The Duke Who Knew Too Much
Read The Duke Who Knew Too Much Online
Authors: Grace Callaway
The Duke Who Knew Too Much
(Heart of Enquiry, Book 1)
by
Grace Callaway
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The Duke Who Knew Too Much
Copyright © 2015 Grace Callaway
Cover Design © Seductive Musings Designs
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A Stranger to Love
Alaric McLeod, Duke of Strathaven, is known as the
Devil Duke
for his wicked ways. Tormented by his past, Alaric knows better than to trust a woman yet finds himself ensnared by a spirited, virtuous virgin—who accuses him of a crime he didn’t commit. Is she his worst nightmare ... or his salvation?
A Novice to Desire
Emma Kent is an independent country miss cast adrift in the
ton
. When a depraved encounter with an arrogant rake lands her in intrigue, Emma’s honor compels her to do the right thing. But desire challenges her quest for justice, and she must decide: can she trust her heart to discover the truth?
Bound by Passion and Peril
Alaric and Emma engage in a battle of wits and will. As their attraction flares, the true enemy stalks their every move. With danger looming, will they solve the mystery and find true love before it’s too late?
P
rologue
As the carriage passed the massive stone gates, Alaric McLeod leaned out the window, trying to get a glimpse of his new home. It was a rare show of excitement for him. At nine, he’d already learned the value of self-discipline, of guarding his responses to the world around him. ’Twas a simple fact: what people couldn’t see, they couldn’t hurt.
Yesterday, he hadn’t flinched when his da tossed the single, ratty travelling case—the only one the McLeods owned—onto the carriage and said tonelessly, “That’s that, then. Be a good lad and no trouble to my cousin.”
He didn’t move a muscle when his stepmother bid him a cool farewell.
Yet when his younger half-brother Will cried, “Why is Alaric leaving? I want to go with him!” something hot and unexpected pushed behind his eyes.
He pushed back, forcing the heat to retreat.
“Good bye, William.” He was proud of how grown-up he sounded. “I’m the ward of a duke now, so I shan’t be returning here.” He glanced at the tidy cottage with its blooming hedgerows and vegetable garden—and the old, stupid yearning pierced him. Though his confidence wavered, he lifted his chin. “My new guardian lives in a castle. I’ll have my own bedchamber. And servants to fetch me anything I want.”
“I want to go with you,” Will insisted.
Will’s mother intervened, her arms folding protectively around her little son. She’d never once held Alaric that way. The knots in Alaric’s chest tightened—and he ignored that too. He told himself he didn’t care if his father’s new wife was young and beautiful with her shining chestnut hair and dark brown eyes—Alaric’s own mama had been
more
beautiful. And his stepmother was a mere milliner’s girl whereas his mother had been a true lady, the youngest daughter of an earl.
Though his mama had died when he was three, she still visited him in fragments. The fading scent of gardenias. The whisper of silk behind a closed door. Dampness upon a cheek as cool and smooth as alabaster.
We don’t belong here, Alaric. We deserve better ...
“You’ll stay here, Will,” the new Mrs. McLeod said firmly, “where you belong.”
Alaric understood his stepmother’s message. Truth didn’t need to be spoken aloud: he knew who belonged and who didn’t. As if to prove the point, his da came to stand behind his stepmother and half-brother. His chest chafed at the picture the three made. Brown-haired and robust, a proud, loving Scots family. He bore no resemblance to them with his black hair and awkward, gangling build, the pale skin and eyes he’d inherited from his English mama.
You’ve eyes like the blessed cat,
his stepmother had once said.
Aye, he had more in common with that mangy stray than the portrait-perfect McLeods. Resentment swelled. They didn’t want him? Fine. He didn’t want to be here anyway. He hated them all—and this backward village, too. The bullies and lack-wits, offspring of farmers who would sooner start a brawl than attempt a math problem. Who’d bloody a lad’s nose just because he had a head for numbers and sums.
Da cleared his throat. “It’s time you’re off. Mustn’t keep your guardian waiting.”
Can’t wait to be rid of me, can you?
The dark, swirling thoughts burst through the barriers of his control. Confusion and anger swept through him. Even as his fists balled, ice came to his rescue, flowing through his veins, numbing everything else.
Don’t let them see. They can’t hurt you.
“Yes.” His voice frosted over. “I don’t want to keep his grace waiting.”
“I’ll miss you, Alaric.” Eyes glimmering, Will tugged on his sleeve. “You’ll come and visit soon, won’t you?”
What for? They have you. Their son ... the one that matters.
“Goodbye, William,” he said flatly.
He’d boarded the carriage without looking back. What was the point? He already knew what was behind him—what mattered was looking ahead. His hands cold and clammy now, he gripped the window frame of the carriage. If his eyes stung, he told himself it was because of the dust clouds stirred up by the clattering wheels.
Put the past behind you. There’s no looking back
—
the future is what matters.
The dust settled and then, like magic, a vision appeared. His jaw slackened. Surrounded by lush green hills and cloudless skies, Strathmore Castle sprawled with the grace of an ancient behemoth that had fed off time itself. Sunshine gilded the stone walls, glinted off stained glass and mullioned windows. Power infused the building’s every line from the rugged towers to the sweeping wings. ’Twas a place that could ward off any attack—and provide refuge to a chosen few.
As the carriage rolled onto the circular front drive, two figures emerged from the arched entryway. The tall, black-haired man with hawkish features was Henry McLeod, the Duke of Strathaven, Alaric’s first cousin once removed and now his guardian. He’d met the duke only once before, when the latter had come to offer guardianship to one of the sons of his poor relation. Amidst the clutter of the McLeods’ cottage, the duke had seemed like a king with his fine clothes and pristine elegance. Surrounded by the wealth and power of his ancestral estate, his grace dazzled like a god.
Beside Strathaven was the duchess, thin and slight as a sparrow, lace quivering at her breast. Alaric had never met her. He knew only that her own son had died of a fever, and she could not bear another.
When she waved her handkerchief in welcome, the ice in Alaric’s gut began to thaw. Relief trickled through him.
They want me here. I’ll belong. I’ve come
…
home.
His lips found the tentative shape of a smile, and he waved back with a boy’s eagerness.
Chapter One
Twenty-seven years later
As the strains of a waltz emerged from the orchestra, Miss Emma Kent took leave of her sister-in-law Marianne, who was chaperoning her this evening, and wove through the mirrored ballroom. Her purpose wasn’t to find a dance partner. With all the ladies eagerly convening like a kaleidoscope of butterflies upon the dance floor, she saw a prime opportunity to visit the necessary without waiting in line.
Born and bred in the country, she was practical by nature. As she nudged a path through the heavily perfumed throng, she thought—not for the first time—that the night’s endeavor was rather pointless. She didn’t belong here amongst the champagne fountains and rarefied guests. Not only did she lack the requisite blue blood, she was also too old, too independent, and too unsophisticated to attract a husband.
These were facts and did not bother her overmuch. She knew her strengths: having managed a cottage and four unruly siblings since the age of thirteen, she was resourceful, efficient, and competent in an array of skills. She loved her family dearly and had never met a man who’d made her want to relinquish her place there—or her firmly established autonomy.
Hence, marriage was not a top priority.
She had bigger, better plans.
The orchestra began to crescendo, eliciting a swell of emotion beneath her peach silk bodice. Her papa had passed over a year ago, and she still missed him with every fiber of her being. As the village schoolmaster, Samuel Kent had dedicated his life to educating the young minds of Chudleigh Crest, and he’d been the wisest man she’d ever known.
It is not living that matters
, he’d taught her and her siblings,
but living rightly. Follow the wisdom of your heart, and it will lead you to the truth.
The twirling dancers and opulent surroundings faded as Emma contemplated how to put her papa’s moral philosophy into action.
After their father’s death, her eldest half-brother Ambrose had insisted on moving her and their younger siblings from Chudleigh Crest to London. Emma knew that he wanted to give them opportunities not found in the country. Marianne, Ambrose’s beloved wife, had been a wealthy baroness prior to marrying into the middling class Kent family, and she was more than happy to use her social cache to give her husband’s younger siblings
entrée
into the
ton
.
Marianne had taken them in hand, polished them up. She’d put in effort and expense, and Emma hadn’t the heart to dissuade her sister-in-law’s good intentions or puncture the bubbling excitement of her younger sisters Dorothea, Violet, and Polly, who’d taken to city life like ducks to water. Tonight was Emma’s first outing in the
beau monde
, and she was supposed to set a good example for her sisters, who would soon be introduced to Society as well.
She didn’t want to let her family down ... but she didn’t want to be here either. For she’d already discovered her true passion; the problem was how to gain her older brother’s support for her plans. As she contemplated the conundrum, she passed through the arched entryway and suddenly tripped, gasping as she hurtled forward. She braced for impact—collided with something firm and solid ...
Blinking, she found herself staring up at the countenance of a ruthless god.
She was far from being a fanciful sort, yet there was no other way to describe the stranger with the dark, gleaming black hair and face sculpted with savage perfection. He looked to be in his thirties, his edges chiseled by jaded experience. He had high cheekbones, a blade of a nose, his chin and jaw arrogantly jutting. Beneath the dark slashes of his brows, his eyes were a startling shade of silvery jade, fringed by the thickest, longest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a gentleman. She stared, mesmerized.
Those arresting eyes narrowed. The brooding mouth twisted into a cynical smile.
“If you wanted to dance, pet, you might try asking.”
The deep, mocking tones held a faint lilt, something not entirely English. Then the words themselves penetrated her dazed brain. With dawning horror, Emma realized that she’d literally fallen into the stranger’s arms—and he thought she’d done so
on purpose
. That she was deliberately throwing herself at him!
Mortified, she tried to disentangle herself. “Let me go.”
“Easy there,” he drawled.
His scent permeated her senses, a blend of wood spice and soap that was ineffably masculine. His muscular arms surrounded her, held her closer than any man ever had. Placing her hands against his silver grey waistcoat, she pushed to no avail. Even through the layers of fabric, his chest felt as hard and unyielding as a slab of marble.
