Page 1 of The Not So Perfect Duke

Prologue

Costa de la Luz, Spain

July 1898

It had been several years since Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton, had any contact with his mother, the Duchess of Chellenham, much less encountered her in person. But here he stood, awaiting her appearance on the veranda of her hacienda. When Damon arrived at his mother’s home unannounced, the servants had been dubious about allowing him access to the property. Showing his card and throwing his imperious manner around gained him entry eventually, with a muscular footman keeping watch.

Damn it all, his insides twisted in knots. Feeling like an 8-year-old lonely little boy had him annoyed to the extreme. Holding his temper will be a definite challenge. When was the last time they had met face-to-face? Scads of years. Decades. The chasm between them was insurmountable, at least in Damon’s eyes.

His mother breezed onto the patio and stopped cold in her steps. “My God, it is you. I would recognize you anywhere,” she whispered while removing the scarf from her head. She then turned toward the footman. “Mateo, you may leave us. Bring refreshments, if you please.”

“Si, de inmediato Duquesa,” the brawny footman replied, giving her a bow. He departed directly, leaving them alone.

How astounding to find his mother had retained most of her youthful beauty after twenty-plus years.

Damon stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “I haven’t heard from you in a decade, so I thought I would check to see if you are alive.” He kept his voice devoid of emotion, as usual.

“As you see. I am well. Come, and sit at the table,” the duchess replied as emotionlessly as he had done. Once seated, she asked, “And what brings you here?”

No need for pleasantries or kind words; right to the point. Then so shall Damon.

“I want to know of father’s affairs and how many children there are from all his various debaucheries and dalliances.”

His mother blinked rapidly but kept her expression neutral. “Before I answer, do you wish to know why I have not contacted you since that lone letter of ten years ago? Of which, you did not reply.”

“I don’t care to know,” Damon sniffed indifferently.

She gave him a plaintive look. The first display of emotion from her. “Yes, Damon. You do. There was no contact before or since that impulsive letter because it was the arrangement I had agreed to.”

His brows knitted. “What are you on about?”

His mother sighed. “The only way your father would agree to the separation was for me to leave the country without further communication with you. The duke gave me this cozy villa and a monthly stipend in the settlement. I had to get away, no matter the cost. That cost was—you.”

The churning of his guts increased, along with his annoyance. “And when I grew older and came of age, what then? You could have contacted me besides that one time, and I would have assisted with your upkeep. But you did not.” The last words ended with a hiss through clenched teeth. “Two sentences in that letter. To say you are well and that you hoped I continued in good health.”

“And you never responded. Who pays you a monthly allowance?” the duchess shot back. “The duke would have cut you off. Besides, I made inquiries through the years and learned that you were following in your father’s footsteps by joining a debauchery club and haunting East End brothels and music halls. What is the name, The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park?”

She tapped her finger on the table. “I could not subject myself to such again. Not ever. Not if I were to keep my sanity. I barely escaped with a semblance of lucidity, and I had what is called in polite society—a breakdown. Your father threatened me with incarceration in an asylum, and I had to leave.”

At that shocking moment, the footman entered and laid a tray in front of the duchess. Damon needed a lull in the conversation to process what his mother had divulged. Of course, this was not the picture his detestable father painted. The duke had claimed that the duchess no longer wished to be his mother and abandoned him to travel and seek out adventures—with other men.

Who to believe? One was as bad as the other. Or so he had supposed. His mother’s abrupt departure had affected him so profoundly that he accepted his father’s blatant fabrications. At the time, Damon was 8 years old, an imprudent boy, hurt and afraid. His father was all he had. Of course, he believed the duke. But be damned if Damon would reveal how much his mother’s absence had damaged him.

“Iced tea?” She held the pitcher aloft in question.

“Yes.”

His mother poured a glass and passed it to him. “Thank you, Mateo. You may leave us.”

The footman departed, and Damon took a long swig of the cold beverage. Perhaps it would cool the heated uproar spiraling inside of him.

“There are almond biscuits, called panellets, and citrus sponge cake. Please, help yourself,” the duchess offered politely. “Where are you staying?”

Still the gracious duchess.

As if he could partake of any food. Regardless, he reached for a biscuit. “I am staying at the Casa Cádiz.”

“You are stunningly handsome. You have grown into the beautiful man I always knew you would be. On the outside. I have no clue what beauty exists within you.”