The early nineteenth century was indeed a time of great drama and romance. However, nothing marked the onset of an epic story more finely than the unannounced arrival of the most eligible bachelor in the romantic town of London. And when the erstwhile arrival belonged to the newly crowned Duke of Dales, of France, there was less chance of it sustaining the status of being 'unannounced'.
Edward David Montague, the infamous Duke of Dales, had lived and loved a life brimming with scandals at all times, and being the talk of the town was something he was rather fond of. He was more than delighted to have the details of his arrival on all papers and lips around the streets of London, hence when his sister, the married Lady Eleanor Richcomb proposed a ball to be held at her place in the honor of his advent, he had no choice but to cherish the opportunity.
"I have but one condition," He had stated after accepting the proposal. "it shall be a masquerade."
"A masquerade?" Lady Richcomb had all but echoed, "but brother, masks are certainly not in fashion, not in London. Not at present." To which Edward had only shrugged nonchalantly with a smirk shining in his emerald blue eyes declaring the presence of a rather unpleasant conspiracy behind them. She could detect it but she couldn't question him.
After all, she was no less.
After the death of their father, the former Duke of Dales about six months ago, Edward had spent almost every day struggling to get together the affairs of the dukedom. In contrast to her concerns about his unbothered temper and boyish attitude, he proved himself quite worthy and laudable in his father's stead.
Although, with passing time, Eleanor's concerns over one subject grew consecutively.
Six months into the role of the Duke, her brother had still not uttered a word on the subject of marriage. However, the dukedom must have a dutchess to complete it, hence, she began conspiring. The first step was, of course, inviting him to London during the marriage season.
The ball was the next.
By the close of this marriage season, she was certain she would have him married.
"Your costumes for the evening, Your Grace." Men carried attires and accessories following her and stood by his bed one after the other.
Edward raked them with his sharp blue eyes for a moment, a moment that was enough to make them all sick on their insides. "Leave them all on the bed." He ordered in a straight tone. He did not prefer servants or anyone at all violating his personal space, despite the tradition.
"The masks are there too, as you requested." Eleanor smiled brightly, causing her blushed cheeks to rise at the perfect angles, striking a sharp contrast against her night-black hair, as she waved a hand towards the bed. Edward beamed lightly in response and then went back to the papers he was studying.
She sighed at the scarcity of his excitement but tried not to make it obvious. "Lawrence! Your costumes have been delivered to your room as well."
Lawrence Benjamin was one of the oldest and the most trustworthy friends of the Duke for as long as they could remember.
"Thank you, Lady Richcomb." Lawrence bowed his head with a tease in his gaze while still standing next to Edward with a thick file of commercial papers in his hand. Eleanor rolled her eyes at his excessive use of honorifics despite her reprimanding him on it multiple times.
Lawrence Benjamin, Eleanor Montague (now Eleanor Richcomb), and Edward David Montague were three names that were often taken together.
Every person who knew of them was surely aware of their epic friendship. Even though Eleanor was 4 years older than the boys, ever since they met each other, they have been practically inseparable. Education, tradition, and various business affairs made Eleanor walk on a separate path from the two boys however, every time they gathered, they were again back to their old selves.
"Mother, what about my clothes?" All three pairs of adult eyes turned in the direction of the curious voice. A little man came tumbling through the door and caught hold of Eleanor's silk gown.
She bent down and combed his light brown hair with her fingers. "And what should you need clothes for, my lord?"
"The ball!" Little Henry Richcomb almost jumped in excitement. Tiny chuckles floated in the room after him.
"The ball? Kids don't go to the ball, Henry."
The child let go of his mother's gown almost instantly and ran towards the Duke who had by then, forgotten all about the documents scattered on the wooden table. "Edward, I want to go to the ball!"
He was just about to reply to him when the mother plunged her son away. "Come with me, I'll show you your costumes." She said as she left the room. "Haven't I told you to not address the Duke by his name?"
Letting a careless chuckle escape his lips, Edward pulled out of his study chair and reached out to scrutinize his attire for the evening. The velvet coat with an intensely deep blue colour felt exquisite against his fingers. The white shirt was light and the threadwork was fine. Lady Richcomb was one of the most elegant and exquisite women of her time and was known across London for her skill and sense of fashion. Edward was however the only gentleman apart from her husband who had the privilege to enjoy her expertise.
Lawrence studied him keenly as he bent forward and held the black metallic mask up to his face. "Never imagined this now, did we?" he mumbled depositing the bundle of papers beneath a wooden paperweight.
"Huh?" Edward turned around to face his friend.
"This. You." Lawrence said with a shrug. "For as long as I can remember, I'd only ever imagined you to be the last person of us three to get married."
Edward's eyebrows curved lightly at his remark. "You," he said blankly, "are probably not wrong." A pretentious smile shimmered above his cutting jawline.
"Well, of course." Lawrence waved his hand in the air in exaggeration. "That sounds entirely sensible coming from the new Duke of Dales who has just arrived in London to spend the entire marriage season among fresh and blooming debutantes. Not to mention, the ball that you are about to attend this evening that is being held in the mere honour of your arrival."
"Hmm," Edward murmured deeply as he walked slow steps towards the cellar. "Ruthless."
"My pleasure, Your Grace." Lawrence teased following behind him. He waited for the Duke to speak again but when he didn't, he couldn't control his curiosity. "But tell me, Montague, if you don't want to marry at present, as you say, why are you here? In London?"
"To explore." Short and sharp answers were Edward's trademark. He would sometimes take a moment before speaking but, his words were always calculated.
Most people did not dare ask him questions once he had given his statement, no matter how inadequate they feel it to be, but Lawrence was different. "Explore?" He asked in a mocking voice. "Explore what?"
"The marriage market, of course." Edward pulled a chair out after picking a drink and sat, gesturing for his friend to do the same.
"The marriage market is to be explored by someone who is willing to get married."
"Or someone who has a sister who is willing- no desperate, to get them married," Edward spoke without a thought.
"Ahh. I see." Lawrence leaned back in his seat with realisation dawning on his face. "My condolences."
"I'm grateful although, so I hardly need them. If you ask me honestly, I'm more than happy to oblige Eleanor." Edward mused before retiring to his drink, but when his friend gave no answer apart from the intense curling of his eyebrows in confusion, he decided to elaborate.
"Tell me Lawrence, which is the strongest feeling in the world?"
He had never asked a question this deep. The answer was on his tongue but Lawrence somehow knew, that wasn't what the duke wished to hear. "I.."
"Devotion, my friend." Edward's voice grew deep and strong. "Devotion is the strongest feeling in the world and hence, the most fun to play with."
"I beg to differ." was all Lawrence deemed right to say.
"I am the most eligible bachelor in miles," Edward stated, rising from his chair and moving towards the grand window that overlooked huge grounds and serene gardens. "Imagine the anticipation running through the veins of the women of the ton. They will be ready to do anything just in the name of the Duke of Dales because they have lost their sanity to a devotion of the wildest kind."
He turned around to face his friend who was now listening to him with a wild expression. "The devotion to wealth."
"You seem pretty confident of your plans Montague, but must you remember, playing with a feeling that strong may not be so empty of harm. For there is one devotion more hazardous than the devotion to wealth, and if you happen to get entangled with it, I fear its impossible to walk away safe."
"And what might that be?" Edward raised an eyebrow in challenge and mischief. Another thing that he loved apart from playing with devotion was getting challenged and winning.
"The devotion to love." The duke couldn't help but snort in dark humour. That wasn't even something worth arguing for.
"Love? Me? You don't understand the basic concept of love my friend." He assertively declared. "Love is for those who lack something, who long for something. What should I long for?"
Lawrence decided not to answer. He felt it right to let the experience change the Duke's thoughts, so instead, he said, "How good must it feel to be loved and longed for by so many women."
Edward half-smiled. "I should not know, for I have never experienced it."
"That is indeed a great joke, considering how clearly you just described the women of the ton being ready to do anything on the mere name of the Duke of Dales."
"The Duke of Dales," Edward repeated with more stress on every word. "Not me. Not Edward David Montague. It is the title they love. It is the wealth. Not me." He stated humorlessly. "They will marry you today if you only say you're the Duke."
"Imagine that!" Lawrence decided to laugh the seriousness away, but when the intensity did not fall from Edward's eyes, he tried to change the subject of the conversation.
"Well, my friend, play while you can. You don't have long till the woman to whom your father promised your hand appears to claim you."
Instead of turning the mood light, the topic of his childhood betrothed only caused the Duke's eyes to turn grimmer. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I am talking about your betrothed." Lawrence knew not what to say to him anymore.
"I have no betrothed." He spoke without meeting his friend's eyes.
Lawrence could sense something wrong. "You can't be serious. Your father promised his friend to accept his daughter as your bride years ago."
"Well," Edward raised his eyebrows sharply. "He is not here anymore to live up to his promises now, is he?"
Lawrence parted his lips but couldn't find the right words. He'd watched his friend struggle the last six months day in and day out to settle the unfinished matters of his father, the late Duke. His shoulders were burdened with the promises he left behind that now his son hand to fulfil. The duties, the legacy. Edward had to live up to him now.
It had been difficult on him. Although he hardly let it show.
"Keep saying that until your sister hears you, then she'll pull you by your ears and not stop until she would've dragged you to the altar with that woman." Lawrence put in yet another effort of humour to the conversation and with a naughty smile, he downed the last content of his glass.
"You're mistaken, Benjamin," Edward said, walking back and sitting in the chair against Lawrence while he refilled both their glasses. "Eleanor on the contrary has different plans. Apparently, the Marquess of Rosevale, Cornelius Valentine, and his sister, Lady Rebecca Valentine, must you note, were as well invited to London by my dear sister this season."
Lawrence choked on his drink. He knew not what he should be more concerned about, the fact that both the siblings were exceptionally good at scheming or the fact that none of them were paying any heed to their dead father's words.
"But Edward, you never went against your father's words." He muttered.
"This time I shall, most definitely." He stated in utter determination. "My wife of all things isn't something he had the right to give his word upon all those years ago." His words were cutting, Lawrence knew better than to argue against them.
They stayed silent, looking out the window as the sun slowly headed towards its end.
"Is the girl really that bad? The woman, your betrothed." Lawrence asked turning to dive into his friend's eyes.
"Oh, no no," Edward replied almost frantically. "She's not bad at all from what I remember."
"Then?" The question came out before he could stop himself. Edward's brow arched at his tone.
"Then? Then what? Am I to consider a woman so hollow of values? She wants to marry the Duke only because he is the Duke. For the title, the wealth. She doesn't even know me and she is ready to give me her life." He spoke with sheer disgust. His words yelled hate. "She is the worst of all those desperate women of the ton for all I know."
"Edward." Said Lawrence deeply. "She's waited for you all these years."
"Me?" Edward scoffed out loud. "For heaven's sake Benjamin, even she herself is not aware who she's been waiting for all these years. Today if I send you to her as the Duke, she'll jump at you in a breath."
"Will you stop saying that?" Lawrence retorted in frustration.
"Saying what?"
"The sending me as the Duke part, please." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Your words sound too ironic and hateful for someone who spent his childhood carving her name on his tables and chairs and walls and whatnot."
Edward blinked his eyes at his accusation, clearly accepting himself guilty. A hint of a smile danced around the edges of his lips but it soon vanished. "I was a kid."
"Well of course you were." Lawrence chuckled at his expense and placed his glass on the table. "Do you even remember her name anymore?" He asked and observed his friend with narrow eyes as his jaws clenched and unclenched until he finally let that smile take him over.
"Of course, I do." He replied staring in distance, lost, the smile never leaving his face. "Esther, Esther Sherborne."