Page 1 of Dukes Do It Better
Chapter One
Somewhere in the Baltic Sea
February 1825
On days like this, the fantasy of you brings me comfort. Well, you and a glass of brandy. I’ve been chasing a small child all day, and although a lady shouldn’t drink brandy, we both know I’m not a perfect lady. With you I am simply myself, and you love me anyway.
Malachi shifted in his bunk, the mattress ticking giving way beneath him until it cradled his body the way it had for countless nights before. It had been a hellish day. Definitely worthy of reading one of his favorite journal entries for the umpteenth time. He tucked one hand under his head and used the other to tilt the book to catch the light from a swaying lantern.
I imagine you sitting beside me now, as I write this. You’re so handsome, you take my breath away. I make a habit of staring at you when you aren’t looking. Others might not think you are good looking, but yours shall be the kind of face I want to watch age. The kind of face I want to see first thing in the morning.
You’ll love everything about me. Not because you can’t find fault, but because I’m yours. I’ll have no secrets with you. Lord knows I have enough to burden my soul, so knowing I have nothing to hide from you will be a relief.
Besides, I miss sex.
God, I miss sex.
Whoever she was, this woman was damn near perfect.
Perhaps you are only a fantasy, but I think we can both agree a fantasy is safer for the heart. I can’t imagine opening up to anyone other than you. Which, yes, means I will never remarry. The dream of you keeps me warm. The idea that somewhere out there is someone who could love me. Maybe not even despite my secrets, but because of them.
In my mind, the firelight in this parlor reflects off your smile—that smile you save for only me. You have your own glass of brandy cradled in your hand, because I hate to share. When I kiss you, the brandy will linger on your tongue, making you doubly delicious. The flavor of you is something I miss, although I’ve never tasted it.
The wind is howling outside the cottage tonight, whipping up from the waves and tearing across the top of the cliff like a wild thing. But this fire, the brandy, and the dream of you keep me warm.
Malachi closed the book, content for the moment. The author of the journal may be a mystery, but the book had been a comfort this voyage. No matter how much a man loved the sea, there were days when the tedium of being stuck on a floating piece of wood in the middle of endless water, with the same group of unwashed sailors, wore on one’s sanity. Even though he was the captain of those smelly men, and considered them to be the best version of family he had, he’d escaped into the entries in this journal over and over again.
He’d found the book abandoned on the beach about a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave he called the vault, where he stashed treasures collected from his years in the Baltic.
The bloody Baltic, where action was minimal, the risks were low, and his father’s reach in the government had effectively placed his career in the doldrums.
Most captains had prize money tucked away from their years of service after living through the war. But not Malachi, whose meddling father had ensured he and his crew wouldn’t see any action of note. The Russian treasures he’d collected with meticulous attention to resale value were the closest thing he had to a nest egg, since he was determined to not live off the duchy’s funds. After his father deliberately financially damaged him, he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of accessing family money.
Which also meant that Malachi didn’t have a home in which to store his treasures until they found new owners willing to pay a generous price.
One only had to look around the average high society London drawing room to see evidence of decorating crazes. Egyptian, Chinese, Indian. At some point, a dowager was going to fall in love with the gilded opulence of Russian art, and Malachi would be ready.
If nothing else, the British Museum remained an active buyer of artifacts and art from other cultures. Unlike many contributors, he could provide documentation and provenance. The existence of the Elgin Marbles was proof enough that the museum tended to be…flexible when it came to certain details.
Stumbling upon the journal had been an unexpected gift during the trip in October to the sleepy village of Olread Cove on the coast of England. The second unexpected gift, to be honest.
The first had been the delightful armful of a blonde he’d enjoyed the last night before he’d sailed.
After the first month at sea, he’d nearly memorized the entries, so it wasn’t as if what happened next was a mystery. The following letter detailed the writer’s baking projects and the bread she’d finally mastered. Each time he read about her kitchen adventures, it made him hungry.
But tonight, he needed the longing in this entry. It came through so clearly in her writing. Sometimes, when he needed to think about something other than his duties on the Athena, he imagined the letters in the journal were to him. Pretended he was the man sitting beside her in a snug parlor, listening to the wind howl outside as the waves crashed below. More often than not, the fantasy included the blond widow from the village as the woman beside him, and the image always calmed him.
Outside his window the waves never stopped. Gulls and water were constants. Had been for the last fifteen years. Up here at the top of the world, being at sea meant beating ice off the lines, biting wind, and a cold that seeped into bones and never left. But there were also moments of breathtaking beauty. The first time he’d seen the aurora he’d stood on deck, utterly entranced by the swirls of magnificent color painting the sky, dancing to music heard by only those waves and creatures of myth.
In his breast pocket the dispatch from this morning crinkled as he shifted. No need to read it again. Those words floated behind his lids each time he blinked, and would likely haunt his sleep.
The discharge papers were short and to the point. Due to the demands of taking over the title Duke of Trenton, Malachi Harlow was relieved of duty and ordered to the port of London from his current service in support of relations between England and Russia.
Mother must have raised hades at the admiralty to get his orders changed. But he’d expect nothing less. She did what she wanted, and wielded her coronet like a weapon, with the unerring ruthlessness of a seasoned soldier. Odd to have her championing a cause for Malachi, but decidedly in character that the cause stood at cross purposes with his wishes.
It was a hell of a way to find out his brother, George, was dead.
Orders were orders, and thanks to his mother, the only way to challenge these was to march into the offices of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and demand reinstatement to his ship. Plenty of aristocrats held positions of command in service of the king. Mother hadn’t needed him home when he was the spare son, so demanding he return now was ridiculous. The duchy would have to continue without him. With Mother around, he’d be no more than a figurehead anyway.
