The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M. Raven McAllan

to the capital. The Season hadn’t started, Parliament was not in session and he had no intention to be pushed into the arena of husband-hungry debs and their mamas who had returned early to the city, or never left. Some things needed a wide birth, so at Welland he stayed.

      He could understand why his parent doubted his intention to take over the dukedom, and run it in the proper manner, she had no reason to think he’d changed his attitude. Brody accepted he’d not been in the best of fettle when he returned, exhausted, heartsick and grieving, but even so, she hadn’t let him show her who he now was. Surely she could give him the benefit of the doubt? Just a little.

      Get some air. Brody made his way across the terrace and headed for the paddock behind the stables. A groom nodded and doffed his hat as he passed him, but nothing was said. The new Duke it seemed was an unknown quantity who no one wanted to test.

      ‘Are you wantin’ your horse, Your Grace?’ Evidently the groom decided something had to be asked by way of acknowledgement.

      Brody shook his head, relieved to at least have some normal interaction with someone. ‘No thank you, just some air.’ What was the man’s name? Not to know, was a crime.

      ‘I’m sorry, and this is appalling, I cannot remember your name.’

      The man blushed. ‘No reason why you should Your Grace. I was nobbut a youngster when you left. I’m Peters.’

      The admission from Peters that he didn’t expect Brody to know him did nothing to dispel the black dog riding on Brody’s shoulder. As Brody understood only too well, his dark mood was of his own making. He dipped his head. ‘Allow me to disagree, Peters. I should, and will, know everyone before the week’s end.’ A rash statement perhaps, but he’d do his damnedest to make it true. That black dog needed burying and life on the estate needed altering

      How to change things, though? Brody accepted his factors and stewards were wary. After all, they had managed all the ducal estates – with his mother’s help – ever since his father fell ill several years earlier. Brody assured Peters he was fine, left the stable yard and made his way to the paddock. He leaned on the rails to stare at the scene in front of him. It made him smile wryly.

      Even his cattle were wary. His favourite stallion, Fleet, took one look at him, stood in front of his harem of mares and snorted his displeasure at Brody’s long overdue return. A carrot he’d filched from the stables as he passed didn’t appease the horse. Nor did Brody’s murmured assurances that all was well. Fleet reared up and pawed the air. Brody smiled and shook his head.

      ‘Even you don’t know if I can do as needed eh? Ah well, I’ll show you all. Somehow.’ Brody turned his back on Fleet, who whinnied.

      ‘Too late, you’ve lost your chance.’ And he had lost his mind, talking to a horse in such a manner. With a self-deprecating smile and a shrug, which rippled his muscles under the serviceable hacking jacket he wore, he continued to ignore the stallion. Instead, Brody swung onto Jason, the gelding who had carried him across the continent, and who stood patiently at the gate, swishing his tail at the ever-present flies.

      ‘Come on boy; let’s gallop away the fidgets. Yours and mine.’ He wheeled around to point Jason in the direction of the paddock fence, put the horse to it and sailed effortlessly over. Then he spent an hour riding some of the restlessness out of both of them.

      Not all of it though. He still had time to think and find himself falling short of what he should be. By the time he returned to the stables and waved the groom away, so he could rub Jason down himself, Brody had accepted he was now an unknown quantity and had to re-earn the respect he’d always taken for granted.

      It was a bitter pill to swallow. The way he was deemed unnecessary to the estate. To know that no one had thought to tell him of his father’s illness, or call him back earlier. Oh he now understood their reasoning over his papa’s death. It was too late to speak to him then. But earlier? Had they thought he didn’t care? They were wrong, so very, very wrong. Hidden on the continent, away from anyone to confide in, speaking languages other than his mother tongue, Brody had mourned long and hard. His father and he had been very close, even though neither of them showed it openly.

      As he remembered those days, red-hot rage consumed him. Why had no one told him how ill his parent was? That question had teased him, annoyed him, and irritated him on and off ever since his papa passed away. It was only later he understood his papa had chosen not to speak out and therefore not worry him. A decision Brody thought wrong, but it had been his father’s decision and nothing could change that now.

      ‘What cannot be changed, must be endured and forgiven, eh Jason?’ He gave the horse a pat and left the stables. He might not agree with what had happened, but it was over and he needed to move on.

       So do they.

      To his loyal-to-the-crown family, evidently the defeat of Napoleon was more important than having the heir at home, learning the ropes. Thus his return to home shores was delayed. Therefore, to his estate managers – most of whom were chosen by his father after he, Brody, had left home – he was as much an unknown factor to them as they to he. That two-sided name made him laugh. Factor be damned. He had no input, no influence and now, sadly, no inclination to be involved.

      Brody re-entered the house without seeing a soul, washed and changed and mooched around the ground floor with a brandy in one hand and a scowl on his face. That was not true. They had no inclination to allow him to be involved. It seemed their inclination was to think everything had run smoothly without him so why upset the apple cart?

      Because I want to be involved. I am not the callow youth who left here all those years ago. This is my land, my heritage and my chance to protect the future. Brody swallowed his brandy in one long gulp, hiccupped behind his palm and scowled at his majordomo who appeared silently as if by magic. Boleyn couldn’t give him the solution to his conundrum. Not like he did when as a child, Brody bombarded him with questions and the man, then a lowly footman, never failed to give the child an answer he could understand.

      Now, because Boleyn had known him since he was in the cradle, he accepted the man’s furrowed brow and silent disapproval as given. Boleyn had disapproved of Brody’s ways well before he headed to the continent and Brody supposed he’d done nothing to change the man’s opinion since he got back.

      ‘What have I done now?’ Brody asked resignedly. ‘Except empty the brandy bottle before noon.’

      Boleyn looked him up and down, and it took all of Brody’s concentration not to fidget. He really did feel like a scrubby schoolboy once more, albeit with a three-day growth on his chin. Boleyn might only be fifteen or so years older than him, but he had the knack of making Brody regress.

      ‘Or not done?’ Brody added.

      ‘Too much to mention, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Boleyn said austerely. ‘In other’s, not enough. May I suggest you start to rectify that before all is lost.’

      Brody looked at his feet, just to avoid Boleyn’s sorrowful and disappointed expression. It made him appear like a lugubrious bloodhound. Brody sighed, put his glass down on a side table, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. ‘Who, what, and where? How much do I need to grovel?’

      Boleyn smiled and his relief was so evident to see, Brody felt like a heel. He knew he’d dragged his feet with regards to insisting he became more involved with the daily workings of his heritage. But with such determined resistance from those who held onto the reins, he’d decided to become more used to civilian life before demanding things change.

      Now he wondered just what his servants thought of him. Oh yes, they all knew him in his younger days, when he’d been a rake and a rogue, and enjoyed every moment of it. Then, wagering, wenching, and wine had been his raison d’être. No longer. Of course they didn’t know that and Brody had no idea how he could impart the knowledge, except by example perhaps? If given the chance.

       Take it, you are the Duke. Take that chance, don’t wait for it to be given.

      Boleyn