Marcus would just have to show his family that he was well now, if not entirely whole. That he was sound of mind and judgment, no matter his injuries. That he was as fully capable as any officer in the fleet—more so, for he knew the cost of battle better than most men.

He also knew his duty, which was the only reason he had left his ship to return to a city he disliked with an intensity that rivaled his odium for his callous, authoritative older brother, Caius, Duke of Warwick.

A sentimental homecoming, it would not be, but a short one, Marcus hoped. Caius could not want him to stay long in London, either.

Ahead, a figure hailed his captain’s gig from the Hungerford Stairs. Marcus recognized an older version of Hodges, his brother’s stern-faced butler, extending his arthritic hand as if he would assist Marcus out of the boat. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

The sudden dread in his chest weighed him down like a cannonball in a canvas shroud. Marcus had to use his good arm to push himself to his feet in the boat. To meet the man’s eyes. To make sure what he had heard was no mistake. “Your Grace?”

There had been no news in the letter that had reached him off Recife. No hint that he was no longer the spare. Nothing in the short, formal lines insisting upon his return that his brother, the heir—the bloody Duke of Warwick—had finally done the world a favor and been put to bed with a shovel. Or a bullet between his eyes.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Hodges bowed his head in solemn confirmation.

The boat tipped beneath Marcus’s feet. Shock made his body heavy and his brain stupid. “Dead?” Caius had always seemed invincible—a reckless force of nature who had inherited his dukedom young and learned early to aggressively insist upon having his way.

“How?” Caius was little more than a year older than Marcus—a man in the prime of his life. A man safe ashore, who might be expected to live a far less hazardous life than Marcus, or any of his Royal Navy brethren, certainly had. “Accident? Misadventure? Revenge?” Caius had always done as he pleased. Perhaps he had done as he pleased with someone else’s wife?

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Your Grace.” Hodges still held out his hand to help Marcus ashore. As if he thought Marcus so frail that he needed an arthritic old man’s help on the water-slick steps.

There was nothing for it, of course. With one well-aimed shot across his bow, Marcus was being made to quite literally give up his ship.

And so, he would.

Because Commander Marcus Beecham knew his duty. He planted his sea boots ashore and became a duke.

Damned if it wasn’t one hell of an unexpected demotion.

THE PALATIAL TOWNHOUSE on Grosvenor Street was as it had always been: stone-faced, curtained and immaculate, with not so much as a weed daring to poke through the clean-swept pavement. Inside was the same—nothing out of place, everything as unchanged and preserved as if it had been under glass for ten long years.

His mother, whom he had not seen since he was a raw boy of ten and four, barely looked at him. “Oh, Marcus, there you are.”

As if he had come from the next room and not half a world away. “Mother.”

“I prefer Mama—so much more elegant.” She chanced only a glancing look at Marcus, as if she were afraid to look at her own child. As if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.

Ten years away and he had become a hardened man—two minutes back in her presence and he was already as surly and uncomfortable in his own skin as the adolescent boy he had been when he left. More so.

The ache where his left arm used to be wasn’t helping his mood.

Marcus took a deep breath and resolved to be himself. “Well, Mama, I reckon what prompted you to send for me was that Caius has died.”

“Don’t say died.” The teacup in her hand trembled ever so slightly. “I prefer passed away.”

“I prefer no double speak.” His decade of service had given him a taste for simplicity and the character for honesty. “When did Caius die, and how?”

“Months ago. It’s taken you forever to get here.” The dowager duchess frowned into her teacup, as if she were put out at him for not being more conveniently located than the coast of Brazil. “You’re so awfully out of fashion with that ill-kempt beard and antiquated clubbed hair.”

No mention of what else about him that was more permanently altered.

Marcus worked to keep the slow match of his temper dampened. “Fashion doesn’t matter at sea, Mama.”

“Well, now that you’re finally here, you can see to such things. Martins is secretary.” She waved her wrist in the vague direction of the library, where this secretary was presumably to be found. “He can sort you out and do…anything you might need done for you.”

As if his missing arm made him incapable of doing anything for himself. “I can still write a bank draft, if that’s your worry.”

Her teacup shook enough to splash hot pekoe into the saucer. “We’ll have to make an effort right away,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “if we’re to have any luck a’tall before the Season is in full swing.”

“Any luck at what?” His mind was already busy toting up a long list of questions for this as-yet-unseen secretary—Caius had never been an attentive, dutiful sort of fellow to begin with, but if the estates had been left to their own devices for months, there was doubtless much work to be done. “Are you done in? Did Caius bankrupt the estate before going toes up?”

“Marcus!” His mother’s tone was affronted, but she finally turned to face him, and meet his eyes. “Any luck at doing what I failed to do for your dear brother—finding you a respectable wife.”




CHAPTER 2




MARCUS SENSIBLY ABANDONED LONDON, making all sail directly for Warwickshire, settling quietly into the ducal seat of Warwick Court, and setting his mind to learning his newfound ducal duties. But not even his removal to the country could stop Society’s mamas, who waged a battle as direct and brutal as Admiral Nelson ever had—the invitations for country card parties, musical evenings, and balls immediately arrived with the relentless regularity of mortar rounds from a shore bombardment.

As little as he liked it, Marcus was a man too used to duty to shirk from responsibility, even in such aggrieved circumstances. He silently cursed his fate and chose a winter ball at nearby Oakley Hall as the lesser of all the evils on offer, on the presumption that he could not be required to dance.

Yet after only a few minutes of standing awkwardly by the side of the dance floor, he regretted his decision. He’d be damned if he would spend another strangled breath—the spacious ballroom was somehow as sweltering as the horse latitudes even in February—making idle conversation. And by conversation, he meant gossip. He did not care to hear who was sleeping with whom—especially as he was bloody well not sleeping with anyone at the moment.

But people—and by people, he meant the wide-eyed, stammering young things the local mamas kept foisting upon him—could not seem to speak of anything more substantive. That was if they could bring themselves to speak at all. Most of them just stood there, quivering in their virginal white muslin as if they feared his empty sleeve might jump out and grab them.

Marcus had had enough of being stared at from behind fans—nothing made his missing arm ache like feeling useless. But just because he was a fish well out of seawater didn’t mean he had to flop ignominiously about the deck. He was now the bloody Duke of Warwick—he could do as he damn well pleased. And what he pleased was to find a snug harbor to moor up in and have—as his naval steward used to say say—a bit of a wet.

He found the quiet library with a mercifully full decanter of brandy and poured himself a heavy measure before cracking the window to let in some fresh air. He settled comfortably into a wing-backed armchair by the hearth and was contemplating which of his sins had got him condemned to such a purgatory, when the sound of the library door latching shut made him sit up and take notice.

Across the room, a tiny, dark-haired young woman in claret-colored velvet was attempting to shove a large chest of drawers across the door.

He had to ask, even though he could plainly see the answer. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The young lady in question let out an oath so old, so Anglo-Saxon and so familiar that Marcus feared he must have misheard her, for he had never heard it uttered anywhere but between the decks of a ship.

Fuck him indeed.

But then she said, “Oh, good Lord. Beech? Is that you behind that beard?”

Everything within him eased. “It is.” Only one female of his acquaintance had ever called him Beech—Miss Penelope Pease, daughter of his host for the evening, Sir Harold Pease. And Marcus, in his oh-so-tedious and unimaginative youth, had called her, “Pease Porridge?”

“Dear Beech!” She came forward with her hand extended, all astonished happiness. “What an unexpected pleasure! If you aren’t a welcome sight for sore eyes.”

And here he had been thinking that he was a sore sight for her welcome blue eyes. Devil take him, but she had grown into a beautiful young woman, whose hand he gladly took. She was the first real human contact he’d had since he'd returned—he felt the warmth of her grasp all the way from his fingertips to places better left unmentioned. “Why Pease Porridge Hot—how is it possible you are no longer ten and three years old?”

Her smile lit up her heart-shaped face, all mischievous, laughing angel. “More like Pease Porridge Cold these days, my friend. And you are no longer the gangly lad of our gloriously mis-spent youth, either. Gracious, but you’re a long drink of water.”

Marcus was pleasantly surprised to find his mouth curving into his first real smile in days. “Well, the passing decade has clearly not dimmed your hoydenish tendencies one bit.”

“It’s not as if I haven’t tried, but—” Behind her, the door latch rattled, and she sprang back to action, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper. “Help me!” She motioned for him to join her as she laid a determined shoulder to the chest of drawers.

“I don’t think I should.” Even he knew barricading them in alone was definitely not the done thing.

“I’ll explain if you’ll only help,” she promised. “You’re supposed to be a bloody hero, Beech. Come act like one.”

He was drawn in by her wayward charm. “My dear Pease Porridge, whatever have you been doing with yourself these many years?” His question went unanswered while he snugged in beside her to lay his good shoulder into the chest of drawers—careful so as not to spill his drink—and shove the heavy piece of furniture the necessary remaining inches to bar the door.

“Thank you.” She blew out a gusty breath before she smiled up at him and patted his lapel in an absent gesture of casual intimacy that nearly rocked him back on his heels. “Good Lord, Beech, you smell divine. What are you drinking?” She swiped the snifter of brandy from his hand and took a hearty sip. “Mmm. Thanks.” She kept possession of the glass as she all but flung herself into the other armchair opposite the hearth. “I’m meant to be good and stay well clear of trouble, but to do so I’m in need of some fortification. You?”

“As you see.” Marcus decided he rather liked the offhand, ordinary way she treated him, much like his brother officers had—as if there were nothing wrong with him.