To Capture a Duke's Heart

  To Capture a Duke’s Heart

  By Jennifer McNare

  www.jennifermcnare.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as factual. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, or persons is completely coincidental.

  Text Copyright © 2016

  Jennifer McNare

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, 1856

  “Good heavens, Penny, did you ever imagine that they would actually be as handsome as purported?” Eleanor Cunningham uttered in disbelief, her eyes round as saucers as she stared transfixed at the trio of gentlemen who’d just stepped from the elegant, black-lacquered traveling coach bearing the Ainsworth family crest and onto the Cunningham’s wide, graveled drive.

  “Truly I did not think it possible,” Penny answered with a slight, negative shake of her head.

  Watching from an upstairs window, eighteen-year-old Penelope Houghton stood similarly transfixed as she too looked down upon three of the most remarkably attractive gentlemen that she had ever laid eyes upon, the Ashcroft Angels. And while ‘twas true she’d heard many a tale of the infamous trio and their extraordinary good looks, she had always assumed that the accounts were at least somewhat exaggerated. Clearly, however, she had been mistaken. For seeing the illustrious lords with her very own eyes, it was readily apparent as to why many an awestruck female had declared the brothers, Gabriel, Rafael and Michael Ashcroft so aptly named, for all three were so divinely handsome that one could easily imagine that they had descended as angels from heaven, rather than delivered from the womb of a mere mortal. The only thing missing, she mused, gazing in wonder upon the trio standing below, backlit by the brilliant rays of the late-afternoon sun, was a golden halo perched atop each of their heads.

  “That must be the duke,” Eleanor said, pointing to the tallest of the three gentlemen as he stepped forward to greet their hosts, Eleanor’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Gilchrist.

  Penny nodded in agreement, aware that Gabriel Ashcroft, the sixth Duke of Ainsworth, was at twenty-six the eldest of the three Ashcroft siblings, two years older than his brothers, identical twins Rafael and Michael; and as the other two gentlemen were all but indistinguishable from one another it seemed a logical conclusion. She watched then as he stepped to the side, allowing each of his brothers to greet the earl and countess in turn.

  Like her and her family, the duke and his brothers were in Scotland to attend the wedding of the Cunningham’s eldest daughter, twenty-year-old Eugenia to Philip Danbury, Viscount Hayford, heir to the Marquess of Farleigh, in two days’ time. And while their wedding could have easily been one of the premiere events of the upcoming Season, held in one of London’s grandest cathedrals and attended by hundreds of guests, the bride had simpler tastes. Thus, Eugenia had decided upon a relatively modest affair, choosing to marry her betrothed at the small village church near her childhood home with only a select group of close friends and family members invited to attend. It was due to her father’s longtime friendship with the Earl of Gilchrist that they had been included in that group, while the Ashcrofts had been invited due to the bosom friendship the duke and his brothers had long-shared with the groom.

  Just then, as if he could somehow feel the weight of her eyes and thoughts upon him, the duke glanced upward, his gaze sweeping the front of the centuries-old castle before coming to rest upon the very window before which she and Eleanor presently stood.

  Caught staring, Eleanor gasped in dismay and took an immediate step back. Penelope, however, seemed incapable of movement, her eyes riveted upon the striking beauty of the duke’s face, her breath catching in her chest as their gazes met and held. She stood rooted in place, utterly mesmerized as he tipped his head ever so slightly in her direction.

  “Penny, whatever are you doing? Come away from the window,” Eleanor hissed as she reached out and grabbed Penelope’s wrist.

  “Hmm?” Penny murmured, forcing her eyes from the duke’s striking visage as she reluctantly turned her gaze to Eleanor.

  “Step back from the window!” Eleanor implored, her increasing anxiousness evident in her tone as she tugged upon Penny’s arm.

  “Oh! Yes, yes, of course,” she replied as Eleanor gave another yank, hauling her away from the glass.

  “Come, let’s go!”

  Allowing Eleanor to pull her along whilst they traversed the narrow corridor in which numerous portraits of the Cunningham’s ancestors were displayed proudly upon the ancient stone walls, Penny struggled to regain her befuddled senses. Gracious, she mused, if the duke’s handsome features had such a dazzling effect upon her from a distance, she could only imagine what it would be like to behold such an extraordinarily attractive countenance up close. Would it be surreal, as if one was gazing upon the stunning perfection of a Michelangelo statue come to life, she wondered, or upon the beatific face of a Botticelli angel, perhaps? Or, in all likelihood, would the proximity serve to reveal some natural, human flaw?

  Doubtless she would find out for herself that very evening, for they were sure to be introduced she reckoned, feeling an almost giddy sense of anticipation.

  “I say, Gabe, we’ve only just arrived and already you appear to have added another besotted female to your ever-growing list of admirers,” Rafael murmured teasingly as he nudged his brother with his elbow.

  Following a few steps behind their hosts as they entered into the castle’s massive front hall, Gabriel cast his brother a rueful grin. Like both Rafael and Michael he was well-accustomed to the admiring looks and lingering glances he received from members of the fairer sex, and while it was true that he’d been more than happy to reap the benefits of that interest during the wild, profligate days of his youth, unlike his younger brothers he was beginning to grow weary of their ceaseless and increasingly unwelcome attentions. In fact, it was one of the primary reasons that he was giving serious consideration to the relinquishment of his bachelor status even now. For while he knew that the taking of a wife would do little to impede the interest of those seeking a relationship of a strictly carnal nature, it would put an end to the unremitting pursuits of the ton’s marriage-minded debutantes and their avaricious, social-climbing mamas. And that would provide a most welcome relief.

  “Perhaps this one will compose a song in his honor as Lady Veronica did, or pen yet another ode to his glorious beauty, like the fair Miss Dumfries,” Rafael added in a teasing voice, glancing between Michael and Gabriel in obvious amusement.

  Gabriel frowned, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “I thought I told you never to speak of that atrocity again,” he muttered under his breath. For even though he was inured to his brothers’ ribbing and generally gave as good as he got, the ridiculous ode Miss Dumfries had written was a particular sore spot, as Rafael well knew, for the damnable thing had somehow found its way into the society pages the previous month. Bloody hell, even now the mere thought of that blasted verse was enough to sour his mood, for much to his consternation His Glorious Beauty had not only been the titl
e, but the theme of the entire wretched thing. Ten lines of senseless drivel dedicated to the extraordinary beauty of his face and form, each one increasingly outrageous and more nauseating than the last.

  And though the poem was dreadful in itself, it was the recurrent use of the word beauty that irritated him the most. It was a feminine term and one he’d used on many an occasion in reference to an attractive woman, but never in regard to himself, for his features weren’t the least bit feminine! And while it was true that his eyes, the color an uncommon shade of sea foam green inherited from his father, were fringed with long, dark lashes and his jet-black hair was soft and thick, holding just the hint of a curl at the nape of his neck, the shape of his face was decidedly masculine, his chin and brow both strong and defined and his nose straight and well-proportioned, while his tall, muscular physique was unquestionably manly. Glorious beauty, bah! What a bunch of drivel.

  “Careful Rafe,” Michael cautioned. “He’s apt to cut off your allowance for good if you continue to remind him of Miss Dumfries’ adoring tribute,” he continued with a playful grin.

  “He’s right,” Gabriel stated with a stern glance toward Rafael, the more devil-may-care of his two brothers. And while both Rafael and Michael knew that he would never actually follow through on such a threat, Rafael made a pronounced show of clamping his lips tightly together, even as a puckish twinkle lingered in his laughing blue eyes.

  As Penny turned down the narrow hallway leading to the castle’s guest wing a short time later, she was forced to stifle a groan as she spied her stepmother, Maryanne, and her sour-tempered lady’s maid exiting one of the rooms at the opposite end of the hall.

  “Where on earth have you been?” Maryanne demanded, her tone as well as her expression revealing her annoyance as Penelope approached.

  “Eleanor and I were just-” she began, only to be promptly interrupted.

  “Honestly, Penelope, do you have any idea what time it is?” Maryanne groused as she grasped Penny’s upper arm. “Do you think Mavis has nothing better to do than to sit about twiddling her thumbs whilst you’re off traipsing about,” she continued peevishly as she hustled her into the bedchamber she’d been assigned. “Dinner is to be served in less than an hour and you have yet to change your gown or to allow Mavis to arrange that dreadful hair of yours into some semblance of order,” she concluded with a derisive glance at the dark, reddish-brown curls that fell in a loose tumble to the middle of Penny’s back.

  “I’m sorry,” Penny replied as she glanced between Maryanne, who was already dressed for dinner in a burgundy satin gown fringed with black Chantilly lace and hundreds of tiny glass beads and Mavis, the frumpy, dour-faced maid, apologetically, “I didn’t realize the hour had grown so late.” If they’d been at home it would have been Sarah, her own sweet-tempered lady’s maid tasked to attend her, but regrettably Sarah had been left behind as only Mavis, Maryanne’s lifelong, devoted maidservant and Godfrey, her father’s exacting valet, had been allowed to accompany them on their journey to Scotland.

  “You shall simply have to do as best you can with the limited time you have,” Maryanne directed the maid, as she all but drug Penny across the room to the small vanity table positioned against the far wall, “as I will not allow Penelope’s thoughtlessness to inconvenience the rest of us.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Mavis replied, glowering at Penny as Maryanne pushed her down onto the upholstered vanity seat.

  Clamping her lips together, Penny bit back an angry retort as Maryanne finally released her arm. Despite her stepmother’s assertion to the contrary, she had more than enough time to prepare for the evening meal. Unfortunately, however, she knew that it would do little good to voice her argument aloud and would only serve to make Maryanne’s spiteful demeanor all the more unpleasant. Thus, as she had done countless times before, she summoned her inner strength, silently counted to ten and managed to hold her tongue.

  “I see that you’ve decided to wear one of your new gowns, this evening,” Maryanne noted acerbically as she turned toward the bed, eyeing the peach-colored evening dress laid out atop the coverlet.

  “Yes, I have.” Don’t let her get to you Penny, she mentally cautioned, watching her stepmother in the mirror’s reflection, waiting for her to make another disparaging comment.

  As luck would have it, however, Maryanne merely gave a disdainful sniff before continuing toward the door. “I shall be in my chamber, Mavis,” she said over her shoulder. “See that you don’t tarry overlong.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Mavis replied dutifully.

  Grateful that she wouldn’t have to endure Maryanne’s irksome presence as she prepared for the evening ahead, Penny breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung closed behind her stepmother. Although, spending time in Mavis’ company wasn’t altogether preferable to Maryanne’s, as the woman’s disposition was nearly as unpleasant as her mistress’.

  That Mavis wasn’t one for idle conversation proved to be the one saving grace, however, as Penny was left to sit quietly as the ill-disposed maid deftly wielded the pearl-handled comb and brush set from her vanity case whilst arranging her hair into a stylish coiffure.

  With nearly twenty minutes left to spare before she was to accompany her father and stepmother downstairs, Mavis fastened the final hook at the back of Penny’s gown. Then stepping back, she gave her appearance a quick once over before nodding her head in grudging satisfaction.

  “Thank you, Mavis,” Penny said politely, offering the maid an appreciative smile as she turned around to face her.

  Not surprisingly a muffled harrumph and a nearly indiscernible bob of the older woman’s head was the only reply she received as the unsmiling maid abruptly turned and hurried from the room, off to see to her mistress’ last minute preparations no doubt.

  Spinning around, Penny walked to the tall, oval mirror that stood just a few feet from the vanity table and surveyed her reflection. Despite Mavis’ surly manner, the woman had done a beautiful job with her hair, pinning her thick mass of curls in an artful arrangement atop her head while leaving a few loose tendrils to dangle along the back of her neck. And even though her stepmother took every opportunity to disparage her long, dark tresses, she loved the fiery hue of her auburn locks, as they were the exact shade her mother’s had been.

  She sighed a bit wistfully then, for not a day went by that she didn’t think of her dear, sweet mother, just as she thought of her now. Sadly she had died seven years earlier from a tragic illness, an illness that had ravaged her body and cut her life far too short, leaving Penny and her father behind to mourn her loss. It had been a devastating blow, for they had both loved her dearly. And while Miranda Houghton would never be forgotten, time had moved on and both she and her father had been forced to carry on their lives without her.

  As such, it was two years after her mother’s death that her father, in the hope of siring a male heir to inherit his title and to provide a mother figure for her, had ultimately remarried. And while the woman he’d chosen to become his second wife and the new Countess of Beckford had promptly done her duty, providing him with his heir some ten months later, Maryanne had never assumed the motherly role her father had envisioned for her. In fact, to her own son she had shown and continued to show only the slightest interest and affection, while to Penelope she had exhibited only a thinly-veiled aversion, a dislike that had grown increasingly more evident as the years had gone by.

  Initially she hadn’t understood Maryanne’s underlying animosity, but as she’d grown older she’d come to understand what motivated her stepmother’s enmity. Blonde, beautiful and exceedingly narcissistic, Maryanne was accustomed to being the center of attention, and as such, her stepmother deeply resented the love her husband had felt for his first wife, as well as the love and affection he bestowed upon Penny.

  Unfortunately her feelings of ill will toward her had only intensified with the passing of time, taking on an added dimension and becoming ever more palpable as Penny’s youthful cou
ntenance had slowly matured to echo her mother’s and her slim, girlish form had blossomed bit by bit into a profusion of womanly curves. Sadly, her attempts at improving the relationship between her and her stepmother had long proved fruitless, thus she no longer tried. Instead, she simply avoided Maryanne whenever possible and did her best to ignore her when it wasn’t.

  Alas, one good thing had come from Maryanne’s entrance into their lives, however, and that was her brother, Charles. She’d adored him from the moment he was born and had done her best to make up for his mother’s profound lack of interest, showering him with an abundance of sisterly love and affection. Now, at four-years-old, Charlie was the spitting image of his mother, having inherited Maryanne’s golden-blonde hair and pale blue eyes; but despite their physical resemblance, her sweet-tempered brother seemed to possess none of his mother’s unflattering character traits. She couldn’t help but smile just thinking about him, for like their father he had a kind, loving disposition and a remarkably keen intelligence; and though they had only been away from home a short while, she missed him terribly.

  Alright, Penny, enough woolgathering, she silently admonished, forcing her attention back to her reflection in the mirror. Reaching upward she adjusted the narrow sleeves of her off-the-shoulder gown, pushing the pale-peach satin bands downward another inch. Never one to focus overmuch on her physical attributes she had to admit that tonight was different; for with the recent arrival of the Duke of Ainsworth and his brothers she couldn’t deny that she wanted to look her best and was immensely thankful that she’d had Anne pack several of her new Parisian gowns into her trunk. The one she wore now was by far the most beautiful garment she’d ever worn and tailored to perfection, hugging her curves in all of the right places. And almost as pleasing as the gown itself, there wasn’t a thing Maryanne could do to keep her from wearing it.