The Duke She Loved to Hate (Preview)

Chapter One

London, England, 1813, Ashford House. 

Not again. 

Olivia Thorne allowed her slim shoulders to rise and fall, hinting at the sigh she attempted to hide. She sat up straighter on the settee and listened to the pair of footsteps echoing down the hall. 

Soft morning light poured through the windowpane of Ashford House, highlighting her chestnut hair that had been pinned in elaborate braids on each side, while the rest of the strands hung in loose curls around her shoulders.

Her hazel eyes in her reflection as she turned toward the window already looked dull and uninterested in what was about to take place. 

The neat little parlor had been decorated in the French style with gold trimmings and soft pastel colors. One of the maids had placed several vases of white roses, her favorite flower, all around the room, yet the fragrant blooms did little to ease the irritation that she felt bubbling in her core. 

“Ah, Olivia, there you are,” her father, the Baron of Ashford House, said as he walked into the parlor with a warning look on his stern face before turning to their guests with a smile. 

I have not even done anything yet. 

Olivia came to her feet, forcing a smile that she knew would soften her features. She was certainly a pretty young woman; many a man had told her at balls and other social gatherings that her fine features and delicate structure were the very substance that inspired poetry. The sentiment alone was enough to make her gag, but she knew very well that she needed to play her hand. 

Clearing his throat after a brief exchange with the young man, her father turned back to her. “Olivia, may I present to you, Mr. Walter Straton. Firstborn son of Mr. and Mrs. Straton.” Her father puffed out his chest, making his lanky frame slightly curved as he placed his hands behind his back. 

I am supposed to know who that is? 

She could tell by the tilt of her father’s square jaw that Mr. Straton was someone whom her father held in high regard. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Straton.” She curtsied low, lifting the sides of her floral green dress just a little too high as the tips of her shoes appeared at the hem. 

Her father shot her another warning glare, but Olivia simply smiled at the man and ignored her father. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Thorne. Your father has told me a great deal about all your accomplishments.” The sandy-haired young man with light blue eyes and mutton chops that were far too fluffy spoke in a gentle voice that made him sound more like a child than a grown man. 

Pausing for a moment, Olivia tilted her head to the side and allowed her full lips to part slightly as her brows knit with confusion. “I think you may have been mistaken, Mr. Straton, my father must have been speaking of his ‘other’ daughter.” The corners of her mouth expertly twitched into a hurt smile. 

Mr. Straton opened his mouth and closed it again quickly, seemingly not knowing what to say. 

Her father’s pallor reddened slightly as his posture stiffened. He let out a dry laugh that was meant more as a warning to his daughter than a show of amusement. “You must forgive my daughter her little moments of teasing, Mr. Straton. She does so love to jest.” His light green eyes flashed another warning in her direction. 

Olivia lifted her lips into a soft smile as she laughed under her breath, a soft, raspy sound that emanated from her chest. “Yes, please do forgive me, Mr. Straton. I am prone to jesting. I am my father’s only daughter. Some would say his only hope of marrying anyone off.” She laughed again, seeing the uncertainty in the young man’s eyes. 

Almost sighing, her father shut his eyes for a second before changing his weary expression into a smile. “Would you care to have a seat, Mr. Straton? I see the tea has already been brought up.” He gestured to the settees and armchairs around the coffee table, where a stand of sandwiches and a pot of tea had been placed. 

Sauntering over before the man could answer, Olivia began to pour them each a cup of tea and handed it to the men before they could take their seats. 

Just another small faux pas. 

She offered her father an apologetic smile and returned to her seat without a cup of tea of her own. 

Mr. Straton did not seem to notice at all as he took up the seat opposite hers and reached for a thinly sliced cucumber sandwich with the crusts cut off. “I must commend you for your comedic timing, Miss Thorne. You are quite adept at delivering a line convincingly.” He laughed this time before taking a bite of his sandwich. 

It was Olivia’s turn to bristle as she stiffened slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching in annoyance. It was not often that men enjoyed her little mistakes or the little barbs that she threw in their direction. 

“Have you been enjoying the sunny weather that has been blessing the streets of London?” Mr. Straton asked when the moment of awkward silence dragged on for a little too long. 

Olivia quickly shook her head. “I am afraid that I have not. I am a winter person, and I cannot wait for the first snow to begin to fall. Summer always has an odor of labor that I cannot abide.” 

The young man’s brow knit together in confusion as he frowned. 

That is more like it. 

Her lips curled into a triumphant smile as she sat up a little straighter. 

Heaving a sigh this time, her father shook his head discreetly before looking up from his cup of tea. “Why do you not play the pianoforte for us. You do have the loveliest voice.” 

Her smile faded a little as she turned to her father. “I do not think it the time, Papa. I am certain that Mr. Straton would be far too bored to listen to me play.” 

Mr. Straton seemed to perk up at the suggestion as he hurriedly swallowed his bite of sandwich. “On the contrary, I would certainly love to hear you play for us. Music is one of my special interests.” 

“Oh, I did not know.” Olivia continued to force her smile as she stood and walked over to the pianoforte in the corner of the room. 

Insufferable! 

She attempted to hide her sigh once again as she took her seat on the bench and poised her gloved fingers over the keys. 

Mr. Staron turned to her father, attempting to start a conversation, but Olivia pressed her fingers onto several keys at the same time. The man almost jumped from his seat as the tea in his cup sloshed over the rim. 

Olivia looked up with a sheepish and apologetic smile. “I do beg your pardon. I hate it when my fingers grow stiff.” 

“Quite all right,” Mr. Stratton said, yet the weary look of confusion in his eyes said otherwise. 

Her father’s eyes darkened with anger as he clenched his jaw. 

Composing herself, Olivia took a deep breath and began to move her fingers gracefully over the keys in a soft melody as the men returned to their second attempt at conversation. 

Now is my chance.

Olivia cleared her throat, her voice coming out an octave higher than the notes of the song. 

Mr. Straton paused for the briefest of seconds, trying to hide the surprise in his gaze as she sang off-key. 

Her father, on the other hand, seemed less than thrilled as he returned his empty cup of tea to the tray and glared at her. 

Olivia sang on, unfazed by the threatening looks as she strove for utter disgrace. Her efforts, however, quickly faded as the men conversed on topics of sales in the wool industry and how the House of Lords was faring, until Olivia paused and added her opinion to the conversation. 

“Are you interested in politics, Mr. Straton? I never discuss the matter, as thinking always tends to give one a frightful headache.” She pursed her lips in displeasure as she shook her head. 

The conversation around the coffee table quickly came to an end as the men both turned to her at the same time. Her father’s expression was one of utter rage, yet Mr. Straton seemed more confused than anything else. 

“Do you not enjoy reading then, Miss Thorne?” His questions carried the tone of someone who was genuinely concerned.

Tilting her head to the side in a thoughtful gesture, Olivia chewed the inside of her cheek. “I cannot say that I enjoy poetry or novels, but I do enjoy the works of the Brothers Grimm.” 

Mr. Straton seemed taken aback as his brow furrowed even further. “Are they not the authors of those fairly grim children’s tales?” 

Perking up considerably, Olivia turned her body away from the pianoforte and beamed. “Yes! The brothers, Jacob and Wilhelm, have you read their works?” 

“I… I cannot say that I have, Miss Thorne.” Mr. Straton laughed nervously as he, too, placed his empty cup of tea back on the tray. 

Olivia’s smile faded as she nodded. “I know they are not very popular among the gentry, but I do so love a grim fairy tale. I am afraid that my mind cannot seem to comprehend anything beyond their works. In fact, just the other day, I was discussing with my maid that should I have the pleasure of running my own house, I would need to hire a very good housekeeper. I cannot count very well, you see. I would need someone to count all of our money.” 

Mr. Straton seemed as if he were about to choke on air as he came to his feet. “If you would forgive me, my lord, I seem to have forgotten that I have another appointment this morning.” 

Her father came to his feet as well, looking defeated as he nodded. “I hope we have not kept you too long, Mr. Straton. I hope that you will call on us again.” 

Olivia quickly got to her feet at her father’s words, scraping the legs of the bench over the wooden floor. “I most certainly do hope that you will call on us again, Mr. Straton,” She curtsied again, bobbing her head a little too low. 

The man bowed, hurrying from the room without saying another word. 

They listened to the hurried footsteps carrying down the hall until her father rounded on her. His nostrils were practically flaring with anger as he glared at her. 

“Are you pleased with what you have done?” His eyes flashed angrily. 

Shrugging, Olivia pursed her lips, knowing that her father did not expect an answer. 

“I cannot believe that I went through all of the efforts to secure a meeting with Mr. Straton, only to have you play your little games. Have you any idea of how wealthy and well-known his parents are in London? They have come into their own wealth and wish to have their son marry into the gentry.” He shook his head in disappointment as he began to pace. 

“I am certain that there is a lovely young woman out there who will make Mr. Straton very happy, Papa, but I am not the young woman,” she said as she lifted her head defiantly. 

“No, you are not,” he snapped back. “You have made absolutely certain of that. We shall not see Mr. Straton ever again. Just when do you plan on marrying? You are twenty-and-three, and you have yet to make a successful match. Honestly, Olivia, what are your plans for the rest of your life? Are you planning on becoming a spinster?” He stopped pacing long enough to glare at her intently. 

He will not understand my dreams. 

A dull ache resonated through her chest as she attempted to hide the hurt in her eyes. She had never wanted to marry, detesting the restrictions that being tied to a man would bring to her life. 

Her father’s shoulders rose and fell as he sighed heavily and dropped his head. “I do not know what I shall do with you. You deliberately…” His words were cut short by the appearance of his younger son in the doorway. 

Henry Thorne’s dark brown hair flopped to the side as he gave them both a boyish grin. At fifteen, he was the spitting image of his father, though he possessed their mother’s hazel eyes and lighter complexion. “There you are, Olivia. I came to remind you that Aunt Eleanor is expecting us this morning. We are to accompany her to the market.” 

Olivia brightened at once as she walked toward him. “Oh! I had forgotten. Thank you for reminding me.” 

Their father began to speak again, but they had already begun to make their way down the hall. 

Both Olivia and Henry set off at a run down the hall, hearing their father call to them as he shouted about ungrateful children. 

They laughed until their sides almost split, and they reached the main doors and stepped out onto the busy London street. 

“You were late today. I was stuck with the awful man for far too long!” Olivia complained as she caught her breath. 

Lifting his eyebrows, Henry gave her a more serious expression, allowing his boyish grin to fade. “Was he really that awful, or were you just uninterested?” 

“Very well, I will confess. He was not horrid at all, but he was successfully diverted. That makes seven suitors this month that Father has thrust under my nose.” She regained her breath and began to descend down the stone steps of their London home near Trafalgar Square. 

Henry quickly followed suit and laughed alongside her. “That is all good and well, sister dearest, but what are you going to do when Father stops suggesting suitors and starts picking the marriage candidate for you?” 

Olivia froze, her foot on the last step as she stared at the back of her younger brother’s head. 

What will I do if Papa demands I marry a stranger? 

Her heart began to beat furiously as her pulse quickened with panic. 

Chapter Two

Percival Greystone pored over the documents on his study desk, only looking up now and then when his youngest sister, Violet, mentioned something of importance. His dark brown hair had been neatly combed to the side without so much as a strand out of place. He was tall with a muscular build that had been honed from years of riding. 

The atmosphere in the small study was light and cozy with a low fire crackling behind the grate, yet Percival could not help but think of his sister upstairs in her chambers. “Has Arabella come down at all this morning? She was absent at breakfast as well.” 

Violet shook her head, causing some of her dark curls to bounce free from her braid. “She said the pain of her headache has been making her ill. You know, yesterday at tea, I overheard several of the older ladies discussing a herbalist who is said to be quite good.” 

“Has she been drinking the laudanum that the physician prescribed?” Percival’s attention drifted back to his work as he shuffled some of the documents on his desk. He had spent a great deal of time trying to find a physician who could help his sister with her headaches. At nineteen, Arabella seemed far too ill for her age, while Violet was seventeen and looked to be the picture of health. 

“She has, but it has not been working. The headaches persist; that is why I think we should consider this herbalist.” Her light blue eyes were almost the color of a gray storm, mirroring his own. 

Clenching his jaw, Percival looked up with a stern glance. “I do not wish to have one of my younger sisters seen to by a quack. The laudanum will work. We only need to give it some time.” 

Violet raised an eyebrow. “And how much longer shall we wait? These headaches have been persisting for months, and they are only getting worse.” 

Percival stilled at her words. His sisters had been his responsibility ever since his parents had died. It made him deeply uneasy whenever he was not able to provide for their needs. As the Duke of Hawthorne, it was easy enough to give them everything they desired, yet it was proving to be more of a challenge when it came to the matter of Arabella’s health. “It is stuff and nonsense.” He waved the idea away. 

Shrugging, Violet continued, “You may think that it is nonsense, but several well-known families have already made use of her services. Lady Alsbury no longer suffers from her dizzy spells after visiting the herbalist only once. She, too, had seen many physicians, but all of them had failed. I got the address from one of our footmen, in case you are interested. She has a stall in Bloomsbury.”

Sitting back in his chair, Percival observed his youngest sister. She was a romantic at heart, but she could also be fiercely independent. It worried him at times how stubborn she could be whenever she set her mind to a matter. “I strongly advise you not to listen to gossip from ladies who clearly have nothing better to do with their time. I shall find another physician to help if the laudanum does not work within a few days.” He placed his hands on the armrests of his chair and pushed himself up, signaling the end of their conversation. 

Knowing when to keep quiet, Violet stood along with him and excused herself from the study. 

Percival stood alone for a moment, wondering why it was that nothing at all seemed to work for Arabella. He felt utterly hopeless in the wake of his failure. There had to be something that could be done without resorting to the help of someone who was more than likely a charlatan who preyed on the weak and gullible. 

Deciding to check on Arabella, he made his way from the study and up the stairs, where he crossed the gallery of family portraits and antique busts to the other side of the house, where his sisters resided, each in their own chambers. Vases of fresh white roses had been placed along the halls, depicting his mother’s love of flowers despite her absence in the lavishly furnished house. 

Violet. 

Percival smiled to himself. She always kept the house vibrant with life, much like their mother, who had passed on her character to her youngest daughter. 

Arabella’s doors were closed, but he rapped lightly on the wood with his knuckles. “Arabella, are you awake?” 

A moment of silence made his chest clench with concern, but his fears were quickly alleviated when a gentle voice called back. 

“Come in.” Arabella sounded half-asleep. 

Turning the handle, Percival gently pushed open the door, instantly taking in the dimness of the light and the sweet smell of laudanum hanging in the air. 

Arabella lay not in bed but rather on the chaise lounge by the window where the drapes had been drawn, blocking out most of the morning light. The light green paper of her walls cast a sickly glow over her four-poster bed that seemed as if it had not been slept in for ages. 

Has she been sleeping on the chaise lounge? 

His gaze drifted back to his sister, who had not even stirred. 

Her skin was sallow, and her light green eyes were dull, yet she forced a smile for him anyway. Her features were just as fine as Violet’s, yet her fair skin was peppered with freckles that covered her nose. Both of the girls were pretty in their own ways. 

“How is your headache?” he asked quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The sight of her in such anguish reinforced the fear that he was not doing enough to cure her ailing head. 

The girls had been his sole charge for more than ten years, ever since their parents had died in a carriage accident. Percival had been nineteen at the time, and he could not think of a time when he had not been the proverbial father figure and provider to his two younger sisters. At thirty, he still felt as if he were trying to replace their father, a feat that seemed almost entirely impossible at times. 

Attempting to push herself up from the pillows, Arabella quickly seemed tired and lay back down. Her long blond hair lay loose down her back, yet she wore a pale green day dress as if she had planned on getting up. “It… it has been better…” She said meekly. 

She has been trying. 

Percival felt his chest clenching again as worry took over. If she had been faking her headaches, it would have made matters easier for him, but he could see in her eyes and the way she tried to lift her head that her anguish was more than just real. “I will summon the physician again; perhaps there is something stronger than laudanum that he can prescribe.” 

Arabella shook her head before wincing and lifting a hand to her forehead. “No, I do not wish to drink any more potions or elixirs. The laudanum is bad enough. I think… I think I should just rest. If I can get a good night’s sleep, I will feel better in the morning.” 

Sleep? 

It was barely an hour or two after breakfast, and she was already thinking of sleeping again. 

Things cannot go on like this. 

He watched as Arabella’s eyes fluttered shut. All attempts at conversation seemed to have left her as her chest gently rose and fell with every breath. He was certain that she was not sleeping, but every effort and movement seemed to cause her a great deal of pain. “I will leave you to sleep then,” he said softly before quietly backing away to the door and shutting it softly behind him. He stared at the solid wood for a moment before finally shaking his head in defeat.  What else could he do? 

A surge of anger suddenly coiled in the pit of his stomach. His sister was suffering, but somewhere in Bloomsbury, there was a woman taking advantage of the ill. If anything, he had a mind to find her and uncover her debauchery; at least then people would know not to fall prey to charlatans. 

Swearing under his breath, he turned away from the door and headed toward the servants’ hall downstairs. If Violet could uncover the address, then it would be nothing at all for him to ask the footmen where it was. 

I will put a stop to this nonsense. 

***

The carriage came to a stop not too far from the travelers’ market outside of Bloomsbury near Covent Garden. Percival alighted from the carriage and quickly hurried away, not wanting anyone to recognize him as he made the rest of the trip on foot. 

The bustling market filled the air with exotic spices, herbs, and the unmistakable odor of unwashed bodies. He recoiled inside as he watched the lower classes mingle with the braver members of the ton who had come seeking help. 

Rows and rows of stalls selling more than questionable goods began to confuse him as he traversed the street in plain, yet clean, clothing that stood out like a spinster at a ball. He had been worried about being seen, yet now his thoughts moved to the possibility of being the victim of a pickpocket as he spotted a nearby group of urchins. 

The children laughed and shouted as they ran across the street, yet Percival could not help but think that they were up to no good. 

Spotting a nearby vendor selling herbs, Percival hurried toward the man with a plan in mind. “Excuse me, good sir, would you have a remedy for headaches?” he blurted out, wanting to leave the shady market as soon as he could. 

The bald man looked up with a puzzled expression on his face before scoffing, his dark brown eyes taking Percival in as he wiped his hands on his already dirty apron. “‘My good sir’? That is not the kind of talk that we often hear around these parts.” 

Percival pulled himself up to his full height as he stood his ground, his athletic build towering over the much shorter man with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “Well, do you have a cure for headaches?” 

The man jammed a pudgy thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the dark alley behind his stall. “What you want is the Indian Widow’s supplier. She has the ‘miracle’ headache cure that everyone has been babbling about.” 

Craning his neck, Percival felt a warning go off in his mind as he looked down the barely lit alley. The buildings on either side were so close to each other that their roofs touched, which created an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Take it or leave it, my lord. The alley is the only way to get what you are looking for,” the man grumbled without looking up as he went back to sorting his piles of herbs. 

Percival took a deep breath, once again looking down the alley. 

I will feel better if only I can sleep. 

Arabella’s words, along with the pain in her eyes, echoed in his mind. What other choice did he have if the healer turned out to be the only person who could help her? And if she was a charlatan, then the people needed to know. 

He set off toward the alley, taking note of all his surroundings in case he needed to make a quick escape. The smell of damp permeated the air in the dim lighting as he carefully picked his way through. It did not seem possible to him that any apothecary or even herbalist would conduct their business in such squalid surroundings. He had just reached the end of the alley where a small door stood to the left when he came to a sudden stop. 

“What in the name of….” His voice trailed off as he gripped the upper arms of someone slight, far too slight to be an assailant.

“Let go of me!” a woman hissed at him, her bonnet low over her face as she stared down at the bundle next to his boots.  

Taking a step back, Percival quickly let go of her shoulder and attempted to see her face, but she bent down in her plain gray dress and snatched up her parcel, keeping her head down as she examined the package for rips. 

“You had better watch where you are going next time,” she grumbled at him in a soft voice as if he had been in the wrong for simply existing. 

A lady? 

Percival almost took another step back. He had thought her accent had been too proper before, but now he was certain of it. The way she spoke hinted at a higher education and the money that could afford to buy it. Yet he could not understand why any real lady would have been skulking around an alley. It would have been more proper for her to send a maid. 

“I beg your pardon, Miss, but…” He began to speak but found his breath catching in his throat when she lifted her head, allowing her bonnet to fall slightly back. 

Her features were fine and beautiful, far more so than any woman he had ever encountered in London, yet it was her hazel eyes that caught him off guard. They were a perfect mixture of green and gold, drawing him like lanterns in the night. 

“Are you quite finished?” she almost barked at him in a superior voice. 

Feeling the spell between them breaking, Percival narrowed his eyes. 

She did not wait for him to answer her as she rushed past him again, pulling her bonnet lower on her face. 

He turned to watch her leave with skilled and graceful movements as he took note of the two figures at the other end of the alley. A highborn lady waited patiently with a young gentleman at her side. Percival did not recognize either of them, yet he had never been one to mingle too closely with the rest of the ton. 

She hurried toward them and exchanged a quick word before turning back to him with a veiled expression, her eyes searching his face. Was she trying to memorize his face so that she could recognize him again, or was she worried that he would recognize her? Just as quickly as the moment had come, she turned from him and followed the man and woman from the alley. 

Remarkable. 

Percival found himself staring after her, uncertain of whether he was appalled by her audacity or taken by her beauty. He stood there for a moment before looking back at the dark door just a few steps ahead. There were no signs, no bell, and no other way of seeing that the store was in fact an herbal supplier. 

Had she come from that store? 

He tried to recall what he had heard when he had been looking off to the side, far too anxious that he would be robbed. Thinking things through for a moment, he shook his head and turned back to the entrance of the alley. There was no way he was going to enter an unknown shop hidden in a dingy alley. If there was some kind of tomfoolery underfoot, then he would steer clear of whatever it was. 

Turning away, he made his way back up the alley and headed home. He would need more time to come up with a plan before barging directly into a shop and trying to expose the shady dealings.

He thought of those hazel eyes and how they had stared directly into his. It did not seem likely that a highborn lady would visit such a place on her own, yet there had been people waiting for her. Were they customers, or had they escorted her? Was she somehow involved in the herbal trade? 

Percival almost scoffed at the notion as he stepped out into the sunlight, blinking a few times before heading back in the direction of his carriage. It was not only unlikely but also absurd that a lady would have been conducting business in the middle of an alley. She had more than likely been wanting a cure for some ailment or another. 

Shaking off the thoughts, he pushed the woman to the back of his mind and hurried on.