Forever My Duke

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About the Author

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Chapter 1

Hadrian Ames, the eighth Duke of Clayton, shut the door against the noise of the taproom. With a jaundiced eye, he surveyed the cramped confines of the private parlor. This delay had wreaked havoc with his schedule. He’d departed London at dawn in order to arrive in time to take dinner with the family of his prospective bride.

Instead, an ice storm had slowed his progress and forced him to stop overnight at this ramshackle inn. It would have been foolhardy to attempt the last dozen miles over the slippery hills of southern Warwickshire, drenching his postilions and outriders. Especially since the day had already been long with numerous changes of horses. The ping of freezing rain on the darkened windows of the parlor confirmed the necessity of the halt.

Hadrian stripped off his wet greatcoat and slung it onto a wall hook. Awaiting his supper, he sat down in a creaky, ladderback chair by the hearth. The air smelled musty and smoky. He stretched out his booted feet in hopes the meager blaze would thaw his chilly limbs.

To pass the time, he picked up a discarded newspaper from a table. The local journal was several weeks outdated, but even old news interested him since he’d spent his boyhood in these parts. He was perusing a report on the previous year’s corn yields when a knock sounded.

Before he could say enter, the door swung open. A prune-faced man garbed in funereal black stepped into the parlor, his sparse white hair combed over a balding skull. On one palm, he balanced a tray that held several covered dishes.

Hadrian peered over the newspaper. “Ah, Chumley. I trust you’ve brought my coffee.”

“There is none to be had in this inferior establishment, Your Grace. So, I took it upon myself to substitute a pitcher of hot mulled wine. It was prepared by my own hands, for the kitchen here is shockingly inadequate.”

“Don’t tell me you ruined one of the bottles of burgundy that I brought from my cellar.”

“It was necessary for medicinal purposes,” the valet said as he set down the tray. “Your Grace mustn’t risk catching cold in such foul weather. It only goes to prove one ought never to venture north before Eastertide.”