Page 1 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
Prologue
November 1815
“Icannot, Papa. Cannot someone take this weight off my shoulders?”
Sidney’s voice rang out in the dull, muffled silence of the graveyard. It was autumn, and dark clouds hung heavily over the space, muting the colors of the lawn and the cypress trees into shades of silvery gray. A slight breeze ruffled Sidney’s dark hair like a cold hand and billowed out the black cloak that he wore. He gazed down at the recently turned earth under his boot-toes. Papa had passed away just six months ago.
Sidney had hoped that it would become easier to bear, but it seemed that the opposite was true. Every day was harder. The numb, dull ache in his chest had softened, over the months, to a mix of sorrow and disbelief that was no easier. A small part of him still refused to believe that Papa was no longer there and that he, himself, was Duke of Willowick.
It was that responsibility that he could not bear. He was not only the duke, but he was also the head of the family. His sister, Amy, was eighteen and had just come out into society, and his mother was deeply sunk in her grief. He had to take care of them. He had to be strong, but yet, for all his nine-and-twenty years, part of him still felt like a confused child, like the little boy whohad run to his father with his spinning top or gyroscope and asked him to explain it. Papa had always had answers. If he had not known, he would have consulted people and encyclopedias until he could give Sidney the information. Without Papa there, it seemed there were no longer any answers, and the world was a barren, empty place he could not navigate.
He closed his green eyes solemnly and wished that he could cry. Amy still sobbed whenever Papa was mentioned, and it seemed dishonoring to his father’s memory that he had not yet managed to show the smallest sign of grief. The wound was too deep for tears.
“Papa, I will do what you require of me,” Sidney managed to say in a pained, broken voice. “I promise. I will keep Mama and Amy safe. I will do my best for the family.”
He had been raised to be able to keep that promise. As the heir to Willowick, it had been expected that he would take over one day. But he had imagined that would happen when he was middle-aged, and Papa was old. Papa had never got to be old.
Papa’s face filled his mind, his high, chiseled cheekbones proud above cheeks that had long wrinkles carved down them. His eyes, too, had been marked with lines at the edges and they were hazel, where Sidney’s were green. In all other respects, besides Papa’s white hair, they were identical—both had long, chiseled faces, square jaws and big, solemn eyes. They both had the same thin-lipped mouth, or so Amy and Mama always teased. Mama always said that Papa had been blonder than Sidney. They were both fine-looking men, Mama always teased. Fine, handsome men.
Sidney sniffed as he gazed down at the grave. In his mind’s eye, he could see Papa so clearly, could hear his voice in one of the last discussions they had.You’ll be a fine duke, one day, son. You have a clear mind, and you are not afraid to speak up for what you believe is right.
Papa had not guessed how soon those words would come true. He had been out walking around the garden and the butler, who had been working in the drawing room, said that he saw the duke suddenly tense where he stood, and then drop to the ground. The butler had run out to check on him, but by the time he had got there, the duke had seemed dead. The physician confirmed it just hours later. When Sidney returned from a brief consultation with one of the estate gamekeepers, he was told that his dear father had passed away.
Sidney swallowed the stinging pain that rose in his throat with the memory. He turned and walked to his horse, who he had tethered to the fence. He had made his promise, and standing there would do nothing but fill him with despair. His dappled gray hunting stallion neighed when he saw Sidney approach. Sidney felt his heart lift at the sound. He adored his horse, who was named Quicksilver. He was one of the few beings on Earth who could cut through Sidney’s grief.
“Easy, old boy,” Sidney murmured. He took the reins and threw his leg over into the saddle. His black mourning cloak billowed out as he sat and leaned forward, signaling a trot.
Sidney let Quicksilver go ahead, barely aware of his surroundings. It was a mile back to his London townhouse. It was darker than it had been, and he could almost smell the rain. Quicksilver snorted and stepped sideways as if something hadstartled him. He was usually a very steady horse, and Sidney frowned in concern.
“Whoa, there, old fellow,” Sidney said gently as the stallion skirted sideways again. He gripped the reins, leaning back to slow his horse and frowning more deeply. There did not seem to be any reason for such strange behavior.
A crash of thunder rent the air, and almost simultaneously a blinding flare of lightning lit the hillside before them. Sidney cried out in alarm, gripping the reins, but his horse—who was terrified beyond all else of loud noises—took off.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Sidney shouted, as the thoroughbred raced down the path. It was a simple path of packed dirt, and the rain had begun to fall, turning it into a treacherous, slippery surface.
“Stop!” Sidney yelled, but his horse was panicking and as another clap of thunder tore across the sky above them, the horse screamed and reared.
Sidney gripped with his hands and locked his knees around his horse’s flanks. He had practiced for hours in the saddle as a youth, and he sent up an inner prayer of thanks for all those hours.
His horse plunged back down to earth, shivering, and stood still. Sidney, by some miracle was still seated, and he reached down to pat him, to soothe him, but another crash of thunder sounded. The big stallion screamed and started to run. There was nothing Sidney could do except to hang on. He gripped onto his horse’s flanks with his knees, clung onto the reins with his slippery, sweat-and-rain-soaked fingers, and bit his lip with histeeth, trying to keep a hold on his growing fear.
They clattered down the street. A clap of thunder made his horse rear just as they rode past the vicar’s garden. Sidney screamed, desperate to hang on, but this time as his horse crashed down to earth, he bent down, throwing his head forward as another roar sounded overhead.
Sidney yelled in alarm and tumbled forward, plunging off over his horse’s head, skidding and sliding along the rocky ground. It was too fast, too impossibly fast, and then all he knew was pain. Searing, impossible pain in his face, in his hands and in his head.
He lay where he was and breathed in sharply. His face was wet, but it was not from the rain. He reached up to touch his cheek. His hand came back covered in blood. He gazed down at his hands for a moment. They were both covered in blood, and as the stinging, searing pain crowded in on him, stealing his senses, he realized what had happened.
In front of him, one of the vicar’s glass-filled frames, under which cucumbers and other vegetables grew, lay shattered. Sidney had been thrown straight into the glass. It had shattered into sharp, cruel shards that had sliced into his face and hands.
Sidney lay where he was. His face throbbed and burned, and his hands were a mass of pain. His cloak was heavy with rain and mud, and he was too tired to move. His last thought as he hovered on the edge of consciousness was that at least he had not been blinded.
A soft, velvety nudge made him look up. Quicksilver wasstanding over him, nudging him with his soft, sensitive nose. Sidney let out a sigh of pain and weariness.
“I know, old chap. You didn’t mean it. I’m not dead,” he added softly. He squeezed his eyes shut again—the pain was unbearable. But he could not ignore his valiant horse. The poor creature had not meant any harm, and was still waiting there, despite the storm that raged around them. His love for Sidney was even stronger than his fear.
Sidney gazed up. He could not ride his horse in the state in which he found himself. Blood was trickling down his face, running into one eye and he could barely see. His hands were throbbing in agony, too sore and too wounded to contemplate taking the reins.
He gritted his teeth and stood up, trying not to touch anything as he did so. His horse seemed to understand, because Sidney leaned against him and he walked slowly, step by step. Together, they made the slow, agonizing walk through the village.
