The Duke’s eyes jumped open as he stared at her. Their stare locked and a thousand messages passed between them. Ann’s insides tightened, what if he rejected her. What if he had come for her out of a sense of guilt or that blasted protectives.
“You’re awake,” he said with a hint of surprise.
“I told you,” Mrs. Jensen said, “Never listen to doctors.”
He continued to stare at her. Ann couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man. Every part of her body ached but her heart raced with a combination of joy and fear.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered.
He frowned deeply. “You are never to do that again.”
Now it was her turn to frown. “What am I not to do?” she asked as her insides turned over. Why was he upset at her?
“Run away like that.”
She swallowed and nodded slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He stared at her sternly. “And you are never again to call me, Your Grace. You will call me Brock in private and Bedford in public.”
Ann glanced at Mrs. Jensen. How could she be expected to do such a thing, “Your Grace …”
“No, Ann. A Duchess does not call her husband, Your Grace, at least not to my way of thinking. It is just too formal.”
Her heart jumped. What? …. No. This made no sense. Why?
“Your …”
He raised an eyebrow to stop her.
“Brock,” she said with a heavy sigh. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Jensen continued to smile widely. Ann fought to control her racing heart.
“We will be married within a fortnight,” he said as if he were announcing a future hunting trip with his friends.
“I’ve already started to make arrangements,” Mrs. Jensen interjected. “Nothing elaborate. But fitting a Duchess …”
“Stop!” Ann croaked. Her mind whirled. “We can’t marry.”
The Duke smiled. “You forget Ann, I am a Duke of the realm. The only person who can tell me, ‘No,’ is the King, and he’s half-mad. His son isn’t much better and will never tell me I can’t. I know too many things he would never wish to be shared.”
Ann gulped. They were talking about Kings and Princess. One more reason they could never marry. She would never belong in his world.
“And, of course, yourself. If you don’t wish to marry me. I will understand. I will be heartbroken. But you, my dear, are the only person who can stop this wedding from taking place.”
Her heart lurched. Had any man ever said sweeter words? “Your … Brock, We can’t. Your mother, your friends.”
He laughed. “My mother will adjust or find herself banned from London. As for my friends. The only ones that matter already know that I am in love with you. The others will accept you or I will obtain new friends.”
Love? The man said he loved her. Actually, loved her. He had even declared himself before she had spoken her own thoughts. It must be true. A man like Brock didn’t use such words unless he meant them.
She looked at Mrs. Jensen for confirmation. The housekeeper smiled and nodded. For the briefest second, she wondered if Mrs. Jensen had planned this. Had she moved the chess pieces in such a way that the Duke would fall in love? No, surely not.
Taking a deep breath, Ann tried to steady her racing heart. “Brock, while I do love you. I have since the moment you saved me the first time. Still, I can’t be a Duchess. I wouldn’t know how.”
“I will teach you,” he said.
Mrs. Jensen laughed. “No, I will. His Grace will simply force everyone else to accept you. I will teach you how to win them over to your side.”
Ann’s mouth dropped as she stared at the housekeeper.
“Of course,” the older woman continued, “I believe you could do it without my assistance. But if you're smart. You’ll let me help.”
The world was spinning too fast. How was this possible?
“Ann,” the Duke said as he leaned forward and took her hand in his. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you share your life with mine? It will be the two of us against the world. Please. I will never know happiness unless you do.”
Her heart stopped beating as she stared up into his eyes. How could she ever deny him anything? She loved him too much to ever say, ‘No.’ The fact that she would have her dream was beside the point.
The pleading look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. This man wanted her as his wife and his lover. How could any woman be so lucky to find such a man?
No princess in the history of princesses had ever had such a man for her hero.
“Of course, Brock. I will marry you.”
He smiled as he sighed with relief. He leaned down to take her lips with his. A soft, tender kiss that made her insides turn to mush. This was her man and she was his. Nothing would ever come between them.
Epilogue
Ann, the Duchess of Bedford looked out over the room. The highest members of society. All of them looking at her. Waiting for her. What would they think if they ever learned the truth? The Duke’s maid had become a Duchess. Half of London would fall over in shock.
Smiling inside, she nodded to the band.
Her husband took her hand and led her out onto the floor for a waltz.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
A soft warm feeling filled her. Nothing else mattered, not when it came down to it. This man loved her. That was all that was important. The ton, the Lords and Ladies of London. They might think she wasn’t worthy of the role. But it didn’t matter as long as this man did.
“I do believe Mother is almost resigned to the reality of our marriage,” he said as he pulled her into his arms and nodded across the room.
The Dowager stood next to the Duke of Suffolk. Her normal frown had been put aside of late. Ann had gone out of her way to request the woman’s opinion and advice. It had done wonders for their relationship.
Of course, when she informed the Dowager that she was increasing and that if it was a girl she would be named after her paternal grandmother. The woman had actually smiled and been at a loss for words.
“You are to stop being too cantankerous with your mother. It is not productive.”
He scoffed then looked down to see her giving him her best disapproving look. He swallowed hard and nodded.
“I will try.”
“Thank you,” she said as she gave his arm a quick squeeze. “It will make your child’s life so much easier.”
He blanched and stumbled.
“Yes, February I should think.”
A wide smile spread across his face as he stopped dancing and pulled her into an embrace.
“Brock,” she gasped as both arms slipped around her waist and held her tight. Everyone must think him mad. Such things were just not done in the ton. Even she knew that.
“We are going to start a new trend,” he told her. “A wife and husband that love each other. Shocking, but the world deserves to know the happiness I feel at this moment.”
She laughed as she returned his embrace. No woman had ever been happier.
The End
Author’s Notes
Thank you for reading ‘A Duke’s Desire’ the first in the Duke’s Club Series. Book two, A Duke’s Duty will be released soon.
I would love to know what you think of it. My readers make it possible for me to do what I love, so I am always grateful and excited to hear from you. Please stop by my website GLSnodgrass.com or send me an Email at [email protected]. Feel free to sign up for my newsletter. I use my newsletter to announce new releases and give away free books. Or you can follow me on Amazon Author Page Or via Bookbub at https://www.bookbub.com/authors/g-l-snodgrass. I also post on my Facebook page. https://www.facebook.com/G.L.Snodgrass/ f
As always, I would like to thank my friends for their assistance with this book. Sheryl Turner, Anya Monroe, and Eryn Carpenter. I couldn’t have done it without them.
If you enjoyed ‘A Duke’s Desire’ please tell a fri
end or two. And please help out by rating this book at Amazon, Bookbub, or Goodreads. Reviews from readers make a huge difference for a writer.
I have added the first two chapters of one of my first Regency novels, The Reluctant Duke. I think you might like.
Again, thank you.
The Reluctant Duke
Prologue
Wet cobblestones echoed with the slap of her bare feet as the cold night air bit through her thin cotton nightgown. Turning and peering through the fog the young woman searched to see if she was followed. Her heart raced, beating so loud she was sure they would hear.
Was that movement, had they found her already? With a stomach turned to stone, she fled. Where in this town would ever be safe? How truly alone she was flashed through her mind as she tried to think of someone to help.
There was no one. No one powerful enough to stop him. London was lost to her.
Chapter One
Duty is like a double edged sword hanging over a man’s neck. It dictates everything.
Major Thomas Marshal’s horse slowly walked up the long path towards his new home. It had been a long ride from London. His back ached, and his leg screamed in protest.
“God, it’s worse than I thought,” he said to himself as he looked over the dark and imposing building.
Dead flower beds and fallen tree limbs made the area look like a neglected step-child. Chipped bricks, a broken window on one of the upper floors, at least a dozen little things showed significant neglect.
His stomach turned over with the thought of what lay before him.
Brookshire! At least one Prime Minister and two pirates had been born here. Kings and Queens had dined at its table. This old palatial estate was known throughout the Kingdom and most of Europe as the home of the Duke of Bathurst. Center of a vast estate with properties throughout Britain and the continent.
Squaring his shoulders, he sat tall in his saddle and waited. No one came out to greet him, no stable boy appeared to take his horse, and no footman in full livery scurried down the front steps.
“What’s the meaning of this,” he wondered aloud as his stomach turned over with the first inkling of worry. Sighing, he gingerly swung down from his horse and limped up the steps using his cane to rap against the heavy oaken door.
He paused, he waited. Still no one arrived. Heaving a heavy sigh again and shaking his head he slowly opened the door and crossed the threshold.
The house was huge. It always had been. Built in Elizabethan times with that typical Tudor thirst for function and efficiency. A memory of getting lost in the upper floors when he had been very young flashed through his mind. Of sliding down the banister when no one watched. There had been a few good things.
Glass windows allowed enough light to examine his surroundings. Solid English oak greeted him wherever he looked. Brown, a lot of brown, just like he remembered it. Clean, but old. Well-worn and showing its age.
Still no one came to greet him. The place was as empty as a mausoleum. The butler or footmen should be scurrying to take care of his needs. That tense feeling at the bottom of his belly didn’t go away. He could remember the house having dozens of staff, people to take care of every wish and whim of the old bastard.
A slight movement down the far hall caught his attention. Leaning on his cane, Thomas limped across the hardwood entryway where he spotted the prettiest rump he’d seen in a long time. A maid on her hands and knees was scrubbing the floor. Her beautiful rear end draped in a gray maid’s uniform shifted back and forth as she scoured with a brush.
“Freddy, if you tracked mud over my clean floor, I will butcher you alive,” the young maid said while she continued to push the brush back and forth across the floor.
He looked back to ensure he hadn’t tracked in any mud. He was able to relax when he saw a dirt free path behind him. Standing there, Thomas admired the view.
The young woman stopped scrubbing and looked over her shoulder then squealed.
“I’m sorry sir,” she said rising and giving a quick curtsy. “Can I help you? His Grace is not at home,” she added.
The Major examined the woman in front of him. Her face was flushed with exertion or embarrassment. Her hands were red and raw from the cold water and harsh lye. Even so, she was a very pretty little thing.
A stray blond strand of hair fell from her cap. Her dress was wet to the knees, and her sleeves were pushed up to exposed two graceful arms. A pity she was totally and completely forbidden to him. A deep regret passed through him at the thought.
“I am the new ‘His Grace,'” he answered.
The look of pure shock and opened mouth surprise on the maid’s pretty face almost made him smile.
“Please have the butler, housekeeper, and Cook join me in the study.”
Years of training had created an expert at hiding emotions. The last thing he was going to do was show the servants what he was feeling. Instead, he turned and slowly walked to what used to be his Grandfather’s study.
Thomas Marshall, His Grace, the Fourth Duke of Bathurst, Third Viscount of Readly, Baron Von Trolst of Saxony and former Major of Her majesty’s Coldstream Regiment of Foot sat at his Grandfather’s desk completely lost and unsure of himself. A rather strange and unusual feeling.
His stomach rebelled at the thought of what he was about to take on. The soul-crushing responsibility and the complete abandonment of any chance at peace.
Placing both hands palm down on the desk he looked out over the room. He was never supposed to be here. Not in this room, not in this chair. His eyes cataloged the contents of the room as he took in the moldy smells of leather, paper, and musty rugs. Sighing he relaxed his shoulders.
“Duty,” he mumbled to himself while shaking his head.
Six months ago he’d been lying in a field hospital with a French bullet in his leg. Nine years of fighting in Egypt, across the Peninsula, through France and into Belgium and he’s wounded on the last day of the last battle of the war.
Laying there on the straw in that pest-ridden hospital, he’d thought that fighting with the doctors over whether to amputate or not had been the toughest thing he’d ever have to face. He now knew there were harder mountains to climb.
A soft knock at the door and the pretty maid stepped in followed by what appeared to be a very young footman and an older, heavyset woman he remembered as the cook.
“Yes?” he said, waiting patiently.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” said the pretty maid, her gaze shifting back and forth between her companions and then to him.
His breath hitched, what eyes, he hadn’t realized how striking they were. The deepest blue, almost violet. They brought color and beauty to the world. What is this woman doing here as a maid? Her face, her figure, those eyes! She could command any price, demand any conditions and most men would bend to her wishes just to possess her. He was so nonplussed that he missed her first few words
“… tell you earlier, the Butler, Mr. Evans and the housekeeper Mrs. Fischer left over three months ago,” She said looking down at her feet. Once she was done she quietly backed up to join the other two servants.
He got up from the desk and limped towards them, resting his weight on the damn walking stick.
“What do you mean, they left. Where’d they go?” he asked, dumbfounded. There had been no mention of this at the solicitor’s office yesterday.
“They eloped, sir.”
“What!” The Major turned Duke barked.
“Yes sir,” The young maid said, cringing.
“Well, they didn’t have to leave. I’m sure they could have continued, even as a married couple … Um, I assume that they eloped with each other that is.”
“Yes sir, but I don’t think that’s why they left sir,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his.
“You don’t, then why did they leave, and …” suddenly realizing something, “Where’s the rest of the staff,” he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
“They also left, in fa
ct, the Butler Mr. Evans, told them too, sir.”
“He did? Why?”
He looked at the two other staff members trying to gauge the validity of what he was being told. Each of them nodded, confirming his worst fears. Clenching his jaw, he returned to concentrating on what she was saying. He had to fight with himself to not get lost in those eyes.
“Mr. Evans told them that if they weren’t going to get paid, they didn’t have to stay and that they should look for other arrangements. In fact, he prepared letters of recommendations for each of the staff, sir.”
She didn’t cringe at all, well not much. He’d been told that he could intimidate a bear. Seasoned sergeants had quaked at the thought of bringing him bad news. She wouldn’t have been the first to tremble. Instead, she’d looked him square in the face and told him his staff had deserted because they hadn’t been properly taken care of.
The fact that he hadn’t known that he even had a staff was beside the point and did not solve the issue.
He’d met with the solicitors and bankers in London immediately upon returning from France. They’d shown him the accounts. There was more money than Midas ever dreamed of. Granted, most of it was all tied up in court and land and what not. But there should have been more than enough to pay the staff. Obviously there wasn’t anyone here to oversee the minor detail of ensuring people got paid.
A wave of guilt swept over him.
Putting it aside to deal with later he reminded himself that what he thought was important might not be viewed the same way in some London banker’s office.
Running a hand through his hair, he studied the maid’s two companions. “Mrs. Morgan? Isn’t it?”
“Yes Your Grace,” the cook replied with a small curtsy.
“I remember your excellent raspberry tarts.”
The large woman smiled and blushed obviously surprised that he would remember after all these years.
“And you sir,” he addressed the young footman. “You must be the famous ‘Freddy” I’ve heard so much about.” This time, the pretty maid blushed slightly.
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