She took the valentine from his hand with solemn reverence, and carefully turned it to and fro to find the beginning of the puzzle. And then she began to read. “Dear love, this heart which you behold, which breaks apart as you unfold,”—she turned the valentine to continue—“cannot show my truefast love, which came to us as from above.” She smiled up at him and the sun made a halo of her frosted breath. “That’s very sweet, Beech.”
“There’s more.” He tried to point out the intricacy of the design. “It’s a puzzle you have to unfold.”
“Thank you, Beech—I am aware of how valentines work.” She peeled off her gloves to pull carefully at a corner. “My dearest dear, my own true love, you’ve given me my heart. Each moment long, each day divine, you to me impart, the greatest care, the greatest love, that my life might be part.”
It sounded dreadfully trite in the cold clear light of morning. “I beg you will remember, I am a sailor, not a poet.”
“Hush, Beech, I’m getting to the good part. Look all these lovely pretty flowers. Did you really draw them yourself? Charmingly done.” She cleared her throat slightly to resume reading. “With you by me, and I by you, as steadfast as the sun, ne’ermore be parted, but live in love, so our hearts beat as one.”
“Oh, Beech.” She threw her arms around his neck, and he felt the warm wet of her tears against his skin. “You really are the kindest, sweetest man.”
“I only wish to be your kindest, sweetest man.” He made his voice unnecessarily gruff to counter his sentiment. “The rest of the world can go to the devil.”
“Yes, well.” She laughed and disentangled herself from his embrace, so she might fold the valentine carefully away. “Well they might go to the devil, but we had best get ourselves to the Lord.”
Their footsteps echoed in the quiet nave of St. Michael of Hayholm, carrying them up the short aisle to stand in front of the vicar, who stamped his feet to bring feeling back into his chilly toes.
“Are we all here, then? Your Grace of Warwick?” The vicar checked the man against the title on the license. “Been some time since I married anyone with one of these—regular license, and not special.”
“Because we are regular people, Reverend, who desire to be regularly married people.”
Penelope liked the sound of that—not that she objected to being a duchess.
“If the bride would move to the other side,” the vicar was instructing, “and stand on my right?”
Beech wouldn’t like that—she’d be on his wrong side. “We’re fine as we stand, Reverend,” Penelope said. “God will know which one of us is which.”
“I daresay.” The vicar retreated into his book, presumably to find the order of prayers. “Let us begin.”
“Now you’re in it,” Beech whispered at her side.
“Pease Porridge in the pot?”
“No.” Beech took her hand to kiss it. “Pease Porridge Perfect.”
Her heart was so full it started to leak out the corners of her eyes. “I love you, Marcus Andrew Beecham. I love you so much I don’t mind that you’re Duke of Warwick.”
“Because I’m the right Duke of Warwick,” he said with assurance. “And I love you Penelope Anne Pease.”
In front of them, the vicar cleared his throat. “If you two would be so good as to follow the order of the service?”
“We will,” they said together.
And they did.
And when the fellow at last pronounced them husband and wife, Penelope took Beech’s dear, different, familiar face in her hands, and kissed him with all the love she had left in her leaky heart.
But it was enough. Because she could read the truth of his words in his beautiful grey-green eyes—apart they were two damaged people, but together, they were perfect.
Perfectly united in love.
What a difference one duke had made.
About the Author
Elizabeth Essex is the award-winning author of critically acclaimed historical romances, including Reckless Brides, and her new Highland Brides series. Her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award and Seal of Excellence Award, and RWA’s prestigious RITA Award.
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DISCOVERING THE DUKE
March
Madeline Martin
Preface
Reunited at a house party after a lackluster start to their marriage, the Duke of Stedton attempts to win his Duchess’ heart. Will a sizzling wager be enough to melt the frost between them, or will it truly remain the coldest winter in London?
Chapter 1
March 1814
It wasn’t the jostling carriage through the frozen country roads that had Julia Sinclair’s stomach twisting with knots; rather it was the idea of seeing her husband again. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d woken to find William gone after a very awkward wedding night. He’d left a note simply stating his need to depart at once.
On the heels of that note was yet another slip of paper found near the hearth, crumpled as though it had been meant to join the flames. And considering the contents, it was no wonder. William had been called away with the insistence that he come posthaste on account of someone called Maribel.
Maribel. The name seethed inside of Julia.
The idea of a house party in the country with her dearest friend, the Countess of Bursbury, had been a blessing and a curse. A blessing if William did not show, and a curse if he did. Of course, everyone would want to see the new Duke and Duchess of Stedton together.
Blast it.
The carriage made its way down a long drive lined with trees, their stark limbs layered with mounds of glittering snow. Julia pressed her temple to the cool glass window pane to better see the massive structure of Bursbury Manor in the distance. Well, that was a bit of a lie—she was actually scouring the landscape for any sign of her new husband.
Her heart rattled about her chest like a trapped bird. Dread pummeled its way into her stomach and she found herself praying that William not be in attendance. She needed these four days in the country, away from their grand home in London, away from the servants who all probably knew about her husband’s mistress. Every time they gazed at her, she wondered if they were secretly pitying her, or if they were whispering gossip amongst one another.
How could she have been so stupid? This marriage was supposed to have saved her from her father’s house, but now look where she’d landed herself.
Tension squeezed at the back of her throat. No. She would not crumple into tears. Not again. This whole awful mess had been given enough of her sorrow. Continuing to mourn, well, it was pathetic, and it needed to stop. And anyway, she had made her decision.
The carriage pulled to a stop before the manor, and a footman opened the door to help Julia from the small cabin. The wind hit her with a sharpness of the cold March. The chill lasted but a moment before she was swept into the grand entry of Bursbury Manor into Lady Bursbury’s warm greeting.
“Your Grace.” Nancy clapped her hands to her chest. “Don’t you look lovely? Marriage becomes you.”
“I’m still Julia to you.” Julia embraced her dear friend. “Thank you for having us. Has my husband arrived?”
“Not yet, nor have I heard from him.” Nancy rolled her eyes playfully. “You know how men are. I expect he’ll be here any moment and without a bit of notice.”
Julia gave a small laugh to keep from appeari
ng as miserable as she felt.
Nancy waved her hand. “Come on, then. I’ll show you to your chamber, so you can refresh yourself. I know the roads are just terrible. Elias told me it was a bad idea to throw a house party in March, but I thought it would be the perfect time to get out of London while it’s so dismal and gray. Besides, isn’t it lovely how white and sparkling the snow is out here? So much better than the grimy slush sopping the city streets.”
Nancy continued to chatter on with her usual genuine excitement while she led the way, for which Julia was grateful. This felt normal, the way things were before the wedding. Before Julia realized she’d made a monumental mistake.
After having been escorted to her chambers, she took her time recovering from the journey, pausing periodically to glance out the large windows of her room. It was not the view that drew her, although it was lovely. She was on the lookout for her husband’s arrival, to have the conversation she knew would not end well. Yet, it must be done.
She refused to end up like her mother.
An hour later, in a fresh gown and with her mind certain that William would not arrive in the next several minutes, Julia opened the door. There, she met a most unwelcome face. Lady Venerton, the wife of the very old, very rich earl, and a onetime friend of Julia’s.
Lady Venerton did not appear at all surprised at Julia’s presence. Her lips curled in a cool smile. “How wonderful to see you here, Julia.” She dipped in a quick curtsey, more as an afterthought than with respectful intent.
The insult of using her Christian name was not lost on Julia.
“Lady Venerton.” Julia nodded. “You look well.”
And she did, dripping with gems in obscene proportions and practically glowing in a blush silk gown. It was ostentatious for daytime games at a house party, but clearly Lady Venerton had no qualms with being blatant in flashing her wealth.
“Is His Grace in attendance as well?” Lady Venerton peered around Julia, as though seeking out William.
Julia closed her door. “He is detained in the country at present and will join us if his obligations allow.”
“His obligations,” Lady Venerton repeated slowly. “In the country.” Her lips folded in on themselves, the way one does when they have something to say, but do not wish to say it.
“Correct.” Julia lifted her head and began to walk down the hall, forcing Lady Venerton to do so as well. “Is there something amiss?”
“Well, you know I don’t like to gossip.” Lady Venerton lowered her eyes. Most likely to hide the excited gleam there in those ice-crystal depths. For Lady Venerton loved nothing more than to gossip. Certainly, she had delighted in sharing everything she could about Julia’s father.
Julia said nothing. The space of silence was all Lady Venerton needed. She clasped Julia’s arm in her hot, bejeweled fingers and leaned her blonde head toward Julia’s dark one. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, my darling Julia, but I have heard it on good authority that your husband has a mistress at his country estate.”
Julia’s stomach turned to lead and slid lower into her belly. “Oh?”
Lady Venerton pouted. “I know, and you’re just newly married. But I thought you might want to know.”
“Of course.” It was all Julia could manage to say, especially when it wasn’t anything she did not already know. And that was the worst of it, really. That the malicious words leaving those pretty lips were true.
“I’ve suspected for a while, to be honest,” Lady Venerton continued on in the way she did, always digging the blade deeper and finding the most painful spot to twist. “After all, he often flirted with me when he was courting you. I found it inappropriate and told him I’d have nothing to do with him because he was with my closest friend, and I was quite happily married.”
And by “happily married,” she most likely meant “happily shopping.” Still, she found her mark and twisted at that most painful spot. Heavens, the woman was skilled with wielding her wicked words.
“I see,” Julia said through numb lips.
They’d made their way to the bottom of the stairs, and Lady Venerton’s eyes lit up. “Oh, look! They’re setting up a game of charades.” And with that, she left Julia’s side with the exuberance of a child, bouncing about on the energy wrought by destroying another’s heart.
If Julia’s mind had not been made up previously, it most certainly was now. When William arrived, Julia would tell him she wished to retire to country once she’d produced his heir. It was the only way to ease her regret at marrying him. As a woman, she had no other options.
Despite her steeled determination, she did not get the opportunity to declare her decision. Not on the first day, nor on the second. However, on the third, after a brisk walk about the frozen lake, Julia made her way into her chamber and saw the very man she wanted nothing more to do with: her husband, William Sinclair, the seventh Duke of Stedton.
And he was only partially dressed.
“Oh.”
It was a simple little word, and yet it conveyed so very much to William Sinclair when it came from the wife he had spent the better part of two weeks thinking of. He’d been in the middle of dressing when the door opened, and in she had walked, stunning in her beauty.
Light spilling in from the windows turned her skin to the finest cream and shone on her glossy black hair. She’d been outside recently, as her lips and cheeks were red with the cold and her deep blue eyes sparkled like sapphires.
“Julia.” He smiled at her.
She did not return the gesture. Her stare fixed on his naked chest, seeing it for the first time. He ought to put on a shirt, perhaps, but she was his wife. He wanted her to see him, to love him, to make a family with him.
A family. He wanted one of those again. The sharing, the laughter, the love. All of it. The very idea had seemed impossible for far too long.
He approached her, and she went stiff.
Confound it. He knew the wedding night had not been up to snuff, but he hadn’t realized it was all that bad. But then she was so very petite, and he was so very large. He’d been terribly worried he might hurt her. Had he?
He didn’t take another step in her direction. “I’m sorry I had to leave to leave so abruptly.”
“You had obligations.” Her response was cool.
“I left you a note.”
“I received it. Thank you.”
William glanced back at his valet and found Hodges awkwardly studying a corner of the ceiling, clearly wishing to be anywhere but there at the moment.
“You may go, Hodges.” William wanted the privacy as much as Hodges no doubt wanted to be free of this whole bloody conversation.
The older man said not a word. He slipped out faster than William had ever seen him move in his life, but not before shoving a shirt into William’s hands as he went. The message was clear: Put on your shirt. The little push in which the garment was delivered added an insistent: Now.
William pulled on the thing before striding toward Julia. This time, she put up one small hand. “Stop.”
He did as she commanded. This was most certainly not the welcome he had hoped for from his new wife. He’d anticipated nights of making up for the lost time, mending what he had botched.
“You left me on the first day of our marriage.” Hurt flashed in her eyes. “And I know exactly why you left.”
“There were matters of the country estate—”
“I’m well aware.”
He nodded. Most likely the servants had provided his new wife with details of Maribel. They knew what her sudden illness meant to him. The horse was very dear to him, being one of the few reminders left of his father. He had been grateful to the veterinarian who had made his way to the country to see to her. His prognosis, however, was dire. And while William had missed his wife fiercely, he could not bring himself to leave Maribel’s side. Not until she’d recovered.
Julia took a full inhale and drew herself fully upright, which might well bring the top of h
er head to the center of his chest were he standing close enough to measure. “This marriage will not work.”
William’s brows lifted. Surely, he had not heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Once I am in a delicate way, I wish to retire to the country.” She lifted her chin and her cheeks stained with a flush. “You may live your life without the censure of a wife who will not stand by and allow you to do as you please.”
What the deuce?
“I am not my mother,” Julia said with finality. “I will not allow you to make a fool of me.”
God, but this was uncomfortable. He was glad to not have made it in dressing yet to his cravat, lest the bloody thing feel as though it were strangling him. “Julia, the wedding night was less than ideal.”
She huffed.
“You see, you are quite petite, and I am nearly twice your weight, maybe three times.” He shook his head. “You were innocent, of course. I didn’t——I was unsure how best to approach you.” This was going so terribly awful. He ran a hand through his hair and then quickly smoothed it down. “It had been quite a while since I had,” he paused under the weight of the discomfort of his admission. “You know.”
“I’m afraid I do not.” Julia’s eyes sparked with an emotion he had never seen before. Anger?
Bloody hell.
“I do, however, know you are lying to me.” She folded her arms over her chest. “It hasn’t been a length of time since you’ve…” she went a deep red and shimmied her shoulders in a show of angry discomfort “…done that with a woman.”
The offense of her words flashed through him. “What the devil are you on about, woman?”
“I know about the mistress at your country estate,” she exploded. “I know about Maribel.”
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