wiser part of him resisted the urge to cut off his nose to spite his face. It was too late to save his maman, but it wasn’t too late to claim what was rightfully his. There was a delicious irony, after all, in bringing about what his mother’s in-laws had done everything in their power to prevent. His Huntingdon grandparents would be turning in their graves to know that the son of a seamstress was now the holder of their illustrious titles and estates. That his blood would run in the veins of any future Knightons he chose to beget.
The inheritance hadn’t come off without a hitch, of course. He’d had to fight some distant cousin in the courts to prove that he was, indeed, the legitimate heir to the duchy. It had taken close to a year, but thanks to the help of an unexpected ally—his father’s older sister, Lady Esther, Countess of Brambley—he’d secured the title last month. According to his sire’s will, he’d inherited something else as well: the guardianship of four half-siblings in their teens, his father’s bastards by two different mistresses, both deceased.
Severin did not wish to be responsible for four young humans. He was a busy man; he had factories, territorial skirmishes, and diversified investments to manage. Furthermore, he had no clue what he was supposed to do with his father’s unruly by-blows. What did he know about having a family?
For some infernal reason, however, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon them. His father had kept his siblings on a property in France, and when Severin had arrived, their situation had been disgraceful. He’d turned to his Aunt Esther, but on this matter she was less helpful.
Your half-siblings are animals, she’d said succinctly. I am far too old to manage a menagerie. You need someone with the energy and connections to launch them into Society. Moreover, you are thirty years old and ought to be thinking about your future issue—an heir and a spare, at minimum. In short, Knighton, what you require is a wife.
She had advised him to start shopping for a duchess. Given that the Season was over, pickings would be slim, but there were still suitable candidates to be found in London. Severin, however, had neither the time nor the inclination to browse for a wife he wanted because that ship had sailed. Five years ago, Imogen had wed the Earl of Cardiff.
Which circled Severin back to the irony of the situation: now that he was rich, titled, and a catch for any lady, the only one he wanted was out of his reach.
Hence, he’d made this foray into Staffordshire. If he couldn’t have the woman he wanted, he would make do with one who met the basic requirements. As it happened, the Duke of Hadleigh, a gentleman for whom Severin had done favors in the past, had mentioned that he had a sister who would make an ideal Duchess of Knighton.
According to Hadleigh, his sister Lady Beatrice Wodehouse was beautiful, sensible, and the ripe age of four-and-twenty. Because of an accident that had left her scarred, Lady Beatrice led a cloistered life at Camden Manor, an estate she ran on her own. Severin did not give a farthing about the scar. What he cared about was that Lady Beatrice sounded level-headed and mature, the sort of woman who would welcome the marriage of convenience he had to offer.
Arriving at the manor, Severin saw that it was well-maintained, surrounded by graceful oaks tinged copper by autumn’s approach. The property spoke well of its mistress’s management abilities, and Lord knew he needed someone who would keep a firm rein on his siblings. The ivy-covered house had an elegant design, wings flanking the main building, sparkling pedimented windows adorning the structure.
Nothing was out of place…except perhaps for the girl arguing with the donkey.
The petite female and beast were blocking the front steps. The former stood with her back to Severin, her thick, glossy plaits of chestnut hair reaching her waist. She was scolding a grey donkey, which was sprawled on the gravel at the base of the stone steps, obstructing the entryway to the manor.
“You can’t just plant yourself there pell-mell, Bertrand,” she lectured the beast. “’Ow are folk supposed to enter the ’ouse? Get up.”
The donkey gave her a bored look, its black-tipped tail swishing idly.
“You ’eard me.” The girl planted her small hands on her hips. “Move along now.”
The beast stretched out and laid its head on the bottom step.