An Accidental Heirs Novel
Christy Carlyle
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Avon Impulse
Date of Publication: 11/17/15
About the Book:
Becoming engaged? Simple. Resisting temptation? Impossible!
Sebastian Fennick, the newest Duke of Wrexford, prefers the straightforwardness of mathematics to romantic nonsense. When he meets Lady Katherine Adderly at the first ball of the season, he finds her as alluring as she is disagreeable. His title may now require him to marry, but Sebastian can’t think of anyone less fit to be his wife, even if he can’t get her out of his mind.
After five seasons of snubbing suitors and making small talk, Lady Kitty has seen all the ton has to offer…and she’s not impressed. But when Kitty’s overbearing father demands she must marry before her beloved younger sister can, she proposes a plan to the handsome duke. Kitty’s schemes always seem to backfire, but she knows this one can’t go wrong. After all, she’s not the least bit tempted by Sebastian, is she?
Excerpt:
Chapter 2
Cambridgeshire, May, 1891
Slashing the air
with a sword was doing nothing to improve Sebastian Fennick’s mood. As he
thrust, the needle-thin foil bending and arching through the air and sending
tingling reverberations along his hand, he glared across at his opponent,
though he doubted she could see any better than he could from behind the tight
mesh of her fencing mask.
His sister parried
before offering a spot-on riposte of her own, her foil bowing in a perfect
semicircle as she struck him.
“Are you making
any sort of effort at all?”
Seb bit back the
reply burning the tip of his tongue. Fencing was the least of his concerns. In
the last month he’d learned of the death of a cousin he’d barely known and
inherited the responsibility for one dukedom, three thousand acres of land,
hundreds of tenants, twenty-eight staff members, one London residence, and a
country house with so many rooms, he was still counting. He could find no
competitive pleasure in wielding a lightweight foil when his mind brimmed with
repairs, meetings, investments, and invitations to social events that spanned
the rest of the calendar year.
And all of it was
nothing to the bit of paper in his waistcoat pocket, separated by two layers of
fabric from the scar on his chest, dual reminders of what a fool he’d been, how
one woman’s lies nearly ended his life.
He wouldn’t open
her letter. Instead, he’d take pleasure in burning the damn thing.
Never again. Never
would he allow himself to be manipulated as he had been in the past. He had to
put the past from his mind altogether.
Fencing wasn’t
doing the trick. Give him a proper sword and let him dash it against a tree
trunk. Better yet, give him a dragon to slay. That might do quite nicely, but
this dance of lunges and feints only made his irritation bubble over.
Yet his sister
didn’t deserve his ire, and he’d no wish to stifle her enthusiasm for the
newest of her myriad interests.
“I fear fencing
and I do not suit, Pippa.” As she returned to en garde position, preparing for
another strike, Seb hastened to add, “Nor shall we ever.”
Pippa sagged in
disappointment when he reached up to remove his fencing mask. “I’d hoped you
might find it invigorating. A pleasant challenge.”
In truth, his
mathematical mind found the precision of the sport appealing, and the physical
exertion was refreshing. But when he’d inherited the dukedom of Wrexford, Seb
left his mathematics career at Cambridge behind. And weren’t there a dozen
tasks he should be attending to rather than waving a flexible bit of steel
about at his sister?
“Invigorating,
yes. Challenging, absolutely. Pleasant? No.”
When he began
removing his gloves and unbuttoning the fencing jacket Pippa insisted he
purchase, she raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait. We must do
this properly.” She approached and offered him her hand as if they were merely
fellow sportsmen rather than siblings. “Politeness is an essential element of
fencing.”
Seb cleared his
throat, infused his baritone with gravitas, and shook his younger sister’s
hand. “Well done, Miss Fennick.”
She’d tucked her
fencing mask under her sword arm and met his gaze with eyes the same unique
shade as their father’s. Along with her dark hair and whiskey brown eyes, Pippa
had inherited their patriarch’s love for mathematics and sporting activity of
every kind.
“Fine effort, Your
Grace.” And father’s compassion too, apparently.
Pippa smiled at
him, her disappointment well-hidden or forgotten, and Seb returned the
expression. Then her words, the sound of his honorific at the end, settled in
his mind. Your Grace. It still sounded odd to his ears.
Seb and his sister
had been raised for academic pursuits, children of a mathematician father and a
mother with as many accomplishments as her daughter now boasted. Formality,
titles, rules—none of it came naturally. The title of Duke of Wrexford had
passed to him, but it still rankled and itched, as ill-fitting as the
imprisoning fencing mask he’d been relieved to remove.
As they exited the
corner of the second ballroom Pippa had set out as her fencing strip, she
turned one of her inquisitive glances on him.
“Perhaps you’d
prefer boxing, like Grandfather.” Their grandfather had been as well known for
his love of pugilism as his architectural designs, and had reputedly been one
of Gentleman Jackson’s best pupils.
Taller and broader
than many of his classmates, Seb had engaged in his own share of scuffles in
youth, and he’d been tempted to settle a few gentlemanly disagreements with his
fists, but he never enjoyed fighting with his body as much as sparring with his
intellect. Reason. Logic. Those were the weapons a man should bring to a
dispute.
“Unless you’re
like Oliver and can’t abide the sight of blood.”
It seemed his
sister still sparred. Standing on the threshold of Sebastian’s study, Oliver
Treadwell lifted his hands, settled them on his hips, and heaved a frustrated
sigh.
“I did consider
medical school, Pip. I can bear the sight of blood better than most.” Ollie’s
eyes widened as he scanned the two of them. “What in heaven’s name is that
awful getup you two are wearing?”
Seb didn’t know if
it was his lack of enthusiasm for fencing or Ollie’s jibe about their costumes
that set her off, but the shock of seeing Pippa lift her foil, breaking a key
point of protocol she’d been quite insistent upon—“Never lift a sword when your
opponent is unmasked”—blunted the amusement of watching Ollie rear back like a
frightened pony.
“Fencing costumes,”
she explained through clenched teeth. “I tried instructing Sebastian, though he
says the sport doesn’t suit him.” She hadn’t actually touched Ollie with the
tip of her foil and quickly lowered it to her side, but the movement failed to
ease the tension between them.
Turning back to
Seb, she forced an even expression. “I’ll go up and change for luncheon.” She
offered Ollie a curt nod as she passed him, her wide fencing skirt fluttering
around her ankles. At the door, she grasped the frame and turned back. “And
don’t call me Pip. No one calls me that anymore.”
“Goodness. When
did she begin loathing me?” Ollie watched the doorway where Pippa exited as if
she might reappear to answer his query. “Women are terribly inscrutable, aren’t
they?”
Seb thought the
entire matter disturbingly clear, but he suspected Pippa would deny her
infatuation with Oliver as heatedly as Ollie would argue against the claim.
They’d been friends since childhood, and Ollie had been an unofficial member of
the Fennick family from the day he’d lost his parents at twelve years old. Seb
wasn’t certain when Pippa began viewing Ollie less as a brotherly friend and
more as a man worthy of her admiration.
As much as he
loved him, Seb secretly prayed his sister’s interest in the young buck would wane.
Treadwell had never been the steadiest of fellows, particularly when it came to
matters of the heart, and Seb would never allow anyone to hurt Pippa.
“Welcome to
Roxbury.” He practiced the words as he spoke them, hoping the oddness of
playing host in another man’s home would eventually diminish.
“Thank you. It is
grand, is it not? Had you ever visited before?”
“Once, as a young
child. I expected it to be less imposing when I saw it again as a man.” It
hadn’t been. Not a whit. Upon arriving thirty days prior, he’d stood on the
threshold a moment with his mouth agape before taking a step inside.
Seb caught Ollie
staring at the ceiling, an extraordinary web of plastered fan-vaulting meant to
echo the design in the nave of an abbey the late duke had visited in Bath.
Every aspect of Roxbury had been designed with care, and yet to match the whims
of each successive duke and duchess. Somehow its hodgepodge of architectural
styles blended into a harmonious and impressive whole.
“You mentioned an
urgent matter. Trouble in London?” A few years older than his friend, Seb
worried about Ollie with the same ever-present paternal concern he felt for his
sister.
After trying his
hand at philosophy, chemistry, and medicine, Ollie had decided to pursue law
and currently studied at the Inner Temple with high hopes of being called to
the bar and becoming a barrister within the year.
“No, all is well,
but those words don’t begin to describe my bliss.”
Bowing his head,
Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and drew in a long breath, expanding his
chest as far as the confines of his fencing jacket would allow. It had to be a
woman. Another woman. Seb had never known a man as eager to be enamored.
Unfortunately, the mysteries of love couldn’t be bound within the elegance of a
mathematical equation. If they could, Ollie’s equation would be a simple one.
Woman plus beauty equals infatuation. If Ollie’s interest in this woman or that
ever bloomed into constancy, Seb could rally a bit happiness for his friend.
Constancy. An
image of black hair came to mind with a piercing pain above his brow. How could
he advocate that Ollie learn constancy when his own stubborn heart brought him
nothing but misery?
“Tell me about
her.”
Ollie’s face lit
with pleasure. “She’s an angel.”
The last had been
“a goddess” and Seb mentally calculated where each designation might rank in
the heavenly hierarchy.
“With golden hair
and sapphire eyes …” Ollie’s loves were always described in the same terms one
might use when speaking of a precious relic Mr. Petrie had dug up in Egypt,
each of them carved in alabaster, gilded, and bejeweled.
“Slow down, Ollie.
Let’s start with her name.”
“Hattie. Harriet,
though she says she dislikes Harriet. I think it’s lovely. Isn’t it a beautiful
name, really?”
Too preoccupied
with unbuttoning himself from his fencing gear, Sebastian didn’t bother
offering a response. Ollie rarely had any trouble rambling on without
acknowledgment.
“She’s the
daughter of a marquess. Clayborne. Perhaps you know him.”
Seb arched both
brows and Ollie smiled. “Yes, I know. You’ve only been a duke for the space of
a month. Don’t they introduce you to all of the other aristocrats straight
away, then?”
A chuckle rumbled
up in Seb’s chest, and for a moment the burdens that had piled up since the
last duke’s passing slipped away. He laughed with Ollie as they had when they
were simpler men, younger, less distracted with love or responsibilities. Seb
felt lighter, and he held a smile so long his cheeks began to ache before the
laughter ebbed and he addressed the serious matter of Oliver’s pursuit of a
marquess’s daughter.
“I think the
better question is whether you’ve met Harriet’s father. What are your
intentions toward this young woman?”
Ollie ducked his
chin and deflated into a chair. “Goodness, Bash, you sound a bit like you’re
Hattie’s father.”
Only Ollie called
him Bash, claiming he’d earned it for defending him in a fight with a
particularly truculent classmate. The nickname reminded him of all their shared
battles as children, but if Ollie thought its use would soften him or make him
retreat, he was wrong. Ollie needed someone to challenge him, to curb his
tendency to rush in without considering the consequences. If he lost interest
in this young woman as he had with all the others, a breach-of-promise suit brought
by a marquess could ruin Ollie’s burgeoning legal career.
“I intend to marry
her.”
“May I ask how
long you’ve been acquainted with the young lady?” Mercy, he did sound like a
father. As the eldest, he’d always led the way, and with the loss of their
parents, Seb had taken on a parental role with his sister too. Pippa might wish
to marry one day, and it was his duty to ensure any prospective groom wasn’t a
complete and utter reprobate.
“Not all of us
fall in love with our childhood friend.” The barb had no doubt been meant to
bring Seb’s past heartbreak to mind, but Seb thought of Pippa. Thankfully, she
hadn’t heard Ollie’s declaration.
“Indeed. I would
merely advise you to take more time and court Lord Clayborne’s daughter
properly. Her father will expect no less.”
Even with a
properly drawn-out courtship, a marquess would be unlikely to allow his
daughter to marry a man who’d yet to become a barrister and may not succeed
once he had.
“I must offer for
her now. Soon. She’s coming out this season, and I couldn’t bear for another
man to snatch her up.”
“You make her
sound like a filly at market.”
“Will you come to
London and meet her? I know you’ll approve of the match once you’ve met her.”
Seb had already
given into the necessity of spending the season in London at Wrexford House.
Pippa had no interest in anything in London aside from the Reading Room at the
British Museum, but their aristocratic aunt, Lady Stamford, insisted he give
his sister a proper coming out. She’d also reminded him that a new duke should
meet and be met by others in their slice of society.
“You hardly need
my approval, Ollie.”
“I need more than
that.”
If he meant money,
Seb could help. Cousin Geoffrey and his steward maintained the estate well over
the years, investing wisely and spending with restraint. Sebastian had met with
the estate’s steward once since arriving at Roxbury and emphasized his desire
to match his predecessor’s good fiscal sense.
“We should discuss
a settlement of some kind.”
Waving away Seb’s
words, Ollie stood and strode to the window, looking out on one of Roxbury’s
gardens, perfectly manicured and daubed with color by the first blooms of
spring.
Oliver Treadwell
had never been a hard man to read. Seb knew him to be intelligent, but he used
none of his cleverness for artifice. A changeable man, Ollie blew hot and cold
with his passions, but he expressed himself honestly. Now Seb sensed something
more. Another emotion undercut the giddiness he’d expressed about his most
recent heart’s desire.
His friend seemed
to fall into contemplation of the scenery and Sebastian stood to approach,
curious about what had drawn Ollie’s attention. The sound of Ollie’s voice
stopped him short, the timbre strangely plaintive, almost childlike.
“She says her
father won’t allow her to marry until her older sister does. Some strange rule
he’s devised to make Harriet miserable.”
It sounded like an
unreasonable expectation to Sebastian. At two and twenty, Pippa found
contentment in pursuing her studies and political causes. She’d indicated no
desire to take any man’s name. Never mind the way she looked at Oliver. If they
had a younger sister, the girl might have a long wait to wed if some ridiculous
rule required Pippa to do so first. Then again, not all women were as reticent
to marry as Pippa.
“Does this elder
sister have any prospects?”
Ollie’s whole body
jolted at Seb’s question and he turned on him, smile wide, blue eyes
glittering.
“She has more
suitors than she can manage, but she’s not easily snared. I assure you she’s
just as beautiful as Hattie, with golden hair …”
“Yes, yes. Eyes of
emerald or sapphire or amethyst.”
Oliver tugged on
his ear, a frown marring his enthusiastic expression. “Well, she is lovely.
Truly. You should meet her.”
A sickening
heaviness sank in his gut at the realization of Oliver’s real purpose for their
urgent meeting.
“You’re very
determined to convince me, Oliver.”
Ollie sighed
wearily, a long gusty exhale, before sinking down into a chair again. “You only
call me Oliver when you’re cross. Won’t you hear me out?”
Sebastian had a
habit of counting. Assigning numbers to the objects and incidents in his life
gave him a satisfying sense of order and control. Not quite as much
satisfaction as conquering a maddening equation, but enough to make the
incidents he couldn’t control—like the small matter of inheriting a title and a
home large enough to house a hundred—more bearable.
He wished he’d
counted how many times he’d heard those same words—“Won’t you hear me
out?”—from Ollie. Whatever the number, it would certainly be high enough to
warn him off listening to the man’s mad schemes again.
“All right, Ollie.
Have it out then.”
“Do you never
consider finding yourself a wife?”
“No.”
“You must.”
“Must I? Why? I
have quite enough to occupy me.”
Ollie took on a
pensive air and squinted his left eye. “The estate seems to be in good order,
and you’ve given up your post at the university. Pippa has her own pursuits.”
He glanced again at the high ceiling over their heads. “Won’t you be lonely in
these grand, empty rooms, Bash?”
Sentiment? That
was how Ollie meant to convince him? Seb had put away sentimentality ten years
before, dividing off that part of himself so that he could move forward with
the rest of his life. If its power still held any sway, he would have opened
the letter in his waistcoat pocket the day it arrived.
“I will manage,
Ollie.”
And how would a
woman solve anything? In Seb’s experience, women either wreaked havoc on a
man’s life, or filled it with noise and color and clever quips, like his mother
and sister. Either option would allay loneliness, but he did not suffer from
that affliction. Sentimental men were lonely. Not him. Even if he did live in a
house with ceilings so tall his voice echoed when he chattered to himself.
He narrowed his
eyes at Ollie, and his friend sat up in his chair, squared his shoulders, and
tipped his chin to stare at Seb directly.
“She’s the eldest
daughter of a marquess, Bash, and much more aware of the rules of etiquette
among the wealthy and titled than you are.”
“Then we won’t have
much in common.”
Ollie groaned.
“She would be a fine partner, a formidable ally in this new life you’ve taken
on.”
“No.”
Denial came
easily, and he denounced Ollie’s mad implication that the two of them should
marry sisters from the same family. But reason, that damnable voice in his head
that sounded like his father, contradicted him.
At two and thirty,
he’d reached an age for matrimony, and with inherited property and a title came
the duty to produce an heir. No one wanted Roxbury and the Wrexford dukedom to
pass to another distant cousin. If he had any doubts about his need for a wife,
he was surrounded by women who’d happily remind him. His aunt, Lady Stamford,
had sent a letter he’d found waiting for him the day he’d arrived at Roxbury
suggesting that marriage was as much his duty as managing the estate. Pippa
also dropped hints now and then that having a sister-in-law would be very nice
indeed.
Ollie had yet to
multiply the bride-taking encouragement, but he was making a fine effort at
rectifying the oversight.
“Acquiring a
dukedom is a vast undertaking.” Ollie stretched out his arms wide to emphasize
the vastness of it all. “Why not have a lovely woman by your side in such an
endeavor?”
“I didn’t acquire
it, Oliver. It passed to me.” He loathed his habit of stating the obvious.
A lovely woman by
his side. The notion brought a pang, equal parts stifled desire and
memory-soaked dread. He’d imagined it once, making plans and envisioning the
life he’d create with the woman he loved. But that was all sentiment and it had
been smashed, its pieces left in the past. Now practicality dictated his
choices. He spared emotion only for his family, for Pippa and Ollie.
Ollie watched him
like a convicted man awaiting his sentence.
His friend’s
practical argument held some appeal. A marquess’s daughter would know how to
navigate the social whirl, and Seb liked the notion of not devoting all of his
own energy to tackling that challenge. He might even find a moment to spare for
mathematics, rather than having to forfeit his life’s work entirely to take on
the duties of a dukedom.
And it would give
Ollie a chance at happiness. Perhaps this younger daughter of Lord Clayborne’s
would be the woman to inspire constancy in Ollie, and Seb might assist his
friend to achieve the family and stability he’d lost in childhood.
Seb spoke on an
exhaled sigh. “I suppose I do need a wife.” And there he went stating the
obvious again.
Oliver turned into
a ten-year-old boy before his eyes, as giddy as a pup. If the man had a tail,
he’d be wagging it furiously. He jumped up and reached out to clasp Seb on the
shoulder.
“Just meet Lady
Katherine, Seb. See if you suit. That’s all I ask.” It wasn’t quite all he
asked, but Seb had learned the futility of quibbling with a giddy Oliver.
A marquess’s
daughter? Lady Katherine sounded like just the sort of woman a duke should seek
to marry. Seb could contemplate marriage as a practical matter, but nothing
more.
Would he ever feel
more?
He hadn’t allowed
himself an ounce of interest in a woman in ten years, not in a lush feminine
figure, nor in a pair of fine eyes, not even in the heady mix of a woman’s
unique scent under the notes of some floral essence.
“I think you’ll
enjoy London during the season.” Ollie couldn’t manage sincerity when uttering
the declaration. His mouth quivered and he blinked one eye as if he’d just
caught an irritating bit of dust.
Seb doubted he’d
enjoy London during the crush of the social season. As a Cambridge man raised
in a modest home in the university’s shadow, he’d enjoyed occasional jaunts to
London but had always been content to return to his studies. As he opened his
mouth to say as much to Ollie, Pippa strode into the room and drew their
attention to the doorway.
She’d changed into
one of the day dresses their aunt insisted she choose for the upcoming season,
though Pippa signaled her disdain for the flouncy yellow creation by swiping
down the ruffles that kept popping up on her chest and around her shoulders.
“Luncheon is laid
in the morning room. Are you joining us, Oliver?”
Ollie stared
wide-eyed at Pippa a moment and then turned to Seb.
“We’re almost
finished here,” Seb assured her. “Ollie and I will join you momentarily.”
She nodded but
offered the still speechless Ollie a sharp glance before departing.
After a moment,
Ollie found his voice. “I’ve never seen her so …”
“Irritated?”
“Feminine.”
Seb took a turn
glaring at Ollie. The man had just been thrilled at the prospect of a match
with Lady Harriet. He had no business noticing Pippa’s femininity, especially
after failing to do so for over a dozen years.
“She chose a few
new dresses.” Seb cleared his throat to draw Ollie’s attention.
“It’s odd,” Ollie
said, his face still pinched in confusion. “I’ve known Pippa most of my life
and never truly thought of her as a woman.”
His friend’s words
put Seb’s mind at ease, but he suspected Pippa wouldn’t find them nearly as
heartening.
“Ollie, let’s
return to the matter at hand.”
“Yes, of course.”
Ollie rubbed his hands together and grinned, the matter of Pippa quickly
forgotten. “Will you come to the Clayborne ball and meet Lady Katherine?”
“I will.” Meeting
the woman seemed a simple prospect. Practical. Reasonable. A perfectly logical
decision in the circumstances.
“If you’re still
planning on presenting Pippa this season, by all means, bring her along too,”
Ollie added. “Why leave her to ramble this house alone?”
Pippa preferred to
spend her days at Cambridge where she’d been studying mathematics for much of
the previous year. Yet Seb felt the pull of his aunt’s assertion. His sister
should have a London season, or at least spend some time among London society.
He wished to open as many doors for Pippa as he could. Give her choices and
options. If his title meant his sister might be more comfortably settled in
life, all the better.
“She’s not
convinced of the appeal of a London season.” Seb worried neither of them was
equipped for it either. Gowns and finely tailored clothing aside, they didn’t
possess the aristocratic polish others would expect of a duke and his sister.
Ever undaunted,
Ollie grinned. “Then you must convince her.”
Seb lifted his
gaze to the ceiling, following the tracery, lines in perfect symmetry,
equidistant and equal in length, forming a perfect whole. The geometric beauty
of the design melted a bit of the tension in his shoulders. Still, he doubted
the propriety of allowing his sister to attend a ball when she’d not yet
formally come out. And, most importantly, he feared Pippa was unprepared for
the sort of attention she would encounter in London.
Pippa unprepared?
She’d fence him into a corner for even entertaining the notion.
“Very well. We’ll
both attend, but I make no promises regarding Lady Katherine.”
He’d accept the
invitation in order to give Pippa her first glimpse of a proper London ball,
meet this marquess’s daughter, and do what he could to assist Ollie’s cause.
But marrying Lady Katherine was another matter entirely. He’d only ever
intended to marry one woman and that had gone so spectacularly pear-shaped, he
wasn’t certain he could bring himself to propose ever again.
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About the Author:
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on, Christy Carlyle writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
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