Chapter 1

1

WILLIAM

N ot just any coaching inn was fit to house His Grace the Duke of Rockwood's distinguished person. The duke, until recently known as simply Mr. William Yorke, had that on the authority of his man of business, who sat across from him in the traveling chaise.

"Is The Coach and Lantern suitable?" William struggled to keep the exhaustion from his voice as they came upon another inn on the road to his country seat in the south of Kent.

Edmund Cartwright smiled at him. "It will do well enough for tonight, Your Grace." His blue eyes twinkled in the increasingly dim light, flitting to the signet ring William was pulling on and off his finger distractedly. It still sat heavy on his previously ring-less hand.

William had met Edmund years ago at Oxford, and they had become fast friends. Edmund had gone on to become a barrister and later the steward to an earl. It was to Edmund that William's mind had immediately gone when he had begun to think who to trust as his advisor and man of business .

Had it been left to William, though, he would have stopped three miles ago at The Nag's Head. He had spent the night there before, after all, but he had not been a duke then. Nor, to be fair, had he ever truly anticipated being one. The carriage accident that had befallen his father's cousin and both of the man's sons two months ago had been as tragic as it had been unexpected, and every moment since had been filled with the endless list of tasks required of a new—and woefully untrained—duke.

William had no desire to do anything unbefitting his new position by spending the night at an unsuitable inn, however, so the chaise came to a stop in front of the half-timbered building. A freshly painted sign with The Coach and Lantern in yellow letters hung over the door. The people in the road whispered and pointed at the Rockwood crest emblazoned on the chaise, craning their necks to peer through the window for a glimpse of William.

Had Father been alive, it would have made him puff his chest with pride and satisfaction. He had always put great stock in their close relation to the late Duke of Rockwood, even though the families had never been on good terms. "Greatness runs in your veins, William," Father had always said.

As for William, the gawking made him sigh softly, for tonight, he was simply tired. First, there had been the late duke's funeral, a dashed uncomfortable affair. How was one to look sufficiently grave regarding the untimely death of relatives one had hardly ever spoken to? Particularly whilst everyone around believed you to be secretly celebrating those deaths?

Following the funeral, there had been a petition to the Lord Chancellor, familial records searched out and provided, the writ of summons, homage fees paid, and finally, the seating ceremony.

Now that it was all done and Parliament dissolved for the year, William wanted nothing more than to sleep for three days.

The chaise door was opened by a stable boy, who stood rigidly at its side. His eyes darted away again and again while William stepped down to the cobblestones.

William tried to maintain the confident bearing expected of someone in his position, but he could not dismiss a flickering concern that the stable boy's shifty gaze had something to do with him. His eyes roved, insistent on reassuring himself there was nothing he was doing to inadvertently humiliate the dukedom.

His gaze halted on the servant holding the horses' heads. It was not an ostler but a woman. She was not much younger than William's thirty-one years and wore a gray dress, an apron, and a white cap over her head. A few locks of gold hair escaped from what looked to have once been a neat coiffure. Her cheeks bore evidence of work involving a fire grate, as did her apron. What on earth was she doing holding the horses' heads?

At his prolonged pause on the chaise steps, the woman's gaze flitted to William, holding his eye for a brief moment before darting away again. That was one thing he had noted since inheriting the dukedom: people rarely met his eye now, as though he were Medusa and they feared he would turn them to stone.

A servant fetched their belongings, and Edmund led the way to the door, stopping on the threshold. "I will speak with the innkeeper," he said.

William nodded and stood erect inside the doorway while he waited. It sat strangely with him to allow someone else to handle such easy matters. It was what his consequence now demanded, but it made him feel inept rather than important. He hoped that would change with time.

He pulled off his signet ring and stared at the crest and jewels surrounding it, trying not to heed the conversation Edmund was having with the flushed innkeeper.

"Of course, sir," the man said with a bow. "We are positively elated to welcome His Grace to The Coach and Lantern."

"Thank you. His Grace desires a bit of privacy this evening."

"Of course, of course! I can have all the guests escorted out of the inn within ten minutes. He may choose whichever bed he desires."

William and Edmund caught eyes, and Edmund cleared his throat, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth the only thing to betray his amusement. "That will not be necessary. A private parlor and a dry, comfortable bed will suffice."

William was soon shepherded into a private parlor by the innkeeper, who insisted Edmund himself choose which two rooms were allotted to them. Edmund agreed, and the parlor door closed, leaving William alone.

He took a seat on the sofa and blew a burst of air through his lips. Stretching out his legs, he let his head drape against the sofa back and rubbed at his eyes, grateful to have a blissful moment alone. He was deeply thankful for and appreciative of Edmund, but even in his friend's presence, he felt the need to act and behave in a manner befitting a duke. Frankly, it was exhausting.

The relaxed posture was heavenly after the pomp and scrutiny of the last few weeks, and he tugged at his cravat for good measure, closing his eyes in satisfaction as it loosened its hold on his neck. Edmund would allow him that indulgence, at least, while they were in the privacy of this parlor. His friend was not a tyrant, after all.

The door opened, and William nearly groaned. "I know. I know. Only grant me thirty more seconds of this felicity, and I will recite the entire peerage to you as penance."

A throat was gently cleared, and William opened one eye, for he would recognize Edmund's throat clearing anywhere, and that was not it. The woman from outside stood in the doorway, her eyes averted from his uncivilized posture.

He scrambled to take a more proper seat.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Her demeanor was composed, her gaze politely trained on the floor, but one corner of her mouth betrayed a hint of amusement for an instant. "I only came to return this to you." She held out a hand, unfurling her fingers to reveal his signet ring.

William's gaze shot to his left pinky, which was entirely bare, then back to the maid's palm and the gold ring upon it. He must have dropped it in the entry. Did this maid realize the value of what she held? Aside from its obvious financial worth, it might easily be used for forgery or blackmail. His stomach roiled at the thought. That was all he needed—a scandal when he was trying to prove himself to his fellow peers.

Deeply unsettled, he strode over and took the ring. His eyes flitted to the maid, but her gaze remained lowered, making it impossible for him to properly see her.

"Thank you," he said with feeling. "It is not every servant who would show such integrity."

Her gaze flew to his, an almost stricken look in her eyes. They were a striking blue, their clarity setting them at odds with her smudged cheeks and clothing, and a foreign sensation rippled through him as their gazes met.

William frowned, wondering what he could possibly have said to elicit such a reaction, but her gaze dropped swiftly away. "Please tell me how I can repay this service."

Those blue eyes darted to him once again, searching his for an instant, as though she was considering his offer. "There is no need, Your Grace."

Her manner of speech brought his brows together, for it was not what he would expect of a maid at a country inn. There was no coarseness. Indeed, it was almost…refined, one might say.

"I bid you good evening." She curtsied deeply in her ash-covered apron, then left the room swiftly.

Once the door closed, he sighed with relief and returned the ring to its place. Edmund needn't know of his blunder. If William couldn't keep track of a signet ring, how would anyone have confidence in his ability to manage a dukedom?