Page 1 of Her Tempestuous Duke

Chapter One

Minerva Harte would rather be anywhere than bobbing around on the wintry sea in a little rowboat, watching flames consume a French frigate. Her fingers and toes were numb with the cold, and the pallid, scared faces of the survivors as they watched the vessel burn would haunt her dreams for weeks to come.

But Anthony Pendorran, Duke of Tremar, had told her it would be an entertainment she would never see again in her lifetime, something to tell her children and grandchildren. Exactly how he expected her to acquire any of these—or a husband—she didn’t know, as she was mainly kept to the house by her guardian.

Minerva adored the duke, nonetheless, knowing that he kept her closeted for her own protection. How could she ever complain? How could she risk displeasing him when he had taken her in and given her more comforts than a young lady of dubious parentage had any right to expect? She was like a daughter to him, and even when she disagreed with his dictates, she generally complied.

“I can’t see the ship holding her own much longer, Your Grace.” The valet, Pascoe, his well-manicured hands clasped uncomfortably around an oar, shot his employer a hopeful look.

“Perhaps not.” Lord Anthony’s eyes were avid with excitement, his head jutting forward as he gazed at the burning ship. “But now that we’re out here, I intend to watch the spectacle until its conclusion. It’s not every day that one sees a French vessel on fire and its crew begging for help on a Cornish beach.”

“There must be gunpowder aboard. Shouldn’t we retire to a safer distance?” Minerva pulled her cloak more tightly under her chin. Her guardian was a well-traveled, well-informed gentleman, and she was unused to him taking risks.

His handsome brows furrowed. “Minerva, child, how often have I told you not to question me? Of course, I have your safety as my prime concern—as I always have.” He gestured ahead of them. “A sinking ship might cause a swell that dashes us on the shore, so best to stay here and see what happens. Besides which, we’re all enjoying ourselves too much.”

A blast of wind ripped off Minerva’s hood, and she gasped as her hair broke free from its moorings and whipped about her face. At the same moment, a massive shower of sparks erupted from the French vessel, and the timbers groaned in agony like a living creature. Fear shuddered up her spine.

“I really think we should go, sir. I’m feeling queasy.” The duke was normally solicitous if she felt ill, but he was enjoying the death throes of the ship too much to tear his eyes away.

“In a moment.”

She hugged her cloak about her and tried to ignore the glowering sky. The waves surrounding their small boat had developed a greasy appearance, and the sense of danger that oppressed her intensified. She sent Pascoe a beseeching look, then caught the eye of their footman, George, who was plying the other oar.

He cleared his throat. “Your Grace—the temperature is dropping rapidly. Don’t you think we might just return to shore and watch from the clifftop?”

“You’ll be just as cold up there as you are on the water, and the spectacle will be nothing like as thrilling. You’ll thank me for this in the future, as it will be an everlasting memory. And it will also teach you that you have nothing to fear from the French, for they are weak and vulnerable mortals, no better than the rest of us.”

Her mouth quirked. No one could call Anthony Pendorran weak or vulnerable. Admittedly, he had a soft heart—he must do, because he treated her so well. But he kept it well hidden—as any nobleman should, lest his tenants, servants, or political rivals take advantage.

To the outside world, the Duke of Tremar was a perfectly dressed, well-mannered gentleman. If there were rumors about him being a scapegrace in his youth—well, that was only to be expected. The tabbies of the ton thrived on telling tales and keeping the gossip mill grinding. Even though Minerva was intrigued to know more about her guardian’s past, she felt it would be wrong to learn anything from lips other than his own.

She’d been but a child when she’d first met him in Naples and had only known that she’d liked him. With his muscular build and aura of power, he’d been every inch the dashing Englishman. He was a daring horseman and a skilled fencer and she’d loved watching him. He could also swim—unlike herself—which was probably why he showed no fear now, as the choppy waves grew higher and rocked the little boat more violently.

Minerva glanced up and saw with a chill to her heart that black clouds were boiling into view beyond the burning ship.

“I think there might be a storm—” Her words were torn from her mouth and cast away by a sudden gale.

“What the devil?” Lord Anthony seized the gunwale nearest to him to avoid being thrown from the boat. “Hold tight, Minerva!”

He shouted something else to the servants, but his words were carried away by another powerful gust. She battled to grab one of the rowlocks as the boat pitched dangerously, then crashed back down in the swell.

Blinking the spray from her eyes, Minerva fought for breath as the elements battered their tiny vessel. They were further away from the French frigate than before, and the servants tried frantically to bring them back to the shore. Only—the shore became more distant with every stroke as if they were in a toy boat and had no power at all. If they couldn’t make any headway, they would be around the point and out on the open sea in no time. But surely, somebody on the beach would notice their difficulty and set out to rescue them? Wouldn’t they?

The next hour—it seemed like a lifetime—was spent in a sickening battle with the sea. She clung on as the men fought bravely to keep their little craft upright, but the darkening coast was unfamiliar—they’d been swept miles away from the burning ship in Tremar Bay.

Her fingers were numb and her clothes were soaked. The men’s faces showed their exhaustion but Lord Anthony’s jaw was set—he would not give in. If only she knew how to row! Why had she not been taught anything useful? Was it too late to learn?

Pushing her sodden hair from her face, Minerva glanced toward land. They were nearer now than previously, but the land rose up as unwelcoming, jagged cliffs, with the sea boiling and frothing at their feet. The boat would be dashed to pieces—they now needed to row away from the coast.

Suddenly, the roar of the wind was broken by a screech, a bizarre sound that could not have come from any human throat. Looking up in alarm, Minerva saw a brightly colored object racing toward them. At first, she thought it was a child’s toy kite, but it moved in too animated a fashion. It was getting closer—any moment, it would be upon them. But that was the least of their worries.

Or was it? The thing flapped around Pascoe’s head, and when he raised his hands to beat it off, he lost his grip on his oar. It slapped against the side of the boat with an ominous crack.

“Curse you to hell, you soulless ingrate. Unnatural son and brother—death is too good for you!” The words had not come from anyone aboard. The voice that uttered them was inhuman and terrifying.

And they were the last thing Minerva heard before the boat gave a terrifying judder, tipped her over, and hurled her into watery blackness.

Chapter Two