Page 1 of A Duke to Restore her Memory
Chapter 1
Draycott Manor, Cornwall, 1812
“Christina.” Viscount Draycott’s voice was unusually tense as he addressed his daughter. “We must talk. Can you join me in the parlour after you have led your horse to its stable?”
Lady Christina Whitford nodded her head uncertainly as she gazed at her father. She had just returned from a ride along the rugged coastline of Cornwall, near Exmouth, and her heart was still pounding with exhilaration from the wild ride.
Christina loved to ride with abandon, taking in the beauty of this corner of England, her eyes feasting on the wild cliffs, the vast sea, and the tall ships sailing in the distance. There was nothing like it in the world.
“Of course, Papa,” she replied, trying to ignore the stab of misgiving in her chest at her father’s tone. “I will be along presently.”
The viscount nodded tersely, turning and striding back to the grand house. Christina frowned as she led her beloved black horse, Romulus, to the stable. What was going on?
Her sense of unease increased when she finally walked into the parlour. Her father was leaning against the mantelpiece with an abstracted, faraway expression. He turned at her footsteps, visibly starting, gesturing for her to sit down.
What is going on? Papa is usually so genial and easygoing. I cannot recall the last time I saw him looking so distracted and tense.
Christina sank into the plush velvet settee, her riding habit rustling as she smoothed her skirts. The parlour, usually a warm and inviting sanctuary, suddenly felt oppressive. Heavy drapes blocked much of the afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. The ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
Her father cleared his throat, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on the mantelpiece. "My dear," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "I am afraid I have some rather distressing news to impart."
Christina's heart began to race. She had never seen her father so discomposed. "What is it, Papa? Please, you are frightening me."
“There is no easy way to say this, Christina,” he replied. She noticed a small vein twitching in his right temple. “Our family is experiencing severe financial difficulty. We are, to put it bluntly, in debt. We are in great debt.”
Christina gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “But … how? How could this have happened? We are one of the first families in Exmouth! I believed our fortune was rock solid …?”
The viscount sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as if under an immense weight. He sat beside Christina, taking her trembling hands in his own.
"My dear girl, I have failed you, failed our family,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "It began innocently enough with investments in shipping ventures, but the lure of quick profits blinded me to the risks. I was so certain of success, so eager to increase our fortune ..."
He paused, swallowing hard. Christina could see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.
"At first, the investments paid handsomely,” he continued. “I was intoxicated by the success, convinced of my financial acumen. I began to invest more heavily, borrowing against our estates to finance ever-grander schemes."
The viscount's gaze drifted to the heavily cloaked window. "Then came ruin.” His voice choked. “There is hardly anything left in the coffers anymore.” He hesitated, slowly turning back to look at her. “And I am afraid that I must ask you to solve this situation now … even though it pains me to do it.”
“Me?” Christina’s voice faltered. “How can I solve it?”
A deathly silence fell for a moment, and Christina could barely breathe.
"I am afraid that I must ask you to make a great sacrifice, my dear," the viscount continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "To save our family from complete ruin, I have ... I have arranged a marriage for you."
Christina felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. "A marriage?" she repeated faintly, her mind reeling. "To whom?"
Her father's eyes dropped, unable to meet her gaze. "To Lord Bertram Powell, the Earl of Cheltenham."
The name hit Christina like a physical blow. Lord Powell? The very thought made her skin crawl.
She had encountered the gentleman at various society functions, and each encounter had left her with an overwhelming desire to scrub herself clean.
His eyes were cold and predatory, his smile cruel and mocking. Worse still were the whispered rumours circulating about his treatment of his servants. Christina had heard that the earl beat them – they were always running away.
Christina took a deep breath, trying to fight the panic within her, which felt like a tiny, wild bird trying to escape her chest.
The earl owned many copper mines along the Cornish coast, and she had heard rumours that he was an unscrupulous businessman, in addition to his rough and coarse way with his inferiors.
And apart from all that, the gentleman was twenty years her senior. Her very soul shrivelled at the mere thought of marrying him. She had always dreamt of a love match. Now, that dream was slipping through her fingers faster than sand.
