Nothing Like a Duke

  Also by Jane Ashford

  Once Again a Bride

  Man of Honour

  The Three Graces

  The Marriage Wager

  The Bride Insists

  The Bargain

  The Marchington Scandal

  The Headstrong Ward

  Married to a Perfect Stranger

  Charmed and Dangerous

  A Radical Arrangement

  First Season / Bride to Be – Two novels in one

  Rivals of Fortune / The Impetuous Heiress – Two novels in one

  Heir to the Duke

  What the Duke Doesn’t Know

  Lord Sebastian’s Secret

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  Copyright © 2017 by Jane LeCompte

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  A Sneak Peek of The Duke Knows Best

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  The front axle of the post chaise snapped as one wheel slammed into a deep rut, throwing Lord Robert Gresham against the side window hard enough to bruise. The loud crack, sudden sideways lurch, and bumping drag that followed spooked the team pulling the coach. The vehicle lurched and bounced as the two postilions struggled to get the four horses back under control.

  Robert braced his legs and clung to a strap until they’d slowed enough for him to push his way out and help. He leaped to the head of the off-side leader and held on to wet leather. Mud from churning hooves filled the air, spattering his top boots, pantaloons, and greatcoat. A spray of the sticky stuff slapped his face as the horse tried to rear. “Be still. It’s all right,” Robert said, using the easy combination of reassurance and command he’d learned from his brother Sebastian.

  It was a number of minutes before the horses were calm and the men could verify that the post chaise was irretrievably damaged.

  “We didn’t see that dratted hole, milord, what with all the mud,” said the elder postilion.

  As if on cue, the rain started up again, a slow but penetrating drizzle. A chilly drop slipped under Robert’s coat collar and trickled down his back. “A bad stretch of—” He looked up and down the narrow, rutted track. “I suppose one must call it a road.” He noticed that one of the horses had pulled up lame. The coach tilted forlornly in the middle of the lane, which curved around a small stand of trees just ahead. “We need to move the chaise.” If another vehicle came barreling around that turn, the results would be disastrous. Not that traffic appeared likely.

  “We’ll drag her off to the side,” the man replied. “And Davy’ll ride back to that farm we passed and see about help.”

  He didn’t sound optimistic, and Robert imagined he was right. The replacement would be whatever old thing the farmer kept in his barn. And it would take a couple of hours to procure. Robert looked around. There were no houses in sight, no buildings of any kind, actually, although they were no more than ten miles, he estimated, from his ultimate destination.

  Robert sighed. It had been a long, hard journey into the North. If he hadn’t promised friends that he’d visit…but he had. Turning up his collar, he made his way over to the trees. The foliage, still thick in early October, kept off most of the rain. And it felt better to be out in the fresh air. He watched the postilions coax the team into dragging the coach off to the side. The younger man then mounted one of the horses and rode back the way they’d come. The other unhitched the remaining animals and led them over to a patch of grass, running his hands over their legs and checking for other injuries. Robert pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. It came away muddy, and he suspected it hadn’t removed all traces of dirt. He leaned against an oak and resigned himself to a stretch of boredom. So much for his early start today.

  The rain dripped from the leaves overhead. A light wind rustled through them. The horses sampled the grass. The postilion settled himself under another tree. Robert thanked providence it wasn’t colder. Time ticked past.

  Gradually, Robert became aware of a sound beneath the murmur of water. It was a soft whining, as of some creature in distress, and intermittent. Just when he would decide he’d imagined it, it would start up again.

  The next time this happened, Robert searched for the source. He had to wait through another period of silence before he found his way to a low bush. Raising one of its branches, he discovered a huddled bit of dark fur. When he bent to look closer, a small head lifted, and dark eyes met his.

  It was a dog, quite young, he thought, soaking wet and shivering. As he eyed it, the whimpering began again. The sound seemed involuntary, because the tiny creature stared at him without demand, or hope. Even as Robert gazed, the puppy’s head sank down again, too tired, or dejected, to resist whatever fate was about to descend on it. The brown eyes closed.

  Robert straightened. He strode over to the chaise and pulled out one of the blankets provided to cover travelers’ legs. Bringing it back, he draped it over the puppy and picked it up, wrapping the small shivering form in warm wool. Cradling it in one arm, he retraced his steps.

  “What’s that there?” the postilion asked as he passed. “A rat?”

  “No, a dog. A puppy, really.”

  “What sort of dog?”

  “A mixed sort, I believe.” It hadn’t looked like any breed Robert knew.

  “What’s it doing out here, then?”

  “Lost, or abandoned. Perhaps something happened to its mother.”

  “You ain’t going to put it in the chaise?” said the other man.

  “I am,” said Robert. And suiting action to word, he climbed into the leaning vehicle and set the bundled blanket on the slanting seat beside him.

  The puppy stirred and looked up at him. It was still trembling.

  Robert reached out. The little do
g cowered away, and Robert felt a flash of anger. What blackguard had taught this young animal to expect a blow? Moving slowly and unthreateningly, Robert rubbed the water out of its fur. Overall, it was black, a trifle shaggy, with odd stripes of brown along its sides, like tiny lightning bolts. Its ears were rather large for its size. They were pointed, but flopped over at the tips.

  The puppy’s shivering abated when it was dry. It nestled into the blanket until only its nose and eyes were visible.

  Robert reached into the pocket on the inside of the chaise’s door and retrieved the remains of a sandwich packed for him at their last stop. The puppy flinched at the sudden movement, and trembled at the crackle of paper as Robert unwrapped it. “It’s all right,” he said. “Or, it may be, unless you need milk. God knows where I’d find that.” He pulled a shred of beef from between the slices of bread and held it out. The puppy sniffed, but didn’t move to take it.

  Robert placed the meat on the blanket. The little animal hesitated as if it couldn’t quite believe its luck, then lurched forward and snatched the beef. Teeth snapped and chewed. Perhaps the dog wasn’t as young as he’d feared, Robert thought. Perhaps it was simply small.

  They continued in this fashion until all the beef was gone, and most of the bread as well. The dog gained enough confidence to take the last bits from his hand. Robert completed the ruin of his handkerchief by using it to wipe off the mustard. “Better?” he said when the animal would take no more.

  The dog tried to stand, as if concluding that it was time to move on now that it had eaten. All four legs shook under its tiny weight, and it fell back to the blanket, which had shifted enough for Robert to see that the little creature was a male. “No need to stir,” he said. “It’s a foul afternoon.”

  Indeed, the rain was beating harder on the roof of the chaise. Robert cracked the door and asked the postilion if he wanted to join him in the carriage.

  “I’ll stay with the horses,” the man replied from his refuge under the trees. “I’m used to being out in all weathers.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Certain sure, milord. Could you be sure that animal don’t befoul the coach?”

  “I’ll watch him.” Robert cupped a hand in the rain, wetting his sleeve, and offered the dog a bit of water. He lapped it up, and Robert filled his hand with water twice more before closing the door and sitting back, feet braced against the sideways sag of the seat.

  The rain pattered above. Otherwise all was silence. Waiting was tedious. Robert hadn’t had anyone to talk to for hours, days. “What are you doing so far from a farm or village?” he asked the dog.

  Wary brown eyes watched him.

  “I expect it’s a sad story, and you’d rather not think about it,” Robert went on. “I don’t suppose you know Salbridge Great Hall? I’m on my way to a house party there.”

  One of the dog’s ears twitched.

  “No, I hadn’t heard of it either. But I understand that it’s the showplace of its district.”

  The dog shifted in the blanket.

  “Well, that’s what Salbridge said. It’s true we are speaking of Northumberland. The standards may be lower.” Robert gazed out at the sodden landscape. “I’ve never been so far north. I begin to see Randolph’s point.”

  His companion made an odd sound, something like a gargle.

  “Randolph is my brother. One of my brothers. He lives up here. I thought that an added inducement when the Salbridges urged me to come. I can’t think why just now.”

  A gust of wind rocked the carriage on its springs. The dog nestled deeper into the blanket.

  “Precisely,” said Robert. “But when friends beg for support one must rally ’round. I’m to lend luster to their gathering.”

  The small dog cocked his head.

  Robert smiled down at him. “I assure you that luster is one of my gifts. Hostesses count themselves lucky to have me. They, er, vie for my favor. Unlike— But I’m not thinking of her. I’ve given up thinking of her. I’m going back where I belong.”

  The small dog’s gaze had become unnervingly steady. It held no threat that Robert could see. He would have said, rather, that it was speculative, philosophical. Would have, if the idea hadn’t been ridiculous.

  “I like helping people enjoy themselves,” he added in the face of that unwavering regard. “I’m good at it.” And if he didn’t feel quite as convivial as usual, Robert thought, well, he would soon recover his high spirits.

  The dog curled up and went to sleep. Robert made himself as comfortable as he could on the tilted seat. And together, they waited.

  Just under two hours from the time of the accident, a vehicle came trundling up the road. Robert’s dire predictions were fulfilled when he saw the second postilion at the reins of a rough farm cart, with two thick wheels digging into the mud and a tattered canvas cover over the back.

  “I thought you’d rather get on, even in this heap, than wait for a new chaise to be fetched, milord,” the man said when he pulled up. “Don’t rightly know how long that would take.”

  Standing in the muddy road, Robert eyed the rustic equipage and the two large farm horses pulling it. No doubt the ride would rattle their bones.

  The men moved his trunk from the chaise to the cart. He was going to have to perch upon it, Robert saw. There was no room for anyone but the driver on the seat. At least the rain had eased. Gathering blanket and puppy, he climbed up.

  “You taking the animal?” asked the older postilion.

  “You expect me to leave him here?”

  “Well, I dunno. He ain’t a toff’s sort of dog, is he?”

  “Would you like him?”

  “Me? I got no use for a dog.”

  It was just as well he refused, because Robert realized that he had no intention of handing the animal over. There was something curiously engaging about the small creature.

  Lord Robert Gresham’s subsequent arrival at the Salbridges’ estate was quite uncharacteristic for a gentleman recognized as a pink of the ton. He was wet and muddy, his fine clothes horridly creased. He was worn out from the jolting of his disreputable vehicle. He had no hat—it had blown off during the last part of his journey and gone tumbling down an escarpment—and he carried a mongrel dog under one arm. Indeed, the grooms in the Salbridge stables very nearly turned him away. Thankfully, one who’d seen him in London came forward to confirm his identity.

  “Broken axle,” said Robert.

  “Ah.” There were general nods at this piece of information.

  “Can some of you help me with these lads?” the postilion asked, climbing down from the cart and going to the massive horses’ heads. “They’ve done well, and I promised to have them back tomorrow.”

  The grooms moved forward to help, and to retrieve Robert’s trunk. He followed the latter two as they carried his luggage through the stable yard to a back door. He didn’t intend to knock at the front in his current state and track mud across an immaculate front hall and staircase. He’d use the back stairs to find his assigned bedchamber and clean up before he greeted his hosts.

  His luck was out, however. The Countess of Salbridge was in the kitchen, conferring with the cook, so she was among the group that turned at his entry, blinked, and stared.

  There was nothing for it. Robert smiled, swept off an imaginary hat, and gave her a jaunty bow. “Hullo, Anne.”

  “Robert?” she said, incredulous. “What are you— Whatever has happened?”

  “Long story. Started with a broken axle on my post chaise. And, er, went on from there.”

  The dog chose this moment to pop his head out of the blanket and stare about the room, shifting his gaze slowly from one person to the next, and the next. A kitchen maid gestured. Robert thought it was a sign against the evil eye. The countess bit her lower lip.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” Robert told her. �
�I live to amuse.”

  She did. “Oh, Robert,” she said after several moments of mirth. “Only you could carry off such a…memorable entrance.”

  He gave his audience another elegant bow.

  * * *

  Several hours later, bathed and changed and feeling renewed, Robert sat in a luxurious bedchamber reading a letter from his mother, the Duchess of Langford. The missive had followed him from Herefordshire, where his family had most lately gathered for his brother Sebastian’s wedding, to Robert’s rooms in London, and now here to Northumberland. Aware that he hadn’t behaved quite like himself at the wedding, Robert wondered how he would answer his mother’s inquiries about his well-being. The answer that came to him was…later.

  Setting the page aside, he stared out at the sweep of gardens outside the window. Salbridge Great Hall might be at the ends of the earth from a Londoner’s point of view, but it was a fine old stone pile. Parts of it looked to date from Tudor times, others from subsequent centuries. The interior had been refurbished with modern comforts.

  The rain had lifted. Rays of afternoon sun illuminated turning leaves and late blooms, a manicured autumn vista. From this height, he could see the River Tyne in the distance. “I am very well indeed,” he tried aloud.

  From a cushion by the hearth, his newly acquired dog turned a steady gaze upon him. The pup’s small stomach was rounded from the large bowl of scraps he’d ingested. Any other young dog would be dead asleep after such a feast, Robert thought, but this one was keeping a careful eye on his surroundings.

  Meeting those brown eyes, and for some reason unable to look away, Robert had the oddest thought. He felt like a man who had always lived in a fine house, pleasing in every detail, and then one day discovered that a great cavern lay beneath it. In all his years, he’d never suspected the cave existed. When he explored this new subterranean realm, he found it a marvelous place, full of things he’d never dreamed of. The expansion excited and challenged him. But then, after a time, he encountered difficulties, bitter disappointments. And he began to wonder if the cavern was undermining the foundations of the house above, threatening general ruin.