Page 1 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

CHAPTER 1

“Idaresay, Your Grace, you might deign to join us mere mortals in our frivolities,” Lord Pembrooke called out, his cravat already askew from the earlier exertions. “Or do dukes consider themselves above such earthly pursuits as wrestling?”

Henry Blakesley, the Duke of Marchwood, raised an eyebrow as he observed the spectacle before him.

The afternoon at the country estate of Henry’s friend, Everett Crowley, the Marquess of Southall, had devolved from a respectable game of Pall Mall into what could only be described as grown men behaving like schoolboys.

The gathering had been arranged under the pretense of discussing important political matters, yet here they were, the nobility of the realm, grappling like common street fighters on Everett’s immaculate lawn.

The early summer sun cast long shadows across the manicured grounds of Southall Manor. Birds sang in the towering elms that surrounded the property. Their cheerful melodies did nothing to assuage Henry’s deepening frustration.

“Neither participant appears to understand the basic principles of leverage,” Henry remarked dryly to Everett, who stood beside him nursing a glass of brandy. “Pembrooke’s stance is abysmal, and Hatfield’s grip would shame a child.”

Everett took a generous sip of his amber drink and chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Not everyone had your particular education, old friend,” Everett replied, nudging Henry’s shoulder. “We can’t all be masters of the pugilistic arts.”

“Military training is hardly particular,” Henry countered as he swept his gaze across the gathered lords.

Lord Hatfield was now attempting to put Lord Finchley in a headlock, while both men’s valets looked on in barely concealed horror at what the grass stains would do to their masters’ expensive clothing.

“Come now, Marchwood,” the Marquess pressed, “surely you recall our boxing matches at Cambridge? You weren’t always this…” he gestured vaguely at Henry’s rigid posture, “restrained.”

“I recall you losing more often than not,” Henry replied, the ghost of a smile threatening the corner of his mouth before he firmly suppressed it.

Lord Pembrooke, red-faced and breathing heavily, disengaged from his latest opponent and approached them. His normally immaculate blond hair was in disarray, and a button had torn free from his waistcoat.

Despite his disheveled appearance, Pembrooke’s expression held the particular brand of entitlement that came from being the third son of a duke: enough status to be arrogant, but not enough responsibility to temper it.

“Come now, Your Grace,” Pembrooke said, his voice carrying just enough for the other gentlemen to hear. “Surely you can demonstrate proper technique to us lowly amateurs?”

Henry met Pembrooke’s challenging gaze. “I’m not interested, but thank you,” he said, his tone deliberately dismissive.

“Afraid of a little exertion?” Pembrooke pressed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Or perhaps you fear being bested, Your Grace? Even the mighty Duke of Marchwood must occasionally face defeat.”

The surrounding lords quieted, sensing the tension that suddenly charged the air. Several exchanged glances, silently placing wagers on whether the duke would rise to the bait.

Henry’s jaw tightened. He recognized the challenge for what it was. Pembrooke had been vocal in the House of Lords lately, opposing several bills Henry supported. This was politics by other means.

“Very well,” he said after a moment before removing his coat and handing it to his valet with practiced ease like a resting panther settling into a crouch. “One match.”

Everett clapped his hands together. “Gentlemen! Clear the space. We have a demonstration from the Duke of Marchwood himself!”

The lords formed a loose circle around them and murmured excitedly. Henry rolled up his shirtsleeves methodically, revealing forearms corded with muscle as he’d maintained the physical discipline instilled during his military years. His eye fell on the scar that ran along his left forearm, a souvenir from a skirmish years ago, but then he quickly focused on his opponent.

As they squared off, Henry deliberately held back, allowing Pembrooke to believe he had the advantage. The lord lunged forward, grasping at Henry’s shoulders, but his technique was sloppy—all force and no finesse. Henry sidestepped easily, using Pembrooke’s momentum against him. The younger man stumbled but quickly regained his footing.

“I must congratulate you, Your Grace,” Pembrooke panted between moves, circling Henry like a predator, though it was clear to all who was truly the hunter and who the prey. “On maintaining your stamina despite your advancing years. ThoughI imagine you’ll need to remarry soon if you hope to secure your line. Duty calls, after all.”

A chill seemed to descend over the gathering. Several of the lords shifted uncomfortably. It was common knowledge that the Duke of Marchwood had been a widower for fourteen years, and equally well-known that he had shown no inclination to remarry. To mention it so brazenly was a breach of etiquette that bordered on insult.

And Henry would suffer no insults, not on his friend’s lawn, and certainly not to his face.

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “My family matters are not fodder for your amusement, Pembrooke.”

Pembrooke feinted to the left, then attempted to grasp Henry’s right arm. The duke permitted it, curious to see what the young lord would attempt next.

“No offense intended,” Pembrooke replied with a smirk that suggested otherwise. “It’s merely that with only a daughter at home, you must feel the burden keenly. Girls are delightful ornaments but hardly useful for continuing one’s legacy.”

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