The duke's POV, for a change.
...
Duke Vincent Presley, fifth duke of Doncaster was, without a single doubt, a man of honour.
He was not someone who throws out flowery promises like dust. He liked to keep his word. He did not dabble in gamble or bribery, and he considered himself to be a good, simple man. He respected everyone, below his station or not, a servant or a lord. Having no family in his huge empty castle, he considered his staff a close substitute.
He was also a widower of three years.
The fourth duke had been none other than his late husband. So, dukedom had not been his birthright, and he never took it for granted. He was a duke, not by choice, but by circumstances.
He had also never pursued anyone before.
Howard Presley, better known as the Fourth Duke of Doncaster, was the love of his life, and he always will be, even six feet deep under the ground. They had met when he was merely twenty and two, fresh out of Oxford and trying to keep up with his father who was the Marquis of Ampleforth. He was his father's heir, a lord in his own rights but for all his noble breeding and upbringing, he had lost his words when he laid eyes on the then recently made Duke of Doncaster.
A tall, broad, blond. That was the only three features he could make out on first sight, before the duke had caught his eye and he had looked away, ashamed. After that, he did not need to do anything.
They had married within two months of meeting each other. Vincent had become the Duke Consort, and he had thought that life was perfect. It could not possibly get any better than that. Howard ruled the dukedom, and Vincent reigned over the people, ever the crowd's favourite. It was pure bliss for them.
And then, after ten years of the happiest moments of his life, Vincent became a widower at the age of thirty and two, when Duke Howard led an army to war with Spain and never came back. Vincent had been at the age as what Howard had been when they had first met. Thirty and two.
It had taken him a whole month to venture out of his room to see the sunlight. It had taken him a whole year of mourning to leave the castle of his misery and greet the world. And when he had, he was crowned the Duke of Doncaster, a constant painful reminder that his lover was dead.
He had been a widower of two years when everyone around him started pestering him to remarry, to continue the bloodline, to continue the heritage, to continue the good that his husband had done, and not unravel the martyr's hard work in his piteous state.
And he ignored them all. The dukedom could go to hell, the title held no value to him if the person it rightfully belonged to was no more behind it. The duchy would die with him, miserable and empty with no heir, he had decided.
Until.
Until he went to that wretched Mayweather ball and laid eyes on Alvin Frazier.
If there were miracles that existed, they did in Mister Alvin Frazier, he was sure. The man was exact replica of Howard Presley and there was no mistake about it. Well, exact replica was an exaggeration but it was close enough. Alvin was only younger, narrower and shorter.
But those eyes. Those eyes that were the palest hue of blue. With hair so blond, Alvin looked like a younger, less kind version of his late lover. Because where Howard's eyes had always been soft with compassion for everyone around him, Alvin's eyes glowed with a spark of determination. It wasn't love at first sight, but rather desire that burned his body from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair.
A couple of hushed enquiries and sceptical looks and not-so-concerned warnings later, he knew what he had to do.
A dance with the young man had been enlightening, to say the least. He found the old saying 'appearances can be deceiving' to be truer than ever. Alvin was nothing like his Howard, as far as personality and character went. He was brash, he did not care about keeping good appearances, and he was sceptical of Vincent's advances to a fault. Vincent had never met a man like him before. But he had his late husband's face, and he would have to do.
The very next day, the earliest he could, he had penned the letter. The proposal of marriage. He would save Alvin's reputation, and Alvin could be his salvation. It was a win-win situation, really.
And so, he had no idea where he went wrong with it.
He had thought the young Frazier would be ever so grateful, simpering and swooning at his feet. But instead, in a show of admirable impertinence, the man had made Vincent just about do anything but grovel at his feet for a single chance at romance.
And instead of driving him away, it had only managed to entrance him further. Maybe ten years of peaceful marriage had ruined his charm. After all, he had gotten married too early to even make his presence known in society. Maybe he was a little rusty with his wooing but he was sure, so sure that a period of courtship would turn the young man around faster than a spinning wheel.
Only, he would never get the chance.
Vincent had never been quite so brutally rejected before. Made to leave without a single reassurance of care or genteel. And yet, in a sad show of masochism, his heart had decided to hold onto the idea of Alvin as a partner even tighter. He was enchanted, truly.
And make no mistake, he was an honourable man. He'd take rejection like a man, and bear the crown of shame proudly. But not without playing his cards first, not without even being dealt his cards first. No, he was not going down without a fight. Not when he knew he had seen his desire reflected in those pale blue eyes, hands shaking where they had been situated on his shoulder, countenance nervous and shy.
No, he was not going to admit defeat quite so quickly.
...
"You proposed marriage to him?" Ezra, his personal valet and friend of over twenty years, asked as he brushed off the lint from his evening suit.
"That's what I did, yes." Vincent nodded.
"On the very next day of meeting him?" The servant received a nod again. The look on the man's face was incredulous, as if in disbelief over his lord's actions.
Vincent bristled as Ezra snorted before promptly breaking out into poorly concealed snickers. In a show of childish temper tantrum, he snatched the brush from the valet's hands and started brushing himself, glaring daggers at the man.
"Forgive me, your grace." Ezra shook his head fondly. "I forgot how lacking you are in the department of romance."
"Excuse me!" Vincent cried, turning around in a flourish. He was all but ready to flung to the brush at the offending man's face. "I was married for ten years!"
"Exactly." Ezra took the brush from his grip gently, as if soothing an angry child who had accidentally come in possession of a knife. "Out of practice, I'd say."
"Oh, go to hell." Turning back to the mirror, Vincent straightened out his bow tie. "He'll be wooed soon enough, you'll see, and then you'll have to eat your words."
"Of course, your grace." Ezra nodded obediently, although his face held traces of his mirth. "Will that be all?"
"Yes." Vincent hesitated as he saw his valet turn around to leave. "Wait!"
"Yes, your grace?"
"So..." Turning around slowly, Vincent rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You've pursued a man before?" He asked with a lot of effort, but regretted his words as soon as he saw the smug smirk spread across his friend's face. "Oh, come off it, you!"
"As a matter of fact, I have, your grace."
"Great! Did you succeed?"
"No, your grace."
Vincent's face fell. "But... don't you have a husband?"
"I'm afraid he did all the wooing, your grace." Z informed apologetically. "Should I appoint an interview, your grace?"
"I wish I could fire you."
"You can't." The valet smirked. "I know too much."
"Your grace!" A footman knocked on the door to his dressing room before entering. "I am sorry to disturb you, your grace. A messenger has arrived with a letter addressed to your grace. He says it is most urgent."
"Oh dear. I hope it's not an enlistment letter." Vincent joked and put out his palm towards his footman. "Well, give it here man."
The servant put the sealed letter in his palm. "He also implores that you reply to it at once. He is waiting downstairs."
"Demanding much?" The duke muttered as he inspected the letter and it's sender. "Oh look, it's from..."
"Your grace?" Ezra prompted, curious.
"It comes from the Frazier house." Vincent spoke, his heart picking up pace. It was odd to be feeling like a green boy again, shaking in his boots over a damn letter like a lovesick fool, when it could totally be a letter from the Baron forbidding him to ever enter his household again.
He opened it with sweating hands and prayed to God that it was anything but a polite apologetic letter of rejection and banishment. He was still very much hung up on the idea of pursuing Alvin.
Skimming over the words, he found it to be the exact opposite.
263, Presley House, London.
Dear Duke of Presley,
You may never know how much courage it took me to write this letter but here I am, taking full responsibility of the blatant disrespect and disregard I have treated you with the very few times that we have met. I am ashamed of my actions. Please, if you can find it in yourself to forgive my naivety and ignorance, do so. I am very much sorry.
You must allow me to pay my apologies to you in person. I hope you will accept my invitation to a luncheon tomorrow at the Frazier house, as well as a promenade afterwards. I will forever be grateful if you do.
Hoping to see you soon,
Alvin J. Frazier
P.S. Please inform the footman of your favourite dessert so that we may instruct our cook accordingly.
"Oh my..." A smile threatened to split Vincent's face.
"What, what is it, your grace?" Ezra asked, most eager to know.
"What shall I tell the footman, your grace?" The servant at the door enquired, shooting Ezra a sharp look for his impudent curiosity.
"Tell him that I most graciously accept, and that my answer to the question is a cherry cake."
"Very good, your grace." The footman bowed and left, closing the door on his way out.
"Cherry cake?" Ezra wondered aloud. "What does it mean, your grace?"
"It means, my dear friend," Vincent grinned, turning to Ezra. "That the time for you to eat your words has come sooner than expected."
A simple luncheon was all he needed to win Alvin over.
...
Well, wow, isn't he confident bastard.
Tell me what you think of the duke, his past, his actions, his feelings and all.