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Fortune Favors the Duke
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Kristin Vayden
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Judy York/Lott Reps
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Duke Who Loved Me
One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For my daughters: Women who love others well
change the world.
Prologue
Quinton’s face ached from the perpetual grin he wore. There was something utterly vindicating and equally entertaining about watching one’s older brother mercilessly badgered by his companions. As the first of his friends to trip the parson’s mousetrap His Grace Avery, the Duke of Wesley, or Wes as he was familiarly called, was the recipient of more than his share of jokes and harassment, all in good humor. With the wedding only a week away, Quinton had helped the men assemble a last hurrah of sorts. After all, it was the end of an era.
It wasn’t every day a duke married, and as the ton had so easily speculated, once His Grace tied the knot, soon the others would follow.
Good Lord, the mamas of the ton were probably salivating at the prospect. This particular group was the next generation of power within the House of Lords. All heirs to important titles, there wasn’t one who wouldn’t have to fight off the debutantes…rather, the eager mamas trying to entangle them with their daughters.
Wesley had resisted the temptation of marriage for nearly a decade, ever since he inherited the dukedom from their late father. But this past season, the usual debutantes had faded into the background upon the presentation of Lady Catherine Greatheart, the season’s incomparable and a tempting armful. Theirs had been a whirlwind courtship and was still the on-dit gossip of the ton.
Sudden hilarity brought Quin’s attention back to the present. Willowby—rather, the Earl of Willowby—made a show of pretending to clench Wesley’s bollocks. The group burst into a new round of laughter at Wes’s reaction.
“What about you, Quin? Just enjoying my torment?” Wesley asked, turning to his younger brother.
“Yes, every moment. It’s kind of pleasant to have someone else do my dirty work,” Quinton replied with a devious tone.
“You always were the wily one of the two of us. You were just quiet so no one suspected it.” Wesley rolled his eyes. “Well, we’d best be off if we’re to make the hunting lodge before dark. Though I still think this is a daft idea, I’m happy to put my bachelor days behind me.”
This statement brought about another round of remarks from his friends.
Wesley turned to Quinton once more. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“Someone has to be responsible. Plus I have a full day of teaching tomorrow. You’ll have more fun without worrying if I’ll tell Mother about your bad choices,” Quinton replied, folding his arms as he leaned against the library door.
Wesley sent his brother an amused expression. “Because there’s so much trouble to be had at a remote hunting lodge.”
“First of all, that small castle is not just a hunting lodge.” Quinton returned the eye roll. “Second, never underestimate your ability to find trouble. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way.”
“Is that so? Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re calling it a lesson? Do you ever stop teaching, Professor Errington?”
“No. I had way too much practice being your conscience as a child.”
“With that, we’ll take our leave.” The Duke of Westmore grasped Wesley’s arm and tugged him to the door. “Enough,” he quipped.
Quinton watched as the men all filed out of the room, giving him firm handshakes and promises to keep an eye on his brother.
As the carriages rolled away, Quinton watched and considered how so much could change yet stay the same.
Growing up, he’d always known there was a difference between him and Wesley. One day, Wesley would be the duke. Oldest sons had a different destiny than those born after; it was an undeniable truth that had forged two sets of friends.
Those who would inherit…
And the younger brothers who would not, and in their turn would have to find their own way.
The world of the ton was small, and if a person wasn’t known directly, he had at least been heard of. So when Quinton attended Cambridge to study, many faces had aligned with the names he had heard around the dinner table.
Wesley’s friends all had younger brothers, similar in age to Quinton. That was all the common ground the group needed, and they quickly fell into easy friendship.
It was those older brothers who now accompanied Wesley to his celebration of the last of his bachelor days.
Quinton walked back into the foyer, directing his steps toward the library. An edge of guilt tormented his mind as he considered that perhaps he should have gone with his brother, but he disregarded the nagging thought. He had a full day of lectures and classes to teach tomorrow.
He’d see his brother when he returned, maybe do something together then, just the two of them.
Yes.
Guilt appeased, he collected his lecture notes and began to study.
Never once considering that tomorrow would be too late.
Because while common sense revealed that life was short, life still always caught folks off guard.
&
nbsp; Every. Single. Time.
One
The bloodred wax shone from its place on the envelope. Pressing the seal into the pliable form, Quinton took a long and purposeful inhale, resisting the belief that he was the Duke of Wesley now.
It had been six months.
Six months since he’d seen his brother’s face.
Heard his brother’s voice.
He wasn’t the only one bearing the inescapable burden of loss.
Every one of his best friends had suffered the same horror. Each one of their mothers had wailed, retiring to her room, refusing to leave for days.
Six months hadn’t dampened the pain, just made it possible to keep surviving in the middle of it.
The suffocating pressure was constant. On top of the mourning, Quinton now had the weight of the title of duke and head of his family, the title and heritage bearing down upon him every moment of every day.
He had been content to be a professor of politics and history at Cambridge. He’d loved it, each moment.
But life didn’t always turn out the way one expected.
After all, no one had suspected that Wesley and his friends would get that drunk, or fail to keep the rug away from the fire. Life had promised that they were young men, with their lives ahead of them…and in a few hours that had all been stolen, reduced to a pile of ash and rubble.
Quinton rose from the desk and walked away, emotionally leaving the weight behind him. He needed to get out, to get away, but there was no escaping the truth.
He took in the familiar view of his study. He’d miss this place, desperately. Cambridgeshire was his heart’s home, but duty called him to London. For a time he had attempted to do both: handle the dukedom and teach. But both the title and his teaching had suffered, forcing his hand. A resignation letter had been dispatched earlier, very reluctantly, to the Fellows at King’s College at Cambridge University. It was an abominable time to walk away from the university, with enrollment increasing at such a pace as to outrun Oxford for the first time in the university’s history. But there was nothing to do be done for it; he was now the Duke of Wesley and needed to be in London to attend to the matters left behind by his brother.
In thinking of his brother, a wave of grief crested within Quin. Would it be better or worse, returning to London? Leaving one place didn’t mean the pain was left behind as well.
As he quit his study, he called to his butler, “Please have the carriage prepared. I’ll be out front shortly.”
The butler nodded, gave a rather spry bow for his seventy years, and went to arrange Quinton’s request.
Bittersweet emotions fought within Quin as he considered his destination. He had spent countless hours in the Cambridge University library. For a brief moment, he had peace of mind. Memories flooded him of a simpler time when books held all the answers and all one needed was time. Quinton straightened his back. His footsteps echoed softly on the polished hardwood floor of the hall as he made his way to the front of the town house.
For a few hours, he would enjoy the peace and quiet of the library and then he would be on his way to London and his waiting mother.
Quin swayed with the movement of the carriage as it bumped over the cobbled stones of the jumble-gut street. His mind wandered as he moved past the scattered colleges throughout Cambridge, each one distinct in its field of study yet unified under the common university. Though he’d made the trek between Cambridge and London many times before, this one had a ring of finality to it that the other trips had lacked. They turned onto Trinity Lane, the ashlar buildings quiet sentinels of knowledge and study, housing ancient tomes of literature and history. The grand old buildings absorbed the twilight as people walked along the street beside them.
The tension melted away as the carriage drew nearer, then came to a stop just before the entrance to the library. Several Fellows nodded in recognition as they glimpsed his opening carriage door and the man within. Quin returned the gesture, feeling at home. In London, the simple social interaction would be far more formal.
“Return in two hours,” Quinton instructed as he alighted from the carriage. He lifted his eyes to the tall height of the stone structure. It wasn’t as tall as the British Museum, but what it lacked in grandeur it made up for with knowledge.
He took the steps and pressed a hand on the cool wood of the door. The welcoming scent of old dust, history, and ancient artifacts greeted him. His lips turned upward, but the sensation was utterly foreign.
The silence greeted him, his footsteps the only noise except for the delicate flip of pages by a few lingering students. The stone arches wound in circles above his head, directing the eye up to heaven, as if beseeching the Almighty for answers not yet known.
But sought.
Tall wooden bookcases lined the main aisle, each one holding eight shelves divided into three sections, the bookcases bending into an L shape to line the interior wall of the aisle as well. The library was peaceful, beautiful, and inviting for a man who had long preferred the company of books to people.
Quin directed his steps down the main lane till he found a passage that led to an alcove he’d often used in researching history. Few used it, since it was off the main path, and he’d often enjoyed hours of privacy there. Selecting a modest wooden chair, he drew it out from the desk and took a seat, relaxing. A lamp illuminated the wooden desktop, exposing its grain and the way the finish had faded with use. It was one of the more private areas, tucked behind one of the shelves, where one could seek answers, dive into the depths of some book, and be lost for hours. Scholarly pursuits were simple that way. Have a question? Seek the answer. Read about it, research it if no one had dared to ask it yet, build upon the ideas of others, and grow the pool of ideas and knowledge. It was beautiful, known, and in many ways predictable.
The opposite of life.
The constancy and organization represented by the rows of the library gave a calm to Quin, his ragged soul exhaling the breath that had been held for far too long. Reaching out, he allowed his fingers to slide over the spines of the nearby books, each one unique, an adventure in knowledge of its own.
A book was lovely because one could always skip to the end to find out what happened.
Unlike life, which hit a person like a hammer on glass, shattering from the inside out.
How many hours had he planted himself at this very table as he studied? Closing his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back in time. But unlike with a book, one couldn’t just flip a few pages back in life to start over.
It was done, and life moved forward, whether one wished it to or not. In the silence and isolation of the Cambridge University Old Library, Quin gave himself the permission to mourn. It had been necessary to be in control, strong, and collected, because everyone around him was falling to pieces. As a duke, as the head of his family, he didn’t have the luxury of losing control, of showing weakness.
Here in the silence, in the isolation that should have felt lonely, Quin found himself finally able to release the bone-deep pain that had held him in chains for the past six months. With every silent tear that rolled down his face, the burden lifted. The pain remained; it was part of him now. It wouldn’t ever fully leave; it was his. But the weight was slowly releasing, and as he wiped the salty tears from his eyes, clarity and peace overwhelmed him. The suffocating feeling lifted and in its place came a conviction that come what may, he would survive, and better yet, a determination to thrive in honor of his brother compelled him.
It wasn’t a long time that he allowed himself the luxury to mourn, but the cleansing was deep. Quin collected himself. Odd how a library was more comforting than home.
But to him, it made sense. He’d always found books the greatest of friends.
And the ultimate confidants.
Quin pushed away from the table and stood, straightened his shoulders. After replacing the chair back under the table, he moved to leave. A book that hadn’t been returned to its proper location caught his eye. U
sually, the patrons were finicky about replacing the borrowed books, and when one occasionally forgot, the library staff or other faculty were keen to return it to its proper place. This particular tome had somehow been overlooked, so Quin lifted the book from its resting place, studying the title so that he might put it back where it belonged.
The Westernization and Civilization of Russia.
Interested, Quin flipped through the pages of the volume, quickly ascertaining it referred to the time period of Catherine the Great. As he opened the book, he skimmed the pages, quickly finding he agreed with the author’s praise of the longest-ruling woman in Russian history. It was a welcome distraction, and finding his seat once more, he gave in to the impulse to read several chapters before he checked his pocket watch, noting that his carriage would be waiting.
He returned the book to its home in the shelves and cast a longing last scan at the alcove. Eyes forward, he reminded himself, and made his way back to the center aisle leading to the door. Focusing on what was ahead rather than what he was leaving behind, he pushed on the brass handle and stepped into the waning light.
The barouche sank under his weight, but as the driver took them back out onto the road, Quin could have sworn that he felt two stone lighter.
Grief would do that.
So would the promise of healing.
And he was hopeful that he was on the road to the latter.
Two
I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster.
—Catherine the Great
Lady Catherine Greatheart stirred her tea slowly, realizing she wasn’t sitting up straight and equally not caring a fig.
“Ducky—”
“Grandmother…” Catherine spoke the word carefully but with a warning edge to her tone.
“I was just going to mention that your sugar cube melted about a minute ago and you’re still stirring…” The charming Lady Greatheart arched a brow.
Catherine paused in her stirring, realizing her grandmother was entirely correct. Then with an impish grin, she stirred three more times just because.