Page 1 of The Scarred Lyon

Chapter One

Bamford Park, Essex

Late October 1818

“You have done what, exactly?”

Duncan Richard Bamford, the Duke of Allenby, stared at his stepmother in stunned silence. He couldn’t believe he’d heard her correctly.

“I have made initial inquiries with Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon in London, on Cleveland Row, to be exact, about a possible arranged marriage for you.” Laura Bamford scooped a generous tablespoon of Dundee marmalade and spread it on her crumpet.

A slow burn of annoyance raced through him. Duncan rarely showed anger toward Laura; besides being his stepmother, she was also a close friend. But this was beyond the pale. To contact a complete stranger about something as personal as marriage?

“I am well aware of the Lyon’s Den,” he said, his words ending in a growl. “I attended the place a few times in the past until I became aware that the gambling establishment was a front for a rather brutal matchmaking service. I’ll be damned if I would become caught in that particular sticky web.”

“I understand what the place is, Duncan. In most cases, the men who were caught in a marriage trap entered into it willingly, and it all ended fairly well for them—or so I assume. Women use the service to find husbands.”

“What kind of women?” Duncan could well imagine.

“Women who can afford the exorbitant rate, I suppose,” Laura replied. “Why not make yourself available to be one of these men?” She bit into her crumpet and chewed thoughtfully. “It is not as if you need a wealthy wife as some do, but you certainly would want one who was brought up in society. Or so it is expected.” Laura sighed. “On a minor note, I must admit it’s been lonely here. I wish for a little company, and Christmastide is not far off.”

“If you find Bamford Park barren of amusements, you have a long-standing invitation from Anna to stay with her family in Upper Canada,” Duncan grumbled.

“My daughter is kind, and I long to see them, especially my grandson, but I abhor such extended travel, especially by sea. Which reminds me, Anna says you owe her a letter.”

He owed his half sister more than one letter, but when one locks oneself away, eschewing all society, there was not much to write about.

I changed the oil in the lamp today.

Duncan was sad to admit that this constituted the entirety of his present existence. But the choice was his, and his alone. Regardless, he missed Anna as well. She had moved to Upper Canada with her soldier husband five years ago.

“I shall write to her soon.” Duncan crossed his arms, still annoyed. “Still, this is my home and I rule this estate as I see fit. I am a duke, after all. If I choose to remain unattached and alone, that is my decision.”

“I’m not suggesting this matchmaking scenario just for my own needs. You never wanted to be a duke, Duncan. Remember?” Laura sipped her tea, giving him a questioning look.

Since his cousin and best friend, Jonathan Bamford, the heir apparent, died in April 1813 during the American War in Upper Canada, and his uncle, the Duke of Allenby, had also passed away shortly afterward, Duncan’s life had been in turmoil. These untimely deaths had forced Duncan’s father to become the duke, making Duncan next in line—the right of primogeniture and all that rot. When his father died two years ago, Duncan had unceremoniously been given the title, whether he wanted it or not.

And he had never wanted it or coveted it—never dreamed it would come about. It drew unwanted attention his way, prompting him to self-isolate at Bamford Park. To hell with the House of Lords and any other societal duties. Because of his service in the British army, Duncan was an ugly, scarred bastard who didn’t want pity, or worse, horrified looks from anyone. That included women who might or might not be potential future duchesses.

“I remember. But I am one now, devil take it. I will use the power it grants when it suits me. And that includes selecting a wife.” He sipped his tea, tempted to hurl the bone china toward the opposite wall. His temper often got away from him for no reason since his life-altering injury, but Laura’s soothing presence calmed the beast within. To a point.

He glanced sideways at his stepmother. Duncan’s mother had died in childbirth when he had been only ten years old. Without warning, his father had brought home a pretty, fresh-faced young lady just two months after burying his first wife and announced that they would be married. Laura had been twenty-one at the time and the daughter of a bank president. A brother to a duke marrying someone so far beneath him? It had been the talk of society for months.

With only an eleven-year age difference between them, Duncan and Laura became fast friends immediately and remained so to this day. Duncan was aware of the salacious gossip regarding their living arrangements. A son shouldn’t live with his widowed stepmother, especially if she was attractive.

To hell with them all.

To him, Laura was more than a stepmother; she was a mother figure and a cherished friend, all rolled into one. Duncan wouldn’t have survived his disfiguring injury in the fiery Battle of York in Upper Canada or his adjustment to inheriting the title without her kind, loving support. Therefore, he owed the duchess more than he could ever express.

“Yes, you are now the Duke of Allenby,” Laura continued. “Because of that, it is your duty to continue the line. You know this. You cannot put it off any longer. You are forty years of age.”

“I am thirty-nine,” he replied peevishly.

“You will turn forty in a matter of weeks,” Laura said.

“No one will have me. Look at me!”

“Duncan, the scars are not all that horrible. Not at all,” Laura reassured, her voice brimming with understanding and compassion.