THE DOOR OF THE Duke of Eversleighâs library clicked shut. From his chair behind the huge mahogany desk, Jason Montgomery, fifth Duke of Eversleigh, eyed the oak panels with marked disfavour.
âImpossible!â he muttered, the word heavy with contemptuous disdain laced with an odd reluctance. As the sound of his cousin Hectorâs retreating footsteps dwindled, Jasonâs gaze left the door, travelling across the laden bookcases to the large canvas mounted on a nearby wall.
Expression bleak, he studied the features of the young man depicted there, the impudent, devil-may-care smile and mischievous grey eyes topped by wind-tousled dark brown hair. Broad shoulders were clad in the scarlet of regimentals, a lance stood to one side, all evidence of the subjectâs occupation. A muscle twitched at the corner of Jasonâs mouth. He quelled it, his austere, chiselled features hardening into a mask of chilly reserve.
The door opened to admit a gentleman, elegantly garbed and smiling amiably. He paused with his hand on the knob and raised a brow enquiringly.
âI saw your cousin depart. Are you safe?â
With the confidence of one sure of his welcome, Frederick Marshall did not wait for an answer but, shutting the door, strolled towards the desk between the long windows.
His Grace of Eversleigh let out an explosive sigh. âDamn it, Frederick, this is no laughing matter! Hector Montgomery is a man-milliner! It would be the height of irresponsibility for me to allow him to step into the ducal shoes. Even I canât stomach the thoughtâand I wouldnât be here to see it.â
Pushing back his chair, Jason swung to face his friend as he sank into an armchair nearby. âMore to the point,â he continued, stretching his long legs before him, a somewhat grim smile twisting his lips, âtempting though the idea might be, if I introduced cher Hector to the family as my heir, thereâd be a riotâa mutiny in the Montgomery ranks. Knowing my aunts, they would press for incarceration until such time as I capitulated and wed.â
âI dare say your aunts would be delighted to know you see the problemâand its solutionâso clearly.â
At that, Jasonâs piercing gaze focused on his friendâs face. âJust whose side are you on, Frederick?â
Frederick smiled. âNeed you ask? But thereâs no sense in ducking the facts. Now Rickyâs gone, youâll have to wed. And the sooner you make up your mind to it, the less likely it will be that your aunts, dear ladies, think to take a hand themselvesâdonât you think?â
Having delivered himself of this eminently sound piece of advice, Frederick sat back and watched his friend digest it. Sunshine shone through the windows at Jasonâs back, burnishing the famous chestnut locks cut short in the prevailing mode. Broad shoulders did justice to one of Schultzâs more severe designs, executed in grey superfine, worn over tightly fitting pantaloons. The waistcoat Frederick espied beneath the grey coat, a subtle thing in shades of deeper grey and muted lavender, elicited a twinge of envy. There was one man in all of England who could effortlessly make Frederick Marshall feel less than elegant and that man was seated behind the desk, sunk in unaccustomed gloom.
Both bachelors, their association was bound by many common interests, but in all their endeavours it was Jason who excelled. A consummate sportsman, a noted whip, a hardened gamester and acknowledged rake, dangerous with pistolsâand even more dangerous with women. Unused to acknowledging any authority beyond his own whims, the fifth Duke of Eversleigh had lived a hedonistic existence that few, in this hedonistic age, could match.
Which, of course, made the solution to his present predicament that much harder to swallow.
Seeing Jasonâs gaze, pensive yet stubborn, rise to the portrait of his younger brother, known to all as Ricky, Frederick stifled a sigh. Few understood how close the brothers had been, despite the nine yearsâ difference in age. At twenty-nine, Ricky had possessed a boundless charm which had cloaked the wilful streak he shared with Jasonâthe same wilful streak that had sent him in the glory of his Guardsâ captaincy to Waterloo, there to die at Hougoumont. The dispatches had heaped praise on all the fated Guardsmen who had defended the vital fort so valiantly, yet no amount of praise had eased the grief, all the more deep for being so private, that Jason had borne.