Chapter One

“Carmichael, stop fussing. I’m on my way to White’s, not a ball.” Oliver Stuart Colborne—the 9^th Duke of Scarborough—waved off his valet and best friend. “If there is a stray cat hair upon my sleeve, the world will not end. I’ll have a drink but mainly I wish to sit in the corner and keep to myself.”

The other man snorted. “You can do that here, Your Grace, and I’m certain your pets will enthuse over your continuing company.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought about his white Turkish Angora cat named Luxor and the brown one named Edinburgh, as well as his troublesome beagle, Maximus—Max for short. However much he adored the animals, he needed human conversation as well. He smoothed one of his black eyebrows with a forefinger. “True enough, but suffice it to say, I’m sick of these four walls.” With the ease of elegance, he slid an emerald stick pin into the snowy folds of his intricately folded cravat.

“Colborne House has more than four walls.” The red-haired man sent him a cheeky grin as well as handed him a pair of gray gloves made of the finest, thinnest kid leather. “You’re restless. Admit it.”

“Fine. I’m restless, and the judgmental attitude of my furry companions isn’t helping.” Oliver had met Charles Carmichael in the latter years of the war. They’d both been part of a cavalry regiment that had supplied aid and support to the troops involved in the Battle of Waterloo. Though they’d been late arriving, they managed to defend a gap in one of the lines until reinforcements came by, thus saving countless lives.

Since then, they’d been fast friends, and when Oliver returned to England, Carmichael came too, for apparently he’d spent most of his life as an orphan, and considered his military pals family. Oliver hadn’t minded, for he needed a valet, and three months later, his father had died, leaving the dukedom to him.

It had taken months for the powers-that-be in the House of Lords to acknowledge the legitimacy of his succession claim, and though Oliver had officially held the Scarborough title for nearly two years, there were those in Parliament as well as the ton who doubted the authenticity, all due to the color of Oliver’s skin. They couldn’t doubt the paperwork he’d submitted, for his birth and his father’s marriage had been above board, but the damned mixed heritage gave his peers cause for alarm.

Carmichael had remained by his side through thick and thin, through every step and frustration; he thought nothing of defending and deflecting every harsh criticism that had come up, and that alone had earned him Oliver’s trust.

“Why? You’ve been out of mourning for over a year and have had the freedom to do what you please, yet you’ve stuck around this house with your mother, never entertaining and rarely going out except to your club.”

“I’ve no idea, truth to tell.” He shrugged, for he couldn’t quite put a finger on his ennui. “Mother has attended a few ton events, but I’ve not felt inclined to do so.” Oliver donned his gloves and then smoothed a palm over his dove-gray waistcoat that was devoid of embroidery. The well-tailored clothes he’d chosen tonight gave him confidence and reminded him of his responsibilities to society and all that he stood for. “I suppose I’m bored.”

“You need a woman,” the valet said as he collected a few discarded pieces of clothing Oliver had rejected while dressing for the evening.

“I will never agree to that sentiment.” Women were nothing but trouble and brought heartbreak and vitriol with them.

“While I understand the reasons for keeping yourself aloof from the fairer sex, I’m afraid I can’t condone such actions. You do have a responsibility to the title.” Carmichael lifted a red eyebrow in challenge. “Eventually you’ll need to take a bride.”

“Today is not that day, my friend.” He clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth ached. As he relaxed the muscles by increments, a sigh escaped. “Females aren’t trustworthy.”

“Yes, except my mother.” Oliver glanced back toward the open French doors that led to a small shallow balcony off his suite of rooms where the curtains fluttered in a summer breeze. What should have smelled like the air before the rain or the perfume of flowers and grasses reeked of rubbish in the gutters and excrement in the streets, both human and equine, further rotting in the heat. London in the summer was a travesty. “Perhaps I should retire to my country estate. At least the air is clean there and I can make inroads into some of the needed repairs.”

“And you can escape, perhaps hide.” The valet shrugged. “That is, of course, your prerogative, Your Grace. The castle is lovely this time of year, but a change of scenery won’t help with the ennui. And it’s certainly not within your nature to retire from challenges.”

“True, but I can spend time in honest work and shore up the crumbling bits that no one has touched since my father died. It’s not exactly hiding, though the moat is handy with keeping unwanted visitors from me.” Though Scarborough Castle was a rather small affair compared to what folks usually thought when they heard the word, it was a dear little property in Wiltshire, complete with a moat, an antiquated courtyard, and a hedge maze. He’d spent many fond years of his childhood there daydreaming he was a Knight of the Round Table, and now he was anxious to become reacquainted with it. Plus, it was time he came to know his neighbors of the connecting properties as well as the tenants and the gentry.

He needed to stop hiding from the remainder of his responsibilities, even if his heart wasn’t in them. Life did go on, after all.

Not to mention, it was where he felt closest to his father, for his sire had filled the castle with all the desires of his heart, and that meant antiquities from around the world as well as things he’d unearthed in various archaeological endeavors throughout his lifetime and mementos from far-flung places that he’d visited, reflections of other cultures much different than his own. Oliver adored the castle.

It was where he went to keep inspired to follow in those impressive footsteps—to find hope in a world where there were too many disparities and too much veiled hatred.

“Well, you’re certainly not one to shy away from physical labor, I’ll give you that.” Carmichael caught his gaze. “It’s something I admire about you.”

“Thank you. It’s an aspiration of mine to make myself accessible to all, to narrow the distance between myself and the people I care for, the people in London who desperately need a voice.” He strode across the room toward the door, put a hand upon the latch, and then turned back to his friend. “When one looks into our hearts, there is no difference between the rich or the poor, the privileged or the not. We are merely people with the same needs and longings and feelings. I’d like to continue that thinking and hope I can change the minds of my peers in Parliament as well as in drawing rooms.”

“I wonder if such a utopia is even possible at the level of our current enlightenment,” Carmichael said softly.

An insistent knocking on the door prevented further discourse. When Oliver yanked open the panel, he grinned at the middle-aged butler, Bohannon. He came from Scottish roots and had been another friend found during the war. The fact he was missing part of his left arm didn’t hinder his ability to carry out his duties in the least, and it further grew the hope in Oliver’s heart that he’d been instrumental in giving the man his dignity back when no one would hire a former solider and a disabled one at that.

It was one reason he’d created a foundation to help employ and house other permanently wounded and displaced soldiers.

Bohannon huffed. “I serve you, not the other way around, Your Grace.” It was a typical argument they frequently engaged in, and in their leisure, they met each other over a chessboard.

The butler scratched at his head of thick, blond hair that would curl if not for the pomade he applied. “You have a visitor, Your Grace.” The thick brogue in his voice indicated his curiosity.

“I’m not expecting anyone. In fact, I’m on my way out. I’ll take dinner at White’s, by the way.” When he shot a questioning glance at Carmichael, who shrugged, he sighed.

“The man said he was your father’s solicitor, a Mr. Mowbray.” Bohannon held out a calling card upon his white-gloved palm. A few stray black and brown dog hairs marred the pristine surface of that glove, betraying the fact the butler had met with Max on his way up. “Indicated that it was urgent he speak with you.”

Oliver frowned as he inspected the plain calling card. “What the devil does he want?”

Bohannon eyed him askance. “Perhaps that’s why he wishes to speak with you. I’ve put him in the rose drawing room.”

Carmichael unsuccessfully stifled a snort of laughter before disappearing into the adjoining sitting room. The butler narrowed his eyes as if he took exception to the valet’s rudeness, but in reality, the two were fast friends with Oliver linking them together.

“Very well.” The butler peered along the corridor. “Is the dowager still in residence?”

“She’s received two more invitations and I wished to make certain I gave them to her personally.” He walked beside Oliver as they moved toward the stairs. “She asked that I deliver her correspondence, for she’s quite private about it.”

“I appreciate that you look after her.” Though he well knew why Bohannon did so; the man harbored a bit of a tendre for his mother, platonic to be sure, but it was sweet nonetheless. “Perhaps she’ll return before midnight.”

They parted on the second-floor landing, where Oliver then proceeded to the well-appointed drawing room at Colborne House.

“Mr. Mowbray, I presume?” he said as he entered. Perhaps the visit would prove quick and allow him to escape to his club straightaway.

“Yes.” The rather short man with silver-rimmed spectacles and thinning brown hair stood from his perch on a low sofa. “Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Your Grace.” He came forward with a hand extended. When Oliver shook the proffered limb, the man continued. “You have your father’s chin and eyes.”

“Thank you. I was rather fond of his eyes.” Oliver gestured him back into his seat. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I’ll come right to the point. I was your father’s solicitor, as you know, and as I was organizing and cleaning my office, I came upon an envelope that had fallen behind a credenza.” So saying, he delved a hand into an interior pocket of his jacket, and then withdrew an envelope. “When I investigated, I discovered a codicil to your father’s will.” He held the envelope out.

“I beg your pardon. A codicil?” The red wax seal of his father’s had been broken. No doubt the solicitor had done so. Oliver didn’t wish to read the letter in front of a witness, for the sight of the heavy, looping handwriting on the front of the envelope that belonged to his father caused his eyes to mist. “Does it change anything I’m currently responsible for?”

“How so?” Damn, it was unsettling how one tiny thing could send waves of grief over a person. He tucked the envelope into his own pocket.

“It seems when your maternal grandmother married, her husband was so taken and charmed with her that he gifted her a parcel of unentailed property, which he had put exclusively into her name; it was rather scandalous for the situation.”

“I can understand why.” A shiver of something moved down Oliver’s spine. His maternal grandmother had been a slave on the island of Bermuda where his grandfather had met her. He’d been in the navy at the time, and according to all accounts, theirs had been love at first sight. Unfortunately, neither the Church of England nor the ton had recognized that marriage, so his grandparents were forced to keep their relationship secret. His mother had been a product of that union, as had her two sisters.

After a few stillbirths from his mother, Oliver had been born, the heir to everything. “So this parcel of land is not part of the generational property attached to the Scarborough title?”

“It is not, though it does neighbor your estate in the Wiltshire countryside.” Mr. Mowbray waved a hand as if that tidbit didn’t matter. “As far as I know, there is no residence built upon said land. It’s quite wild.”

The other man cleared his throat. “It’s willed to you in a roundabout way. Er, that is to say the property was left to either a first son of your grandparents’ union upon the death of your grandmother, or the first grandson, which is you, Your Grace.”

He snored. “I am in a rush, Mr. Mowbray. Perhaps you can help this visit along and tell me why you’re here.”

“Very well.” The solicitor sank onto the sofa. “Your grandfather was a shrewd man, as was your father. Between the two of them, they’d explored the parcel, and only in the last handful of years when your father had been alive did he discover how valuable the land was.”

“Meaning?” If the man hurried, Oliver could arrive at his club at the fashionable hour and perhaps find a few friends with whom he could converse.

“Meaning your father believed there are Roman ruins buried on the property. At the very least, a pavement or a floor. At the most, a lavish villa and perhaps outbuildings.”

“What?” A half-expellation propelled the whispered word from his throat. “Do you mean to say that parcel of land is a potential archeological site?”

Excitement buzzed up his spine. Needing to do something, Oliver crossed the room to a sideboard containing a large variety of liquor and wine. “I can’t believe this,” he said almost to himself as he poured a measure of brandy into a cut-crystal glass.

He turned to face the solicitor. “Castle is rather a generous word, and some of the structure is near disrepair.”

“I told your father numerous times he needed to spend the coin for upkeep, but his focus remained on that land.”

“Which led, in part, to his early demise,” he responded in some distraction and then took a fortifying sip of the brandy. He grimaced when the liquor burned his throat.

“Yes, but you’re missing the bigger point of the matter, Your Grace,” Mr. Mowbray insisted, dabbing at his forehead with a pristine white handkerchief, for it had been rather sweltering in London of late.

“Which is what?” He couldn’t stop thinking about the potential dig, which could contain Roman gold, perhaps tiles, or other treasures that would gain him notice in the field and solidify his skill so that he might purchase a dig site abroad and follow in his father’s footsteps.

He tossed back the rest of his drink. “That says what?” Would the man never arrive at the point?

“You can only inherit this piece of property if you marry within two years of taking the Scarborough title. This is evidenced by the note included in the codicil that was told from your grandmother to your father on her deathbed.”

“What?” Oliver sank into the nearest chair. “Why would my father do this and then keep it from me?”

“Who can say, but he couldn’t inherit the property because he wasn’t from that lineage, and since your grandparents never had a son, the property and the knowledge of the same was held for you. Perhaps he wanted it to remain a happy surprise for you.”

“Or perhaps he wished for me to marry of my own accord instead of marrying to get at a piece of property that might contain treasure,” he said in a soft voice. Whatever had inspired his father to keep the secret, it was lost to the ages now. “Well played, Father.”

“I wasn’t privy to his thoughts or reasoning in this matter.” Mr. Mowbray shrugged. “By my calculations, you’ve been the Duke of Scarborough for twenty-two and a half months. Which means you have six weeks left to find and wed a bride if you want the property.”

“That gives this whole thing a rather dim outlook, doesn’t it?” He had no intentions of marrying, no matter the reason. Women were both dangerous and disappointing, and he wasn’t keen on inviting either back into his life. “What happens to the property if I don’t?”

“I imagine it will lie fallow. There is confusing language within the codicil that states it can go to an obscure cousin of your mother’s, but it will take me some time to track the man down since he probably doesn’t live in London.”

“And neither is he part of the aristocracy,” Oliver said and wished there were more in his glass than the few lingering amber drops.

If someone not of the aristocracy came into the inheritance, they might not show the proper respect for it that such a gift demanded. “Damnation.” He’d had a shot at a treasure only to conceivably have it yanked from his grasp. “I want that parcel, Mr. Mowbray,” he said with determination in his voice as he set his glass down on a small table at his elbow. “It’s my mother’s legacy—my grandmother’s—and I want to do right by it.”

The solicitor shrugged. “Then you’d best enter the Marriage Mart post haste, Your Grace.”

“Ha!” Oliver pulled a face. “My duchess can’t be from the ordinary offerings presented in society.” But he had adverse feelings about marrying anyone. The last time he’d given his heart away, it had been stomped beneath the lady’s heel with his origins maligned.

“Then unless you can coerce a willing bride, you must do something, and quickly.”

“If there’s clear evidence that a nuptial ceremony is forthcoming, I don’t see why not.”

Oliver had been closeted with Carmichael for the better part of an hour. “Did you put the advertisement in The Times?” There was a certain urgency compelling this action, and every moment it wasn’t finished caused twinges of anxiety.

“Fair enough.” Really, he should have done it himself, but his regular duties had called him away from the task.

“Also, I believe we should place the advertisement in The London Chronicle instead. It publishes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and quite frankly, it will reach more people than merely the prigs in Parliament, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Interesting theory, and one in which you might be correct.” He rubbed his chin. “And, if a female were to read the paper, that speaks of her intelligence, so yes. Good idea.” If he were destined to spend a month in a woman’s company, he’d like for her to have some substance, and if they were to be friends, even more so.

“You would find time with a lady who is incompatible on the basest of levels maddening.” The valet nodded. “Would you like to hear what I’ve written?”

“Most certainly. We’re already down a week, so we need to move on this with alacrity.” Oliver blew out a breath, but the excitement from a week ago upon having a potential treasure within his grasp hadn’t faded. “I feel doing the advertisement will be the more direct approach than doing the pretty with endless rounds of ton events that might not lead anywhere.”

“I understand, Your Grace. Plus, it’s summer and most of the aristocracy had fled for the country anyway.”

“Here.” Carmichael handed him a sheet of paper. “If all goes well, we’ll place the advertisement, and you’ll have a week to vet and interview candidates.”

Wanted: I am a wealthy, fairly prominent duke who has an immediate need of a fiancée. An heiress or woman of independent means preferred but not a must. No fortune hunters, please. I have no patience for that. Additionally, I will not tolerate vapid females or social climbers or women on their Come Out. Looks don’t matter, but you must possess all your teeth and practice good hygiene. A decent conversationalist is a plus. Questions regarding my past will not be tolerated, and I won’t delve into yours. I have a smallish castle in the Wiltshire countryside; our time will be split between there and London. I’m an expert dancer, a mediocre whist player, and a horrible singer. I have an affinity for chocolate and a weakness for a properly done roast beef. I can provide companionship—not love in this limited engagement. I also have a recalcitrant beagle and two ornery cats, so you must rub along well with animals. If interested, please write at the London address below with your qualifications as well as references if you have them.

Oliver grinned. “No, I think it comes straight to the point. I rather like the ‘limited engagement’ wording. That in itself, if the woman is smart, tells of exactly what sort of position this is. Please have it posted as soon as you can.”

“I will, Your Grace.” Concern creased the man’s brow. “Are you truly taking on a fiancée for a month?”

“Yes, but don’t tell my solicitor that. The key is to gain ownership of that property.” Excitement swelled his chest. “I won’t need her after the ink dries.”

The valet snorted. “Not even if you get on well with the woman chosen for the position?”

“That won’t happen.” He couldn’t keep the lingering bitterness from his voice. “I will never give my heart to a woman again.” Why couldn’t he find the love of a lifetime that his parents enjoyed or even his maternal grandparents? He looked at Carmichael. “Besides, the cold fact is that I rather doubt anyone so desperate as to respond to this advertisement would catch my romantic interest anyway.”

“Perhaps.” Carmichael took the advertisement from Oliver’s hand. “But you might wish for a friendship. You have many acquaintances within the ton, but little true friends.”

Oliver tilted his head slightly as he regarded the valet. “Perhaps advertising for a friend is a good thing too, but that makes me look desperate.” He chuckled, for he wasn’t concerned. Once he took possession of the property, excavating it would hold the remainder of his time.

“We’re all desperate for something in our lives, Your Grace,” Carmichael said in a soft voice. “Only a serious examination within can show us what we want.”

“Which makes the next one and thirty days all the more appealing, don’t you think?” The challenge of having a woman agree to his scheme lifted his spirits. A business arrangement would suit him. And if she ended up becoming a friend, all the better.