If I Were a Duke by Eva Devon

Author:Eva Devon [Devon, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Fiction, historical
Publisher: Bard Productions
Published: 2017-12-20T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Tony sat, his polished boots propped on a low, inlaid, Italian table, before the fire in his room. His starched cravat was finally off, his shirt open at the neck, the wedding coat off, and not at all at ease.

The flames leapt and crackled in the large fireplace. He lifted the glass of whiskey imported from Ireland to his lips. Brandy was a most noble beverage, but he was in agreement with the Scots and Irish that whiskey was the water of the gods.

He sipped at the triple distilled liquor, hoping to eventually dull his senses to the fact that his new and very beautiful wife was asleep in the adjoining room. Without him.

Dropping his head back against the cushioned, wood-carved chair that might have been mistaken for a throne by someone born to the fields as he had been, he fought the urge to get up and pace his room. He had no wish to keep her awake, or let her know that he was stewing whilst she reposed. Ayr Place was old. The floorboards creaked.

So, sit he would and, somehow, do a tangled dance with his varied thoughts and well. . . His desire for the lady next door.

The Jacobean house that had once been on the outskirts of London was now on the edge of the prestigious West End. And even though it wasn’t new by recent standards, he found he was quite fond of the sprawling building. In fact, he far preferred it to the newly-built houses crowding this part of town. New houses had no character. No history. There was no mystery to them, except whether the builders had been paid.

Here, he liked to imagine all the political intrigue that had likely occurred in it by the past dukes as religious and political conflict befell the country time and again throughout the Stewart dynasty.

He swung his gaze to the shelves which were packed tightly with his favorite books. He’d had them brought in two weeks ago. When he’d seen the bareness of the room’s shelves, he’d fairly shuddered.

Had his predecessor not read? He could hardly imagine such a thing. Reading was his great haven. As a child, he’d barely been able to read a few letters and couldn’t even scratch his own name. That had changed when he’d come into his father’s presence. Whole worlds had been opened to him then as his father patiently and kindly taught him to read. Shakespeare, John Donne, Plutarch, Rousseau, Thomas Paine, Aristotle, Dryden. The pages of books held the answer to every sorrow, every joy, every dilemma. And if the present was becoming just a bit too unbearable, well, one could always vanish into the beautiful pages of a manuscript. The feel of leather binding beneath his fingertips was bliss. Really, there was only one thing to compare. And he wasn’t going to be doing that particular activity any time soon. So, books it was.

A history book. That was what he needed. An engrossing history book with

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