A Wildflower for a Duke, page 1
A Wildflower for a Duke
Laura Linn
Copyright © 2023 by Laura Linn
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note
As you fall headlong in love with Gabriel, Violet, and the other characters that I’ve spent the last fourteen months getting to know, there may be times when their trauma or struggles feel too close to your own. While this book is sprinkled liberally with humor and lively banter, emotional triumph and love, some moments may be distressing to read. I felt it would be a disservice to those who have experienced similar trials if I were to gloss over the characters’ painful realities.
With respect to those who want or need to avoid upsetting content, a complete list can be found on my website, https://lauralinn.com. A Wildflower for a Duke contains sensitive topics including: the death of a spouse and miscarriage (discussed), abuse of a child pertaining to the out-of-date and barbaric treatment of autism (discussed), violence and abduction (on the page), grooming and sexual assault (discussed), self-harm (discussed and mildly present on the page), and bullying (discussed). There is also descriptive consensual sex, drinking in moderation, and mild profanity. Oh, and there are goats…very troublesome goats.
Putting this story to paper brought me a tremendous amount of joy, not only in the creative process but also because it provided the opportunity to help others experience a neurodiverse perspective in a neurotypical world. Something near and dear to my heart, both personally and as a parent.
A special thank you to my friends, who are no doubt tired of hearing the ongoing plights of Gabriel and Violet, but still ask how my writing is going without a single noticeable grimace, and my editor, Kate, who endured multiple drafts with a smile despite the fact that I lost my glasses fifteen months ago and couldn’t physically see the nonsensical punctuation I applied to the page. And, most importantly, thank you to my husband, Seth, and kiddos, Juliet and Sullivan, for their ceaseless encouragement.
~Laura
For my mom, who kindled my imagination to life with a library card and countless hours of reading. You will always be the voice in my head that says that I can accomplish whatever I set my mind to.
-Laura, your lucky penny
Chapter 1
London, England, 1826
G abriel Anson, fifth Duke of Northam, had always thought of death as a singular moment in time. Now, he saw dying as a slow and steady song that followed him everywhere, coming to climax in unpredictable places that left him breathless.
Emma was dead. And everything in his life had followed her, as if that loss had become the Pied Piper, with all the remnants of good in Gabriel’s world falling helplessly in the wake of his hypnotic lure. Gabriel’s confidence in the value of his work in the House of Lords, dead. His desire to connect with friends, dead. His devotion to the tenants of his ancestral lands, dead. His interest in romance, also dead.
Staring sightlessly at the gardens below, Gabriel traced the erratic path of one raindrop as it shimmied down its stilted path.
The splintering crack of breaking glass reverberated through the upstairs halls, jolting Gabriel from his thoughts. A cheerful tap at the door followed.
“Are we just going to pretend we didn’t hear that, Your Grace?” Keene asked, propped casually against the door frame, lanky as an adolescent cat. Slate grey eyes the shade of a sunbathed rock flickered in the direction of the hallway before settling again on Gabriel.
Another explosion of porcelain sounded, and Keene cringed. “That sounded like the Imari Pattern.” His inflection was the same as one might use to announce that a quarter of London’s population, along with Prinny himself, had just drowned in the Thames.
“Is that the set that looks like it has bits of pumpkin splattered on the bottom?” Gabriel asked idly, turning back to stare out the window. “And how the hell would you know the sound of one teacup breaking from the next?”
Keene exhaled a suspiciously indignant-sounding puff of air through his nose. “That tea set is soft paste, and I imagine it would make a more spectacular crash than say, the Jasperware. And they aren’t blobs, they’re orange blossoms. Or, they were.” He added the last bit with a grumble.
“Perhaps you would have made a better butler than a valet. Speaking of which, don’t you have something to starch?”
The indisputable sound of solid wood colliding with plaster stalled the progression of their asinine conversation. Gabriel stood and lifted an eyebrow at Keene.
“That would be the mahogany tea caddy, I believe.”
“Why does my daughter have, what appears to be, tea service for twelve in the nursery?”
Keene spread his hands. “The dolls demanded tea.”
Gabriel trudged his way through the door of his study swallowing down his resentment at the interruption. If it were only his future to consider, he would happily lock himself away and marinate in his grief. Society expected him to look to the future of the dukedom, remarry some empty-headed debutante, and produce heirs with all the mechanical thoughtlessness of a chicken laying eggs with the dawn. They could all hang.
What was not in him to ignore was Nora. Eleven years old and equal parts rage and despair. Well, maybe not equal parts in this precise moment
He hesitated, one large hand poised to turn the handle, apprehension roiling in his stomach. Uncertainty was an emotion that had never before plagued him. Its burgeoning presence in his life was disturbing. Like tightly stretched skin over a poorly healing wound, it left him angry and chafing.
His Emma had always known what to say, combatting toddler tantrums with light-hearted humour, and, as Nora grew older, soothing hurt feelings with just the right combination of empathy and insight. Alone, he felt clumsy and ineffectual.
It had been almost two years, but sometimes the passage of days seemed laughably irrelevant. All the chaotic emotions rampaging through him were both mirrored and amplified in Nora. Feelings … my God, she had so many of them. She shifted from baited badger to withdrawn and inconsolable as fluidly as a river, and he was left trying to follow her changing current like a pebble bouncing across the silt.
But he was trying. And he would keep trying. And Nora would parallel him with a different brand of trying altogether; she’d try his patience, his sanity, and his ability to communicate in complete and rational sentences. Come on Gabriel. Get your head out of your arse. She's eleven. Stop being a coward.
With a perfunctory knock, he squared his shoulders and stepped into the porcelain warzone. Broken shards littered the floor, along with bits of something charred. A substance he could only guess was tea was splattered like a muddy rainbow about the delicate, cream-papered wall.
Showered in a ray of sunlight, petite shoulders heaving with exertion, sat Nora. Like an avenging goddess torn from the pages of a book, her back was arrow straight, feet tucked beneath her on the floor. Her defiance was undermined by a slight quiver of her lower lip.
Nora’s head snapped around, dark curls bouncing, and she met his gaze without a scrap of remorse. “You can't make me feel bad about chasing this one out. She tossed my animal anatomy book into the fire. She called me names.” Nora recounted every moment of the argument, details falling haphazardly like leaves swooping to the ground on the October wind.
Well, that explained the ash, some of which clung to her hair and dress.
“She wants to fill my head with etiquette and watercolours until there isn't room for anything interesting.” Nora’s hands opened and closed reflexively in the folds of her dress like the steady tick of a metronome, a singular, orderly rhythm in contrast to her otherwise turbulent emotions. “And she insulted Mother. Said I wouldn't be such a heathen if she would have taken me in hand or let the governesses perform their duties. She’s horrible. She hates me.” Her anger spilled out in outraged splashes, her little body appearing to deflate in gradual intervals until she was left empty.
Into the f
Gabriel, of course, said none of those things. Crossing the room in small, careful steps, as one might approach a resting butterfly, he dropped to his knees before her and enfolded her soft familiar hands in his own, silently willing her eyes to meet his. When they did, he could scarcely stand the emotion they held.
Every flicker of his residual frustration melted away like candle wax. There was a hopelessness there that he longed to scrub away, to replace with the bright smiles that had been constantly present through her childhood. He wanted to give her strength and peace, but he felt so very empty of those things himself. Plaiting together the frayed threads of his emotional fortitude, he presented what he hoped was passable as a smile.
“When you wage war as the teatime tyrant, you should choose the ugly set the dowager duchess favours. Hideous, beastly little eye sores that beg to be put out of their misery.”
“They are hideous,” Nora said with a sniff.
“But since you’ve already begun the process, we might as well finish off this set.” And with that, he seized a forgotten teacup, unfolded himself from the floor, and gave the porcelain a swift execution against the wall. One corner of Nora’s mouth tipped up and he felt his own answering smile. “Makes a satisfying smash!” Gabriel exclaimed.
Handing her the last remaining survivor, he bowed. “Your turn, my lady.”
She gazed down at the ornate cup, then back to her father. With a disjointed spin and a leap, Nora loosed the cup through the air and into the wall.
“Expertly done!” Gabriel said.
Keene stepped through the doorway, waving a handkerchief like a white flag. Thick hair the colour of wet sand, a cowlick, and deeply-rutted smile lines gave him a youthful, roguish look. His gait was perpetually loose-limbed and insouciant.
“Another successful parenting day I see, Your Grace?” Keene’s tone was warm despite his antagonism. He assessed the mayhem of the room with neither surprise nor condemnation.
“Haven't I fired you yet this week?” Gabriel parried with equal mirth. “Come to think of it, I believe there is an opening at my estate in North Wales digging some new drainage ditches. You fancy a more athletic job, Keene?”
“No, Your Grace, you haven't sacked me yet this week, but it’s only Tuesday. Still plenty of days to bluster and threaten,” Keene replied flatly.
Gabriel ruffled his daughter’s hair, “We wasted those cups on the wall. A moving target would have been so much more satisfying. Keene, I believe we are going to need a broom,”
“No, Your Grace, dukes do not sweep.”
“Keene, get me a broom, or I will fetch one myself and find another occupation for it.”
Keene offered no physical reaction beyond a slight shake of his head. “Go ahead and try, Your Grace. There are nineteen closets, cubbies, and nooks in this labyrinth. Start your search and maybe you will find some ducal dignity or your lost parental skills along the way.”
Gabriel let loose a great booming laugh. “I’ll ask Mrs Janewood. She likes me better than you.”
“Oh no, Your Grace. No one in England likes you better than me. Maybe not even anyone in the world, but I certainly haven’t polled any of the citizens of the feral Americas, so it seems presumptuous to make that claim. France and Italy most definitely prefer me. You’re pretentious, stubborn, and annoyingly tall.”
Nora’s voice interrupted their verbal fencing. “I will ask Mrs Janewood. She likes me better than either of you.”
“Touché,” the men said in unison. With that, Nora skipped from the room, all the day’s despair temporarily erased.
With Nora safely removed from hearing, Gabriel let loose the sigh of a parent who had used up the last remaining shreds of his parental prowess. “I don't know what to do with her, Keene. This was so much easier when she was little and I could fix all her broken bits by blowing rude noises into her tummy until she squealed.”
Picking up a severed teacup handle, Gabriel studied it absently for a moment before dropping it back to join its companions on the floor. “This is all wrong. I’m all wrong.” Dignity, also dead.
“Don’t be a bloody idiot, Gabriel. You’re not what's wrong. It’s this place that's wrong. Go home.” Gabriel sat, dispirited, onto his daughter's bed. Scooping up a cloth doll and toying with the soft fringes of her hair, he resolutely avoided Keene’s concerned gaze.
“I am home. All the correspondence here is addressed to me,” Gabriel said, mulishly.
Keene responded with a wilting stare. “Estates, Your Grace, not home. You’ve ignored your seat in Parliament, you’ve skipped so many meals that your trousers would fall off your hips if not for a set of overworked maids with a quick needle and thread, and you’ve hibernated away like an angry bear. I know it must feel impossible to place one foot in front of the other, but remaining stagnant isn’t an option anymore. Nora isn’t getting better. If anything, she’s worse. Last week, at the flower show, she got into a massive row with Viscount Bainworth’s son over the Greek word for hibiscus, something about it being a—”
“Marshmallow,” Gabriel whispered.
“Yes, well, when he said that she was wrong, Nora snatched him up by the ear.”
Gabriel’s eyes trailed to the window, thoughts slipping into the memory of Emma’s disbelieving giggles the evening they had read it in a book together.
“And yesterday,” Keene continued, “Mrs Simmons told her that she had to wait until after breakfast to sample her new recipe for banoffee pie, and Nora threw a five-year-old fit of temper. She never even threw five-year-old fits of temper when she was five. Wake up man, it’s getting serious! You are a better man than this. A better father than this. It’s time Gabriel. You have to go home.”
Gabriel’s nails dug into the lace of the little doll’s dress as he fought to keep what remained of his composure. Keene’s disturbingly honest words hung uncomfortably in the air as memories of his ancestral seat swept over him. Like sunlight that would not be contained, it sought out every crack and pierced him. A place that was once synonymous with warmth now scalded his insides, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He looked up into Keene’s owlish, annoyingly perceptive eyes, then down at the doll, which stared accusingly back.
Inconvenient as Christopher Keene’s candour could sometimes be, his friendship was absolutely essential to Gabriel’s life. The men had grown up as secret companions, sneaking away and spending many of their free hours building forts in the woods or drawing maps and burying treasure. When he’d been with Keene, Gabriel had felt like an ordinary boy.
During Gabriel's second year at Eton, his father had discovered their friendship and promptly turned both Christopher and his father away from the house without so much as a reference. The old duke might have chosen a different path had he recognised the defining moment for what it was. From that day forward, all the wisdom and training the duke tried to impart to his son became a lesson in what not to do.
After ascending to the title, it took Gabriel nearly six months to find Keene, who had taken a position under a shipwright following the loss of his father six weeks prior. It had been a senseless death, caused less by the minor, easily-treatable wound than by the cruel superiority of a viscount who prioritised his need for a clean shave and a crisp cravat over a man's life. The viscount had insisted that medical attention from a physician be delayed until after his scheduled trip to a country house party.
Keene’s father had spiked a fever several days into the journey and was abandoned at a posting inn where the summoning of a doctor came too late. He died alone.
Impotent rage had filled Gabriel as Keene recounted the tale, but from the ashes of that tragedy, the newly-titled young duke arose resolute in his beliefs; unlike his father and so many of the aristocracy, Gabriel would place being a good human above being a good duke. In the process, he found he could be exemplary at both.
Keene came home to act as valet. He was a forthright and balancing force in Gabriel’s world, surrounded as Gabriel was by those who served up a steady diet of outrageously sugared platitudes.
