Royal's Bride. Kat Martin

him, leaving him alone in the gloomy, airless room. His father had suffered three separate strokes, the first three years ago, and each more debilitating than the last. Royal should have come back to England after the first, but his father’s letters had assured him of his recovery, and Royal had wanted to believe it. He wanted to stay at Sugar Reef.

      He looked down at the frail old man on the bed, once a man of unbelievable power and strength. It was sheer force of will, Royal believed, that had kept his father alive this long.

      “Royal …?”

      He moved to the bed, settled himself in the chair his youngest brother had vacated. “I’m right here, Father.” He reached out and clasped the duke’s thin, cold hand. Though it was warm in the bedroom, he made a mental note to stoke up the flames in the hearth.

      “I am sorry … my son,” the duke said in a raspy voice, “for the poor legacy … I have left you. I have failed you … and your … brothers.”

      “It’s all right, Father. Once you are back on your feet—”

      “Do not talk … nonsense, boy.” He took a few wheezing breaths, his mouth drooping slightly, and Royal fell silent. “I’ve lost it all. I am not … not even sure exactly how it happened. Somehow it just … slipped away.”

      Royal didn’t have to ask what his father meant. The furniture missing from the drawing rooms, the bare spots on the walls where exquisite gilt-framed paintings once had hung, the general dilapidated condition of what had once been one of the grandest houses in England told the story.

      “In time, our fortune can be rebuilt,” Royal said. “The Bransford dukedom will be as mighty as it ever was.”

      “Yes … I am certain it will be.” He coughed, dragged in a shaky breath. “I know I can … count on you, Royal … you and your brothers. But it won’t be easy.”

      “I will see it done, Father, I promise you.”

      “And so you … shall. And I am going to help you … even after I am dead and buried.”

      Royal’s chest squeezed. He knew his father was going to die. It was only a matter of time. Still, it was difficult to accept that a man once as strong and vital as the duke would actually be gone.

      “Did you hear what I said … Royal?”

      He had, but only dimly. “Yes, Father, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

      “There is a way … my son. The simplest … of ways. Marriage to the right woman will give you … the money you need.” His frail hold tightened on Royal’s hand. “I have found her, son. The perfect … woman.”

      Royal straightened in his chair, certain his father must have returned to his former rambling.

      “She is beautiful …” the duke continued. “An exquisite creature … worthy of becoming your duchess.” The old man’s strength seemed to grow with every word, and for a moment, the dull glaze over his eyes lifted, turning them the fierce blue of his youth. “She is an heiress, my boy … inherited a fortune from her grandfather. And the size of her dowry is incredible. You will be a wealthy man again.”

      “You should rest. I can come back—”

      “Listen to me, son. I have already spoken to her … father, a man named Henry Caulfield. Caulfield dotes on her. He is determined … to give her a title. The arrangements have already … been made.” He wheezed in a breath, coughed, but his hold on Royal’s hand never weakened. “After a suitable period of mourning … you will marry Jocelyn Caulfield. With her fortune … and your resolve … you can rebuild the house and return our lands to their former glory.”

      The duke’s grip grew fierce. Royal was amazed he had that much strength. And he realized his father wasn’t rambling. Indeed, he knew exactly what he was saying. “Promise me you will do it. Say you will marry the girl.”

      Royal’s heart was thumping oddly. He owed his father, yet deep inside, some part of him wanted to refuse, to rebel against a life that had been dictated for him. Though he had been trained to assume the duties of duke, he hadn’t expected to face those duties so soon.

      His mind rushed backward. At two-and-twenty, he had hied himself off to adventure in the Caribbean. He had taken over the running of the family plantation. The vast acreage had been of little value when he had assumed the role as owner. Through hours of back-breaking labor, he had created a domain he could be proud of, made the plantation the success it was today.

      He had known one day he would be called back home. He had known he would face responsibilities beyond anything he had handled in the past.

      But he hadn’t expected his father to die so soon.

      Or to inherit a title and lands that had been stripped completely bare.

      His father’s grip slackened, his energy drained. The corner of his mouth drooped as it had before. “Promise me …”

      Royal swallowed. His father was dying. How could he refuse his dying wish?

      “Please …” the duke whispered.

      “I will marry her, Father, as you wish. You have my word.”

      The duke made a faint nod of his head. A slow breath whispered out and his eyes slowly closed. For an instant, Royal feared he was dead. Then his chest weakly inflated, and Royal felt a sweep of relief. Releasing his father’s cold hand, he slipped it beneath the covers and eased away from the bed. He paused long enough to build up the fire, then left the suite.

      As he stepped outside, he spotted Rule pacing the hallway. His brother jerked to a halt as Royal quietly closed the door.

      “Is he …?”

      “He is as he was.” He released a breath. “He has arranged a marriage. The woman comes with an enormous dowry, enough to begin rebuilding the family lands and holdings. I have agreed to the match.”

      Rule frowned, drawing his black eyebrows together. “Are you certain that is what you wish to do?”

      Royal’s mouth barely curved. “I am not sure of anything, brother, except that I have made a vow and now I must keep it.”

      The burial of the Duke of Bransford took place on a windy, overcast, frigid morning in January. The proceedings had actually begun several days earlier, with a lengthy funeral service given by the Archbishop at Westminster Abbey. It was attended by a score of nobles and dozens of London’s elite.

      Afterward, the coffin was transported to the village of Bransford via an extravagant black carriage and four matching black horses for a graveside service and the final interment of the late duke’s body in the family’s private plot adjacent to the village church.

      A number of family members were in attendance, including the duke’s aging aunt, Agatha Edgewood, Dowager Countess of Tavistock, as well as numerous other aunts and cousins, some Royal hadn’t known existed. Some, like vultures, had come to discover if they might receive a bequest in the late duke’s will. Those few had a surprise in store for them since little unentailed property or monies remained in the family coffers.

      Royal stared down at the gleaming bronze casket that held his father’s remains and a thick lump swelled in his throat. He should have come home sooner, should have spent more time with the man who had sired him. He should have helped him manage his vast affairs. Perhaps if he had, the dukedom wouldn’t have fallen into ruin. Perhaps his father wouldn’t have worried himself into an early grave.

      Royal gazed at the coffin, which blurred for an instant behind a film of tears. His father was gone. The sixth Duke of Bransford had passed away peacefully two hours after the arrival of his middle son.

      Reese and the duke had been cosseted together briefly, and another vow was made. By no later than the date his twelve-year enlistment was up, Reese would leave the military and return to Wiltshire. He would take over the lands and manor at Briarwood, a nearby property Reese had