Thorn, Son of a Duke Page 3

  “Is that my father, Sir Tomas?”

  “Yes, it is. He’s come to greet you personally.” Tomas grasped Thorn’s shoulder in convivial support. “Just be yourself, Thorn. Everything will be fine.”

  The gangplank was lowered, and the passengers prepared to depart. Thorn and Tomas waited for the others to precede them.

  “Courage, little lion,” Tomas joked.

  “I will need more than that,” Thorn replied, unable to keep his eyes off the aristocratic gentleman who waited patiently on the dock.

  I now understand what my mother saw in him.

  Thorn took a deep breath. “I’m ready, Sir Tomas. Let us greet the great lion.” He smiled with an inquisitive stare at the man who gave him life and wondered what future awaited him.

  Not as fearless as a lion, perhaps, but with caution to embrace this strange new world hoisted upon him.

  They walked down the plank with Tomas leading. Thorn blinked at the sun.

  Tomas whispered, “Courage, Gordon. He’s a good young man.”

  For a moment, Thorn’s world stood still. He steadied his gaze at the man who was his father. There could be no mistake. He saw himself in twenty years as the aristocrat standing before him.

  “Gordon,” said Tomas, “allow me to introduce Thorn Wick,” and moved back.

  The moment was fierce, and strangely unanticipated.

  Thorn stilled.

  Gordon Althorn stepped forward, and extended his hand. “Welcome to England, son.” His voice was warm.

  Thorn grasped Gordon’s hand. “Father, thank you for meeting me. I did not know what to expect, but I can see my mother was right in that you are a good and kind man.”

  “I am sorry at your loss, Thorn. It is with regret that we meet on such sad news, but please know I welcome you with all my heart. We have a lot to learn about each other.” He grinned. “I suggest we get into the carriage. These docks are like carrion.”

  The three men entered the carriage, the Duke first, Tomas next, and Thorn last. The footman closed the step foot, and went to his place on the board with the other footman.

  Thorn took it upon himself to be the talkative one, and went on about the events aboard ship to lighten the air and ease his nervousness.

  “Thorn, we’ve arranged a small celebration of your arrival at the townhouse. Do you feel you will need to rest after your long voyage?” Gordon shifted his cane.

  “No, sir. Truth be told, I am anxious to be on terra firma. I do not think I would make a worthy sailor.” He laughed, yet sought his father’s eyes for approval.

  “Then you are very much like me. I do prefer the feel of the brown earth under my feet over the salt water planks of a ship.”

  Polite conversation abounded, each man taking measure of the other.

  “Father, may I speak in earnest?” Thorn asked.

  “Yes, I would have no artifices between us. To be taken from your home is a shock, I am sure, but be aware I did not know you were born. Now that I have you, I would have us earn each other’s trust.” He laughed. “I do not expect miracles, just gentlemanly honesty at all times. Can you persuade yourself to do so?” the Duke’s voice cracked.

  Thorn made sure to speak in articulate English. “Yes, sir, I appreciate the truth over a lie. I may not always agree with you, but if I’m allowed to speak my piece, I will speak honestly.”

  “Agreed, young man.”

  The conversation hushed until the Duke asked, “Tell me, how did your mother die?”

  “A strange malady overcame her. I worked at the plantation of Sir Donegal, and we had a small house for our use. Mother was the housekeeper there. I helped train the Akhal-Teke horses for him and learned so much about these wondrous golden horses.”

  “Golden horses, you say. We have another name for them in England. I have a few Eastern blood horses who were sired by the Akhal-horses of Russia. They are considered thoroughbreds here. Our stable does not have an original stud.”

  “Father, I understand your horses are noted in the General Stud Book. I should like to peruse such a book, if I may.”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll arrange it. What did you do for Sir Donegal?”

  “I trained his Teke horses. He taught me all he knew and soon he left me with responsibility for their care. It afforded a fair living for my mother and I.”

  “Donegal is a good man, but why did you not stay on at our plantation?” he asked, brow upturned.

  “I’m told there was a problem after you left, sir. Kondo, the witch doctor, told my mother it’d be best to secure employment elsewhere in a different parish. I had to grow up fast when Mother took sick. She couldn’t hold food and her thirst was voracious. She suffered for over nine months until the illness claimed her. Sir Donegal sent for his English physician, but a determination could not be made, but whatever it was came upon her slowly and used up every ounce of her strength.”

  Thorn inhaled, looked at the passing country side, and regained his composure. “She died in my arms. There were only a handful of people to mourn her.”

  “How difficult all this must have been for you. Know that I and the family will not rush you into anything. You and I shall have long talks and walks together where we will take the measure of each other.”

  Thorn looked down at his gloved hands. “I understand, sir.” He sat rigid in the seat as the cadence of the hoofbeats took prominence.

  As they entered Grosvenor Square where the Duke’s house was located, Thorn’s eyes were agog at the number of homes, their proximity to each other, and obvious wealth.

  “Where do they keep the horses?” he asked, his head against the window curtain.

  “Some homes have stables in the rear. After the passengers are let out, the horse and carriage circle to the back street where it is stabled.”

  “Do you have other horses, sir?”

  “Yes, in Hampshire at our country estate, we have a rather full stable of blood horses, Northern blood and of course, Eastern. A few chestnuts and bays also.”

  “I’ve heard the term used. I will have to study on this. I’m only used to the Turks, Akhal-Teke, from the Middle East.”

  “I would venture we call them by different names, but they are one and the same. Then we have much to talk about, too. Donegal was a breeder. Do you have such experience?” asked the older man.

  “Quite a bit. At least I thought so.” He was quick to smile. “I am a world away from comfort in such knowledge.”

  “Nonsense, Thorn, I consider that you are ahead of those in your age group, who tend to think of pretty girls, instead of horses. Unless, of course…” His voice faded away with a churlish grin.

  “I did not have time to indulge in such vices, sir. When my mother took sick, I was her only source of income. Yet, I like to think of pretty young ladies. I am not quite familiar with flirtation,” he admitted.

  Tomas spoke and huffed, “Then you’ve come to the right man for such education.”

  A dour look from the Duke silenced Tomas.

  “Gordon, amigo, at least you used to be.”

  “Pay no attention, Thorn. He just likes to goad me, yet one day, he will taunt me too far.” The tone of his voice indicated the mirth of the situation.

  Thorn relaxed somewhat.

  “Young man, anything can be learned with a little practice. Tell me, do you dance at all?”

  “Dance? No, although I watched at times when Sir Donegal had parties at the plantation. His daughter tried to teach me, but I was all feet, and certainly more comfortable amongst hooves of the splendid horses.”

  “Perhaps we can prevail upon Lady Alicia to acquaint you with the steps, or we can employ a dance master. London is notorious for its balls, quadrilles, and the latest fad, waltzes.”

  Thorn asked, “A person could make a living to teach the dance?”

  “And a good one at that if he has a select clientele,” answered his father.

  “This is an even stranger land than I thought.”
Thorn shook his head.

  Chapter Five

  Grosvenor Square, London

  The carriage stopped, the footmen descended, and pulled down the step for them to depart. The Duke went first, then Sir Tomas, followed by a speechless Thorn, whose glance came upon two young ladies walking down the prosperous street in conversation.

  The heavy double doors opened with Chester greeting them.

  “Chester, this is my son, Thorn, who has come to live with us. Is his room prepared?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. As instructed. The footmen will bring up the luggage for the young man and Sir Tomas.” He addressed Thorn, “Good evening, sir.”

  Thorn nodded, not sure how to address the majordomo.

  Chester received the accessories of all and rested them on the side table.

  The Duke nodded to Chester.

  “The family is in the drawing room and awaits.” Chester added, “The Duchess has beverages for you.”

  He led the way to the room, knocked, and opened the doors. He stepped aside to allow entrance.

  ****

  Thorn’s emotions were in high gear. Yanked from his life in Barbados to start a new one in his father’s country was a prodigious task. He understood his father did not know about him until his mother chose to inform the Duke on her deathbed. He still held resentment for all those lost years of not having a respected man at his side to guide him. Many times, he’d had to make decisions for him and his mother without any male guidance.

  Thorn knew if he looked for faults he would find them. He also knew it was unfair to the Duke, but nonetheless, Thorn felt abandoned. He wondered if the malaria had not made his father so ill, what might have happened. Would he have acknowledged his son by marrying his mother in a native ceremony? How many fights, how many jeers, how many sideward glances might he have avoided by a simple circumstance?

  His mother used to say there was a plan for his life, and he was presented with these challenges to make him stronger and worthy of the Lion Clan. One evening on his way home, after being jumped by three younger boys, he cursed God and the Lion Clan. He’d managed to mete out punishment in his fury at their insults. That part was true, the slights made him stronger and angrier. Maybe he did have an inner lion that protected him. He wiped his bloody nose before he entered their house so his mother wouldn’t cry, but how would he explain the torn shirt? He decided he’d wait until she retired to her room and then move to his own bedroom with the stealth of a predatory cat.

  Was this familial welcome too good to be true? Was there something in the background he did not know about?

  The frightening, cold climate imprisoned him. He would definitely need the woolen coat Sir Tomas spoke about. How many stares would he have to endure—like an animal in a cage?

  Most of all, how he would become conditioned to this wealth and luxury? He must never forget in many eyes—no, most eyes—he was a bastard son. He had a name for it: degradation.

  The truth can be a lie not yet revealed. Inner turmoil shook him. His life was changing, and he had no control over it. The veins in his hand corded, ready to explode. It was as if he blinked and suddenly here he was in the drawing room of his father, the Duke. His conscience held guilt, and he was his own accuser. Could a young man find his destiny, or was he meant to fight it?

  The severe right angles of his jaw gave him a stern appearance. It had served him well in Barbados. Suddenly, he felt alone. All alone with his memories—no longer able to claim the vibrant soul of the island as his own, he was a stranger in a strange land.

  He didn’t want to dread the past in the hopes of enjoyment of his future. Everything was a mist to him, like a veil had been erected in front of him, and only opaque images emerged. Was this the work of the Lion Clan welcoming him—or warning him to beware? He heard faint music in his head. It was the native chant that always fascinated and comforted him.

  This English law did not care for low bastards, no matter the patronage of a father. He bit into his lip and returned to reality. He was a good man. He would show them all. His hands fisted.

  Thorn wondered how many minutes had passed? Did someone speak to him and he did not answer? Oh, Mother, why did I promise to come here consigned to oblivion?

  The Duke entered with a spritely walk, kissed his mother and his wife, and nodded to Alicia and his son. They all arose, and there were many smiles, yet silence abounded.

  “Thorn, may I introduce you to your grandmother, Lady Madelaine.”

  The Dowager gave a large sigh. “It is good to meet you, young man. I am so excited to hear about your travels. I know you must be tired from such a journey, but welcome, dear grandson. Welcome.”

  She hugged and kissed him. Thorn looked up and his eyes traveled to the large crown molded ceilings and the carvings of the center chandelier. The opulence impressed and overwhelmed at the same time.

  Embarrassed and nervous, he allowed himself to be captured in her arms. “Thank you, Grandmother,” he finally spoke.

  “The next lady is my wife, Cassandra. My Duchess.”

  She went to Thorn, a gentle gaze in her eyes. “We’d have known you anywhere, young man. You look so much like your father. Isn’t that so, Mother Madelaine?” She turned to the Dowager who smiled grandly. “Welcome, Thorn.”

  His stepmother was visibly pregnant. He couldn’t keep his gaze from her face and hair.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked in a whisper.

  “No. Sir Tomas explained that your hair rivals spun gold. I would say it’s more beautiful than my blond Akhal-Teke horses’ metallic sheen.”

  “Why, Thorn, that is a beautiful compliment coming from such a learned gentleman.” She addressed her husband. “My dear, you have never made such a comparison.” Her laughter was devilish.

  “It appears I am being outdone in charm by this young man who claims he doesn’t know about flirtation and compliments.”

  Thorn’s cheeks burned, but he was smart enough not to speak.

  He’d noticed the pretty young girl waiting to be introduced. Tall, blue eyed, honey blonde hair, and a cute upturned noise. She was ready to blossom into a beauty.

  “Dear Thorn.” Alicia went up to him. “These elder people tend to think we have no ears for hearing, but I welcome you, too. It will be nice to have a young gentleman in the house.”

  He nodded to her. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Alicia.”

  “Posh, Thorn, when we are at home, we use first names. Please call me Alicia. We save the honorifics for public occasions.”

  Thorn eased his nerves somewhat. “The young gentleman by your side, is this the Marquess Gordon?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He is your half-brother, but in this house, no one is a half-anything.” She looked to the Duke. “Isn’t that so, Uncle?”

  “Correct, Alicia, as usual.” The Duke grinned.

  Thorn went to Gordon, nodded, and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, young gentleman.”

  The two shook hands.

  “Ladies, I fear we have a well-bred charmer on our hands. We should prepare to have a number of female guests descend upon us.” The Duke’s grin was obvious in its intent.

  “Like his father,” the Duchess joked. “Let’s please sit and not make Thorn more anxious about meeting us.”

  She walked to a table set with beverages of all types, including Barbados rum, which Tomas said he preferred. “Mother Madelaine, this is a special occasion. What would you like?”

  Each person was asked for their preference. The men opted for alcoholic liquors, and the women opted for ratafia. When it came to Thorn, he declared, “I am not used to English liquor, but I would like a taste of the dark rum, if it is permitted.”

  Tomas was the first to answer. “This is a celebratory occasion. In fact, I will pour you the dark rum you say you like.”

  The Duke raised his glass. “A toast to our new arrival to our English shore, our home, and our hearts. To Thorn, our son.”

  Thorn choked on
the recognition. Our son. I wonder how they truly feel. Could this be pretense or is it genuine?

  Thorn was prepared to be polite, but the meeting of such family removed his inhibitions. He wasn’t prepared for affection. He attempted to keep his emotions in check and sat next to his grandmother whose gentle laughter conquered all.

  Cassandra was the first to speak. “Thorn, we will need to know your food likes. I do hope our English food does not upset your digestive system. At times, it is hard on newcomers. However, I do know that most British desserts are relished all over the world.”

  The Duke chimed in, “Be careful, son. She makes a mean humble pie,” and everyone laughed.

  “You cook?” astonished, he asked.

  “Yes, I learned at a young age when I was orphaned. When all is lost, I go to the kitchen.” Her smile was sincere, and her laughter lilted. “I’ll tell you a secret, this house is noted for its decadent Italian pastries also. Promise you’ll let us know what you like best…and what you like least.”

  “Dare I ask,” Thorn questioned, “what is in this humble pie?”

  “Why, it is a flaky crust filled with whatever fruit and minces we have in the kitchen, splashed with generous portions of brandy. The amount of brandy used is measured by the offense of the Duke.” She giggled. “It’s a rather long story and I’ll relate it to you later.”

  He looked to his father who grinned. “I was in deep trouble the first time she baked it for me. It was after I suffered a recurrence of malaria, and I was in a surly disposition. Cassandra still reminds me of my inappropriate comments.”

  “As well she should,” said Mother Madelaine. “She spent over twenty-eight hours without sleep tending to him, and the moment she went to rest, he chastised her in front of everyone. It was unthinkable.”

  “I used almost the entire bottle of brandy,” Cassandra said.

  “I do believe our young gentleman might be tired and want to refresh himself before we sup. Chester, kindly show our son to his room. The valet has unpacked his clothes?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”