Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Their kiss unraveled everything. Their awkward conversation about Pandora’s box did too.

  She rubbed her forehead. A throb banged there, magnifying the void that enveloped her. She badly needed the healing sanctity of her home.

  There was a knock on the door, probably Thomas come to let them know the carriage was ready to take her home all of the short distance to Butterfly Cottage.

  Malmsey opened the door with a cheerful, “And here he is, the duke himself.” The maid curtseyed. “We were just talking about you.”

  She glared fiery darts at the maid’s back.

  “Indeed.” His Grace wasn’t bothered by Malmsey’s forward chatter. He filled the doorway, more heart-achingly handsome than ever. “Good morning.”

  His chocolate-smooth voice was a balm to her irritation.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  It was silly how the small things about him affected her. His strong, thoughtful hands. His scar peeking out from the black eye patch. She wanted to kiss the slanted line and heal it, though she never would. The denial left her dry as sand.

  He was staring at her mouth. Had he come for a parting kiss?

  She became aware of her death-grip on her chair’s back rest. Since she was leaving for good, she’d allow the luxury of a last kiss. A brazen idea, but recklessness in small doses was good for the heart. Freeing. Life was meant to be lived to the fullest, and he filled her. Thus, it was easy to order her maid to leave.

  “Malmsey, go find Mrs. Staveley and ask her about the carriage.”

  She was steady, giving the order. The maid’s eyes were saucers, the unspoken Alone? writ on her face. It had to be a shock after two years of working hard to never be alone in a room with the Duke of Richland. The practice was obliterated in one afternoon.

  After interminable seconds, Malmsey dipped a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am.” And left.

  They kept eye contact, listening to the maid’s footsteps fade. Daylight brushed the left side of him. The shine of his auburn hair. The stoic line of his jaw. He was back to his old habits, wearing his favorite boots and a brown broadcloth coat well-past the first stare of fashion. She liked him this way.

  His lips twitched. “I didn’t come to gawk at you, yet I count it the best part of my morning that I am.”

  “Oh, Your Grace.” The void around her was fading. All because of his presence and a few choice words.

  He didn’t have a flare for conversation like his brother, Lord George, but his forthrightness was a fine quality. It made what he said better because it was a gift, raw and lovely beyond measure.

  “You elevate me, Mrs. Chatham.” He canted his head, searching the window, a faint scowl crossing his features. “Somehow, you make the air I breathe better, the food I eat more satisfying, the…” His scowl deepened, and he was clearly searching for what he’d say next. His great, wide shoulders shrugged with futility. “Love should be me elevating you, seeing to your needs. Not stating what you do for me.”

  He’d said love. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Whatever the duke wanted to say was a struggle, but there was nothing she could do. To struggle was to find enlightenment.

  “What about my needs perplexes you?” she asked with gossamer lightness.

  His brows thundered. A roil of emotion showed on his face. “I want you, Mrs. Chatham—” he raked her from head to hem “—and I want to attend to your needs. All of them.”

  The dragon duke was back.

  She feared turning to ashes under his liquid-silver gaze. There was no mistaking the mix of affection and ardor gleaming from their depths. She had hoped for one more kiss when they really needed sexual congress—a lifetime of it.

  And that still wouldn’t be enough.

  “Your Grace…I…” She possessed a steady voice, but it fled her. She was turning into a puddle in the chair.

  He withdrew something from his coat pocket. “Allow me this,” he said, unfolding what appeared to be a letter.

  She couldn’t be sure because clear thinking fled her too. She couldn’t make a coherent sentence. Her tongue refused to work. Her legs wouldn’t move and her breasts were suddenly sensitive. Achy. Full. Desperate for his touch.

  The duke’s grin was endearing and boyish a split-second before his resonant voice filled the room.

  Richland Hall, Saturday morning

  May 24, 1788

  My Dear Mrs. Chatham,

  Thank you for your letter. It was the zenith of my day. Reading your words, I heard your voice. I felt your presence with me in my bed.

  He paused to give her a smoldering look that curled her toes.

  Please know my longing for your goes beyond the flesh. I don’t want to be your lecherous neighbor. I want to be your husband.

  A glorious spangle jolted her. The chair squeaked from her rapid shifting because it was all she could do to let him finish. His gaze drifted up from the page.

  “I want to be with you no matter what.” His firm tone spoke volumes.

  “And my barren womb?” Her voice was whisper-thin.

  He set the missive on the desk and dropped to one knee before her. He folded his warm, wonderful hands around hers.

  “My letter addressed that. It says, in effect, that I don’t care because I want to you, body and soul, in my bed and in my home. That I accept you as you are.” He tapped his eye patch. “As I believe you accept me as I am.”

  The gulf around her shattered. The duke had broken it into a thousand pieces, freeing her with his fervent, honest words. She was speechless.

  His smile creased nicely. “Would you like to hear the rest of the letter?”

  “There’s more?”

  “There is. The last part references yesterday when you asked me if I trusted you to take care of me.”

  She laughed, so light and giddy. “When we were compatriots in a game of patient and physic.”

  “Exactly. Now, I suggest we play the game of duke and duchess.” His mirth blended with awe, changing his features. “I suggest we play it for a lifetime.”

  She could hardly contain the elation swelling inside her. “Is that how your letter ends?”

  He kissed her hands and his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “It ends with ‘I love you with all my heart, Nathan.’”

  “It’s a perfect letter.”

  “It’s salacious. Hardly proper as marriage proposals go.”

  Joy flared inside her. The duke was adorably well-mannered.

  She bent over and kissed his hands. Her teeth grazed one of his fingertips and gave him the tiniest bite. “Salacious letters are the best kind. I expect a lifetime of them.”

  He eyed her hungrily. “You shall.”

  And that was how the Duke and Duchess of Richland enjoyed a lifetime of love…one letter at a time.

  About the Author

  About the Author: Gina Conkle writes Viking and Georgian romance. She grew up in southern California and despite all that sunshine, Gina loves books more than beaches and stone castles more than sand castles. Now she lives in Michigan with her favorite alpha male, Brian, and their two sons where she occasionally gardens and cooks.

  * * *

  She invites you to connect with her:

  Ginaconkle.com

  Facebook

  Her newsletter

  Also by Gina Conkle

  For Georgian Romance

  The Midnight Meetings series

  Meet the Earl at Midnight

  The Lady Meets Her Match

  The Lord Meets His Lady

  Meet a Rogue at Midnight

  Meet My Love at Midnight

  * * *

  For Viking Romance

  The Norse Series

  Norse Jewel

  To Find a Viking Treasure

  To Steal a Viking Bride

  * * *

  The Forgotten Sons series

  Kept by the Viking

  Her Viking Warrior

  The Viking’s Oath (coming wint
er, 2020)

  HER PERFECT DUKE

  June

  Ella Quinn

  Dedication

  To my granddaughters Vivienne and Josephine. May you always find love and friendship. And to my husband for sticking by me and my life changes.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Anna Harrington for putting the project together and patiently keeping all of us headed in the same direction. She has been amazing. Thanks also to my editor Ali McGraw for catching all my typos and helping make this a better book. And thank you to my readers. Without you none of this is worth it. You are all amazing!

  Preface

  Still suffering over the loss of his wife and child, Giles, Duke of Kendal sees Lady Thalia Trevor at a market and is instantly smitten. There is only one problem. She is already betrothed to another man. Will she defy her powerful father to marry him?

  Chapter 1

  Somerset Castle, May 1819

  His Grace, The Duke of Berwick-Upon-Tweed

  Tweed Manor

  * * *

  My dear Duke,

  It has come to my attention that you have six grown daughters, but no son to carry on your title. My daughter Lady Thalia Trevor has reached the age of eighteen. I will offer her to you as your wife in exchange for the strip of land you own in Eastern Northumberland that marches along my land.

  Lady Thalia has been raised to be an obedient lady, yet she has been educated as befits a duchess.

  I look forward to hearing from you regarding my proposal.

  * * *

  Yr. Servant,

  Somerset

  * * *

  Berwick-upon-Tweed, May 1819

  My dear Lady Hawksworth,

  Allow me to commend you on your prescience. Your father-in-law wrote to me concerning Lady Thalia, offering her to me in marriage. After giving the matter much serious thought, and unless you have an objection, I shall propose that Lady Thalia be allowed to visit along with her mother for one month, beginning in mid-June. I believe I have the perfect suitor for her.

  * * *

  Yr. Servant,

  Berwick

  * * *

  My dear Berwick,

  Lady Thalia will be visiting my mother-in-law’s family in Lincolnshire near the town of Wintering during June. Their lands are across the Humber from Hull’s estate. Hawksworth and I will be joining them toward the middle of that month.

  * * *

  Yours in friendship,

  M. Hawksworth

  * * *

  My dear Lady Hawksworth,

  I shall adjust my plans accordingly.

  * * *

  Yr. Servant,

  Berwick

  * * *

  Dear Duke,

  Before I commit to a second marriage, I must meet your daughter and come to know her. My first marriage was extremely satisfactory. My wife and I had much in common and a great affection for each other. Would it be possible for Lady Thalia and the duchess, and naturally you too if you wish, to join me in Berwick for the month of July?

  * * *

  Yr. Servant

  Berwick

  * * *

  Dear Duke,

  I will make arrangements for my daughter and duchess to visit you in July. In the meantime, I suggest we discuss the settlement agreements.

  * * *

  Yr. servant,

  Somerset

  * * *

  Somerset Castle, late May 1819.

  “My lady,” Lady Thalia Trevor’s maid said as she entered her parlor, “your mother has sent word that you are to go immediately to the duke’s study.”

  This was it then. Thalia had known it was coming, and she should not be nervous, but she was. Rising from the window seat, she glanced at her sister Laia, Duchess of Bolton. Their other sister, Euphrosyne was not allowed to visit, nor did she wish to. “Am I presentable?”

  “Yes.” Laia grimaced. “Not that he will notice. Remember what I said. Smile gratefully and do not in any way betray that you do not agree with his decision.”

  “I do remember what happened to Euphrosyne.”

  Her other older sister had been kept literally a prisoner in the castle after the duke had rejected the perfectly eligible Marquis of Markville as her husband, only because Markville did not have any property the duke wanted.

  Due to an elaborate scheme involving their sister-in-law Meg Hawksworth, Euphrosyne and Markville were finally able to wed. For at least three months after she ran away with Markville, their father had guards following Thalia.

  Yet, for her, however, it was almost pleasant. With her two older sisters gone, she had few people with whom to walk, go horseback riding, or converse and had decided to make do with the guards. The duke, however, eventually decided that she had no plans to flee the castle, and recalled the guards.

  Thalia walked quickly to her father’s study on the other side of the castle. Her father’s butler opened the door and announced her—because, naturally, her father would not know who she was or remember that he had summoned her. She made herself stroll into the room as if she had no worries and performed her best curtsey.

  Glancing up from his papers, he motioned to one of the heavy leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.” She quickly took the one to this right. Laia had told Talia about being made to wait, but apparently their father was in a hurry today. “I am in the process of arranging a marriage between you and the Duke of Berwick-upon-Tweed. You will travel with your mother to her family’s home, and from there journey to Berwick-upon-Tweed in July.” He lowered his bushy white brows. “I trust that you will make yourself agreeable to the duke, and he will decide to accept you.”

  Thalia had kept her eyes lowered and was glad that he couldn’t see her anger. Both her older sisters had discovered, much to their dismay, that the duke wished to arrange their marriages only to acquire property for the dukedom. She crossed two of her fingers, hiding the gesture in her lightly clasped hands. “Yes, Father. I will not disappoint you.”

  “Good girl.” He went back to the documents on his desk.

  Assuming she had been dismissed, Thalia rose and quietly left the room. Now it was time to pray that somehow, somewhere, she would meet the gentleman she was meant to love and marry, before her father discovered that she had no intention of wedding the man he had selected.

  * * *

  Lincolnshire, June 1819

  Giles, Duke of Kendal, strolled around the Midsummer’s fair in Wintering, a small market town in Lincolnshire. His friend, mentor, and one-time guardian, the Duke of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had suggested Kendal take advantage of being a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Hull. The town was famous, at least in this small area of England, for its Midsummer’s night fair. Berwick had even gone so far as to suggest that Kendal might find something that would interest him, or perhaps it was someone that would interest him. If it was a someone, he hoped it was a soothsayer or fortune teller. Thus far in his life, he had not made the best of decisions. Or rather, he had accepted the decisions that had been made for him.

  Except for Lillian. She had been the light of his life.

  He gave himself an inner shake. There was no point in continually asking if he could have done anything differently. She was gone, and that was that. Or so Berwick had told Kendal more than once.

  Determinedly, he turned his focus on the fair. The purpose this year—aside from local craftsmen and women making a bit more money and celebrating the longest day of the year—was to raise the funds necessary to provide a new roof for the church. Why did churches always require new roofs?

  He had almost strolled past a booth with two elderly women selling lace and ribbons when the sound of light, musical laughter stopped him. Two females, one with silvery blonde hair and dressed like a lady, although not in the latest fashion. The other looked like every lady’s maid he’d ever seen, dressed primly in a dark gown. The women were inspecting the lace.

  “This is extremely fine work,” the lady said. “Ma
nnering, I think it would look lovely on my blue gown.”

  “I agree, my lady.” Mannering held the piece of lace up, inspecting it. “It’s just what we need to make it special.”

  “How much do you think we require?” the lady asked.

  Mannering measured the lace with her arms as a guide. “If you like, you could also get some for your mother.”

  “What a wonderful idea!” The lady smiled. “I can give it to her for”—a faint line appeared between her brows—“Her birthday and Christmas are too far away.” Then she smiled, a smile with no artifice, no calculation. Very much like Lillian had smiled, although different, too. It was the smile of an unaffected lady, not the child Lillian had been. “I shall just give it to her. Those are the best gifts.”

  “That is a lovely idea, my lady,” one of the old women said.