Prologue
Dalenwood Manor, 1808
Rowan Davenport drew heavily on the fresh pipe that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He held the bowl of it tightly as he glowered out of the window of the parlor of Dalenwood Manor, where he had locked himself in there before. A storm had begun. His cheeks were still hot and his blood still boiling after the argument that had ensued with his father. It wasn't the first time that the topic of the argument had been discussed between the two men. However, that was the first time it had turned so nasty.
As heir to his father's dukedom, Rowan was expected to learn everything his father taught him about ducal responsibilities. He was to begin the process of working his way into his father's business circles, speaking with the duke's current partners and associates, as well as attending meetings with his father with potential future partners. He had been raised with the understanding of such expectations, and as Marquess of Davenroot, he had learned many similar duties already. He also knew that he was to produce an heir of his own, so that their family's legacy would continue. And that was the current point of contention between Rowan and the duke.
The Duke of Dalenwood had, since Rowan's eighteenth birthday, been reminding Rowan about the importance of marrying. And the duke impressed upon him that he needed to marry well. Rowan's bride, according to his father, needed to be refined, sophisticated and the very soul of propriety and class. She also needed to be the daughter of a high-ranking, very wealthy nobleman from a most respectable family.
"Your wife will be a reflection of your own legacy's reputation and status," the duke would always say. Rowan understood what his father meant. However, he did not agree that matches should be made based on the biggest fortune or the highest titles.
That viewpoint was what had led to the argument with the duke. He had summoned Rowan to his study right after breakfast, to discuss business matters, he had said. But when Rowan had taken his seat and the glass of whiskey that his father had poured for him, the duke's real motivations became immediately evident.
"You are now twenty-one years of age, Rowan," the duke had said as Rowan sipped his drink. "It is time for you to fulfill the most important part of your ducal duties."
Rowan hadn't needed to ask what his father meant. He understood that the duke meant his marriage prospects. Or rather, the lack of them, as Rowan had always felt that he should marry for love. It wasn't that he hadn't tried to find a woman worth courting. The trouble was that the ones to whom his father introduced him were all the same: shallow, snobby and more desperate to marry someone of high status than his father was for him to do so.
"Father, I cannot just marry a woman because she is pretty and comes from money," Rowan had insisted.
The duke had waved his hand dismissively at his son.
"So you've said before," he said. "But that is simply the way in our society. You are fortunate that I have not made a marriage arrangement for you already. Heaven knows I have received plenty of offers."
Rowan had bristled at the thought, shaking his head.
"I am but twenty-one years old, Father," he said. "I am too young to consider settling down right now. You know that I had plans to travel more for business and see more of the world. And besides, marriage is something that can wait until I have inherited the dukedom after your passing." And once I have found a woman that I truly love, he'd added silently.
The duke had rolled his eyes at Rowan, further irritating him. He had gripped his glass tightly as his father sipped from his own, waiting for the duke's counter argument.
"I also know that you would be doing far less business than dawdling in your travels," he said firmly. "You have a good head for business. That is, when you choose to use it."
Rowan had bristled at the implication.
"And what is that supposed to mean, Father?" he asked.
The duke had shaken his head and held up his hand in a gesture of surrender. But his expression did not look contrite. Rather, he had looked smug, as if he had accomplished something by insulting his son.
"It means that you could spend a bit more time focusing on the responsibilities that you will inherit as duke," he said. "There is nothing worse than an ill-prepared duke taking over an entire dukedom, and I only wish to see that that does not happen to my own son."
Rowan had drawn from his glass deeply, choking on his drink to suffocate the words on his mind. One should think that you had more faith in your own son, he had thought as he swallowed the burn from the drink. He loved his father, and the two of them rarely argued. But the duke was pushing Rowan to his breaking point. And even if it was with good intentions, he had no intention of allowing it.
"I have spent my life preparing to inherit your legacy, Father," he said, his anger bubbling just beneath his words. "I dare say that I would be prepared to take over the dukedom tomorrow, if I must."
The duke shook his head, and his eyes grew solemn.
"A duke who would baulk at the idea of taking a wife to be his duchess is hardly prepared," he said.
Fed up, Rowan had slammed his glass down on the desk. He had considered reaching for the bottle, which sat on the corner on his father's side, but he thought better of it. He didn't want his father to think that he had allowed the drink to speak for him. He exhaled sharply and looked the duke directly in his eyes.
"Not being prepared to take a wife at this time hardly makes me ill-prepared to rule as duke," he said. "In fact, I think it best if I were to get accustomed to the important duties of being a duke before I brought a young lady into my life."
The duke had looked at Rowan as if trying to determine whether he was serious. When he decided that he was, he had sighed, clicking his tongue.
"That is the kind of thinking that tells me you would not be ready to take over the dukedom in a year, let alone a day," he said. "I must say that I am very disappointed, Rowan."
Rowan set a firm gaze at his father. He was finished arguing with his father about the subject. He had made up his mind. And as he had told his father, he had plenty of time to find a bride. He would not be rushed because of some perceived urgency to marry, just because he would inherit the dukedom some unspecified day in the distant future.
"Father, when I marry, it will be for love," he said. "I cannot bear a lifetime with my ducal responsibilities and my home cold and without love from a duchess who was obligated to marry me, and would most likely harbor resentment about our union for the rest of her life. I will marry a woman with whom I am truly in love. And I will not be moved to change my mind."
The duke had scoffed, shaking his head at Rowan with a mixture of distaste and disappointment.
"You are a stubborn man," he said. "You are also foolish and impractical. Love does not matter when it comes to reigning as a nobleman. What matters is prudence, practicality, shrewdness, and refinement. Your bride should reflect those qualities for the world to see because you should possess them. And she should be elegant, respectable and proper, so that you are reflected well. Waiting for love is frivolous, Rowan. And I have no intention of waiting until you find it."
Rowan had leapt from his seat, his temper bubbling. He leaned over his father's desk, glowering at the duke.
"I should like to see you stop me," he said. "I have made up my mind. And there is nothing you can say or do to make me change it."
The duke also rose, his eyes now ablaze with anger.
"I can, and I shall," he said. "I shall see to it that you do not inherit one single coin, and you will be stripped of your given rights to my title."
With that, the duke had stormed out of the study, leaving Rowan furious and ready to raise his voice. He remained bent over the desk until his heartbeat had slowed. Then, he had marched off toward the main parlor, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the door frame rattle.
Now, as he entered the fourth hour after the argument and the onset of nightfall, the storm picked up in ferocity. Rain pelted the window loudly enough to sound like the glass might shatter, and the wind howled like a pack of diseased wolves. With two more drinks and time to reconsider the words he and his father had exchanged, regret began to take hold. He knew that the duke was looking out not only for Rowan's best interest, but that of their family's legacy.
He understood that the dukedom was about more than himself, and that his father, being the excellent nobleman that he was, was simply trying to teach Rowan how to be selfless when it came to the greater good. Rowan did not think he could compromise on his desire to marry a woman he loved. But he was drowning in remorse for the way he had spoken to his father. As the drink, the fading tension from the evaporated anger and the storm made his eyelids begin to droop, Rowan rested his head against the back of the sofa where he sat. I shall apologise to Father first thing in the morning, was his last thought before sleep claimed him.
***
"Lord Davenroot," said an urgent male voice as strong hands firmly shook Rowan.
Rowan winced, waving his hands to push away the intruder to his sleep, prying his eyes open to see Lawrence, his family's butler, standing over him. The man's dark brown eyes were wide and filled with horror. Rowan blinked, trying to shake off sleep and put a hand on the butler's shoulder.
"Calm yourself, Lawrence," he said. "What is the meaning of this?"
Lawrence took a step back, taking time to catch his breath. Rowan waited impatiently for the butler to tell him why he would awaken him in such an improper, unorthodox manner.
"Milord, it is…" He paused, swallowing. "It's His Grace. He's…"
Rowan rose at the mention of his father, alarm blossoming in his mind.
"Father is what?" he asked, taking a step toward the butler. "What is it?"
The butler's face fell and his shoulders sagged.
"He's dead, milord," he said. "He was found in the lake this morning by some of the servants that your mother ordered to go searching for him."
Rowan's head spun and the butler's voice faded into a dull, unintelligible echo in his ears. His father was dead, that was what Lawrence had said. Surely, he had to be mistaken.
"What?" he asked, feeling as though he was speaking under water. "How? Are you sure?"
The butler nodded once, clasping his hands together in front of him.
"We are quite certain," he said softly. "It appears that he took the boat out yesterday evening, just before the storm started. From the debris that was found of the boat, it appears that the tumultuous waters destroyed the craft, knocking your father into the water. With the wind and rain as heavy and merciless as it was, your father didn't stand a chance of reaching shore. It was drowning that claimed him, it seems."
Rowan's knees buckled and he fell back down onto the sofa. He felt the color drain from his face and fought against waves of nausea that threatened to push bile from his lips. His vision swam, blurring so that no single thing, not even the face of his family's butler, could be distinguished from another. He simultaneously felt the horrible ache of the loss of his father and the numbness of the disbelief and shock that came with the news. For several minutes, he sat trying to speak. But no words would come, neither to his mind nor to his lips. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of expectant eyes on him. But he had already forgotten who it was that was in the room with him. And he didn't care. His father was gone. There was nothing that could be of more consequence than that. Not ever again.
When he could regain some semblance of his senses, he rose on his shaky legs and stumbled his way blindly into the hallway and through the manor. He followed the sound of hysterical sobbing and hushed murmurs until he found his mother in the breakfast room. He fumbled his way over to her, stepping on shattered china and crystal, and what felt like bits of food as he reached her side.
"Mother," he said, choking.
The duchess wailed, flailing her arms in front of her. Rowan did his best to swallow his grief and embrace her. She did not turn the affectionate gesture, but she allowed him to hold her against him as she cried. Soon, the whole mansion was buzzing with the news of the duke's sudden, tragic death. Before the time lunch would normally be served, everyone employed for the duke's family had heard the news.
Word traveled just as quickly through Dalenwood, too, it seemed. Rowan counted how many hours passed by counting every three people who arrived to offer their condolences, noting one guest roughly every twenty minutes. The names of the villagers escaped him as soon as Lawrence introduced them, and he only knew that each one of them gave their own variations of platitudes and offers of support and assistance for Rowan and his family. His mother received the visitors with him for as long as she could. But eventually, he had to send for the physician to call in on her and give her something to sedate her for the night.
None of the condolences helped to ease Rowan's burden, however. He was consumed by grief and guilt, recalling everything that he last said to his father. He had planned to make things right with the duke that day. Now, he would never get that chance. As he lay futilely in bed that evening, he vowed that he would dedicate himself to nothing but his ducal duties. His final words with his father would keep him guarded and closed off from the rest of the world. But he would fulfill his father's wishes for Rowan's reign as duke. Every single one of them. From that point on, nothing else mattered to Rowan.