Page 1 of Duke at First Sight (Love at First Sight #1)

Part I

“ T here is only one happiness in life; to love and be loved." ~French Novelist George Sand

When Lady Annalise Buttercream awoke that morning she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that today was the day she was going to fall in love.

“I can feel it,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out wide as she swung in a circle in the middle of her sun filled bed chamber. “Can’t you feel it, Becca?”

Her maid, a sturdily built woman who had been looking after the Earl of Sandwich’s only child since the day she was born, grunted as she ducked under a flying fist. “What is it I’m meant to feel, my lady?”

“Love.” Bringing her arms in, Annalise gave herself a giant hug as she went to the large window overlooking the busy Mayfair Street below and sighed. “Love, Becca. It’s in the air. I can smell it.”

“Can you?” said the maid mildly. “Here I thought Cook burned the bacon again.”

“Maybe it’s love and burnt bacon,” Annalise allowed. Grinning, she turned to face her oldest companion and most trusted confidant. After losing her mother in childbirth, she had relied mostly on Becca to raise her. While her father had done his best, his easily flustered nature had often led him to pass her over to the maid whenever she had cried, sneezed, wrinkled her nose, or breathed.

In addition to fits of panic, Lord Sandwich was also highly protective of his daughter, as she was the only living memory of the beloved wife that he’d lost. As a result, he’d kept her largely secluded from an outside world that would, in his eyes, attempt to harm her.

While other young girls had attended tea parties, Annalise had explored the woods of their sprawling countryside manor with Becca trailing faithfully behind. While other parents had hired a deluge of tutors and governesses, Annalise had learned to dance under Becca’s watchful eye. And when other young ladies had been presented to the queen before their debut into High Society as the Season’s newest crop of debutantes, Annalise had stayed home playing whist with, yes, Becca.

But that was all about to change today.

Because today she was going to fall in love.

Today, her life would truly begin.

Today she was going to meet her future husband.

She just had to find him first.

“What do you think he’ll look like?” she asked, hardly able to contain her excitement as Becca nudged her into a chair and began to arrange her blonde hair into glossy tendrils pinned at the crown of her head with a papillote iron and curling papers.

“Who?” Becca asked, speaking around a pile of pins pinched between her lips.

“My husband . I think he’ll have blue eyes, like mine, and a charming smile. A princely smile. He’ll be kind, and gentle, and poetic. You know how I love poetry. He’ll also love animals, as I do. He’ll be an adept equestrian. A wonderful dancer. He’ll be…” She smiled dreamily. “He’ll be perfect.”

Becca met Annalise’s gaze in the gilt-framed mirror above her dressing table and lifted a weathered brow. “And where are you planning to meet this blue-eyed poetic prince?”

“I thought we’d start with Hyde Park. All the best romances begin in Hyde Park.”

“ We ?” Becca’s second brow rose to join the first. “I wasn’t aware I’d be joining you on this little husband-seeking search.”

“Well, I cannot go by myself. And since Father is out of town until later today…”

“Speaking of your Father, has he approved of your pending nuptials?”

Annalise, always a terrible liar, looked down at her lap and fidgeted with a piece of silk ribbon on her violet morning dress. “Not exactly ,” she hedged. “But next month I turn twenty, Becca. Twenty! If I don’t find a husband now, then when? No, it has to be today.” Steely resolve glinted in her soft doe eyes as she lifted her chin and stared at herself in the mirror’s silvery reflection.

What she saw staring back at her was a woman full grown. A woman that had spent most of her life locked away like a precious porcelain vase. But she wasn’t a vase, and she wasn’t made of porcelain. She wouldn’t break. The world wouldn’t shatter her. If solitude had given her anything, it was strength. Perhaps not the steel and iron wit that other ladies of her age possessed. Ladies who had fought ruthlessly for fortunes in ballrooms and at house parties that Annalise had observed wistfully from afar. But there was strength to be found in goodness. In kindness. In an optimistic heart.

The man of her dreams was out there.

How much longer could she expect him to wait?

“Twenty isn’t as old as all that,” said Becca, squeezing Annalise’s shoulder. “You’ve time yet, my lady. But it is a rather bright sunny day, isn’t it? The warmest it’s been all week. Perhaps a stroll through Hyde Park would help pass the hours until your Father’s return.”

Annalise blinked back a sudden sting of tears. “Thank you, Becca,” she said softly.

“For what, my lady? It’s just a walk.” The maid shrugged. “If we happen to come across a handsome suitor that gets down on bended knee and begins to recite Mr. Keats, well then maybe you’re right. Maybe love is in the air. And we can hardly be faulted for that, can we?”

***

Derrick Blake, Duke of Tennyson, did not like poetry.

Actually, he loathed it.

Along with puppies (too much licking), cats (too untrustworthy), dancing (too tedious), and smiling (too painful). He had formed these opinions over twenty-four years comprised of a strict upbringing followed by a period of wild carousing that had earned him the moniker the Debaucherous Duke. A title he wore with some pride, not that anyone would know it mostly due to the lack of smiling and a little bit due to the growling sound he made whenever someone dared invoke it.

Rather like a bear, Derrick enjoyed jaunts of socialization before retreating into his cold, dark cave to sleep off whatever headache his indulgence in spirits and all-night gambling sprees had yielded. Tucked away in his Grosvenor Square manor with the curtains drawn and the candles dimmed, he would sleep for hours. Sometimes even days. Then he’d wake up and do it all over again, because why not? What else was a duke with enormous wealth but no true purpose in life supposed to do? Take up gardening?

Perish the thought.

Although lately, his favorite gambling hell wasn’t exciting him as much as it used to. His favorite brandy had started to taste bland. Even his interest in the large busted, heavy lidded sirens that draped themselves over the back of his chair at the hazard table had begun to wane. In short, he was suffering from a terrible case of ennui. Which, all things considered, was completely unacceptable. Thus, Derrick found himself doing the one thing he hated most of all: he was going for a walk. In the park. In the morning . A good five hours before he normally arose from his bed, staggered into his tub, and submerged himself into a frothy, bubbly mixture of soap and regret.

It was his butler that had suggested it.

‘Refresh the body, Your Grace, and the spirit will follow.’

Utter claptrap, if you asked him.

But at this point he was willing to try almost anything, and so when a brisk knock sounded on his door at the absolutely deplorable hour of half past nine, he’d gotten dressed, chugged a cup of black coffee without a single splash of brandy (might as well have put a dagger in his heart), and stumbled outside into the fresh air and the sunshine that Grieves had assured him would fix all of his ailments.

Or kill him outright.

Why the bloody hell do people do this willingly, he wondered as he glared around at the myriad of carriages and pedestrians traveling up and down the muddy walking trails and bridle paths of Hyde Park.

Given that it was the middle of February, the ground had frozen and softened and frozen again, resulting in both sheets of treacherous ice and large ruts that Derrick did his best to avoid as he veered down a lesser traveled trail that wound its way over a bridge and around a pond dotted with barnacle geese that were about as pleasant as their name suggested.

“Go away,” he snapped when a trio of feathered menaces came waddling toward him, wings outstretched and black beaks bobbing. “I haven’t any bread for you. I said I haven’t - bloody hell !”

With a loud honking battle cry, the largest goose charged and Derrick dove to the side then spun around just in time to see the other two barnacle geese following their leader into the fray. Honking and hissing, they surrounded him as he backed slowly toward the bridge with his hands raised.

“Easy there, you ugly feathered bastards. Come any closer and I’ll wring those long necks and have you on my table by supper. Don’t think I won’t. Brandy and buttered goose. I can’t think of a better meal. So go ahead, you stupid birds.” He’d reached the edge of the bridge. A wood plank creaked under the heel of his boot as he eased onto it. “Waddle one more step-”

“Augustus, Marcus, Constantine!” a light, feminine voice called out airily from around a bend in the path. “Where are you, boys? I have your corn!”

As one, the geese turned around and - to Derrick’s general disbelief - formed a single file line before chuffing off in the direction of the magic voice coaxing them with what was, presumably, their favorite treat. Certainly they appeared to like it better than duke mutton. He heard happy honks and the tinkling of laughter, the sound of it reminiscent of a wind chime made of shells that had hung outside his window when he was a boy.

Strange, that he would think of that now when it hadn’t crossed his mind in years. He and his mother had made the wind chime together when they were on holiday in Bath. It was one of his few, genuinely joyful memories from a childhood he’d done his best to largely forget. But the laughter brought it all back. The salty smell of the ocean. The warm beat of the sun against his neck. The weight of his mother’s hand on his as she’d patiently taught him how to tie the shells together.

She’d died shortly after that and his father had promptly sent him off to boarding school where he’d endured the cruel, relentless taunts of a bully until he finally grew big enough to put the bully in his place. By then, his father was dead as well, and he was the newly minted Duke of Tennyson. Arrogant and half-feral with a chip on his shoulder large enough to fell a tree.

After putting the right staff in place to ensure he wouldn’t have to lift a finger when it came to the running of his dukedom and the various properties, employees, and charitable causes that accompanied one of England’s oldest titles, he’d thrown himself into sin.

Drinking.

Gambling.

Carousing.

Feeding into the vices that had, for a time, soothed the raw ache in his soul left there by a child’s lingering bewilderment at having been abandoned by the two people who should have loved him the most.

But that damned laughter… that tinkling, musical, angelic laughter… brought him back to a place he’d sworn he would never visit again.

His past.

Grinding his teeth together, Derrick took another step onto the bridge. Part of him, a large part, recognized this as his opportunity to sod off right back to his manor. His butler’s advice be damned. But another part, considerably smaller yet annoyingly persistent, urged him to see the face behind the wind chimes.

It was probably an old, stooped over woman with a gnarled cane. Old, stooped over women seeming particularly fond of feeding fowl, which in turn led those same fowl to go looking for food in the pockets of dukes. Nasty habit, that. If nothing else, he owed it to his fellow brethren to tell this old lady she was culpable in a goose assisted murder attempt.

Squaring his shoulders and adjusting his cravat, he set off down the path from whence he’d come, following the noise of contended honks. A scathing warning already heating the tip of his tongue, he marched around the corner… and stopped short, startled by the sight that awaited him.

Not a stooped old woman at all, but a young lady. His age, perhaps a few years less. With hair the color of sunshine peeking out from beneath the brim of a violet bonnet that complimented the rosy pink of her high arching cheekbones with the most adorably upturned nose he’d ever seen.

She was crouched on her heels, apparently not caring that the hem of her pelisse and dress dress were being dragged through the muck. A small white feather was caught in her curls. As he watched, frozen in place by some unnamed force that had temporarily rendered his vocal chords useless, she reached out and patted the biggest barnacle goose on its hideously ugly head. Making a purring sound deep in its throat - who the devil knew that geese could purr - the blasted bird leaned into her hand, rubbing his feathers against her gloved palm, and was he… was that… was that a flicker of jealousy he felt? That the damned goose, named after a crustacean found on the hull of old sailing vessels, was being touched by the fair-haired corn maiden with the musical laugh while he, the Duke of Tennyson, was made to stand by and watch.

Impossible.

In tolerable .

Obviously, all of the brandy he’d imbibed over the past few years had started to get the best of him. He was going mad. Even his heart was beating faster than it usually did.

“Pardon me,” he said curtly as his voice abruptly returned on a wave of thinly concealed ire. “Are you aware that you are feeding dangerous animals, and in doing so encouraging them to seek out food from unsuspecting patrons of the park ill-equipped to handle their ferocious natures?”

The lady jumped.

The goose hissed.

Derrick took a step back.

Just to be safe.

“Oh my goodness,” she cried, clasping a hand over her heart as she rose to her feet. “You startled me! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was there. What do you mean, dangerous animals?” A frown tugged at her bottom lip when her head swiveled from side to side. “Where are they?”

He gestured at the geese. “You’re feeding them, as I said.”

“Are you referring to Augustus, Marcus, and Constantine?” Wide blue eyes framed with thick tawny lashes met his incredulously. “Why, they wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Don’t geese eat flies?” He put his hands on his hips while he awaited her response… even as his traitorous gaze dropped to her mouth. She really was a lovely little thing. All innocence, rainbows, and unicorns in comparison to the dark, sultry temptresses he usually kept company with. Temptresses that had, as of late, inexplicably failed to arouse him. A fault he didn’t place at their feet, but his own. He’d simply grown weary of the transactional nature of his past relationships. Not that he’d ever paid for a woman to occupy his bed. Not outright in money, that is. But he also wasn’t stupid. He knew they’d been there not because of who he was, but what he was: a duke with nearly unlimited wealth and power at his disposal.

Yet here was a lady not prowling the hallways of a gambling hell seeking out her next mark, but throwing corn to geese. Admittedly savage geese that likely would have ripped out his jugular if he’d let them, but still. There was a certain appeal in her innocence. A quiet tug of genuine attraction that he hadn’t experienced since… well, maybe ever.

“You’re right,” she conceded, “geese do eat flies. Although, they much prefer grass and aquatic plants. However, they do love corn on occasion as well. Would you like to give it a go?” Fist closed, she held out her arm expectantly.

Derrick stared at it.

“Did you miss the part where I said they have ferocious natures?” he wondered aloud. “I value all ten of my fingers, thank you very much.”

There was that laughter again. It washed over him like a warm wave at the peak of sunset when the sky was a thousand different shades of orange and the surf unfurled itself upon the shore in frothy laps of white.

“Don’t be silly!” she exclaimed. “Marcus and Constantine would never dare bite. Not even so much as a nibble. Sometimes Augustus gets a little excited, but it won’t hurt. I promise.”

Against his better judgment, Derrick accepted the corn. “You do realize you’ve named them after Roman emperors responsible for thousands of brutal slayings.”

Those blue eyes blinked at him, shimmering pools of indigo that threatened to pull him right in. “I rather thought they were regal names. I’m sorry they’re not to your liking.”

And now why did he feel as if he’d kicked a small, defenseless kitten?

“I do like them,” he said gruffly. “They’re excellent names.” Turning his hand over, he dumped the small pile of corn she’d given him unceremoniously onto the ground.

She sighed. “Not like that . Here, let me show you.”

Derrick’s heart started beating even faster when she placed another small pile of corn into his palm, but this time she slid her hand down to gently hold his wrist while she plucked a kernel from his grasp and threw it several feet away.

“There, you see?” she said brightly as Marcus, at least he thought it was Marcus, waddled eagerly after the tiny treat. “They prefer it when you make a game out of it.”

“Yes, I see,” Derrick murmured, except he wasn’t looking at the goose. “You’ve told me your pet’s names, but not your own.”

“Oh, they aren’t my pets,” she said, quite seriously. “They live here, in the park. I just come and visit them once in a while.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in a shape that vaguely, maybe, possibly was the start of a smile. “Your name, my lady. Unless you’d like me to call you Tiberius.”

“Annalise “ Belatedly, she appeared to realize that she was still holding his wrist and her cheeks lit up with a blush every bit as adorable as her nose before she snatched her hand away and took a step back. “Lady Annalise Buttercream.”

“Buttercream,” he repeated.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Although I do like Tiberius.” A grin pushed up her rosy cheeks. “It has a nice ring to it should I ever decide to turn into a goose.”

“Lady Annalise, it is a… unusual pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Derrick Blake, the Duke of Tennyson”

He waited for her to gasp, or giggle, or - as one woman had done last year - faint.

People, especially women, had odd reactions when he revealed who he was.

But Annalise didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, her eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, she asked him a question. A rather peculiar question, in and of itself. But then again, everything about their interaction thus far had a certain air of peculiarity.

“Your Grace… do you like poetry?”