Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “Highrow.” The earl squinted one eye and focused on Wulf. “Are you back? If so, ‘tis too late. My damned sister has rousted the lot of us, and the enjoyment is over. Everyone is off to bed.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” Not, of course, that he was. The fewer guests he had to address, the better. Still, he decided to avoid mention of the Honest Highwayman altogether to the earl. “I was forced to shelter in the woods overnight. I thought perhaps I might impose upon you to arrange conveyance to Highrow Place.”

  “’Course. Stewart?” The earl turned to the butler, waved vaguely in the air.

  “I will send word to the stables to arrange a carriage.” Stewart bowed to Wulf and spared his lordship not a glance—the butler was clearly accustomed to taking the reins of responsibility from his employer. “In the interim, I shall procure a room for you, where you might refresh yourself and perhaps break your fast.”

  “That would be most appreciated.” He ignored the earl as much as the butler had, which was just as well. His still-drunk host was listing sideways as he peered into the empty snifter in his hand.

  “Your Grace,” Stewart gestured toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. “If you would follow me—”

  “Bloody hell!” Filled with utter fury, the feminine shout rang under the high, painted ceiling of the entry and echoed long enough that the subsequent silence became ominous.

  To a man, the occupants of the hall hunched their shoulders against that most terrifying thing—a woman’s anger—and turned toward the sound.

  Chapter 9

  The lady strode briskly through the sliding doors of the front drawing room, heels issuing a staccato beat on the polished parquet. Green flowers dotted her muslin gown, shifting over her skirts as if they marched along with as her temper.

  “Did my brother ruin the drawing room rug? Truly? Mother took great care in bringing that from India ages ago. She would be heartbroken. There are burns. Burns!” The lady opened her arms wide, not in supplication or explanation, but as if to encompass the enormity of the transgression. A dusty paste bird nested in wigged curls just as the creature might have done during the woman’s come out a decade earlier. “The rug is not meant for the ends of cheroots. Or brandy. There is an extensive spill—Oh.”

  She stopped, blinked at Wulf through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. Her skirts floated to rest around her slippers, the embroidered flowers ending their patrol.

  “My lady.” He nodded in greeting, wincing because he should have addressed her as ‘Lady Christian Name’, but he could not remember her Christian name. He gestured to the wrinkled greatcoat, his bared head. “My apologies as to my appearance.”

  “Of course.” A quick nod of her head, a flush of cheeks. “Your Grace.”

  He did remember the girl—woman now—from his childhood. He had seen her a handful of times since then, hovering at the fringes of her brother’s house parties. Awkward in conversation but sweet in nature.

  Desperately ready to wash, eat—and dear Lord, to sleep on a bed—Wulf turned back toward the butler. Stopped.

  Cinnamon and woodsmoke.

  He looked back, certain he was wrong. Sunlight reached beyond the lady’s lenses, shining on eyes not quite green, not quite brown. Eyes he had not expected to see again. Not here, not so soon.

  It was she.

  His lover. His highwayman.

  Everything in his body heated, hardened, flamed. He did not need to search her face for the truth. Did not need to think about it.

  He simply knew. He’d learned each burst of green amid the warm brown of her eyes the night before, how the firelight played on them. They were different now in the bright sunlight and behind wire rims, but no less beautiful. More so.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, traced the full shape. Oh, yes, he knew those curves. Quite well. Other curves were hidden by the muslin gown, which sagged rather than clung, but he knew the contours of her lips.

  The Honest Highwayman had been hiding in plain sight—behind ugly spectacles and elaborate, unfashionable wigs—but in plain sight nonetheless.

  “If you would be so kind, my lady, I should like to speak with you in the drawing room.” He paused, pinned her with his gaze. “About the circumstances surrounding last night, of course.”

  He had found her now.

  She would not escape again.

  “There is no need.” Bea coughed, sputtered.

  “I insist, my lady.” Wulf’s dangerous tone shivered through her veins, though she tried to quell the rising panic that accompanied it.

  Surely, he did not recognize her. No one ever suspected an aging spinster could possibly be the Honest Highwayman. Yet his eyes held cool steel—not the warm blue of the passionate lover she’d left sleeping at dawn.

  “I don’t—”

  “Unless, of course, you would prefer to discuss various nighttime activities here in the hall?” His voice rumbled lowered, warning Bea just how precarious her position was.

  She looked toward her brother, already lurching up the steps to his bedchamber, then toward the butler who watched with guarded eyes. She could not see a choice.

  “Very well, then.” Wulf knew her secret—but she’d be damned if he held the reins for this particular reunion. Coolly, angling her head, she murmured, “Please join me in the drawing room, Your Grace.”

  Turning on her heel, Bea led him toward the chamber. She could feel his knowledge of her identity—her body—boring into her spine. If a few weeks had passed before they met again, he would not have identified her, and all would have been well. The night would have been nothing but a memory.

  Damn him for arriving at Falk Manor instead of returning home.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Bea was unprepared to meet him so soon in her spinster garb, had barely been able to set the night from her mind to attend to her other responsibilities. Just the sight of that wicked face and broad shoulders—knowing what was under the greatcoat—had her pulse scrambling.

  The drawing room doors snapped shut before she was more than a few feet into the room. Bea swung around, prepared to argue, to defend, to lie.

  And was swept up. By his scent, by his arms, by his mouth. Hungry and hot, his lips slanted over hers. Bea met his mouth with the same hunger, because the want had been hiding beneath the surface of her skin. Waiting to surge through her blood and pound into her soul. Gripping his shoulders, she leaned into the kiss, into him, and reveled in the hard body pressed against hers.

  Without releasing her, he drew back and looked at her. Just looked. Beyond the spectacles, beyond the blasted wig.

  “You are an extraordinary woman.” He’d said the same words before, in those moments trapped between snowstorm and firelight. “Hello, my Honorable Highwayman.”

  “I suppose the jig is up.” It stung her pride to be discovered, yet there was relief in sharing the secret. Even for a few moments. “Will you turn me over to the magistrate?”

  “I’m considering it.” His mouth came back to hers, tasted and took and gave in the most delicious way. “If you ever leave my bed again without waking me to say goodbye, I most certainly will.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Bea drew back, looked hard into those dark blue eyes.

  “You don’t think for one minute that we are done, do you? I don’t want last night to be the end.” Gently, he reached for her spectacles, removed them. “Do you need these?”

  “Not at all.” There was no point in more lies, so she took the spectacles and slipped them into the pocket of her gown. “They are only glass.”

  “The wig?” He flicked a finger at the dull brown curl dangling over her left ear.

  “Useful.” Bea tugged at the wig, pulling at pins and scattering them about. She dropped the monstrosity of hair and paste and powder onto the ruined rug, then shook out her cropped natural locks. Reveled in the release of the weight, as she always did.

  “There you are.” He framed her face with his large hands, studied it. “Yo
u are more beautiful in the daylight than you were in the firelight.”

  “Oh, Wulf, that is nonsense.” But it delighted her nonetheless.

  “It is true. No, the London dandies would not cater to you, and perhaps you would not have your pick of the marriageable gentlemen—”

  “Oh, well,” she said dryly. “That’s flattering.”

  “Wait.” He laughed and slid his arms around to circle her waist. “You don’t need the dandies and the gowns and jewels to be beautiful, which is what they judge beauty by.”

  “No?” She should not be turning into a puddle with such words, but she was.

  “You are beautiful because of something else altogether.” His mouth pressed against hers, soft and sweet. “Your heart.”

  Damn him again. Her knees went weak.

  “Wulfric Standover, you are a rogue.” At his bland expression, she added, “A sentimental one, but a rogue nonetheless. Which you know.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “That line belongs to the highwayman of our little scene.”

  “So it does.” He traced her mouth with a finger, then the edge of her jaw. That finger slid down the neck to play with her collarbone. “Might I have the pleasure of your name now?”

  “Beatrice.” She paused, because it mattered that he used the name she had given to herself. “Bea.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you again.” As he had in the cottage, Wulf raised her hand to his lips. The calluses of his fingers were no less exciting, the touch of his mouth no less thrilling. “Bea.”

  Her body shuddered and yearned, just as it had then. Pressing herself against his wide chest, Bea raised her mouth for a kiss. His lips molded to hers, so ready to provide just what she wanted.

  “The butler is likely wondering what is happening behind the closed doors,” she murmured against his mouth. “My brother is gone to bed, of course, not that he would notice or care, particularly.”

  “I would say ‘let them wonder,’ but you have a reputation to maintain.” He drew back, raised one blond, wicked brow. “Of sorts.”

  “If a spinster of twenty-seven cannot take a lover, then the world is a dreary place indeed.” Bea pursed her lips. “Now that you know who I am, I’m quite inclined. It would be a novel experience to make love with a man who knows both the spinster and the highwayman.”

  “What if I choose not to settle for just a lover?” Even as he spoke the words, Wulf appeared as shocked as Bea felt. Then his shock smoothed away and determination replaced it. “What if I want more?”

  More than lovers? What was there? Bea could only see marriage, and she was not at all certain she wanted to be under someone else’s control in such a way.

  “I may not have more to give, Wulf.” In fact, she was certain of it.

  “With a heart as deep as yours, I know you do.” He swung her back into his arms. Strong, kind arms that did not restrain her. They only held her carefully, as if avoiding hurt or caging, before he claimed her lips for a deep kiss. “It is not a discussion for today, however. Today I only ask for a bath, breakfast, a decent bed—with you in it—and tomorrow we shall see what we see.”

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow might be filled with lovemaking and laughter, if Wulf was there. With conversation that did not involve gambling and brandy. With something deeper, if she could be open to it.

  She might be.

  “Today we shall see to breakfast and beds and—” she grinned wickedly at him. “Loving.”

  “I am ready for that, as these moments in the proper drawing room are a torture. I am already seeing your gorgeous body on a soft bed, where I can love my highwayman properly.” He drew her close, set his lips to the curve of her neck. “Tomorrow and the next day, then, and we shall see to the rest.”

  Bea could not fault that logic, so she settled into the circle of his arms and let Wulf kiss her senseless.

  About the Author

  Despite being a native Michigander, Alyssa Alexander is pretty certain she belongs somewhere sunny. And tropical. Where drinks are served with little paper umbrellas.

  * * *

  Until she moves to those white sandy beaches, she survives the cold Michigan winters by penning romance novels that always include a bit of adventure. Her books have been translated into multiple languages, received Top Picks from RT, Publisher Weekly Starred Reviews, and nominated for RT Best First Historical and the Best First Book RITA®. She has been called a “talented newcomer” and “a rising star you won’t want to miss.”

  * * *

  Alyssa lives with her own set of heroes, aka an ever-patient husband who doesn’t mind using a laundry basket for a closet, and a small boy who wears a knight in a shining armor costume for such tasks as scrubbing potatoes.

  * * *

  Interested in previous titles? Visit http://www.alyssa-alexander.com/books/.

  * * *

  Or you can follow Alyssa’s cooking misadventures and writing life at all the usual places, including Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. No guarantees what you’ll find!

  THE DIFFERENCE ONE DUKE MAKES

  February

  Elizabeth Essex

  Preface

  Miss Penelope Pease is what every bright young thing never wants to be—ruined, thanks to an ill-conceived flirtation with the late Duke of Warwick. But ruined suits the new duke, his brother, Commander Marcus Beecham just fine—because after a career in the Royal Navy, he’s rather ruined himself. All it takes is one frosty night for two imperfect people to make the perfect February valentine.

  Chapter 1

  London, February 1816

  Commander Marcus Beecham turned his face into the bitter wind on the River Thames, closed his eyes and thought of England. Of easy living, lazy summer afternoons in the country, with picnics and long rides across the rolling hills. Witty conversations with charming girls who gazed at him with—

  No. It was impossible. After more than a decade at sea, he doubted he could even hold a conversation with a girl.

  And yet here he was, back in the damp land of his birth. His family had insisted, having written that he must resign his commission in the Royal Navy and abandon the career to which he had sacrificed ten long, hard years—and very nearly his life.

  Marcus would just have to show his family that he was well now, if not entirely whole. That he was sound of mind and judgment, no matter his injuries. That he was as fully capable as any officer in the fleet—more so, for he knew the cost of battle better than most men.

  He also knew his duty, which was the only reason he had left his ship to return to a city he disliked with an intensity that rivaled his odium for his callous, authoritative older brother, Caius, Duke of Warwick.

  A sentimental homecoming, it would not be, but a short one, Marcus hoped. Caius could not want him to stay long in London, either.

  Ahead, a figure hailed his captain’s gig from the Hungerford Stairs. Marcus recognized an older version of Hodges, his brother’s stern-faced butler, extending his arthritic hand as if he would assist Marcus out of the boat. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

  The sudden dread in his chest weighed him down like a cannonball in a canvas shroud. Marcus had to use his good arm to push himself to his feet in the boat. To meet the man’s eyes. To make sure what he had heard was no mistake. “Your Grace?”

  There had been no news in the letter that had reached him off Recife. No hint that he was no longer the spare. Nothing in the short, formal lines insisting upon his return that his brother, the heir—the bloody Duke of Warwick—had finally done the world a favor and been put to bed with a shovel. Or a bullet between his eyes.

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Hodges bowed his head in solemn confirmation.

  The boat tipped beneath Marcus’s feet. Shock made his body heavy and his brain stupid. “Dead?” Caius had always seemed invincible—a reckless force of nature who had inherited his dukedom young and learned early to aggressively insist upon having his way.

  �
�How?” Caius was little more than a year older than Marcus—a man in the prime of his life. A man safe ashore, who might be expected to live a far less hazardous life than Marcus, or any of his Royal Navy brethren, certainly had. “Accident? Misadventure? Revenge?” Caius had always done as he pleased. Perhaps he had done as he pleased with someone else’s wife?

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Your Grace.” Hodges still held out his hand to help Marcus ashore. As if he thought Marcus so frail that he needed an arthritic old man’s help on the water-slick steps.

  There was nothing for it, of course. With one well-aimed shot across his bow, Marcus was being made to quite literally give up his ship.

  And so, he would.

  Because Commander Marcus Beecham knew his duty. He planted his sea boots ashore and became a duke.

  Damned if it wasn’t one hell of an unexpected demotion.

  The palatial townhouse on Grosvenor Street was as it had always been: stone-faced, curtained and immaculate, with not so much as a weed daring to poke through the clean-swept pavement. Inside was the same—nothing out of place, everything as unchanged and preserved as if it had been under glass for ten long years.

  His mother, whom he had not seen since he was a raw boy of ten and four, barely looked at him. “Oh, Marcus, there you are.”

  As if he had come from the next room and not half a world away. “Mother.”

  “I prefer Mama—so much more elegant.” She chanced only a glancing look at Marcus, as if she were afraid to look at her own child. As if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.