II
LORD HAWTHORNE glared menacingly down at the formidable countess' daughter. Her widening smirk made his heart burn with malice. It had been years since he had to deal with spoiled ladies. A decade, to be precise. After he'd left home for good—bidding farewell to his dreadful step-sister forever—he hadn't needed to deal with them since. Until now.
He dug his fingernails into the leather of his reins. If it only had to do with her troublesome self and her protective mama, Harry would have a string of choice words for this bothersome chit. But, it didn't. He needed a housekeeper—badly. He'd been looking for almost six weeks now, offering twice the normal pay and excellent benefits. However, not a single person had bothered to apply for the post. It was getting ridiculous. He could already hear the disdainful whispers if this girl's story came out. Pervert. Peeping Tom. He probably would've taken her if she hadn't run away. No, he really couldn't afford any scandal. Despite every fiber in his being, he would have to heel.
"Get on," Harry said.
The girl raised two perfectly arched brows. "You're not going to help me up?"
Harry didn't want to touch her. "No."
He expected her triumphant gaze to whither in a pout, but her smile didn't lose its luster. She approached his steed and gently stroked the bridge of its head nose. Harry tightened his hold on Cerberus' reigns. He was by no means a nice horse and he might kick this oblivious fool for her caresses. However Cerberus, usually the picture of hostility, was silent as the unfamiliar woman petted him. "Kneel, darling," she said gently. Cerberus obediently knelt. The chit gracefully joined him on the stallion's backside and urged the horse up when she was settled. Her arms tightly wound themselves around his waist, and the soft scent of lavender enveloped him. She was still dripping from her swim in the pond. She was getting him wet, Harry thought irritably. "I live a mile up the road," she said to Harry.
Without a moment to lose, he started them off in a speedy gallop. The primary reason for this was to get rid of the countess' brat as soon as humanly possible. The second reason, the more devilish one, was to irritate her. He wanted her to regret that she'd ever asked him for a favor. Unfortunately, the second reason fell through. Harry felt the spoiled thing tighten her hold around him and release a squeal of delight. When they finally reached Fleurs Castle, she didn't immediately let go.
"We're here," he announced blandly, after too many minutes had passed.
"I see that," she replied silkily. "I rather like being up here with you."
Was she really flirting with him? "I don't."
She laughed. It was a sweet, bubbly sound that grated Harry's ears. "Will you help me down?"
"You can get down the same way you came up."
"I don't think I can perform that trick twice, Lord Hawthorne."
Harry agreed. That was the only reason he leapt off Cerberus, and firmly planted his hands on her waist, lifting her off. She smiled up at him in the same beguiling Harry knew she'd smiled at tens of other men. "Thank you," she said sweetly.
"It was nothing." He climbed onto Cerberus quickly, eager to get far, far away.
"I do hope we meet again, Lord Hawthorne," she said in a sing-song manner that sounded too much like a taunt.
Harry didn't even spare her a second glance as he rode away. He hoped he never saw her again. When he reached Hawthorne castle, he was further irritated to find a coach in the drive. He recognized that dreadful carriage anywhere.
His father was here.
Harry sauntered into Hawthorne Castle with ease, as if his father's mere presence didn't set him on edge. He had a five minute chat with his valet and then a word with a scullery maid, and then he changed out of his dreadfully wet clothes. It was only after lighting a pipe (the Duke of Fordham hated the smell of tobacco) and smoking its contents did he finally go to the library where he knew his father was waiting.
"Papa," Harry said casually, depositing himself on a plush seat. "You're here."
The Duke of Fordham gave his son a once-over. "I assume you saw my carriage when you arrived."
"I assume you know it's polite to give notice before calling," Harry returned smoothly.
"These are polite hours of the day. It's not uncommon to call without sending word first."
"It is when you haven't seen your host in a decade."
The duke smiled thinly. "All the more reason to call."
Harry mirrored his father's empty smile. "Was there a specific reason you came here?"
"Only to see how my son was getting on." That was rich. He hadn't cared how his son was getting on in years. They'd gone with zero communication for ten years, not even so much as a letter.
"He's getting on well," Harry said dryly.
"He also doesn't have a wife," The duke replied, with equal wryness.
Harry shouldn't be surprised. His stepmother, the Duchess of Fordham, probably hadn't produced any heirs. Any male heirs, that is. Not after Harry had killed the last one. Now, it looked like his father was putting his affairs in order. There were wears on his face that hadn't been there before. He'd aged. And now, as he stared mortality in the face, he wanted to make sure his dukedom lived on.
"No he does not."
The duke had been leaning over Harry's table. He now moved to be seated adjacent to his son. "I won't pretend I'm not eager to see you see you wed. You're nine and twenty. It's time."
"Is it?"
"It is," the duke said stoutly. "I know that your current state isn't completely your fault. Your reputation... It certainly scares women away."
The mention of his reputation from his father's lips vexed Harry further. "Which part do you think scares them most, Papa? The fact that I killed my brother or the fact that I'm rumored to be the devil?"
"You're rumored to be the devil because you killed your brother." The duke paused, choosing his next words carefully. "It was a horrible accident, Harry. I know that now."
The temper that Harry was fighting so hard to keep was begging to be unleashed. "Thank you. It means so much to know my father finally believes me after all these years," he said coldly.
"I was unfair," the duke continued. "I shouldn't have sent you away."
"You're remembering it wrong," Harry reminded him. "I left on my own accord."
"Still." The duke's eyebrows bent in consternation. "I let you leave without any coin to speak of. It wasn't right."
"I managed," Harry said, gesturing to the library around them. Ten years prior, Hawthorne Castle had been an empty ghost of a residence. He'd given it life. He'd taken the earldom his father had given him, and what little money he'd saved at twenty, and built his fortune.
"You did," the duke agreed. "All the same, you shouldn't have had to do that." The Duke, ever controlled and stoic, played with a loose button on his overcoat. He was nervous. Harry didn't know whether that should make him laugh or scream.
"It's done, Father. No use crying over milk spilt."
"Yes." His father cleared his throat. "I was thinking I could make introductions with you to a few ladies in the city. I can talk around too, and clear up rumors from years past."
The damage to his reputation had been done. No visitations to clear up lies about his boyhood, the tragic fight included, would change that. They both knew it. "Would you like something to drink, Father? Tea? Or something stronger?"
"I'm fine, Harry," the duke answered, slightly annoyed. "Don't try and change the subject."
"I'm not," Harry replied easily. "I'll think on your suggestion, Papa, I think I'd much rather find a wife on my own, though."
The duke found the button again. "I understand that I haven't been the best parent to you, Harry. But don't let your personal feelings affect your future."
"What personal feelings?" Harry asked innocently.
"Don't let your personal feelings about me and my desires prevent you from finding a wife," the duke clarified.
Harry smiled again, this time with teeth. "I'm not a child. I wouldn't do something so petty."
"I think you would. I saw loathing in your eyes the minute you walked in." Harry didn't trust himself to respond, he only stared. The clock chimed twelve, and the pair lapsed in silence. "I should get going," the duke said finally.
"Of course. The duchess is probably wondering where you are." Harry hadn't wanted to say it, but he couldn't resist. It was a test of sorts. He knew his step-mother still believed he was still the culprit behind her son's murder. He would readily bet money that his father had come here behind her back.
The Duke of Fordham sighed. So his suspicions were true. "Goodbye son." With that, he rose from his seat and made for the door. It was only when Harry heard his carriage drive from the property did he finally relax. The duke had been right about his son laying down his future to exact revenge. The idea hadn't occurred to him till this very visit. Sometime in the future, Harry had planned to go into the city, marry some green, unsuspecting chit and raise a hearty brood. He'd only been waiting for the mood to strike.
But, that was then. This was now. The knowledge that his father wanted him to marry up and produce heirs had killed any prospect of that entirely. Harry hadn't ever had the chance to get revenge on his father for everything he'd endured. Killing his half-brother might've seemed like revenge to anyone looking in, but it had only plummeted his life into the depths of hell. Besides, despite what most people thought, it had been an accident. He'd thought moving far away and establishing himself as a rich gentleman without his father's help was revenge enough.
But this. This was too delicious to pass up.
The same father that had made his mother die from a broken heart, snatched his birthright in favor of his bastard son, neglected him for his new family, and nearly beaten him to death after his half-brother's accident... The same father that had let his stepmother yell obscenities at him day in and day out and let him leave their home penniless at the age twenty... That same father who had let everyone believe he was a spawn of Satan who'd murdered his own brother in cold blood... That father could rot in hell for all he cared, and his lineage and dukedom could die there too.
It was hard to believe everything had happened just fourteen years ago. To him, it felt like yesterday. His parents had never been affectionate, but Harry had always thought they'd loved each other. How stupid he had been. His mother certainly loved her duke, but the same could not be said for his father. He'd always been distant, not just with her, with Harry too. Still, young Harry had always believed his father loved him.
How wrong he had been.
His mother started wasting away when he turned nine, and nothing could explain it. No item from the apothecary, or suggestion from the doctor, or visit from family members could fix her. He could still remember his grandmother's words the day before his mother passed away. "You must stop, Anne!" his grandmother told his mother. "Many men are unfaithful. You needn't kill yourself over it." The last part had been whispered, but nine year olds had sharp ears. Whether the Duchess of Fordham willingly succumbed to death was a point of contention, but the Duke's infidelity was definitely the culprit. His mother passed silently in her sleep. A week afterwards, there was a new duchess; a new mama. She had two children in tow, a boy three years his senior and a girl three years his junior. The boy was introduced to him as his father's bastard, his new brother. Harry had sworn he would never forgive himself for the indiscretion that surely killed his mother.
That had only been the beginning.
His father made sure to rain affection on his bastard son and his new step-daughter. Harry was hurriedly swept into the background, only to be picked on and scapegoated. His new brother, Arthur, hated him. It didn't matter that Arthur got all of the duke's love and attention, or that his own mother still lived, or that their father disinherited Harry as the heir. They were endless fights, beatings mostly, and verbal assaults. The duke and duchess both turned a blind eye to Harry's continuing complaints. It continued till Harry turned fifteen. Then, one fight ended them all.
Arthur never knew when to stop and he almost always went too far. One day, they started brawling in the kitchen, and his brother came at him with a cleaver. Harry had tried his best to dodge it, but Arthur was relentless. "Bloody bastard," he'd muttered. That was his favorite name for Harry, probably because he was the bastard himself. Harry, never one to fight unfairly, grabbed a knife of his own. They came at each other with silver kitchen weapons for several minutes too long before Harry's knife sank into Arthur's stomach. Harry had cried for his father and step-mother the next second, screaming about a doctor. No one ever mentioned that part, or if they did, they explained that it must've been immediate guilt.
Truth be told, Harry hadn't felt guilty. The look of shock in Arthur's eyes had brought a wave of satisfaction. That would finally teach the brute not to bother him again. And Arthur had been fine too, cursing and crying about his wound. It was the infection that killed him. It ate at him for days, wasting his skin and boiling his blood until it finally claimed him in his sleep. Just like Harry's mother.
Harry shuddered at the memory. He still remembered his step-mothers screams and her hateful glare. "You bloody bastard," she'd shrieked. "You killed my son." His father hadn't been able to look at him for days, despite his pleas. Then, he'd beat him within an inch of his life. That's when people started to call him the Devil, for only Satan could kill his own brother. Harry had cried and begged and tried to explain, but no one listened.. No one wanted to. So, he'd hardened. His spoiled step-sister had been his next tormentor following their brother's death. She taunted him with colorful epithets and blackmailed him with undesirable tasks. Her black eyes shone with provocation everyday. Kill me if you can, they said.
Her goading troubled Harry to his core. She saw him as a challenge, a joke. Charlotte thought that murder was a trifling matter. His hatred of sheltered, gently bred ladies had consequently started with her.
Anyway, Charlotte and her taunts weren't the worst of it.
Following Arthur's death, Harry wasn't allowed to take meals with his family, or sleep in his old rooms, or attend society functions. He was banished to the servant chambers beneath the stairs, and even they looked at him with disdainful eyes. There was no money, love, or fun. Only a half-human existence for five years till Harry decided he'd had enough.
The first year away from home had been a struggle. He slept in a crumbling castle, rationing bread and water every week, wondering how he would live. Finally, he settled on cultivating the property. Hawthorne spanned hundreds of acres, and Harry put those acres to good use. He hired a small team of men to grow cash crops; sugar, tobacco, and the like. He threw himself into the work as well. It didn't take long before he started to turn serious profits, and he was able to refurbish his derelict home. Then he was able to afford a brand new coach, expensive suits, and good brandy. Then, he had enough not to worry, like any other aristocrat. The journey had been hard and long, but Harry had done it.
So, who was his father to waltz in when the work was done and make demands? Worse, he was trying to make amends. After all, the man had never even bothered to pretend to care about him in all his twenty nine years. Ensuring Harry was wed was the fulfillment of an old man's worry. This old man didn't deserve to have his worries eased. Harry stood up to light another pipe. He didn't even enjoy smoking much himself, but his father detested it, and all things his father detested Harry was prepared to embrace. He was more decided on this course then he'd ever been about anything before.
Lord Hawthorne, 7th Earl of Nottingham, and future Duke of Fordham would not be getting married. Not now, and not ever.