Page 1 of Mad Duke March

Prologue

Ireland

September 1819

This place reeked of anguish, despair, and misery.

Neither the warm glow cast by the towering, candle-filled chandelier nor the light filtering through the tall windows could drive away the chill that permeated anyone daring to step inside the house. For despite its beauty and luxury, darkness had taken up residence within these walls.

Alexander Blackwood, the new Duke of Tyrone, paused at the base of the grand staircase of his ancestral home.

The air hung heavy with the scent of aged wooden floors, flickering candles, and ancient oil paintings.

Bile rose in his throat, though it had nothing to do with the smell. It was the place itself.

He unhurriedly ascended the steps, his gloved fingers gliding over the mahogany banister, each step accompanied by the creak of the stairs.

His stomach twisted as he traversed the first-floor corridor. Everything was as he remembered it—the disapproving gazes of previous dukes followed him from the faded tapestries, the clicks of his heels were muted by the crimson Turkish carpet, and the benches between doors invited him to sit and contemplate what trouble he had gotten himself into before entering the lion’s den.

A little boy—an apparition—appeared before his eyes, if only for a moment. There he was, sitting on that bench, his hands clasped close to his stomach as he rocked back and forth, mumbling—no, praying—to himself.

As the vision disappeared, he opened the door to his father’s study and peered inside.

The desk stood in the middle of the room, its polished surface ready for the master to come in and resume his work. Two wingback chairs flanked an empty hearth, a chess game arranged on a little table between them as if someone was about to sit down and play.

“Look at me when I talk to you!” The voice reverberated through his mind, causing him to shudder. “You useless little idiot! You can’t do anything right!”

The sound of clattering chess pieces across the floor followed as the chessboard flew toward him. He raised his arms instinctively, only to realize that he was shielding himself from his memories. His breathing labored, he shook his head before storming out of the room.

Taking two steps at a time, he climbed to the second floor and stalked toward the most familiar room. He pushed the door open, and his entire body went rigid.

Nothing had changed there either.

It was as if he’d never left.

A sturdy oak four-poster bed stood in the center, with a faded green coverlet on top. A desk nestled in the corner, flanked by book-filled shelves.

Even his little trunk still stood by the window.

The boy’s apparition reappeared, perched on the trunk, gazing out the window, a glimmer of hope smoldering within.

“She is not coming back, you useless loiter-sack! And it’s all because of you,” the slurred ghostly voice of his father echoed, followed by a string of hurtful insults, until eventually, the duke would express his rage by replacing words with objects hurled through the air, aimed at his son’s head. Soon his fists and cane would join the list of things crashing into his son’s shaking body.

“Tyrone!”

He tensed before realizing this wasn’t a memory. It was his ginger-haired friend, the Earl of Sutton, calling him from the other end of the corridor.

Will I ever get used to being addressed by this wretched title?

It had been two months since he inherited the dukedom, but it still rang hollow to his ears. No, it struck fear and loathing into his heart.

Sutton approached him, pausing only a few paces away. “What do you want to do now?”

Throwing one last glance at his former room, his gaze lingered at the little trunk by the window that tugged at his heart. “Sell everything valuable,” he said, before turning away from the room and walking resolutely away. “Burn the rest.”

He paused on the staircase landing overlooking the hall. “And then we shall have a drink.”

Chapter One