Chapter One

Sometimes an epiphany came like a crack of lightning, sharp and brilliant, and sometimes it came like a bit of hothouse strawberry lodged in one’s throat. Unfortunately for Sebastian Sinclair, Duke of Wessex, Earl of Badington, and Knight of the Garter, it was the latter.

This was what came of eating strawberries in October. It was unnatural to enjoy a summer fruit when the world had taken a turn toward gray and dreary. One could not expect to bend the laws of nature without dire consequences. He had made a mistake in insisting his gardener provide the fruit year-round. Yes, yes, he understood that now.

His eyes watered. He would have wheezed had he been able to draw breath.

He had been a fool about the strawberries, that much was abundantly clear now. And what would be the result of that blunder? His new winter boots had only just been finished, and now he would never get the chance to wear them. He had an assignation with Mrs. Dabney tonight, and she would go unsatisfied.

More important, if he were to die this very instant, his father and mother would have no grandchildren. Perhaps they would not care, being dead these past fourteen years. But as the corners of his vision blackened, Sebastian found he cared, even if they could not. He cared very much, indeed.

And as he admittedly possessed the soul of a butterfly, it was a rare experience for him to truly care. The intensity of the emotion left him breathless and shaken. Or was that the strawberry?

But still. He cared.

He was all that was left of his parents.

Oh, there were drops of his mother’s blood sprinkled about England. A second cousin in Derby, and an even more distant relative in Shropshire. His father’s brother had gone to the Colonies, of all things, and was now the grandfather of three American brats. Sebastian hadn’t heard from him in nearly a decade. They hadn’t even crossed the ocean for the funeral, and he’d been left to bury his parents alone.

But all of these distant and American relations had as little to do with his parents as a robin to a falcon. They were both birds, to be sure, but that was where all similarity ended. None of these relatives were the product of who his parents were as husband and wife, of the life they had built together. None of them had been created in their image and raised on their morals and guidance, such as they were.

There was only Sebastian.

And if the strawberry stole his life this very moment, before he could marry and beget an heir, that was all there would ever be. As Duke of Wessex, he’d had but one true duty. One. To beget an heir who would continue the line of succession. If he couldn’t do that, did anything else matter? For heaven’s sake, if he expired now, childless, the dukedom would fall to a bloody American.

Dear God. Dear God.

Something thumped hard against his back. The offending strawberry flew up his throat and past his lips, landing on the plush, costly carpet at his feet. He drew in a deep, life-saving gulp of air.

“Are you all right?” Lord Abingdon asked.

Sebastian’s vision was still hazy. It looked like there were four identical men standing in his sitting room rather than just two. He blinked. Abingdon and his twin brother, Nicholas Eastwood, came into focus.

He blinked again. Miracle of miracles, he was alive!

But who knew for how long? Human bodies were ridiculously frail. Today he, one of the most powerful dukes in all England, had nearly met his demise from a ruby fruit the size of his thumb, despite having all his teeth intact. Tomorrow might be a riding accident, or an overturned carriage, or a cuckolded husband. Or a parsnip. Imagine, death by parsnip! That would be even more humiliating than by strawberry.

He drew himself up to his full height, which was still not quite as tall as the lanky gentlemen who faced him.

“Gentlemen, I’ve had an epiphany,” he announced.

They stared at him, then at each other.

“Dear God, no,” Eastwood said.

“Perhaps it would be better to keep such thoughts to yourself,” Abingdon suggested.

Ungrateful louts, the both of them. Had he not had a hand in both their marriages? They would still be blundering about, wifeless, had he not, at the critical moment, insisted they come to their senses. If he had kept his thoughts to himself, as Abingdon suggested, they would both be miserable now.

But no matter. They would do as he said, despite their protestations. Sebastian had yet to meet the man who did not do as he said. Such were the benefits of being a powerful, wealthy duke.

He moved to the walnut desk, removed a sheet of thick, cream-colored paper and his inkwell, and scribbled a few lines. “As it happens, your opinion on the matter is inconsequential.” He beckoned to the footman. “Inform Selkirk we will discuss the hothouse at four o’clock. And deliver this to Miss Eliza Benton.”

The footman bowed crisply, removing the half-chewed strawberry from the carpet as he did so.

“Wessex,” Abingdon said sharply. “Why must you persist in annoying Miss Benton? Is it really necessary to involve her in your schemes?”

Sebastian ignored the absurd question. Miss Benton was always necessary.

“I have decided to have a house party.”

Most of the marriageable ladies had departed London at the end of the social season and would not return until spring. But he did not want to wait until spring. The course was decided; now he must act. He would simply have to lure them from their snug homes and watchful families.

Abingdon looked baffled. “A house party in London? It will be the first of its kind.”

“I meant in Derbyshire, of course. At Perivale Hall.”

The bafflement increased. “But you hate the country.”

This was true. Weekly deliveries of unnatural strawberries aside, the country was dreadfully dull. It was also a repository of memories better left to the haziness of time. While he did not wish to forget, exactly, he much preferred the past to be pleasantly blurry. At Perivale Hall, those memories came into painfully sharp focus. Like all unpleasant things, he avoided it whenever possible.

“Wessex has his eye on Lady Whistall.” Eastwood sounded bored. “The house party is merely a means to cuckold her husband.”

“Nonsense.” Sebastian dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “The cuckolding happened last month, and I’ve no wish to repeat it. I don’t intend to invite any married ladies at all, except as chaperones for their maiden daughters. And Lady Abingdon and Mrs. Eastwood, naturally.”

Eastwood’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Likely he was remembering that Sebastian had once offered for Mrs. Eastwood. Sebastian smiled. He was indeed fond of Mrs. Eastwood, and not only because it annoyed her husband. It was, however, a delightful side effect, and one he took advantage of at every opportunity.

“The point of the house party is not to dally with willing wives and cuckold their husbands. The point is to become a husband myself,” Sebastian announced.

This pronouncement was met with blank stares, as though he had suddenly sprouted a half dozen more heads and his friends weren’t sure how to break the news gently.

He sighed.

“Gentlemen, the time has come for me to find a wife.”