Page 26 of Claimed by Her Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #6)

Chapter One

“Y ou are pushing me hard, Your Grace.”

Sweat dripped down Adrian Winchester’s back as he raised his foil to meet that of his opponent. The metal clicked, hard and cold, and he advanced a step.

His partner, the Earl of Putney, retreated, blowing out a harsh breath.

Adrian, also known as the Duke of Somerset, merely smiled coldly as he tucked his hand behind his back, keeping his balance as he plunged forward with another series of strikes. The earl found these more difficult to defend against; his posture slipped, and Adrian’s foil cut through.

“I believe you are disarmed,” Adrian said, and stepped back. “Congratulations.”

The earl allowed the tip of his sword to dip toward the piste they danced on, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I believe it is I who should extend the congratulations,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

He was one of the finer fighters at the fencing club, but although the exercise had brought Adrian out in a sweat, he wasn’t out of breath.

“You are a magnificent fencer, Your Grace,” the earl added.

“You flatter me,” Adrian said indifferently.

“Indeed, I do not.” The earl padded after him, stripping off his gloves. Adrian did the same, handing them to a waiting servant. “I have rarely seen such skill and power.”

“Then I believe I must argue that you have seen little of the world.” Adrian glanced up at some other gentlemen gawking at him.

They had watched the fight avidly, and he might have told them to find entertainment elsewhere if a small part of him had not remembered what it had felt like to be young and enthusiastic about the world.

Still, he did not wish for their ardency now.

“Would you be so good as to teach me?” one lad asked, breathless with excitement.

“No,” Adrian said. “There are tutors aplenty here, and they taught me everything I know.”

“Not everything,” another said, with irritating awe in his voice. “No one could teach that sort of strength.”

Adrian ignored them as he moved to wipe his forehead with a damp rag that another manservant provided. For a club this exclusive, he had expected better from its members, but perhaps that was foolish of him.

Exclusive meant expensive. Few clubs denied their members access due to lack of skill, and this was evidently not one of those places.

Shouldering his way back through the group of young lords, he was making his way toward the door when he heard the sharp tones of an argument.

This, he knew well. The anger behind the words, the aggressive way the two men matched up to one another.

“That was my point,” one said, bristling. He puffed out his chest. “I won the match.”

“You cheated!” The other’s wrapped hands still grasped his dulled weapon, the threat in his posture clear.

Perhaps he would not strike, but the way they faced up to each other suggested there was a danger of it. Adrian turned, heading toward the altercation.

“That makes the match mine!” the second man continued his protest.

The first man’s face slackened at the accusation. “How dare you?”

“You left the piste.”

“You’re imagining things.”

Adrian reached the two men and surveyed the situation. Both were flushed, sweat gleaming on their foreheads. They also looked like young men, barely past university age. Volatile and arrogant; an unfortunate mix, particularly for gentlemen so unschooled about the world.

“Now then,” he said, and both men glanced at him, a little of their anger diffusing at the sight of him.

They had not been watching his match, but they still knew who he was. There were some advantages to being one of the most influential men in England.

“What has happened to make you act like children?” Adrian asked them.

The first man, embarrassed, glanced at his feet. “Nothing to concern you, Your Grace,” he mumbled.

“Viscount Melbourne left the confines of the piste when he struck me, Your Grace,” the other said, raising his chin. “I apologize for disturbing you. But if he hadn’t left the piste, he would never have landed the blow, and I likely would have won the match.”

Adrian eyed the piste, six feet wide. “You must have been playing an enthusiastic game to have strayed so far from the center.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the first acknowledged. “Things got a little out of hand.”

Adrian gestured to a waiting attendant. “Did Viscount Melbourne leave the confines of the piste?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Grace, by a fraction.”

“Thank you.” With a flick of his fingers, Adrian dismissed the man, and looked back at the gentlemen, brows raised. “You see the advantage of applying to someone who witnessed the situation instead of bickering like children?

“Viscount Melbourne, it appears you did break the rules, if unconsciously done. The game is forfeited. If, in the future, you play another match together, make sure to pay attention to the rules, and to find external resolution to your situation, if necessary.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Viscount Melbourne’s face was scarlet with mortification. “I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Good.” Adrian turned away, and no one stopped him this time.

As he retrieved his coat and slipped it on, an apprentice bumped into the owner of the club.

“You young rat,” the older man seethed, his eyes narrowed, and violence in every line of his body.

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t know you were there.” The boy bent, his back hunched as he fumbled with a stack of practice swords. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be. Useless boy.” The owner twisted the boy’s ear viciously, and Adrian’s footsteps hesitated.

Instead of the owner, he saw a man whose face was a twisted version of the one he saw in the mirror.

Hatred and cruelty—a duo in his father’s gaze as he raised the belt in his hand. A perverse satisfaction in the pain he’d caused.

Adrian exhaled, and the world returned to its proper place, his father back in his grave and the apprentice cowering before the berating owner.

Perhaps because the man saw him, the owner paused in his scold, regaining his composure and giving the boy a push. “Be on with you, lad, and don’t cause any more trouble.”

As the boy passed, Adrian put his own hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Not to worry,” he said. “Just watch your step next time.”

The boy’s frightened eyes met Adrian’s. “Yes, Your Grace,” he stuttered.

Adrian let him go and left the building.

* * *

When at last he arrived at Somerfield House, the sun had set long before, and darkness crept in through the windows. He crossed to the other side of his study, shutting the drapes firmly so no hint of the outside intruded on his own private haven.

Finally, a space to himself. And a chance to get on top of some work.

First, he opened the bureau against the side wall and removed a decanter of brandy, pouring himself a glass. Slowly, he felt his shoulders relax from the events of the day.

It was not usual for him to see something that reminded him of his father. For years, he had done everything he could to put the man from his mind, and for the most part, he had succeeded.

He took a gulp of the amber liquid, letting it slide down his throat, the burn sinking pleasantly through his body. If the boy had been more careful, none of this would have happened. That was the reality of the situation, and he let himself dwell on that for a moment.

Yes. There was nothing else to feel about the situation. Emotions were a weakness; survival depended on mental fortitude. He would not allow any weakness space within himself. Not any longer.

His father, and all memories connected to him, summarily dealt with, Adrian strode to his desk and put his glass down as he scanned the letters and pages before him.

A letter from his steward, informing him that some tenants’ houses were falling into disrepair. A question about livestock and his intentions to purchase more. Crop rotation. A brief insight into the current state of his finances—which were, as always, exemplary.

Adrian did not believe in letting anything slip, and he had ruled his estates with an iron hand ever since he first inherited them at the age of twenty. That was his duty, and he would fulfill it to the best of his ability until the day he died.

He was on the point of replying to some more urgent missives when a commotion beyond his door caught his attention.

Frowning, he looked up. Aside from his servants, he was alone in the house, as he knew very well. So, who was this person come to disrupt his peace?

A high-pitched voice said something that sounded remarkably like an accusation. More commotion, and footsteps.

Adrian rose to his feet as the door opened and his butler stepped inside. His butler, usually the epitome of calm with a measured demeanor, twitched nervously.

“Yes, Johnson?” Adrian inquired.

“There is a lady to see you,” Johnson said, his bushy brows descending over the bridge of his nose. “A Lady Isobel.”

Adrian’s frown deepened. “I know of no lady by that name.”

“Aye, I thought ye might say that,” the very same female voice said in a distinctly Scottish accent, and she squeezed into the room past Johnson, who wore an expression of horror and distaste.

The lady was young, perhaps in the first flush of youth, but there was nothing of the child about her figure, which held lush curves. Rounded breasts, and full hips.

Her face, too, was girlish only in the way a wild sprite might be considered so. Her hazel eyes appeared moss-green in the light and held a light that could be described as mischievous.

As she looked at him, her lips pressed tightly together, compressing their fullness. Auburn hair tumbled about her face, the curls tangled and yet oddly endearing.

Lust, unexpected as it was unwelcome, thrummed through him at the sight of her unexpected entrance—and he was taken with her remarkable appearance. She had freckles, some part of him noticed dimly, and she looked at any given moment as though she was a heartbeat—a thought—away from laughing.

He forced those feelings away, deep down, as far inside him as he could manage.

Yes, she was a pretty woman, but she was also in his study when he had not asked her to be, and she had almost certainly forced her way inside, judging by Johnson’s expression.

He folded his arms and fixed her with a glare.

“Who,” he said icily, “are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my home?”