Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole

Chapter 1

Ten years later

Tristan could not remember a time that he had not been in pain. There had been such a time—he knew it had to be so, since his injuries dated back less than two years. But it felt as if that were another life, as if that were another man, someone who moved through the world without care.

Now everyone stared at him, and he could barely take a step without someone jumping to attention. Partly it was the injuries. The worst of the scarring and the brokenness of his body was covered by clothing, thank God. But his face couldn’t be hidden. The deep, puckered, ragged line was always going to be there, running from his temple down to his neck, a memento of the battle that nearly killed him.

The person who had manufactured the shell should be pleased. He’d hurt Tristan far more than any measly bullet to the head ever could.

The scar pulled at his whole face, offering the world a perpetual squint and scowl no matter what he was really thinking. And now people seemed to care very much what he was thinking, because another unexpected result of the war was that a few other men died too—a random but very important chain of deaths—leaving Tristan an inheritance he’d never dreamed of, and frankly didn’t want.

Maybe Jack could get him out of it. If Jack didn’t die first.

Tristan looked over at the man riding opposite him in the carriage. He’d seen corpses in better shape. And in a way, it was all Tris’s fault, because Jack had fallen ill after taking charge of Tristan when he returned to London. Just when Tristan started to need fewer doctors, Jack suddenly needed more.

“Should I have the coach pull off the road for a while?” he asked, preparing to knock on the wall nearest the coachman.

“No, no, no. Honestly, Tris, you’re worse than a mother hen. I’m getting better,” Jackson Kemble said, though his words were immediately followed by a hollow cough.

Tristan seized on this event, handing his best friend a clean cotton square before uncapping a flask. “Travel is not helping. Drink this.”

“You want me to die drunk?” Jack retorted, nevertheless taking the flask and sipping from it. He took a few breaths that seemed to come easier. “Well, it may actually help.”

“I hope that a good long stay in the country will help more. I’ve sent word ahead for the staff to have everything ready, and I contacted a doctor in the nearest village.”

“Most grateful, your grace.”

“Oh, shut up.” Even after a year, Tristan was still not used to being addressed as your grace. His elevation to duke was damned inconvenient, in fact. Tristan was content with a soldier’s life, and wanted nothing to do with whatever it was lords did all day—hunting, he supposed. Or visiting other lords and ladies, seeing who could bore the other to death first.

Tristan had liked the life of a soldier…until the day Death nearly found him. The enemy launched shell after shell. Most landed far short of the tent where the officers gathered to gauge the battle’s progress, but the risk was real. It was afternoon, the sun beating down, when Tristan sensed something plunging from the sky. He didn’t remember much of what happened. But when he came to, he was virtually deaf in his right ear, his head hurt like hell, and he couldn’t feel his right side. He was told he’d saved lives—and more importantly, superior lives, those of officers happy to still be breathing and happier still to tell stories of English bravery to those back home. Tristan was pinned with medals, offered commendations, and toasted at parties. He was a hero.

He hated being a hero. Being a lord, of course, made it even worse. He was expected to be gracious and speak proud words about how British victory was inevitable and the enemy should just admit defeat.

Tristan knew it was all lies. He wasn’t a hero. He was lucky. He was lucky that he looked up at just that moment. He was lucky there was a line of sandbags to his right when he hit the ground, turning certain death into mere disfigurement and constant pain. How lucky.

“Stop doing that,” Jack told him.

“Doing what?”

“Brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Yes, you are. And what’s more, you’re brooding so loudly that it’s distracting me from any thinking I might do on my own.”

“All right, no more brooding. I shall think on…” Tris stopped, because he couldn’t think of anything happy or pleasant.

“Try thinking of women,” Jack advised. “I find that helps.”

“Women won’t look at me.”

“Ha.” Jack wheezed out the laugh. “You’re an idiot. Women love a tortured hero. They’ll be flinging themselves at your feet.”

“God, I hope not. And anyway, I’m sure that any flinging will be solely the result of wanting to land a duke. I swear, Jack, I should have changed my name in the field hospital and let Tristan Brooks be dead, like all my relatives.”

“Brooding again,” Jack warned. Then he straightened up in the seat. “I say, I think we may be getting close. Those gateposts have lions on them.”

Tris twisted in his seat and caught sight of a large stone lion perched on top of a brick pedestal the size of a horse cart. Iron fencing met it and stretched into the distance. He saw a mirror image out the other window of the carriage.

“We must be here,” he said, suddenly nervous. Tristan had heard of Lyondale, the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Lyon, but he had no idea what the estate actually looked like. Pastures and woods and distant hills swept past him, and then he heard Jack sigh in relief.

“That’s the house,” Jack said, pointing.

The carriage followed the curve of the drive as it passed by a pond, and suddenly Tristan could see his new home.

It was unimaginable. The size of the house was massive, larger than some palaces. Rows upon rows of windows glittered in the sun, and the white stone walls practically glowed.

“Sweet Christ,” he muttered.

Jack was impressed. “You may want to think twice about giving this up, Tris. As duke, you could do a lot of good with the influence you’ll have.”

“What influence? I’m an imposter. I fell into this title by sheer bad luck.”

“Luck is what you make it. Practicing law taught me that.”

Just then, the carriage came to a halt, pulling up smoothly at the very center of the wide stone steps. An army of servants stood in lines outside, ready for inspection.

Tristan stepped out of the carriage, hiding the arcs of pain through his body after sitting in cramped quarters for so long.

A man stepped up to him and bowed. “Welcome home, your grace. I am Mr. Wynston, majordomo of Lyondale.”

Tristan nodded, then looked over the sea of eyes, the many black-and-white-clad servants who were all staring at him without seeming to do so. He was at a loss for what to do next, and briefly considered heading back to the carriage and fleeing to London.

A woman stepped forward. By her outfit and her manner, she was no servant. Her hair was bound up simply and her features were pleasant, though her whole attitude was faded, as if she’d been left in a closet and long forgotten. She curtseyed to Tristan. “Your grace, I am Miss Wallis. We corresponded these past months, and I have worked to ensure that everything you need is ready for your arrival.”

“Miss Wallis,” he said politely. She was related to him in some distant, tangled fashion. All he knew for certain was that she’d been living at Lyondale at the behest of the old duke. “How good to meet you at last.”

“You and your guest must be quite fatigued, your grace,” the majordomo said smoothly. “Allow me to show you to your rooms. A tour of the house can wait until you are fed and rested.”

Tristan nodded. “The first order of business must be to get Mr. Kemble to his bed. Don’t fight me on this, Jack,” he warned in a lower voice. “You look like you’ve got one foot already in.”

Jack nodded in silent agreement, which was the most alarming thing he could have done.

Everything moved quickly from there. Tristan was swept along on a tide of servitude. Footmen carried bags, maids hurried ahead to open windows and doors. Jack was suddenly supported on both sides by two hulking footmen, helping him to walk.

As they all advanced into the house, the majordomo kept up a running commentary, explaining where such and such room was, and how so-and-so in the portrait was the second duke, and when this and that piece of furniture was brought back from a Roman ruin.

Tris didn’t register a word of it. He cared only that his friend could be made comfortable as soon as possible.

“I sent word ahead that a doctor—” Tris began to say.

“He’s here, your grace,” the majordomo assured him. “Dr. Stelton, the best in the county. Edinburgh man.” That fact eased Tristan’s mind. As he had cause to know from his lengthy recovery, Edinburgh was renowned for its medical schools.

Dr. Stelton was actually in the room where Jack would stay, and he proved to be a large, confident, genial bear of a figure.

“Ah, patient’s here at last,” he boomed out. “Excellent! Let’s get the poor creature to bed so I can take a proper look. With your pardon, your grace, I’ll get to work now.”

Tristan nodded, pleased that the doctor didn’t waste time on small talk.

“See you soon…your grace,” Jack said in farewell, as the footmen worked to follow the doctor’s orders.

The tour was not over. Tris was taken along yet more corridors to a set of double doors at the end of a hall. Two more footmen rushed ahead to open them. Just how many people did he employ?

Beyond the doors, he saw the ducal suite: a massive chain of rooms, far larger than the entire house that Tristan had lived in during his early life.

He stared at the four-poster bed, each corner pillar looking as sturdy as an oak tree. Quite probably six people could sleep comfortably in it. Tristan had no plans to test that theory, though.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with all this space?” he muttered.

“Did you say something, sir?” one of the footmen asked, leaning in. It would never do to ignore a duke.

Tristan thought fast, saying, “I said I want to speak to the doctor when he’s done. Show me to a more suitable room where I can wait. I don’t like to be in a bedchamber during the day.” He’d lain in a bed for almost a year—he was sick of it.

Again through the halls. Again down the wide marble steps of the main staircase, into a blessedly normal-sized place filled with shelves and books.

“This room was used most by the late duchess, sir,” the footman explained. “The small study, we call it. I’ll inform the doctor of your location.”

Tristan paced in the library, waiting for the doctor to finish his examination.

At long last, Stelton entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting, your grace. Your friend is sleeping now, thanks to a bit of laudanum. The travel was difficult for him.”

“It’s not consumption, is it?” Tris asked abruptly.

“No, no fear of that. No sign of blood in the lungs, which would be the death knell. His illness is serious, but not fatal. However, he’ll need to take things very carefully if he hopes to recover. No strenuous activity, no distressing conversations, nothing to worry him at all.”

“How long will he need to rest like this?”

“Weeks,” Stelton said bluntly. “Could be months. The slightest strain could set him back, so see that he’s coddled like a baby.”

“He’ll hate that,” Tristan muttered.

“Better a warm blanket than a cold grave. I’ll stop by daily to check up on him.” Stelton added, “And you, sir? How do you fare?” He gestured to Tristan’s scarred face.

“Well enough,” Tris said. “After all, I was wounded nearly two years ago.”

“But you still feel the pains,” Stelton guessed. “Nasty business, this modern warfare. I’ve seen men come back—” He stopped, his expression haunted. He shook himself and said, in an overly hearty tone, “Anyway, let me know if you require anything for yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Then he left and once again, Tristan was alone, with little to do but brood.

A familiar feeling of being suffocated crept up again. He had to get out of doors. After going to his bedchamber once more, startling the maids who were unpacking, he changed his outfit and said to the nearest footman in his line of sight, “Show me to the stables.”

“This way, sir!” The young man, still a boy, really, led Tristan through the byzantine hallways and finally outside. Tristan could smell the stables now, the comforting aroma of hay and horse and manure. That smell never changed, whether it was the army or a duke’s estate.

“My horse, Stormer, is here, yes?”

“Arrived last week, your grace. He’ll be wanting to gallop through new fields, I’ll warrant. Good to have the stable filling up again. The old duke hadn’t rode for years.”

The stableboy dashed away to saddle Stormer and led him out, which he did with obvious reverence. Quite possibly Stormer was the finest and most expensive creature the boy had ever seen.

“I’ll return by dark,” Tristan said, mounting up.

Tristan wore his usual riding gear, which was more suited to a hostler than a duke. For him, riding wasn’t a social activity. It was solitary meditation. He didn’t care how he looked.

He was glad to be riding out on his own. While recovering from his wounds, Tristan had discovered that riding was one of the few activities that didn’t cause him pain, so he rode as often as he could. Stormer was the one indulgence Tristan granted himself upon receiving his inheritance. He loved horses, but the idea of owning one as fine as Stormer was an impossibility for most of his life.

And he had to admit, the estate of Lyondale was perfect for riding. Almost reason enough to keep the title…

As Tristan rode over the estate, he was doubly glad he wasn’t in company, because the state of the place was beginning to make him angry. Farmhouses looked in need of repair, and many fields were untended. Tristan wasn’t a farmer, but he knew there was no chance that all these fields could be lying fallow intentionally. What could be hindering the tenants from tilling them?

When he happened to see a few men working, he rode over and introduced himself. It took a while for him, as Lord Lyon, to get a real answer out of the nervous farmers, but at last a picture emerged. The rents were high enough so only land absolutely certain to yield enough crops was tilled. Farmers were afraid to risk buying more seed than they might be able to harvest, and they lacked more modern techniques to speed up work, though at least these men were keenly interested in acquiring good equipment.

Leaving the farmed land, Tris rode miles farther on, crossing through meadows and forests. He was impressed by the natural beauty of this part of the country, where’d he never been before. Then, in a thick stand of old oak trees, he stopped short, pulling Stormer up as he caught sight of an unknown house tucked in the middle of the woods.

“This wasn’t on the map,” he muttered.

The place was strange. It looked much like the old Tudor-style manors, but shrunk down to almost nothing. He’d be surprised if the cottage could accommodate more than three people. The walls had once been plastered white, but now were cracked and sagging.

But why was it here at all, so far from any other estate or village? As Tristan rode closer, he was puzzled to see that the house was also surrounded by a lush and obviously well-cared for garden that seemed at odds with the deteriorating structure. Someone had to be tending it. Gardens simply didn’t last without constant attention—weeds and wild animals soon took over. So what was this place, and who could possibly live there?

“Good day, young man,” a voice called.

Tristan startled, causing Stormer to shift a few steps, neighing in concern.

An old woman emerged from the woods, bearing a brace of rabbits. For someone who’d obviously been poaching, she looked quite calm about it. But then, the old lady probably didn’t know who Tristan was.

“Good day,” he returned. “I didn’t expect a house here.”

“Been here longer than you’ve been on this earth, my boy,” the woman replied with a chuckle. “Come down and have a drink.”

Tristan dismounted before he thought twice. Stepping though the verdant garden, he was assailed by a wave of green scent. Flowers and herbs he couldn’t name surrounded him, intoxicating in their aggressive beauty.

In the stories, witches live in the woods, Tristan thought.

“Hang those up on the branch,” the old woman instructed him, handing him the brace of rabbits. “I’ll cook them tonight. Stew for a week!” She sounded delighted.

She disappeared into the darkness of the cottage, leaving Tristan in the garden. He noticed a log placed on end, and sat on it. His right leg was tingling, so he stretched it out carefully, kneading his calf.

The woman emerged again, bearing a tin tankard. She handed it to him, saying, “Drink up, for who knows when you can drink ale again?”

It was remarkably close to what the soldiers used to say to each other, and Tristan took a long pull of the ale, which was cool and hoppy and faintly fizzy.

“Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But you must have to haul this a long way. I can’t drink all your ale.”

“Bless you, I brew it myself. No distance at all.”

“You live out here all alone?”

“Oh, I’ve plenty of company when I wish it,” she said with a wink. “Folk do happen by.”

“Do you fear that thieves or ruffians might harass you?” Tristan thought it very odd for an old woman to live in such a solitary way.

“They’d never find this place,” she said. “Only such folk I want to see me can see me.”

That answer made no sense, but Tristan didn’t argue. He took another sip of ale. It was excellent.

She gazed to the west, where the trees had been lit up like stained glass. “Ah, look at the slant of the sun. Time for you to be moving on. Don’t want to be late.”

“Late for what?”

She ignored his inquiry. “When you ride out, young man, you’ll follow the track until you encounter a stream running west. There’s a tree that divides the flow into two. You must take the left turning. Understand?”

“Certainly. But where does the right turn lead?”

She brushed his question away impatiently. “That is for another day. Go left! And don’t dawdle!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He was amused by the old woman, and didn’t want to spoil the encounter by mentioning his title, which would no doubt make her curtsey and apologize for being so familiar.

Tristan mounted Stormer once more. The horse stepped merrily, evidently rejuvenated after the meal of green grass in the clearing. Tris was feeling surprisingly refreshed himself. Maybe he could persuade the old woman to brew ale for Lyondale.

But not today! She had practically pushed him out of the yard, telling him once again to mind the sun. It’s nowhere near dark, he wanted to protest. Instead he bid her goodbye and rode on. After a while, he saw the fork she was so obsessed with.

“Turn left,” he muttered, seeing the huge tree that split the water into two separate, tumbling brooks.

He glanced down the righthand path, feeling a bit contrary. Who was that old woman to tell him where to ride?

But then he heard something, and paused. Singing? The sound was faint and far away, but something about it was enchanting. And it came from the direction of the left-hand path.

So that is where he rode.