are up for the challenge.â
He had to ask. Because once they stepped amongst the competitors, he would not accept defeat. Blake William Peregrine Auden, the ninth Duke of Ashbrooke, did not lose.
âIâve made it all the way to Castle Hill. There is no turning back now,â Emma replied. âAre you ready? Because I have every intention of winning.â
The tension on the violin string lessened, slightly.
Blake led her through the corridor, down the massive staircase, across the pink marble and alabaster foyer, and onto the terraceâÂdodging ghosts and memories every step of the way.
In the stupidly pink foyer, he had been left alone with his dusty traveling trunks, just a young boy with a title longer than he was tall.
He had been a violent tempest of emotional turmoil.
Then Agatha arrived. She had coolly and calmly taken him by the hand and led him to the nursery. He still recalled his small, sticky orphan boy hand in her paper-Âsoft old lady hand.
On a round marble table in the foyer stood the same monstrosity: a large porcelain urn, hand painted with pastoral scenes of Castle Hill and containing the ashes of Lady Agathaâs fourth husband, Harold, otherwise known as âthe one she liked.â Some poor housemaid was tasked with dusting it each day, her job on the line if it should be anything less than perfectly maintained.
The hallway on the second floor, where she had pointed out her bedroom and said he shouldnât hesitate to disturb her. She was old and no longer had a husband, so he wouldnât interrupt anything, she had told him. Heâd been confused then, but he understood: he was always welcome, her fierce little duke.
He hoped this was still true.
He held Emmaâs hand tightly, grateful for the comfort it afforded. He was troubled by feelings he couldnât have articulated even if he found himself at knifepoint, on the edge of a cliff overlooking a pit of man-Âeating crocodiles. Memories of the past haunted him, the warm touch of her hand keeping him grounded in the present.
Notoriously heartless scoundrel he might be, he held on for dear life.
Hand in hand they passed through the French doors leading to the stone terrace, which overlooked the gardens and beyond that the water. One could see the blue line of the horizon, and the air carried the salty scent of the sea.
âThe Duke of Ashbrooke and his betrothed, Lady Emma Avery,â Jewkes announced.
The small, select crowd peered at the latecomers. George, knowing the truth about the engagement, grinned wickedly. Blake wondered if he could count on him to keep the information to himself.
The CopleysâÂsecond cousinsâÂwere there, looking peevish, as always. Cousins Archibald Pleshette and Lord Dudley stood off to the side, radiating snobbery. Blake noted the predatory gaze of Lady Bellande, the widow of his long deceased second cousin. It was how women other than Emma usually looked at him.
Emmaâs hand tightened around his, sending a surge of possessiveness shooting through him.
Then the crowd parted, revealing Aunt Agatha. Her white hair was done in an elaborate, towering arrangement that probably added eight inches to her height. As per her unique style, she appeared to wear the entire collection of Ashbrooke family jewels at once. Dangling ruby ear bobs, diamond necklaces tangled with strands of black pearls, a sparkling rock on every finger, gold and silver bracelets clinking on her thin, bony wrists.
Blake couldnât help it. He squeezed Emmaâs hand, hard.
Aunt Agatha was older, grayer. It was her eyes that undid him, because they were as blue, keen, intelligent, and sharp as the day he first arrived. She had taken one look at him and said, âWell all right then, come along.â There was no coddling or nonsense with Agatha. After a plethora of clucking, pitying aunties and cousins after the Accident, it was what he had needed. Desperately.
He
He had to ask. Because once they stepped amongst the competitors, he would not accept defeat. Blake William Peregrine Auden, the ninth Duke of Ashbrooke, did not lose.
âIâve made it all the way to Castle Hill. There is no turning back now,â Emma replied. âAre you ready? Because I have every intention of winning.â
The tension on the violin string lessened, slightly.
Blake led her through the corridor, down the massive staircase, across the pink marble and alabaster foyer, and onto the terraceâÂdodging ghosts and memories every step of the way.
In the stupidly pink foyer, he had been left alone with his dusty traveling trunks, just a young boy with a title longer than he was tall.
He had been a violent tempest of emotional turmoil.
Then Agatha arrived. She had coolly and calmly taken him by the hand and led him to the nursery. He still recalled his small, sticky orphan boy hand in her paper-Âsoft old lady hand.
On a round marble table in the foyer stood the same monstrosity: a large porcelain urn, hand painted with pastoral scenes of Castle Hill and containing the ashes of Lady Agathaâs fourth husband, Harold, otherwise known as âthe one she liked.â Some poor housemaid was tasked with dusting it each day, her job on the line if it should be anything less than perfectly maintained.
The hallway on the second floor, where she had pointed out her bedroom and said he shouldnât hesitate to disturb her. She was old and no longer had a husband, so he wouldnât interrupt anything, she had told him. Heâd been confused then, but he understood: he was always welcome, her fierce little duke.
He hoped this was still true.
He held Emmaâs hand tightly, grateful for the comfort it afforded. He was troubled by feelings he couldnât have articulated even if he found himself at knifepoint, on the edge of a cliff overlooking a pit of man-Âeating crocodiles. Memories of the past haunted him, the warm touch of her hand keeping him grounded in the present.
Notoriously heartless scoundrel he might be, he held on for dear life.
Hand in hand they passed through the French doors leading to the stone terrace, which overlooked the gardens and beyond that the water. One could see the blue line of the horizon, and the air carried the salty scent of the sea.
âThe Duke of Ashbrooke and his betrothed, Lady Emma Avery,â Jewkes announced.
The small, select crowd peered at the latecomers. George, knowing the truth about the engagement, grinned wickedly. Blake wondered if he could count on him to keep the information to himself.
The CopleysâÂsecond cousinsâÂwere there, looking peevish, as always. Cousins Archibald Pleshette and Lord Dudley stood off to the side, radiating snobbery. Blake noted the predatory gaze of Lady Bellande, the widow of his long deceased second cousin. It was how women other than Emma usually looked at him.
Emmaâs hand tightened around his, sending a surge of possessiveness shooting through him.
Then the crowd parted, revealing Aunt Agatha. Her white hair was done in an elaborate, towering arrangement that probably added eight inches to her height. As per her unique style, she appeared to wear the entire collection of Ashbrooke family jewels at once. Dangling ruby ear bobs, diamond necklaces tangled with strands of black pearls, a sparkling rock on every finger, gold and silver bracelets clinking on her thin, bony wrists.
Blake couldnât help it. He squeezed Emmaâs hand, hard.
Aunt Agatha was older, grayer. It was her eyes that undid him, because they were as blue, keen, intelligent, and sharp as the day he first arrived. She had taken one look at him and said, âWell all right then, come along.â There was no coddling or nonsense with Agatha. After a plethora of clucking, pitying aunties and cousins after the Accident, it was what he had needed. Desperately.
He
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