Royal's Bride. Kat Martin

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      To the Martin family, all such wonderful people.

      I’m so lucky to have them!

       One

       England, 1854

      Royal Dewar crossed the massive oak-beamed entry of Bransford Castle, his tall black riding boots ringing on the wide-planked wooden floor. As he strode past the main drawing room, so impressive with its high, Tudor-style ceilings and heavy beams, he tried to ignore the worn Persian carpets, the way the bright reds and vivid blues he recalled from his youth had faded to shadowy, lackluster hues.

      As he climbed the wide, carved mahogany staircase, he tried not to notice the feel of the wooden banister beneath his hand, once polished to a rich patina but now dull from years of neglect.

      He had been home for less than two weeks, returned to England from his family’s plantation, Sugar Reef, in Barbados, where he had been living for the past seven years. His father had fallen ill and the family solicitor, Mr. Edward Pinkard, had sent for him.

      The Duke of Bransford is dying, the letter had said. In all haste, my lord, please come home before it is too late.

      He was home at last, grateful to have this brief time with his father, but the house was dreary and in desperate need of repair, and he was unused to being cooped up inside. At dawn, after checking on his father’s condition, he had headed for the stables. He hadn’t ridden Bransford lands in the past eight years and he looked forward to becoming reacquainted with his home.

      Though the winter wind was chill, the sky gray and cloudy, Royal enjoyed the ride immensely, surprising himself a bit. The hot climate of Barbados had seeped into his bones and his skin was sun-darkened from his work out in the sugarcane fields. Yet this morning, with the brisk wind in his face and the open fields stretching as far as he could see, he realized how much he had missed England.

      It was late morning when he returned to the house, swinging down from the big gray stallion that had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday, a colt he had named Jupiter that now stood seventeen hands high. He handed the reins to a waiting groom.

      “See he gets an extra ration of oats, will you, Jimmy?”

      “Aye, my lord.”

      Feeling only a little guilty for leaving with his father so ill, Royal hurried into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Striding down the hall, he paused for a moment to collect himself outside the door to the duke’s bedroom suite.

      A strip of light seeped from beneath the heavy wooden panel, indicating a lamp burned inside. Royal turned the silver handle, opened the door and strode into the massive, dimly lit chamber. Across the room, his father lay beneath the covers of a huge four-poster bed encased in heavy gold velvet hangings, the shell of the man he had once been.

      The duke’s valet and most trusted servant, George Middleton, hurried forward on long, spindly legs, his shoulders stooped from years of service and now resignation.

      “It is good you are back, my lord.”

      “How is he, Middleton?” Royal pulled the tie on his long scarlet woolen cloak and allowed the valet to sweep it from his shoulders.

      “I am afraid, my lord, each day he grows weaker. Waiting for Lord Reese to arrive is all that keeps him going.”

      Royal nodded. He prayed his brother, two years younger than his own twenty-nine СКАЧАТЬ