk. None are wearable in polite society. Wait until tomorrow, and you can burn these, too. All I want this evening is to see my family, eat a good English meal, and have a glass of—" He paused. "I assume the cellar and study are as well-stocked with ale and whisky as ever?"
"Whisky, sir?"
"I haven't had any good Scotch in a decade, so yes, whisky." His voice hardened. "I've drunk enough bad wine to last me a lifetime, and I shall never drink French brandy again."
"I see. Then I can assure you that the cellar and study are more than adequately stocked, Your Grace. As you may recall, your brothers were wont to imbibe a great deal of spirits. Shall we go in so that you might choose a Scotch?"
Jon still hesitated. It felt odd being able to "choose" a Scotch when there'd been none available to him for over a decade. And Father had never allowed him any at seventeen. Certainly, Alban wouldn't have offered any.
If the man were alive. Which he wasn't. Neither he nor Father nor Aubrey were. That left only Jon as head of the family. Duke.
This excerpt ends on page 13 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book It's a Love Story by Annabel Monaghan.
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