Page 1 of The Duke's Christmas Scandal
NORTHUMBERLAND, 1816
CHAPTER1
OCTAVIA
Tavi’s hands had frozen into claws around the reins an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Time had ceased to have meaning. Her toes were numb, and her nose dripped an endless stream into her woolen scarf.
“Blasted storm,” she grumbled to her pony, Nutmeg, who was none too pleased by their predicament, either, judging by her flattened ears.
What should have been an easy half-day ride to her sister’s house on a clear, winter morning, had gone disastrously awry. Not far into their journey, the skies darkened. Shortly afterward, gray clouds blocked out the sun and icy flakes began swirling in the air.
Despite clear warning signs, Tavi reasoned that it was best to press on. The entire year had been marked by unusually cold weather. There was no telling when the storm might stop. She didn’t want to be stranded in an unfamiliar place over Christmas.
Yet somewhere along the way, she’d taken a wrong turn. Perhaps she’d missed a signpost buried in a drift. the road, or a fork in the road obscured beneath a thick blanket of snow.
She hadn’t seen a house in miles. Then again, she could hardly see beyond her horse’s ears, pinned back irritably against the wind.
A vicious gust sliced straight through her. The horse shook her mane in protest.
“I know, darling.” Tavi patted the animal’s neck. The only thing that mattered now was finding shelter before they both froze.
“What’s that?” she asked into the arctic air. A bright wink of light in the distance, there and gone. Hope swelled. “A…castle?”
Squinting, she could just make out the dark outline of a building against the snowy gray evening skyline.
“Onward, Nutmeg.” Tavi flicked the reins. “Oats ahead. Hay and a nice warm barn. Only a bit farther now.”
Or so she prayed, for her stalwart pony’s sake.
* * *
Ian
Ian tuggedhis scarf higher over the bridge of his nose. His boots crunched audibly as he trudged through knee-high drifts, headed for the barely-visible outline of his crumbling stable.
Everything at Fellsgrove Castle was a tumbledown, uninhabitable disaster. This glorious mess was his problem now.
“Joyous Christmas tidings, indeed,” he grumbled to no one. He’d asked for this headache. He hadn’t counted on a positively Biblical storm to complicate his “quick” visit to assess the state of his new estate, though.
The barn door’s rusted hinges resisted his effort to pry it open. Ian dug in his heels and pulled, grunting, until it gave way with a groan of protest.
Inside, the air was a few degrees warmer. He tugged wet wool away from his face and stomped the snow from his boots. The lantern he’d left hanging from a post was still lit, the candle flickering as if even fire shivered from the cold. The light it cast didn’t reach far, which was why Ian didn’t notice the second horse until it moved, startling him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. The pony whickered amiably. It was covered in the blanket he was here to place on his own horse, and clearly hungry, for it bent its shaggy head to rattle the empty bucket on the floor. Whoever had put their animal in his sagging barn had helped himself to Ian’s oats, too.
To think, he hadn’t brought a pistol with him. Why would he, when there was nothing to steal?
After four generations of neglect, there were only a handful of tenants left, none of whom had paid their land rents in decades. All the servants were long gone. Ian needed to rebuild the Susskind dukedom from the ground up.
Until the letter that changed his life, he’d been a simple barrister living an enviably comfortable life in Manchester. He rented bachelor’s lodgings from a fastidious landlady, which relieved him of most domestic obligations.
But then Aunt Mag sent him that public notice, and he’d foolishly taken the bait.
You can prove you’re the true descendant of the last Duke of Susskind. Do you really want an upstart running off with your rightful legacy?
Why not you?he’d written back.
Four generations ago, the Susskind dukedom had fallen into abeyance. The last living duke had fathered five daughters but no sons, and the letters of patent stipulated that in such circumstance, the women would collectively inherit the title.
