Prologue

Prologue

June 1812

"How on earth did we allow things to escalate with the Americans?" William asked, pacing his tent. "Now, they've declared war on us! As if Napoleon wasn't enough to deal with."

He had been against the decision to stop American merchant ships from searching for Royal Navy deserters, but his opinion had not mattered. This bothersome strategy was merely to impress American seamen on the high seas into the Royal Navy and to enforce Great Britain's blockade of neutral commerce. William hoped it was all worth it because they now had a formidable foe to worry about.

"I suppose the Americans didn't care that we later ended the practice," said Gregory. He lifted his chin, feeling for rough areas. "Take a look and tell me if I missed a spot. The lighting is rather dull at the moment."

"Why are you shaving now?" William asked, approaching him. "It's after seven in the evening."

"I have a pretty little lady waiting for me," Gregory revealed. "A little walk in the summer's night, a little wine...who knows what else?"

He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, making William frown. "Do you not already have an intended at home, or do you wish to end the engagement?"

"I do not see how the two situations are related," said Gregory. "We are on the front lines of war against Napoleon, and she is warm and comfortable in her bed at home. Surely a man is allowed some comfort, too? It's to be expected."

William shook his head. "I do not agree," he replied. "We should be focused on the war, not worrying about our baser urges. You are a commanding officer—you need to set a better example. I also have a feeling the woman is one of the commoners at camp. You are a lord and should act like it."

"Not everyone can be as perfect as you, old fellow," said Gregory, dismissing William's words. "Now, tell me, did I miss a patch?"

William looked closer at his friend's chin. "You appear clean-shaven. Not that the woman will mind either way."

"Excellent!" Gregory exclaimed. "I would have my manservant do it, but he's off with his lady—a washerwoman he met last week. Not pretty to look at, but she has a decent form."

William merely rolled his eyes and sat down, picking up the book he had discarded earlier. However, he barely read one page before a foot soldier entered the room with a letter for him. William thanked him and took the envelope, recognizing his family's stationery. It had been a long time since he had received anything from home.

"Who is it from?" Gregory asked.

"Home," said William, almost too afraid to open it.

It couldn't be anything good. After he left home many years ago to forge his way, his father had ordered him to return and fulfill his responsibilities as the eldest son and next Duke of Richmond. William refused. At the front lines, he wasn't a duke's son but simply a man serving his country alongside other men.

"Are you not going to open it?" Gregory asked. "Prolonging the matter is never the answer."

"Is it worth my time?" William countered. "Nothing my father says will make me abandon my post, and I do not wish to read about his disappointment in me. I had enough of that under his roof."

William had never seen eye to eye with his father, likely because he never showed much care or attention toward him when he was younger. All he had experienced at his father's hands was a cold and controlling man who was never satisfied with his son's achievements. Or rather, he was never satisfied with his first son's accomplishments, but he doted on his second son.

William's half-brother was a result of his father's second marriage. He had married another woman mere months after William's mother's death, hardly giving anyone time to mourn the former duchess. William had been at boarding school during both events, only going home briefly to attend his mother's funeral before he was sent back to school. By the time he met his stepmother, she was already pregnant and the center of his father's life.

William became the ‘other' son when Henry was born, pushed to the side to make ample room for a sickly brother. All the affection and attention that should have been divided equally between them was solely lavished upon Henry, resulting in a grown man who was selfish, self-centered, and manipulative. Living far away from his family and having a purpose had been the best thing he could do for himself.

"Considering you haven't spoken to each other in years," Gregory began, "I think you should find out what was so important that he suddenly reached out to you."

"I can take a good guess that it has something to do with my responsibilities," William replied.

He stared at the envelope in his hand like it was a snake ready to strike, although he might prefer a snake bite over the emotional harm he was certain to experience once he read the letter.

William hated that a few words from his father could send him into a downward spiral of self-doubt, a lack of self-worth, and misery. He was older and wiser, but like any child who sought acceptance from a parent, he became vulnerable with just one cruelly delivered statement.

"Give the letter to me, and I'll read it," Gregory suggested.

"No, no, I can do this alone," said William. "It just caught me by surprise."

He finally opened it, his eyes immediately recognizing his stepmother's handwriting. She had never written to him before. Somewhat intrigued, he continued reading, his heart sinking with every perfectly written word.

"What is it?" Gregory asked. "Why do you look like someone has died?"

William looked up. "Someone has died."

Gregory's eyes widened. "Who?"

"My father."

Gregory bowed his head briefly, releasing a heavy sigh. "I am so sorry, old fellow," he said.

William said nothing because he didn't know what he was feeling. The news was too sudden and shocking to make sense of the moment. He read the letter again, ensuring he had understood his stepmother's message. His father had died, and he was now duke. He needed to return immediately to bury his father and uphold his responsibilities as the new duke.

"Here," said Gregory, giving him a glass of brandy. "You need this."

William took it from him but didn't drink it. Frankly, he felt a little nauseous from the tumultuous feelings fighting for dominance within him. His father was dead, and he needed to return home. His father was dead. The words kept playing in his head over and over again, but it didn't make the news any easier to digest. Restless, he stood up and placed the letter and brandy on the table before moving to his belongings.

"I have to go home," he said, haphazardly throwing things on his bed. "I need to bury my father and take care of the estate."

"Just a moment," said Gregory, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I think you're in shock, old fellow. Give yourself a moment to process the news. I'll deal with the details concerning your release from His Majesty's Service in the meantime. Drink your brandy and just be."

Gregory pushed him to sit on the bed and moved away, quickly returning with his discarded brandy. William thanked him, drinking half the contents with one gulp. The amber liquid burned slightly, warming his throat and spreading to his chest. Gregory eventually left for a while, returning to find William in the same position.

He couldn't find the motivation to move. He merely kept thinking about the past, how he had no good memories of his father, and how part of him had always hoped he would one day reconcile with his father. That would never happen now.

"Would you like to talk about the thoughts in your head?" Gregory asked. "I know you didn't see eye to eye with your father, but you loved and respected him."

William laughed, but the sound was devoid of amusement. "He treated me no better than an unwanted stranger, but I still loved him and wanted him to accept me. Pathetic, isn't it?"

"Not at all," said Gregory. "We all want our parents' approval. That need seems embedded within us. Accept what you're feeling because it's perfectly normal. Cry if you need to."

"My father would hate that," William replied. "As far as he was concerned, men didn't show weak emotions."

Yet his brother had been allowed to cry, stomp his feet, and throw tantrums well past the point of childhood. William couldn't help but be a little jealous of Henry, yet his younger brother despised him for being the older son and heir of everything their father owned. He could only imagine how Henry would react once he returned home as the new duke.

"Does the letter tell you what happened to your father?" Gregory asked.

"No, but he was in his seventies and had been sick for some time," William replied. "I imagine his illness, age, or both took his life. It was his time to go."

Yet, knowing that didn't make it any easier to accept. Wherever his father's soul was, he was likely happy that he had achieved in death what he tried to force in life—William was finally going home and taking his place as his father's heir.