There had been no letters, no calls for him to come home, no words of praise for everything that Nicholas had accomplished during his time in uniform. Even when he was appointed Captain – one of the youngest in the fleet - and called upon to join Admiral Lord Nelson to fight at Trafalgar, there had been no word from his father.
In the old Duke of Blackmore’s eyes, Nicholas had not existed.
The feeling was mutual.
Finding the door to the study, Nicholas pushed it open, the faint smell of his father’s favourite cigar lingering in the air. He didn’t enter nor did he glance at the portrait still hanging over the massive fireplace. The study felt like his father’s.
Sickened, Nicholas turned away from the room, unable to take the step forward. The walls seemed to be closing in suddenly and he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. His father was at every turn, the row between them heavy in the air still, even after twenty years.
He needed to get out.
His pace frustratingly slow, Nicholas stumbled back to the front door. Luckily the servants had already dispersed so weren’t privy to his sudden desperate need for some air. As he emerged onto the terrace fronting the house, he heaved in lungsful of air like a dying man. Which was how he felt much of the time. His chest felt as though it was encased in iron. Slowly the feeling of panic began to fade and he was able to breathe a little easier. The air was redolent with spring flowers, nothing like the salty air he’d been used to.
He would get no more of that here in Blackmore.
But then neither would he smell the smoke of battle or hear the screams of his men dying after losing limbs to a cannonball or split in two on the end of a cutlass. And one man, merely a boy, who’d died in his arms…
Trembling, he shut his eyes on the scene that haunted his dreams every night, taking another deep breath. Blackmore was a world away from his old life, and it was high time he put the past to bed.
The problem was, as Nicholas had come to realise, that was easier said than done.
Wiping his suddenly damp forehead with a kerchief from his pocket, Nicholas went back down the steps and followed the stone crushed path through the formal gardens and out between the hedges, finding himself eventually in the orchard behind the house. The trees were in full blossom and Nicholas wandered slowly through them, remembering times from his childhood when he’d done just this, whether it was to escape his studies or to escape his father.
Always with Peter.
The thought of his brother caused another wrench in his chest. Forever frozen at fifteen, Peter would never know or face the kind of life Nicholas had experienced. His twin brother lay in a grave instead, and Nicholas had been the one to put him there.
Nicholas pushed away the hurt, setting his jaw.
Peter was dead.
His father was dead.
John was dead.
He was no longer a Captain in the Royal Navy. He was now, God help him, the Duke of Blackmore with all the duties and responsibilities that came with the title. He could almost hear his father’s cold voice lecturing him on loyalty to the family name and the need to produce an heir as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, that would involve procuring a wife. Something he neither needed nor wanted.
Nicholas stared out over the orchard, leaning against an apple tree as he waited to get his breath back after the unfamiliar exercise. He smiled grimly. At this point in time, he wasn’t even sure he was up to performing the duty necessary to beget an heir. Nevertheless, he would have to find a wife soon and begin the unpleasant task of taking over his father’s estate.
The ship he’d commanded was nothing but a nightmarish memory. One that would, God willing, fade over time. The dukedom was the only thing of importance now.
As he turned to retrace his steps, a motionless shape under a tree in the distance caught his eye and Nicholas frowned. Was it an animal or a person?
There was only one way to find out.
Picking his way carefully, Nicholas eventually found himself at the tree in question, completely nonplussed at what he found. A woman was asleep at its base, her skirts spread out over the grass. There was a book resting on her chest and a stray, russet curl on her cheek, the breeze blowing it lightly across her skin.
Whoever the woman was, she clearly had no regard as to who might find her under the tree. Nicholas crouched down, the splinter wounds in his chest protesting he did so, and gently shook the woman’s shoulder. “Madam.”
She made a sound but did not wake and he gripped her shoulder harder, shaking it more forcefully. “Madam.”
She jolted awake, and shot up, the top of her head colliding with his chin. Nicholas felt an explosion of pain in his jaw as he reared back, falling flat on his backside on the ground next to her in a most ungentlemanly manner.
“What?” he heard her ask imperiously. “Who the devil are you?”
Rubbing his now injured jaw, Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “More importantly, Madam, who the devil are you and why are you trespassing on my land?”
Chapter Two
Grace Shackleford stared at the man on the ground beside her, her head still fuzzy from her impromptu nap under the shade of the tree. The orchard was her favourite place to come in all of Blackmore and since the old Duke never stepped foot outside of his large house, she’d never felt as if anyone cared that she borrowed one of his trees every now and again.
But this man clearly had an issue with her being here.
Gathering her book, she glared at
