The Scandalous Love of a Duke. Jane Lark

grandfather had taken him from them, he’d never understood why.

      His childhood had been lonely before that.

      Perhaps that was why he felt so comfortable in a desert.

      He’d been given back to his mother a few weeks later. But the memory his head constantly echoed in a dream was the defining moment of his life. The point he had been torn in two, by his grandfather’s will and his mother’s love. One was hard, cold and aggressive, the other warm, welcoming and enchanting. But the second had been a childish need. What abided in him now was the barren land his grandfather had cultivated.

      John’s earliest memory was of his grandfather saying he had no mother, when John knew he did. He’d not been allowed to speak of her. He’d never known why. She’d written to him for years, and then she’d come. She’d taught him kindness and consideration, empathy and understanding, while his grandfather had encouraged restraint and harsh judgement.

      Now, John was just constantly angry at the world. This was the reason he’d stayed abroad. He was his grandfather’s monster. The years spent in Europe had taught John that.

      He took another drag on his cigar, and then exhaled.

      Good God he’d been his mother’s child, naïve and foolish, when he’d arrived in Paris. Obvious prey for the she-wolves hunting those grounds. He’d been seduced by their world and fleeced. It had taken months to learn the art of disengagement. It had left him bitter. His grandfather had achieved his wish: John did not trust a soul.

      The choice he’d made after that was the only one open to him – not to go back. Not going back was his defiance. The only way he could win the battle against his grandfather.

      Then he’d found Egypt and a purpose, something beyond himself. Something which made him feel again. The only problem was this loneliness at night.

      When it was dark, the isolation became stark and these memories flooded in. In his youth he’d covered them with friendships. In his dissipated years he’d smothered them with sex. He’d had nothing to do with women since he’d come to Egypt. There was no hiding from recollections here.

      He tilted his lips in a mock smile. He thought of his stepfather, and his brothers and sisters, who kept increasing in number. It was Christmas in four days. He imagined all his family together. Occasionally he wrote home to tell them he was still alive.

      He took another drag on his cigar, clearing his thoughts.

      He didn’t wish to think of them, nor England. He thought of the tomb he’d found.

      ~

      A brush in his hand, John lay on his stomach, cautiously sweeping sand away from the painted wall-plaster of the tomb they’d discovered four days before. The colours were so bright they could have been painted days ago not hundreds of years before.

      “My Lord!” John looked back. Mustafa, his manservant, who usually stayed in camp, was at the entrance, looking in past the couple of feet of sand still filling the opening

      “My Lord! This letter came from England.”

      Mustafa waved the thin paper as though it were something wonderful.

      John glanced at Yassah. “Carry on without me.” Then crawled backwards out of the tomb.

      The midday sun blazed down.

      John stood.

      He took the letter and saw it had passed through Alexandria a month ago. He recognised the writing as his stepfather’s. In England it was winter. Today was Christmas Day. His family would be on his stepfather’s small estate. Sometimes he had spent it with them there. Sometimes he had been forced to spend it at his grandfather’s. Either way, Christmas did not bring forward many fond memories. Perhaps a couple before his brothers and sisters had become so numerous, but after…

      John wiped a hand on his trousers then broke the seal.

      His grandfather would be horrified if he saw the calluses on John’s hands.

      Glancing up, John thanked Mustafa and then began walking towards the canopy his men used at prayer times.

      He stopped in its shade and opened the letter. A second, separate folded sheet fell out. He held that aside and read.

      The letter was dated months ago, in August.

      His father’s words were carefully couched, but the meaning was clear, the Duke of Pembroke, John’s grandfather, was dying.

       He could be dead.

       Lord!

      John’s fingers covered his mouth. His lips were dry, but inside he felt like ice, even in the heat. His hand swept back his hair.

      He had to go back. He’d been bred to take over his grandfather’s estates. The choice was no longer his.

      Then it struck him, he should feel grief. He did not. He cared nothing for the old tyrant. But he did feel strangely suspended, as though time had stopped. As though it would never start again.

      John looked at the other letter and saw Mary’s effervescent writing. She was his eldest sister, the first child of his mother’s second marriage. She was just sixteen, approaching her first season.

      She’d clearly rushed to write, scribbling a note to include in her father’s letter. She told John she needed her big brother home to lead her in her first waltz. She vowed she wouldn’t dance a single one unless he came.

      Their grandfather’s death would postpone her debut, she obviously did not know he was ill, and so perhaps the Duke had not been at death’s door.

      Whatever, John had to go back.

      “Mustafa!” John turned.

       Chapter One

       London, April, four months later

      John’s ship docked in London just as twilight darkened into night. A light drizzle was falling as he descended from the gangplank.

      England.

      It was over seven years since he’d stood on English soil. It felt odd stepping onto the dock; like travelling back in time.

      He remembered the callow youth who’d left here. He wasn’t that child anymore.

      One of the crew had called a hackney carriage. It waited before him, its oil lamp glowing into the now full darkness. He gave the address to the driver then climbed in. A few moments after he’d clicked the door shut, the carriage jarred into movement, rocking over the cobbles.

      He’d not sent word ahead. There’d seemed little point when he’d arrive just as fast.

      He lifted the curtain and looked at the passing streets.

      They’d left the narrow backstreets of the slums near the docks and now they were progressing into the more affluent areas of London.

      He’d had months to get used to the idea of coming home. He had accepted it. But it did not mean he was looking forward to it. He would be weighed down by duty here.

      John’s heart drummed steadily in his chest. Was his grandfather alive or dead?

      The carriage turned a sharp corner and John caught hold of the leather strap.

      The streets were quiet, virtually dead. Early evening in Mayfair was not a social hour. People would be dining now, before they went out. All John could hear was the sound of the carriage horses and iron-rimmed wheels on cobble.

      He didn’t even know if his family were here, but he was heading for his grandfather’s townhouse. It seemed the best place to start.

      A few minutes later, the hired carriage drew