Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston

Chapter Two

September

Miles stared morosely out the window. He had been banished to his room for the past three weeks. The only time he had been allowed to leave had been to attend Tony’s funeral. Surprisingly, his brother had fought for him to do so, according to the duke. Winslow had come to Miles’ room and told him that Ralph had insisted Miles come to the service and burial. That Ralph wanted people to see how contrite Miles was for his careless action that ended a life.

He swallowed hard, thinking of the coffin standing at the front of the church and Tony inside it. Sweet, happy Tony. He would never go away to school. Make friends. Attend university. Become a vicar. Have a family. All that had ended with his brother’s brave, foolish leap, an act of love and protection. Miles knew he should have been the one laid to rest, buried six feet under in the graveyard standing beside the church.

Of course, he had been aware of the whispers inside the church. The looks as he stood at Tony’s grave. For the rest of his life, Miles would be blamed for the death of his beloved younger brother. Perhaps that was why Ralph had wanted him to be present at the funeral, to put the focus on the one who supposedly killed Tony.

Miles couldn’t imagine the guilt Ralph now lived with, every morning opening his eyes and remembering he was the one who had shot and killed his own brother. Knowing Ralph, though, Miles supposed that his surviving brother had convinced himself that it was Miles who had pulled the trigger that day. Ralph had spent no time at all with Tony and probably didn’t even miss the boy.

Miles missed his baby brother every day.

He had kept track of the days while he remained in solitary. Once a day, a footman unlocked the door and delivered a tray with bread and water on it and collected Miles’ chamber pot. After a few days, the tray came with a cloth draped atop it. Once removed, he had found more than bread and water. Sometimes, a cold, roasted chicken came. Other times, a few vegetables or a fruit tart. He suspected it was Cook who prepared the tray and handed it off to a footman, deliberately hiding its contents. Gratitude filled Miles every time the tray arrived. He had never been so hungry in his life, receiving only bread early each morning during those early days. He worried that Cook might be found out and lose her position and prayed each night that wouldn’t occur.

Hearing footsteps outside his door, he turned from the window. Their butler entered without knocking, motioning to servants as he ushered them inside. Two men carried a copper tub, which they placed in the center of the room. Other servants followed with buckets of steaming water, pouring them into the tub. The housekeeper appeared carrying a bath sheet and soap. She set them down, giving him a sympathetic look.

“I’m to gather up your clothing, Lord Miles,” she said. “I will see that it is laundered for you.”

“Everything’s over here,” he told her.

He had changed clothes daily but had run out of fresh ones and started repeating the outfits. He spread them out each day to air, not having had any way to wash them.

Sevill frowned at him. “You are to scrub yourself from head to toe. I will return in an hour and take you to see His Grace and the marquess.”

“His lordship will need fresh clothes in order to meet with His Grace,” the housekeeper pointed out to the butler.

“Bring him something Lord Ralph has outgrown,” the man sniffed. With that, Sevill left the room.

The housekeeper gathered up Miles’ things. “I’ll be back soon with something you can change into, my lord.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice breaking at the simple show of kindness.

Quickly, Miles stripped off his clothes once the door closed. He sank into the water, sighing. He swore to never avoid a bath again as he dunked his head under the water and then lathered it up.

A footman came in, bearing fresh clothes. He placed them on the bed.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Miles said.

The servant quietly said, “We all know you ain’t done nothing wrong, Lord Miles. It’s that other one that causes all the mischief.”

His eyes widened. “Don’t say that aloud,” he warned. “You don’t want to be booted from Wildwood without references.”

Thomas grinned cheekily. “Bide your time, my lord. You’ll get what you deserve. We’re all for you.” He exited the bedchamber.

The footman had no way of knowing just how much Miles needed to hear those words of encouragement. His spirits bolstered, he finished bathing and rinsed himself, drying off and dressing in clothes slightly too small for him. Ralph’s hand-me-downs made it obvious Miles had passed him physically. The trousers struck just above his ankles. The shirt’s sleeves were a tad short, exposing his wrists. He tried shrugging into the coat but it was impossible, its shoulders far too narrow. At least the clothing was clean. He was finally clean. As he combed through his wet hair, smoothing it down, he steeled himself for the encounter with the duke and Ralph.

As expected, Sevill arrived and silently escorted Miles to the library. He wondered if the duke would ever enter his study again after what had occurred there.

When he entered the room, his father and brother were seated side by side. The duke gestured to the chair opposite them. As he sat, Miles thought how much the two were alike. Their posture. Their facial features. Their disapproving looks.

“We are here to discuss your education,” Winslow began.

Miles knew in two days he and Ralph should be leaving for school. Suddenly, apprehension filled him. He wondered what Ralph would tell his friends about Tony’s death. Officially, it had been ruled an accident by the local magistrate but he knew his brother would insinuate otherwise. He could see a year of brawling ahead of him as he fought off the boys Ralph would set upon him. Because of that, the boys his own age would probably avoid him, not wishing to be caught in the middle of the trouble.

“You won’t be returning to school with me,” Ralph added, a smug look upon his face.

Surprise filled him. “What?”

“I can’t have you anywhere near your brother,” the duke said pompously. “It would reflect poorly upon Ralph. As my heir and the future Duke of Winslow, it won’t do to have you taint his reputation in any way.”

“Where am I to go?” Miles asked, stunned by this revelation.

“Father has found just the place for you,” Ralph said. “A school just outside of Westerham, on the border of Surrey and Kent. Turner Academy. It is for troubled youth who are sons of the ton. You will be with others like you. An odd mix of fellows who for one reason or another don’t fit into their families anymore.”

His fists balled and he forced himself to relax them. He kept a bland look on his face. He didn’t want to go to this place—but he most certainly didn’t want his brother to know this.

“When do I leave?”

“In the morning,” his father said. “This is goodbye, Miles. Ralph and I will be preparing for his departure the day after.”

“Mother doesn’t want to see you,” Ralph added, a sly grin on his face. “You know Tony was always her favorite. She despises you, you know. Never wants to see you again.”

“It will be hard for her to avoid me during holidays. Unless I am to remain in my room the entire time.”

“You will spend your holidays and breaks at your new school,” Winslow said smoothly.

Stunned, he asked, “For . . . how long?”

“Permanently,” the duke snapped. He rose and hovered over Miles. “As far as I am concerned, you are no longer a part of this family. I will do my duty and see you educated but this is the last time we will ever speak in person. I cannot have you influencing your brother with your wicked ways.”

“I am to never return?” he asked, feeling tears fill his eyes as his father took a seat again.

“That’s right,” Ralph said, superiority oozing from him. “You will reside at Turner Academy until you graduate.”

“And then?” he asked, helplessness washing over him at the thought of never returning to his home. Never riding his horse again. Never visiting Tony’s grave.

The duke frowned, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I suppose I will send you to university. I can’t have my peers think less of me. There will be enough gossip as it is about you and the family.” He paused, mulling it over. “Yes, you will go to university and then into the army as planned. My solicitor will purchase the commission for you. The discipline the military brings will be good for you.”

Ralph looked alarmed by the turn of events. “Shouldn’t Miles come home after university, Father?”

He remembered how badly Ralph wanted to have him under his thumb and decided to speak up, knowing he could never serve under his brother.

“No, Father is right. I should enter the army. A lifetime in the military, away from England and our family, is what I deserve. I will do my penance and serve king and country at the same time.” Miles looked to the duke. “Thank you, Father. You are right to keep me away from Wildwood.”

“Good,” the duke said, nodding sagely. “Perhaps there is hope for you after all.” He rose. “Come along, my boy. Your mother is waiting for us. We’re to call upon Lord Hamilton.”

Without a backward glance, the two exited the room.

Miles glanced around, knowing he would never see this—or any room—at Wildwood after his departure tomorrow. He was being sent into exile.

Standing, he crossed the room and plucked his favorite book from a shelf. No one would miss it. His father barely skimmed the newspapers and Ralph never picked up a book. Miles knew it would bring him comfort in the days and weeks ahead. The one familiar thing from home.

With a heavy heart, he returned to his room and spent his last night in his bed.

*

Miles tamped downthe trepidation inside him as the carriage pulled up to the imposing stone edifice. No sign marked that the building was, in fact, a school for troublemakers. He had no idea what class of boys he might encounter and doubted the curriculum would be as rigorous as what he was used to. The boys in attendance at Turner Academy might very well have committed heinous crimes. Murder. Arson. As sons of the nobility, though, they were above the law. He wondered if this was the only place difficult boys were sent or if other schools such as this existed. While Miles wanted to believe he could take care of himself, he had no idea who he would encounter behind these doors.

The carriage slowed and came to a halt. No one from Wildwood had accompanied him. He had been sent with only a driver, who gave him a pitying look as he exited the vehicle. He mustered a smile and waved to the driver as someone came out the front door of the academy.

“Greetings!” he proclaimed. “I am Mr. Smythe. Who might you be, young man?”

He cleared his throat. “Lord Miles Notley.”

“I see. Well, my lord, titles aren’t recognized here at Turner Academy. You will be Mr. Miles to me and your instructors.”

He nodded, not knowing how to respond. He had been Lord Miles his entire life, the son of a duke. Despite not being the firstborn son, he had been made aware of his rank in society at a young age. Obviously, the school had put into place certain rules and there was nothing he could do about it. He grinned, thinking how put out Ralph would have been not to be acknowledged as a marquess by the staff and servants. The thought put him more at ease.

“Driver, can you help me bring down Mr. Miles’ trunk?” called Mr. Smythe. “Thank you.”

Once the trunk was on the ground, the driver looked to Miles.

“I’ll be fine,” he told the servant. “Go on. Tell Cook I will miss her fine meals.”

“Aye, my lord. I will do so,” the driver said. “Good luck to you. All the Wildwood servants wish you the best.”

He waved farewell as Mr. Smythe easily lifted the heavy trunk and tossed it upon one shoulder.

“That’s a good sign,” the servant said. “For you to have the respect of your family’s staff.”

“They have always been kind to me. More so than my own family,” Miles admitted.

The man studied him a moment. “I know you wonder what you are getting into here. Let me tell you that there are some boys who are sent here, ones who truly are a bad seed. The Turner brothers—Mr. Nehemiah and Mr. Josiah—do their best to help them live up to their full potential and put their difficulties behind them. Others are sent here because they were an inconvenience to their families or they were accused of something that they wouldn’t have done.”

“Like me,” he muttered.

Smythe nodded. “Like you,” he agreed. “Whatever happened is in your past, Mr. Miles. You start with a clean slate at Turner Academy. Come along.”

They entered the school and as they journeyed up the stairs, the servant said, “You’ll be with four new boys. We have anywhere from eight to twenty students at any given time. Some stay a short while and leave for other schools. Others are with us until they finish their education.”

“I’ve been told I will stay. Until university. Holidays and all,” Miles said glumly.

“That’s a good thing because you’ll be wanted here,” Smythe said good-naturedly. “You’ll make friends. Good ones, I believe.”

They went down a corridor, passing several boys who greeted the servant, before stopping at a door at the end of the hallway.

“This is yours, Mr. Miles. Your home for the upcoming years. Three boys have already arrived.”

He rapped on the door and opened it, breezing in and placing the trunk at the foot of a bed. Above the bed was a placard with his name. It was a good omen to Miles. At his other school, spots were never assigned. It sometimes turned into a bloodbath as to where a boy might bunk. This way, no arguments would ensue regarding who had what bed.

“Assemble in the ballroom in half an hour,” Mr. Smythe said. “Don’t be late. The Turners can’t abide tardiness.”

“Thank you,” he told the servant, who departed quickly.

Miles looked around at the three boys present. One sat on his bed, his forearms braced on his legs, his hands gripping his knees. His gaze was focused on the floor so Miles couldn’t really see anything but a head of blond hair. He didn’t bother looking up or acknowledging that a new boy had arrived, causing Miles to grow wary of him.

He glanced at the other two, who had ceased their conversation and eyed him with interest. One was tall and lanky, with chocolate brown hair and hazel eyes. The other had dark chestnut hair and gazed at Miles with sapphire eyes. He was lean and lithe. Both looked as if they would be good athletes.

They came toward him and he stiffened until the first held out his hand.

“I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Stanton. They say I burned down our stables and killed all our horses. I didn’t. It was my idiot brother’s fault.”

Miles took the offered hand, surprised by the open declaration from the boy but deciding to return the favor. “I appreciate you being frank. My older brother shot and killed my younger brother. He’s a marquess and my father’s favorite. Ralph blamed me—and no one dared to question his version of the events.”

He wouldn’t have thought within minutes of arriving at his new school that he would share such a confession but it felt good getting it off his chest.

The second boy also stuck out his hand and Miles shook it.

“I’m Aaron Hartfield. My friends call me Hart.” He looked at Miles. “I hope we can be friends.”

“I hope so, as well,” he replied. “Why are you here?”

Hart snorted. “It seems we three have something in common. My older brother, Reginald, pushed my baby brother into the water. Percy was scared. Always hated the water. Reg thought he’d force Percy to finally conquer his fear. Instead, Percy somehow landed wrong and broke his neck. Guess who got the blame?” Hart shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I hate the lot of them anyway.”

“Do they want you back?” he asked, looking from Hart to Wyatt.

“You mean are we allowed to go home?” Hart asked, immediately understanding Miles’ question. “Not me. My father, the Duke of Mansfield, washed his hands of me. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since Percy died. His solicitor is the one who told me I would be attending school with a bunch of wayward, wicked boys. And that I am not welcomed at Deerfield ever again.”

Wyatt sighed. “Thank God. I thought I was the only one who had been banished for good. I live—lived—at Amberwood, about ten miles southeast of Maidstone. Our family butler delivered me here. My parents have disowned me.” He paused, his voice becoming deep and gruff. “Oh, I’ll do my duty to you, you worthless piece of scum. Polite Society would frown upon me if I abandoned you. You’ll be educated. You just won’t be allowed home. Ever,” he emphasized.

“I suppose that you’re imitating your father,” Miles stated.

“Yes. The mighty Duke of Amesbury. May he rot in Hell someday.” Wyatt turned and spat on the ground for good measure.

He looked to the blond boy sitting on his bed. “Does he talk?” he asked quietly.

“Not yet,” Hart said.

The door opened and Smythe entered again, carrying another trunk with a different boy in tow.

“Back again,” he said cheerfully. “This is Mr. Donovan Martin,” he informed them as he placed the trunk down. “Take good care of him. He’s the last of those you’ll share the room with.”

Once the servant left, the three introduced themselves and quickly told why they’d been sent to Turner Academy.

“So, what did you do—or not do?” Miles asked.

Donovan shrugged. “Nothing.”

“No one is sent here without doing something,” Wyatt pointed out.

A pained expressed crossed Donovan’s face and Miles said, “You don’t have to say anything. If you’re ever ready, we’re here to listen.”

He went and opened his trunk, shuffling items around.

Donovan said, “It was my mother.”

Miles stilled and rose from bended knee. He went to Donovan. “Did something happen to your mother?”

The dark-haired boy nodded, tears filling his piercing, blue eyes.

“We loved to talk and walk. We were cutting through the forest to return home and she accidentally stepped in a trap.”

All three boys winced.

“I ran for help and they got it off her but it was horrible. Her skin jagged and ripped. Blood everywhere. The doctor said he would need to remove the limb.” Donovan’s mouth set stubbornly. “But my father wouldn’t let him take it.”

A sick feeling filled Miles. “What happened?” he asked.

“Infection set in. She ran a high fever for days. She was delirious. And then she died,” Donovan said dully. “Father can’t stand the sight of me because I look just like her. She always favored me over my older brother, who will be Duke of Haverhill someday. That’s why I’m here.” He looked about defiantly, mopping the tears from his face. “I loved her so much I hate my father. And my brother. I don’t care if I ever see them again.”

Hart placed a hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “We’re here for you,” he said solemnly. “We’ve all been done wrong. We may not have our families anymore—but we have each other.”

The four boys regarded one another solemnly and nodded.

Then Miles glanced to where the fifth boy sat mute.

“Won’t you join us?” he asked.

The boy raised his head and he saw the pain filling the bright, blue eyes. Slowly, he came to his feet and moved toward their circle. Wyatt stepped back, allowing the newcomer to join in. They faced him.

“I’m Finch,” he finally said. “William Finchley. And I don’t give a damn about what any of you did or didn’t do.” Sullenly, he met the gaze of each boy within the circle. “I sure as hell won’t ever tell you why I was sent here.”

“You don’t need to,” Donovan said. “You’re here. And you’re with us. That’s all that matters. We’re all new here. That’s what Mr. Smythe told me. I think we could all use a few friends.”

Miles saw Finch was still filled with tension. “Donovan’s right,” he asserted. “Whether you did anything or not, you’re a part of us. We’re all stuck here together. We might as well make the best of it.” He glanced around the circle. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” chimed in the other four.

He stuck out a hand. Wyatt placed his on top. Hart, then Donovan, and finally Finch added theirs to it.

“To the Turner Terrors,” Miles declared.

“The Turner Terrors,” the four echoed.

“We should make our way to the ballroom,” he told them.

As the five boys left their room, Miles hoped that he had a future here.

With these boys. His new friends.