The Corinthian Duke Read online

  The Corinthian Duke

  By Emma V. Leech

  ****

  Published by: Emma V. Leech.

  Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2018

  Cover Art: Victoria Cooper

  ASIN No.: B07H7RM47N

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  The Blackest of Hearts

  Prologue

  Want more Emma?

  About Me!

  Other Works by Emma V. Leech

  Dying for a Duke

  The Key to Erebus

  The Dark Prince

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  “Wherein our jockeys vie for position.”

  October 16th, 1819. Newmarket. England.

  Oscar Paget looked over to see his best friend Bertram Aldous, the Viscount Withington, fighting to calm his excitable filly, Aphrodite. He’d just mounted by Thomond’s post and the pretty creature was doing her best to unseat him, thoroughly overwrought by the crowds. The anticipation in the air was palpable as the riders straddled their dancing horses before the race began.

  The noise was remarkable. The surrounding air vibrated, alive with the chatter of the spectators and vendors shouting about their wares as beer and food was supplied to the hungry masses. Music drifted over the melee and Aphrodite took exception to a tumbling acrobat, causing her rider to curse with enthusiasm.

  Oscar smothered a grin and hoped that Virago wouldn’t follow suit and leave him sitting on his backside in the dirt. She was a bad-tempered beauty at the best of times. Oscar watched his groom lead the glossy black filly towards him with his heart thudding. He lived for this. The thrill and exhilaration of a race fired his blood like little else, especially when he knew large sums rested on the outcome.

  The blacklegs were still taking bets from their stands in the last moments before the race began, but he didn’t stop to listen to the odds. Anyone betting against him winning was a fool.

  There were many other ways to lose your money here outside of the main event, and gambling sideshows had sprung up like mushrooms. All classes could lose the contents of their pockets at pitch and toss, if some light-fingered villain didn’t empty them before they’d even reached for their coin.

  Among the throng, the nobility rubbed shoulders with all walks of life, watching the dancing dogs and having their fortunes told by the gypsies in their colourful tents as fire-eaters entranced crowds of wide-eyed children. Stage coaches, diligences and the carriages of the ton ringed the course, many young men having scrambled onto the roofs to get a better view.

  Most of the ladies had opted for more refined surroundings in the grandstand and Oscar knew his own disapproving fiancée, Lady Pearl Aldous, would be there. Bertram’s sister did not care for racing, or for the hoopla that surrounded the event, but she felt she ought to support her betrothed in his endeavours despite her own feelings.

  Oscar wondered if Ella would be sitting docilely beside her older sister, and suspected not. The hoyden was more likely ensconced in one of the gypsy tents or was betting her pin money on him to win. The idea made him snort with amusement.

  The Newmarket Town Plate was one of few races where a man like Oscar could ride his own mount without censure. Oscar didn’t much care what people thought, but his mother would have had a fit of the vapours if someone caught him doing anything less than appropriate for The Duke of Rothborn.

  He’d talked Bertram into entering with him, and the grim look on his friend’s face had suggested he would curse Oscar from now till Doomsday.

  Once he’d been weighed in, Oscar slung his saddle over his mount’s back as his groom attended to the bridle. Once he’d tightened everything to his own satisfaction, he vaulted into place, eager to begin. Virago stamped and turned to give him a glowering look before trying to take a bite out of the groom. The young man scrambled back out of the way of the huge beast as Oscar gathered the reins.

  A hum of excitement thrilled through the crowd now as the thirty runners moved into position. Only the first five would get through to the final.

  “Why the devil did I let you talk me into this, Rothborn?” Bertram shouted over the din, shaking his head and looking as if he might throw up.

  “Buck up, Bertie,” Oscar said, grinning at his friend. “It’s only the first heat. Survive this and we can get down to business.”

  Whatever Bertie’s outraged reply was, the clamour of the crowd drowned it out as an official came to instruct the riders to get into position. The horses fidgeted and pranced as they lined up by Thomond’s post which marked the beginning and end of this circular course, awaiting the signal as the flag-bearer climbed the white painted marker and raised the red-and-black pennant.

  ***

  Ella craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, wondering if she might have been better off staying put in The Portland Stand as Pearl had insisted. Pearl hated the races, though, and would have complained about how dull it was while staying far away from all the fun. It took all the joy and excitement from the day.

  Ella simply couldn’t understand her sister, yet now she could see nothing through the press of bodies as people crowded forward, awaiting the start of the first heat. She stared around, trying to spot a better vantage point, and then beamed as her gaze fell upon the Earl of Stanthorpe. He was sitting on top of his glossy carriage, golden curls a-tumble around his sunny face and in the company of his best friend, Mr Owen Tatum.

  “Tommy!” she called out to the young earl, knowing her sister would box her ears if she could see her not only shouting and waving her arms in public, but addressing the man by his given name. Tommy, however, was not the least bit high in the instep, and hollered back.

  “Lady Ella!” He beamed down at her as Ella waved her hand at the starters gathering ready for the off.

  “I can’t see!” she wailed, frantic now. If she missed the start of Oscar’s race she’d never forgive herself, though her brother Bertie was also racing, and she ought to support him too.

  Tommy looked around, perceiving her problem as the crowd jostled her
on all sides. With a word to Owen, both men reached down an arm and Ella grinned at them as they hoisted her up.

  “How do, Lady Ella,” Owen said, brown eyes twinkling. “Does your sister know you’re out here unattended?”

  “Don’t be a dolt, Owen,” Ella said, snorting in an unladylike manner. They hauled her onto the roof with ease, taking an arm each. “You know she’d ring a peal over me if she knew.”

  “And where are your attendants?” Tommy asked, his tone mild as she wriggled further back onto the glossy roof of the carriage.

  “I may have slipped out the back of the fortune teller’s tent and lost them,” Ella replied with a shrug as the two men tutted at her. She tried to arrange her skirts to look a little less disreputable, but the hem was thick with mud so she gave it up as a bad job.

  “Never mind Lady Pearl, Bertie will lock you up if you keep kicking up such larks,” Owen replied, his tone a little sterner now. “There are some unsavoury sorts about in a place like this.”

  “Oh, do hush,” Ella pleaded.

  She’d decided looking disreputable was inevitable now and tried to get to her knees as her skirts tangled about her legs. Tommy grabbed her arm as she almost plummeted off the side of the carriage, and she righted herself with a grin. She could hear the shouted demands that the riders line up. Her heart thudded.

  “Oh, where is Oscar? Can you see him?”

  “You speak to her, Tommy. She’ll come to a bad end,” Owen said, but Tommy was either too eager to watch the race or knew it was pointless to intervene.

  “They’re off!” Ella shouted.

  She watched with her heart in her mouth as the horses surged forward. She could see her brother, Bertie, trying to get free of a little knot of riders as the horses hustled and bumped before getting away. Oscar had stayed clear, with Virago pushing out from the throng, and likely sinking her teeth into anyone who got too close. She was one bad tempered horse.

  “Go on, Oscar!” Ella shrieked, almost toppling from the carriage again in her excitement.

  Owen grasped her arm this time and pulled her back to safety.

  “Lady Ella, you are a hoyden,” he observed.

  She spared a moment to grin at him before turning back to the race.

  “I know,” she said, without a shred of remorse, as she carried on shouting over the throng.

  ***

  Ella blew on her fingers, dropping the hot chestnut to her lap with an exclamation.

  “Wait for it to cool down,” Owen said, rolling his eyes at her.

  She shook her head, trying to pick the thing up once more and blowing on it. “I’m too hungry.”

  With a determined expression, she frowned over the chestnut, peeling back the tough skin with difficulty.

  “How much longer?” she demanded for the fifth time.

  “Ten minutes at least,” Tommy said, handing her a ready peeled chestnut between his fingertips.

  Ella beamed at him and took it. She sucked in a breath, biting into the nutty flesh, and almost burning her tongue as the inside was still scalding hot. At least it warmed her up. The October day had dawned mild with a pleasant warmth in the sun, but it had clouded over and a stiff breeze was blowing over the heath now, tossing leaves and skirts and chasing hats over the damp ground.

  Oscar and Bertie made it through their heat in style. Oscar won, naturally, with Bertie looking somewhat astonished at not only having finished but coming in third. The following two heats were of little interest to Ella. The Duke of Ranleigh’s horse won the second heat and Ella well knew this would have galled Oscar; the two were fierce rivals. They’d be neck and neck in the race proper.

  The duke himself wasn’t riding; he was too dignified for that, or spineless if you heard Oscar talk. Ranleigh’s win was definitive though, and she wondered how Oscar would fare against his stunning chestnut.

  The main event was next, and her stomach clenched with a mixture of anticipation and hunger.

  The time dragged on as Ella fidgeted.

  “Please let Oscar win,” she murmured, crossing her fingers and wishing with all her might. He’d be so disappointed if he didn’t.

  “Here they come,” Owen said as Ella scrambled back to her knees.

  She watched with her heart thudding as Oscar made his way back to Thomond’s post. He’d changed into clean silks, and the dark green suited his colouring, bringing out the autumnal glints in his light brown hair. Bertie’s blond looks and blue eyes did not so well suit his red silks but rather emphasised the flush in his cheeks, making him look younger than his twenty-five years.

  “Good luck, Oscar!” Ella yelled at the top of her lungs, as Oscar turned and caught sight of her.

  He gave a bark of laughter as he saw her seated on the carriage roof with Tommy and Owen, and raised his hand in greeting.

  Unfortunately, her brother also caught sight of her and his look was rather less enthusiastic. He glowered, and Ella quailed a little, knowing she was in for yet another lecture about propriety and the proper conduct of a young lady. Oh well, if it was Bertie lecturing her and not Pearl, she could stand it.

  For the last time the horses gathered, a much-diminished crowd now as the punishing heats had weeded out the ranks until only fifteen horses and riders remained. With interest, Ella noted that Ranleigh’s horse was not among them.

  “Where’s Miss Skirmish?” Ella demanded, looking around for the handsome chestnut that had threatened to give Oscar some real competition.

  “No idea,” Owen replied, scanning the field. “Maybe she’s been withdrawn?”

  Ella shrugged, too excited to give it much thought as they watched the flagman climb Thomond’s post for the fourth and last time that day.

  ***

  Oscar cast a last glance over his shoulder as Virago thundered across the turf. Bertie was way back but looking determined to take third. Colonel Pitt’s grey, Merry Pintle, was flat out and gaining on him but the post was in sight and Oscar knew he’d won it. With a whoop of exhilaration that would no doubt make his fiancée blanch, he crossed the finish line. Oscar laughed aloud, breathing hard, splattered in mud from head to toe and his heart pounding in his chest. He’d never felt more alive.

  “Well done my girl, little beauty,” he shouted, patting Virago’s damp neck as she fell back to a canter.

  The cheers of the crowd rang around him and he grinned, delighted. Bertie crossed the finish line to take third and cantered over to him and they allowed their mounts to slow.

  “Well done,” Bertie said, sounding breathless. “Can I have a drink now?”

  Oscar chuckled and gave a nod. “We both shall, and many of them. What happened to Ranleigh’s chestnut, by the way? I expected her to be all over me.”

  “Withdrawn,” Bertie shouted over the crowd as they surged around them, wanting to congratulate the winner. “I heard he was worried she’d strained a ligament. A bloody wonder we didn’t all break our stupid necks over those cart ruts. Something ought to be done about them.”

  Oscar nodded, but didn’t much care about the ruts at this moment. He’d won, and victory was sweet.

  They dismounted and gathered the tack whilst grooms led their mounts away and waited to be weighed in once more.

  “Where are you going?” Bertie called, as Oscar headed off towards the King’s Stables and the Rubbing Down House.

  “Going to check on Virago,” Oscar said, thinking it ought to be obvious. There were many who would hand their mounts over to the grooms and not give them another thought, but Oscar wasn’t one of them. Virago might be an ill-tempered creature, but she’d won the race for him and he was grateful.

  “Right ho,” Bertie replied, falling into step with him. “I say, did you see that blasted sister of mine? The wretch. Bold as brass, sitting on the carriage roof between Stanthorpe and Tatum and shouting her head off. Lord, whatever will the chit do next?”

  Oscar chuckled and slapped Bertie on the back, his expression more amused than sympathetic.
/>   “Never a dull moment with, Bug,” he said.

  Though he didn’t say as much, he couldn’t wait to see her and share in his triumph. She always got so excited by his accomplishments it was almost like living them over again.

  Bertie sounded less than impressed, though.

  “I need to get her married off as soon as possible, then it will be her husband’s affair. But who the devil would have her, I ask you?”

  “Married?” Oscar replied, astonished. An odd, niggling feeling of concern burrowed under his skin and he scowled. Ella couldn’t possibly be old enough to marry. Not yet. “But she’s just a girl.”

  Bertie rolled his eyes at him. “She came out last year, if you remember, knucklehead. She’s eighteen, not eight, though I admit it’s hard to tell on occasions.”

  Oscar’s frown deepened. That thought troubled him, though he didn’t know why. He tried to think of anyone suitable to marry Ella and came up with nothing. There was no one who wouldn’t try to bring her in line and make her behave, or crush the joy and life from her. An oddly protective feeling rose in his chest. Bertie was wrong. Eighteen she might be, but she looked fifteen most of the time, and acted it, too. It was far too early to think of marriage.

  Wasn’t it?

  He wasn’t sure why he felt so unsettled by the idea. Likely it was because it made him feel old too. Old and responsible. Old enough to take a wife and settle down. Oscar shuddered and shook the feeling off.

  Bertie, apparently noting the gloom he’d sunk into, raised a questioning eyebrow. Oscar forced a grin to his face, making light of it, and blew a kiss at a saucy wench who gave him a suggestive wink as they threaded through the crowds.

  “I suppose if she’s eighteen she’ll find a fellow who enjoys her madcap ways soon enough,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as Bertie. “She’s a good sort, lots of fun.”

  “I know that!” Bertie sounded rather aggrieved.

  For all his complaints, Oscar knew that Bertie doted on Ella and his annoyance came more from concern than any dislike. In fact, the two siblings were close, closer than they were with their older sister, Pearl.