Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“ U seless boy! Can’t even muck out a simple stall without making a mess of it!”

The shout carried across the morning air, halting Arthur Eagleton, the Duke of Meadowell, in his tracks as he approached the tenant farms on the eastern edge of his estate.

His stallion shifted beneath him, sensing his sudden tension. The reports from his steward had been troubling enough—complaints about William Morton’s negligence of his assigned fields, his horrible treatment of workers, and his inappropriate conduct in general.

Now, it seemed, Arthur was going to witness Morton’s cruelty firsthand.

“I-I’m sorry, Sir,” he heard a young man stammer. “I will do better?—”

The sound of a body hitting wooden walls echoed from the stables.

Arthur’s jaw clenched as he dismounted, his boots hitting the packed earth with practiced ease. He’d given Morton multiple chances to improve, more than his father would have allowed.

But then again, Arthur had spent his entire life trying not to be like his father.

As he rounded the corner of the stables, he saw Morton, his face red with rage, looming over a stable boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve.

The child cowered against the wooden wall, a pitchfork at his feet.

Morton’s meaty hand shot out, grabbing the boy’s collar. “Sorry doesn’t feed horses, does it?” He gave the child a rough shake. “Maybe a good thrashing will teach you to?—”

“Take your hands off him.” Arthur’s voice cut through the morning air like a blade.

Morton’s head snapped up, his grip loosening slightly but not releasing the boy. Several other tenants who had been watching from a distance straightened at the Duke’s arrival.

“Your Grace.” Morton’s tone dripped with false deference. “Just teaching this lazy wretch how things are done properly.”

Arthur stepped forward. “I said, take your hands off him. Now.”

Something in his voice must have penetrated Morton’s anger because he released the boy, though his expression remained defiant.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but sometimes, some lessons need to be taught in a tough manner. The former Duke understood that sometimes, the lower classes need a firm hand to keep them in line.”

The mention of his father sent ice through Arthur’s veins, but his expression remained impassive.

“My father understood nothing except how to sow fear and cause misery. No one deserves to be treated with such cruelty, least of all those who serve us.” He gestured to the other tenants watching. “These good people work from sunrise to sunset to maintain their farms. Yet, you neglect your fields, abuse those beneath you, and dare to speak to me about maintaining order?”

Morton’s face darkened. “So, the rumors are true, then. The mighty Duke of Meadowell has gone soft. Too busy with your London whores to?—”

Arthur moved before Morton could finish his sentence, closing the distance between them in two long strides.

“Choose your next words carefully,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “They may be your last as a tenant of this estate.”

Morton’s response was to swing a meaty fist toward Arthur’s jaw. Arthur stepped aside easily, years of boxing at his club evident in the fluid movement.

Morton stumbled forward, thrown off balance by his own momentum.

“Is this how you solve all your problems, Morton?” Arthur asked, dodging another wild punch. “With brutality and ignorance?”

Morton charged like an enraged bull. This time, Arthur didn’t just dodge—he caught the man’s arm and used his own momentum to throw him to the ground.

Morton landed hard, the breath rushing out of his lungs in a whoosh. Before he could rise, Arthur placed his boot on his chest, pressing on it lightly but meaningfully.

“You’re finished here,” Arthur said, his voice carrying to all the witnesses. “Pack your things and be gone from Meadowell by nightfall. My steward will arrange fair compensation for any improvements you’ve made to the property.”

“You can’t?—”

“I can, and I will.” Arthur increased the pressure slightly. “You should be grateful. My father would have had you flogged before casting you out. Consider this mercy.” He removed his boot and stepped back. “Now, get out of my sight.”

Morton scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of hatred and humiliation. He opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, and then hurried away, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to escape.

The stable yard had fallen silent. Arthur turned to find the boy still huddled against the wall, trembling slightly. He approached slowly, as one might a frightened colt, and knelt down to the child’s level.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice gentler than any of his tenants had ever heard it.

“Tom, Your Grace,” the boy whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe.

“Well, Tom, I promise you that no one will ever treat you that way again at Meadowell.” Arthur’s voice was firm but kind. “Do you understand?”

The boy nodded hesitantly, then seemed to remember his manners and attempted a wobbly bow. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Arthur stood up, his full height casting a shadow in the morning light.

The other tenants who had witnessed the confrontation were still watching, their expressions a mix of surprise and respect. He recognized in their faces the same look he’d seen in the mirror countless times—the fear of becoming his father.

But they also knew his determination to be better. They had to.

“Harrison,” he called to one of the more experienced farmers. “See that Tom here gets some breakfast and then show him the proper way to manage the stables. I believe he’ll learn quickly when given proper instruction.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Harrison stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Come along, lad. My Mary’s just took fresh bread out of the oven.”

As they walked away, Arthur turned to his steward, who had appeared during the confrontation.

“Draw up the eviction papers immediately. And send someone to watch Morton as he packs—I don’t trust him not to take what isn’t his.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” The steward then hesitated. “Shall I begin looking for a new tenant?”

Arthur gazed across the fields, remembering how his father would have handled this situation—the violence, the humiliation, the lesson written in blood and fear.

His hands clenched involuntarily.

“Not yet,” he said, finally. “Have Harrison oversee Morton’s fields, for now. He’s proven himself capable of teaching others—let’s see what he can do with more responsibilities.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” The steward bowed and hurried away to carry out his orders.

Arthur mounted his stallion, knowing he needed to return to London soon. His friend Augustus was expecting him for some tedious social engagement—a wine tasting, if he remembered correctly.

The thought of dealing with the ton’s vapid pleasantries after this morning’s events made his head ache.

Still, as he rode away from the stables, he glimpsed Tom sitting at Harrison’s table through a cottage window, a thick slice of bread in his hands and a cautious smile on his face.

Perhaps this is what real power should look like .

Not the ability to destroy, as his father had believed, but the power to protect, to change, to make things right.

Even if he didn’t quite believe he deserved such power himself.

The confrontation had left Arthur unsettled, though not for the reasons most would suspect. It wasn’t Morton’s insolence or even the necessity of the eviction that troubled him. No, it was the boy’s eyes—just like his own were at that age, wide with a mix of fear and desperate hope.

He pulled his stallion to a halt, studying the fields that stretched before him.

How many times had he stood in this same spot with his father, listening to lectures about strength and weakness, about the proper way to handle those beneath them?

“They are like horses, boy,” his father would say. “Show them weakness once, and they will never respect you again.”

But Tom’s reaction to simple kindness told a different story. The boy had straightened under Harrison’s gentle guidance, his trembling shoulders squaring with newfound dignity.

Just as Arthur himself had done when his mother would?—

He pushed that thought away. No need to linger in the past. It couldn’t be changed.

A commotion from the stable yard drew his attention. Tom had emerged with Harrison, carrying a bucket with determined concentration.

The boy’s fear had been replaced by earnest attention as the older man demonstrated the proper way to measure feed. Such a simple thing—guidance offered with patience instead of threats, instruction instead of intimidation.

“Your Grace?” The steward had reappeared, the ledger in hand. “About Morton’s outstanding debts?—”

“See that his workers are paid first,” Arthur said, his eyes still on Tom. “Whatever he owes them takes precedence.”

“But Your Grace, tradition dictates that the estate’s claims?—”

“I’m well aware of tradition.” Arthur’s voice held an edge of steel. “Pay the workers. And see that Tom’s position is made official. Proper wages, not just room and board.”

The steward’s quill scratched rapidly across his ledger. “Yes, Your Grace. Though your father always said?—”

“I am not my father.” The words came out sharper than intended, making the steward flinch. Arthur softened his tone. “Times change, Campbell. Perhaps we should change with them.”

He turned his horse toward London, acutely aware of the weight of his title, of the power he held over so many lives.

His father had wielded that power like a weapon, using fear to maintain control. But watching Tom’s transformation under Harrison’s kindness suggested another way—one his mother might have approved of, had she lived to see it.

Still, as he rode south toward whatever scheme Augustus and Jane had concocted, Arthur couldn’t quite silence his father’s voice in his head.

“Kindness is weakness, boy. And this world devours the weak.”

“You’re brooding again,” Augustus Wakefield remarked as their carriage rattled over London’s cobblestones. “More than usual, I mean.”

Arthur shot his friend a dark look. “I don’t brood.”

“Oh, let him brood, darling,” Jane, Lady Wakefield said, patting her husband’s arm. “He’s had a trying morning with that tenant business.” She turned her keen gaze to Arthur. “Though I dare say you handled it better than most would have.”

“News travels fast,” Arthur growled.

“It always does when it involves the Duke of Meadowell showing mercy.” Augustus grinned. “Quite ruins your dangerous reputation, you know.”

The carriage came to a stop.

Instead of the wine merchant’s shop, Arthur found himself staring at Madame Beaumont’s Tea Rooms.

An elegantly dressed older woman stood at the entrance, watching their carriage with hawk-like attention.

“What is this?” Arthur’s voice dropped dangerously low.

Jane’s hand flew to her stomach. “Oh! I fear I’m feeling a bit faint. The baby, you understand.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Jane?—”

“That’s Madame Lambert,” Augustus interrupted cheerfully. “London’s most exclusive matchmaker. And your date is waiting inside.”

“My what?” Arthur turned his glare on his friend, his voice deadly quiet.

Jane touched his arm. “Please, Arthur. Just meet with her. I cannot bear to think of you all alone in that great house of yours. And truly, I cannot get too upset in my condition—think of the baby!”

“You’re barely three months along,” Arthur muttered, but his voice had softened slightly. “And this shameless manipulation does you no credit, my dear Jane.”

“Shameless?” Augustus grinned. “I’d say ingenious. She’s been planning this for weeks.”

“ Weeks ?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “So this entire wine-tasting charade was?—”

“A brilliant scheme by my brilliant wife,” Augustus finished proudly. “Though I did help with the timing.”

“I will kill you both,” Arthur growled, though there was a hint of reluctant amusement in his voice. “Slowly and painfully, after the baby arrives.”

Jane pressed a hand to her heart dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare deprive your godchild of their parents.”

“Godchild?” Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. “When exactly was this decided?”

“Right now.” Jane smiled sweetly. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to storm off without meeting your date…”

The matchmaker approached their carriage, her silver-streaked hair perfectly arranged beneath an expensive bonnet.

“Your Grace, how delightful?—”

Arthur ignored her completely, turning to Augustus and Jane. “I will not forget this.”

“Have fun!” Jane exclaimed as Arthur stalked into the tea shop, the matchmaker rushing after him.

His eyes swept over the room, landing on a feminine figure near the window. And his blood ran cold.

“Absolutely not. Not her,” he said, turning back to the door, where Augustus and Jane now stood with the matchmaker.

Bloody hell.