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“ I daresay, Your Grace, you might deign to join us mere mortals in our frivolities,” Lord Pembrooke called out, his cravat already askew from the earlier exertions. “Or do dukes consider themselves above such earthly pursuits as wrestling?”

Henry Blakesley, the Duke of Marchwood, raised an eyebrow as he observed the spectacle before him.

The afternoon at the country estate of Henry’s friend, Everett Crowley, the Marquess of Southall, had devolved from a respectable game of Pall Mall into what could only be described as grown men behaving like schoolboys.

The gathering had been arranged under the pretense of discussing important political matters, yet here they were, the nobility of the realm, grappling like common street fighters on Everett’s immaculate lawn.

The early summer sun cast long shadows across the manicured grounds of Southall Manor. Birds sang in the towering elms that surrounded the property. Their cheerful melodies did nothing to assuage Henry’s deepening frustration.

“Neither participant appears to understand the basic principles of leverage,” Henry remarked dryly to Everett, who stood beside him nursing a glass of brandy. “Pembrooke’s stance is abysmal, and Hatfield’s grip would shame a child.”

Everett took a generous sip of his amber drink and chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Not everyone had your particular education, old friend,” Everett replied, nudging Henry’s shoulder. “We can’t all be masters of the pugilistic arts.”

“Military training is hardly particular,” Henry countered as he swept his gaze across the gathered lords.

Lord Hatfield was now attempting to put Lord Finchley in a headlock, while both men’s valets looked on in barely concealed horror at what the grass stains would do to their masters’ expensive clothing.

“Come now, Marchwood,” the Marquess pressed, “surely you recall our boxing matches at Cambridge? You weren’t always this…” he gestured vaguely at Henry’s rigid posture, “restrained.”

“I recall you losing more often than not,” Henry replied, the ghost of a smile threatening the corner of his mouth before he firmly suppressed it.

Lord Pembrooke, red-faced and breathing heavily, disengaged from his latest opponent and approached them. His normally immaculate blond hair was in disarray, and a button had torn free from his waistcoat.

Despite his disheveled appearance, Pembrooke’s expression held the particular brand of entitlement that came from being the third son of a duke: enough status to be arrogant, but not enough responsibility to temper it.

“Come now, Your Grace,” Pembrooke said, his voice carrying just enough for the other gentlemen to hear. “Surely you can demonstrate proper technique to us lowly amateurs?”

Henry met Pembrooke’s challenging gaze. “I’m not interested, but thank you,” he said, his tone deliberately dismissive.

“Afraid of a little exertion?” Pembrooke pressed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Or perhaps you fear being bested, Your Grace? Even the mighty Duke of Marchwood must occasionally face defeat.”

The surrounding lords quieted, sensing the tension that suddenly charged the air. Several exchanged glances, silently placing wagers on whether the duke would rise to the bait.

Henry’s jaw tightened. He recognized the challenge for what it was. Pembrooke had been vocal in the House of Lords lately, opposing several bills Henry supported. This was politics by other means.

“Very well,” he said after a moment before removing his coat and handing it to his valet with practiced ease like a resting panther settling into a crouch. “One match.”

Everett clapped his hands together. “Gentlemen! Clear the space. We have a demonstration from the Duke of Marchwood himself!”

The lords formed a loose circle around them and murmured excitedly.

Henry rolled up his shirtsleeves methodically, revealing forearms corded with muscle as he’d maintained the physical discipline instilled during his military years.

His eye fell on the scar that ran along his left forearm, a souvenir from a skirmish years ago, but then he quickly focused on his opponent.

As they squared off, Henry deliberately held back, allowing Pembrooke to believe he had the advantage.

The lord lunged forward, grasping at Henry’s shoulders, but his technique was sloppy—all force and no finesse.

Henry sidestepped easily, using Pembrooke’s momentum against him.

The younger man stumbled but quickly regained his footing.

“I must congratulate you, Your Grace,” Pembrooke panted between moves, circling Henry like a predator, though it was clear to all who was truly the hunter and who the prey.

“On maintaining your stamina despite your advancing years. Though I imagine you’ll need to remarry soon if you hope to secure your line. Duty calls, after all.”

A chill seemed to descend over the gathering.

Several of the lords shifted uncomfortably.

It was common knowledge that the Duke of Marchwood had been a widower for fourteen years, and equally well-known that he had shown no inclination to remarry.

To mention it so brazenly was a breach of etiquette that bordered on insult.

And Henry would suffer no insults, not on his friend’s lawn, and certainly not to his face.

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “My family matters are not fodder for your amusement, Pembrooke.”

Pembrooke feinted to the left, then attempted to grasp Henry’s right arm. The duke permitted it, curious to see what the young lord would attempt next.

“No offense intended,” Pembrooke replied with a smirk that suggested otherwise. “It’s merely that with only a daughter at home, you must feel the burden keenly. Girls are delightful ornaments but hardly useful for continuing one’s legacy.”

The change in Henry was instantaneous. His posture shifted subtly, and in three precise movements—a twist of the wrist, a sweep of the leg, and a forceful push—Pembrooke fell flat on his back, the air knocked from his lungs. Henry pressed his forearm against the man’s throat.

“My daughter,” Henry hissed, “is not a burden. She may not be the heir to my duchy, but she is my blood, my heir to everything I am. That includes my temperament. I suggest you remember that.”

Pembrooke’s eyes widened. Genuine fear replaced his earlier arrogance.

For a moment, no one in the circle breathed, waiting to see if the Duke of Marchwood might actually throttle the impertinent lord on Everett’s lawn. Then, with deliberate control, Henry released him and straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with meticulous care.

The assembled nobility erupted in laughter at Pembrooke’s expense as the humiliated lord scrambled to his feet, clutching at his throat and glaring daggers at Henry’s back.

“Perhaps that was a touch excessive,” Everett murmured, though his eyes glinted with approval as he handed Henry back his coat. “You’ve likely made an enemy today.”

“He was an enemy yesterday,” Henry replied, shrugging into his coat. “Now he’s merely a wiser one.”

Lord Finchley approached, clapping slowly. “Magnificent display, Your Grace! Reminds me of your father’s performance at the boxing club. Except the old duke preferred his battles in Parliament rather than on the lawn.”

Henry stiffened imperceptibly at the mention of his father. “The current Parliament would benefit from more battles and fewer tea parties,” he said curtly.

“Speaking of which,” Everett interjected smoothly, “shall we return to our abandoned game? The day grows long, and we’ve politics yet to discuss.”

The men retrieved their mallets, and the game of Pall Mall resumed, though Pembrooke slunk away to nurse both his injuries and pride.

Henry participated almost mechanically, driving his ball through the hoops with an efficiency that spoke more of duty than enjoyment.

His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere: to the stack of correspondence awaiting his attention at Marchwood Hall, to the estate matters requiring his approval, and to his adolescent daughter, who had been unusually quiet at breakfast that morning.

Celia had entered that difficult age where girls became aware of their place in society, and Henry found himself increasingly at a loss. She had inherited not only his coloring, but also his stubbornness, a combination that both filled him with pride and kept him awake with worry.

Perhaps it was time to consider a more suitable companion for her than the elderly governess who had tutored her since childhood.

“Your move, Henry,” Everett prompted, breaking into his thoughts.

Henry lined up his shot, only to be interrupted when a footman approached, his expression carefully neutral as he bowed before the duke.

“Your Grace,” the servant said quietly, “I bear a message from Marchwood Hall.”

“What is it?” Henry asked, noting the deep frown on the man’s face.

The servant approached and lowered his voice so that only Henry could hear, “Lady Celia appears to have, erhm, absented herself during her lessons with Miss Harrington.”

Henry’s jaw clenched, but he let out a small breath to relax his features, a frequent habit of his, as he never wanted others to read his thoughts. Those were privy to him only.

Concern and exasperation washed over him. This was not the first time his daughter had slipped away from her lessons, but it was the first time the staff had felt compelled to interrupt him at a social engagement.

“I see. Have my horse prepared,” Henry said, his tone level. He turned to Everett, offering a nod. “My apologies, Southall. It appears I must take my leave.”

“Is there trouble?” Everett inquired, genuine concern crossing his features.

As one of the few who knew the tragedy that had befallen Henry’s late wife, he understood better than most the duke’s protectiveness toward his only child.

“Only the usual sort,” Henry replied with practiced calm, and nodded at the other guests before he hurried off to the stables.

As Henry strode away, he heard Everett resuming the game behind him and skillfully deflecting questions about Henry’s sudden departure.

You’re steadfast, my friend , Henry thought as he hopped on his saddled horse and rode away.

The ride to Marchwood Hall took less than half an hour at a brisk canter, though Henry’s thoughts raced faster than his mount.

Celia had been testing boundaries with increasing frequency these past months.

While he understood it was natural for a girl of sixteen to chafe against restrictions, he couldn’t help but worry.

The world was not kind to young women who strayed too far from convention.

He had witnessed that cruelty firsthand when his own wife had perished.

Upon arriving at the grand entrance of Marchwood Hall, Henry found servants scurrying in all directions. He quickly dismounted his horse and handed the reins to the nearest stable hand.

His butler, Simmons, approached him at once. His weathered face was threaded with evident relief.

“Your Grace, thank heavens you’ve returned so quickly.”

“How,” Henry demanded of the assembled staff, his voice dangerously low, “does a sixteen-year-old girl simply vanish from under the supervision of an entire household?”

The housekeeper, Mrs. Pike, a formidable woman who had served the Blakesley family for thirty years, stepped forward. She wrung her hands in a rare display of agitation.

“Miss Harrington stepped away to retrieve a book, Your Grace, and when she returned?—”

“This is the third time this month,” Henry cut her off, removing his gloves with sharp, controlled movements. “I expect better from those entrusted with my daughter’s care.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied, properly chastised. “We’ve already begun searching the grounds and questioning the staff.”

“And Miss Harrington?” Henry inquired. His tone indicated that the governess’s continued employment hung by the thinnest of threads.

“Taking to her bed with a case of nerves, Your Grace,” Simmons supplied. His disapproval was evident in the slight pursing of his lips.

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Find her replacement by week’s end.”

What a waste , he thought, but he knew it was far better to cut off the useless root now before it could sprout into something far worse.

A frantic search of the grounds ensued, with footmen and maids scouring every corner of the vast estate.

Henry himself inspected Celia’s favorite hiding places: the old oak tree by the lake where she sometimes read, the disused gardener’s cottage that had become her private retreat, and the stable loft where she would watch the new foals.

All were empty.

It was nearly an hour later when a stable boy, no more than twelve, approached Henry outside the conservatory.

“B-Beggin’ y-your pardon, Your Gr-Grace,” the boy stammered, twisting his cap between his hands, “but I saw Lady Celia earlier. She took Mercury and rode east.”

Henry’s head turned to the east as his mind raced with all the possible locations where Celia might stop. There wasn’t much on the way there other than fields, except for…

“Oakley Hall,” Henry realized out loud.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace, Oakley Hall is that way, indeed. Lady Celia was wearing her riding habit and seemed in quite a hurry. Said something about a book she needed to return.” The boy swallowed hard. “I-I didn’t think to stop her, sir, s-seein’ as she often rides out in the afternoons.”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes.

“You did well to tell me, boy. What’s your name?”

“Tom, sir. Tom Bailey.”

“Well, Tom Bailey, consider yourself promoted to stable hand. Report to Mr. Fletcher tomorrow morning.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you kindly!”

Without another word, Henry strode to the stables, his long legs eating up the distance. Within minutes, he was astride his stallion again and thundering down the east road. His thoughts were as turbulent as the hoofbeats pounding beneath him.

Oakley Hall .

Home of the Dowager Viscountess Oakley, a woman with a powerful intellect and high respectability.

What business could Celia possibly have there?

Lady Oakley moved in different social circles. Her path only crossed Henry’s or Celia’s at the larger county assemblies.

As he rode, his concern deepened. Celia was headstrong, yes, but she had never ventured so far without permission.

The road curved through a copse of ancient oaks. Their branches created dappled shadows across the path. In the distance, Oakley Hall came into view, and its honey-colored stone glowed warmly in the late afternoon sun.

Henry’s grip tightened around the reins of his horse.

Whatever mischief his daughter had found at the Dowager Viscountess Oakley’s estate, he would put an end to it.

Immediately.