Page 2 of Daisy and the Duke
They all walked back toward the school, which was housed in a gorgeous old manor called Wildwood Hall. It had been owned by her late husband, and the two had started the school together, wanting to provide a warm and happy place for the often forgotten girls of families who thought far more about their boys…until it came time to marry the daughters off. At Wildwood, the girls had no such worries, at least not for many years to come. They could simply be girls.
Following her husband’s early death, she kept up the school, which he’d left to her in its entirely—an unusual decision for the time, but then, she wouldn’t have married a man who didn’t share her views.
Behind the gardens, the red brick of Wildwood Hall glowed deep and rosy in the afternoon light. The glass panes in the many windows glimmered, reflecting the sunlight back into the garden, beams landing on the sweet-smelling roses and bright chrysanthemums and the endless shades of green of the herbs.
What a paradise, Mrs. Bloomfield thought.These girls will soon enter a world that is not always so beautiful or protected. I must prepare them well.
Chapter 1
Ten years later
Tristan could not remember a time that he had not been in pain. There had been such a time—he knew it had to be so, since his injuries dated back less than two years. But it felt as if that were another life, as if that were another man, someone who moved through the world without care.
Now everyone stared at him, and he could barely take a step without someone jumping to attention. Partly it was the injuries. The worst of the scarring and the brokenness of his body was covered by clothing, thank God. But his face couldn’t be hidden. The deep, puckered, ragged line was always going to be there, running from his temple down to his neck, a memento of the battle that nearly killed him.
The person who had manufactured the shell should be pleased. He’d hurt Tristan far more than any measly bullet to the head ever could.
The scar pulled at his whole face, offering the world a perpetual squint and scowl no matter what he was really thinking. And now people seemed to care very much what he was thinking, because another unexpected result of the war was that a few other men died too—a random but very important chain of deaths—leaving Tristan an inheritance he’d never dreamed of, and frankly didn’t want.
Maybe Jack could get him out of it. If Jack didn’t die first.
Tristan looked over at the man riding opposite him in the carriage. He’d seen corpses in better shape. And in a way, it was all Tris’s fault, because Jack had fallen ill after taking charge of Tristan when he returned to London. Just when Tristan started to need fewer doctors, Jack suddenly needed more.
“Should I have the coach pull off the road for a while?” he asked, preparing to knock on the wall nearest the coachman.
“No, no, no. Honestly, Tris, you’re worse than a mother hen. I’m getting better,” Jackson Kemble said, though his words were immediately followed by a hollow cough.
Tristan seized on this event, handing his best friend a clean cotton square before uncapping a flask. “Travel is not helping. Drink this.”
“You want me to die drunk?” Jack retorted, nevertheless taking the flask and sipping from it. He took a few breaths that seemed to come easier. “Well, it may actually help.”
“I hope that a good long stay in the country will help more. I’ve sent word ahead for the staff to have everything ready, and I contacted a doctor in the nearest village.”
“Most grateful, your grace.”
“Oh, shut up.” Even after a year, Tristan was still not used to being addressed asyour grace. His elevation to duke was damned inconvenient, in fact. Tristan was content with a soldier’s life, and wanted nothing to do with whatever it was lords did all day—hunting, he supposed. Or visiting other lords and ladies, seeing who could bore the other to death first.
Tristan had liked the life of a soldier…until the day Death nearly found him. The enemy launched shell after shell. Most landed far short of the tent where the officers gathered to gauge the battle’s progress, but the risk was real. It was afternoon, the sun beating down, when Tristan sensedsomethingplunging from the sky. He didn’t remember much of what happened. But when he came to, he was virtually deaf in his right ear, his head hurt like hell, and he couldn’t feel his right side. He was told he’d saved lives—and more importantly, superior lives, those of officers happy to still be breathing and happier still to tell stories of English bravery to those back home. Tristan was pinned with medals, offered commendations, and toasted at parties. He was a hero.
He hated being a hero. Being a lord, of course, made it even worse. He was expected to be gracious and speak proud words about how British victory was inevitable and the enemy should just admit defeat.
Tristan knew it was all lies. He wasn’t a hero. He was lucky. He was lucky that he looked up at just that moment. He was lucky there was a line of sandbags to his right when he hit the ground, turning certain death into mere disfigurement and constant pain. Howlucky.
“Stop doing that,” Jack told him.
“Doing what?”
“Brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are. And what’s more, you’re brooding so loudly that it’s distracting me from any thinking I might do on my own.”
“All right, no more brooding. I shall think on…” Tris stopped, because he couldn’t think of anything happy or pleasant.
“Try thinking of women,” Jack advised. “I find that helps.”
“Women won’t look at me.”
