Never Have I Ever With a Duke

by Burke, Darcy

  Never Have I Ever With a Duke

  Darcy Burke

  For the bestest buddies in the universe,

  Dee, Elisabeth, and Julie.

  Thank you for making me laugh (nearly) every day and always, always having my back. Love you!

  Also, let’s never play Never Have I Ever with our daughters again. (But D&D is great!)

  Contents

  Never Have I Ever With a Duke

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Books by Darcy Burke

  The Jewels of Historical Romance

  About the Author

  Never Have I Ever With a Duke

  Graham Kinsley is shocked when he inherits a debt-ridden dukedom, and now he has just one month to repay a loan. He needs an heiress—or find a way to recoup the former duke’s losses. When he meets the alluring Arabella, he’s entranced. Unfortunately, she’s as bankrupt as he is, but if they work together they may be able to recover their fortunes. Though if they keep stealing kisses, they may lose their hearts instead.

  Arabella Stoke can’t afford an attraction to the penniless duke who has vowed to help rescue her family from financial devastation. She needs to find a wealthy husband before her father succumbs to the stress of losing everything. However, as Graham brings them closer to finding the swindler who stole their money, the war between what they want and what they need may ruin them both.

  Want to read what came before The Spitfire Society? Discover The Untouchables, twelve love stories featuring the most untouchable peers of the realm and the wallflowers, bluestockings, spinsters, and widows who bring them to their knees.

  Don’t miss the

  Wicked Dukes Club

  Meet the unforgettable men of London's most notorious tavern, The Wicked Duke. Seductively handsome, with charm and wit to spare, one night with these rakes and rogues will never be enough...

  Love romance? Have a free book (or two or three) on me!

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  Want to share your love of my books with like-minded readers? Want to hang with me and get inside scoop? Then don’t miss my exclusive Facebook groups!

  Darcy’s Duchesses for historical readers

  Burke’s Book Lovers for contemporary readers

  Never Have I Ever With a Duke

  Copyright © 2019 Darcy Burke

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1944576541

  ISBN-13: 9781944576547

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Book design: © Darcy Burke.

  Book Cover Design © Hang Le.

  Cover image © Period Images.

  Darcy Burke Font Design © Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

  Editing: Linda Ingmanson.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  London, March 1819

  “Not so fast, Biscuit!” Arabella Stoke kept a firm hand on the small ball of fluff that was her mother’s dog as she navigated into the park. It was early and she was well covered, from the oversized cap on her head to the crisp apron adorning her front to the serviceable boots that were a size too large. She had no fear that anyone would recognize her. They hadn’t so far, and she’d been walking Biscuit at least a few times a week since January.

  Since her father had become almost entirely bedridden.

  Taking a deep breath, Arabella looked up at the blue sky. It was chilly, but clear and beautiful. In the park, snowdrops and daffodils sprouted from the drab earth as spring wrestled the ground from the clutches of winter.

  Biscuit pulled at the leash again, her nose sniffing endlessly in search of something. Arabella couldn’t fault her excitement. The dog was just so happy to be outside. She didn’t get as many walks as she used to, not since Papa had become ill, or, more accurately, since their number of servants had shrunk to a bare minimum.

  With just five retainers, including their young groom who was also employed at a smithy on Oxford Street, there was more than enough work to be done. Walking the dog had become less of a priority, and the more time Mama spent at Papa’s bedside, the less Biscuit was able to stretch her legs. Not that her legs needed extensive stretching, for they were rather stubby.

  Mama worried that Biscuit wasn’t getting enough exercise, and she insisted someone walk her every morning. Since the servants didn’t always have time, Arabella dressed herself as one of them and, unbeknownst to her mother, took Biscuit out.

  Walking alone to the park had felt scandalous but exhilarating too. Now, Arabella looked forward to the outing, and Millie, the scullery maid, who was usually tasked with the job, appreciated not having to add to her work.

  A small animal, perhaps a rabbit or a squirrel, dashed by in a blur. Biscuit began barking and took off so fast that Arabella wasn’t able to keep hold of the leash. The dog bounded away after whatever had run past.

  “Biscuit!” Arabella chased after the terrier, but soon lost sight of her as she scurried through a thick group of bushes. Muttering a very unladylike curse, Arabella called for the dog again. The barking stopped, and a bead of apprehension worked its way up Arabella’s spine. A cold sweat broke over her neck. If anything happened to that dog—after everything else they’d endured—Arabella feared it would crush what remained of her mother’s spirit.

  Hastening her stride, Arabella moved along the path, stopping to search in shrubs and behind trees. Her worry progressed straight to terror as she feared the worst, and she soon found herself off the footpath and in a wooded area she’d never been to before.

  She stopped and stood still, listening, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm. A whooshing sound from the other side of a stand of trees drove her around them. She barreled into a small clearing and nearly fell over as something dislodged her cap from her head.

  A small squeak leapt from her throat as she managed to focus on a large figure. She blinked. A man. In shirtsleeves. Clutching a sword.

  “Bloody hell!” He rushed forward, his features creased with horror and concern. “Are you all right?”

  Arabella reached up and patted her bare head, then looked down to where the borrowed cap lay on the ground beside her. “I think so.” Her voice sounded small and quiet and not entirely her own.

  “Where on earth did you come from?” He bent and picked up her cap.

  Closing her eyes for a moment to restore her equilibrium, she opened them again to see he was in much better focus. He was tall and lithe, with ink-dark hair and eyes. Though his face was drawn, he was objectively attractive, with angled cheekbones and a firm jaw. Objectively attractive? Yes, anyone would find him handsome until they looked at his lips. Those they might describe as sinfully gorgeous. The lower one was the thicker of the two, but the upper had a curi
ous dip at the top, giving it the overall shape of a heart. A seductive, kissable heart.

  Kissable?

  Her gaze lowered to the triangle of flesh exposed by the opening of his shirt. She hadn’t seen so much of a man in six long years, and when she thought of that… Well, it was no wonder she thought of kissing.

  “Miss?” he prompted, holding out her cap.

  Arabella took it from him, her bare hand grazing his. A frisson of anticipation danced up her arm. She snatched the cap and took a step back. “Thank you.” She was thanking him? He’d almost killed her with his sword. “You nearly decapitated me.”

  One of his eyes squinted as he cocked his head to the side. “I wasn’t even close to decapitating you.” He straightened. “Besides, this blade is made for thrusting, not slicing, which is why your cap is intact.”

  She eyed the weapon he held in his right hand, which he pointed toward the ground. “It’s made for dueling, isn’t it?”

  “It’s made for fencing, which is what I was practicing. I’ll ask again, where on earth did you come from? This is a rather remote area of the park.”

  It was indeed. She set the cap over her hair and glanced around, not recognizing a thing. In fact, she wondered if she’d be able to find her way back. Or find Biscuit.

  Biscuit!

  “I’m looking for Biscuit. My dog.”

  “You have a dog?”

  She was dressed as a servant, and they didn’t typically own dogs, did they? “My mistress’s dog. She saw a small animal and tore after it. The dog, I mean, not my mistress.”

  A trace of a smile flirted with his kissable mouth. “I see. Then we must find… What did you say its name was? The dog, not your mistress. Biscuit?”

  She nodded. “She’s a terrier. About this big.” Arabella held her hands apart to approximate Biscuit’s size.

  “Looks like she’s the small animal,” he remarked. “Where did you last see her?”

  “We came in through Cumberland Gate. She ran off near there.”

  “You’re sure she came this way? You’re almost in Kensington Gardens.”

  Arabella’s shoulders slumped. “No, I’m not sure. She was barking and then stopped. I’m worried something awful has happened.”

  He came toward her and patted her shoulder. “There, there. Think positive thoughts. I’m sure Biscuit is fine. You seem rather attached to your mistress’s dog, but then I daresay you probably spend more time with her.”

  Was that a cut against the upper class? No, it couldn’t be, because he was clearly upper class. Who else would be practicing fencing in Hyde Park? Wait, why wasn’t he fencing at his house or at Angelo’s? She ignored the tremor of awareness that radiated from where he touched her shoulder. “Why are you practicing here?”

  He hesitated, and she wondered if she’d asked a question he didn’t want to answer. Goodness, she was supposed to be a servant. She shouldn’t be asking him questions at all! “My apologies.” She dipped a curtsey. “I didn’t mean to offend. I must go find Biscuit.”

  “Let me help you. Give me a moment.” He went to a rock upon which she now saw his discarded clothing. Picking up the scabbard, he sheathed his sword and leaned the weapon against the rock. Next, he pulled on a waistcoat, followed by his coat. He draped his cravat around his neck, letting the white silk hang down against his lapels. There was something disarmingly attractive about his dishabille. She had to tell herself to look away or he would catch her staring.

  When he appeared before her, his sword was strapped to his waist and a smart hat sat atop his dark head. “Let us find your mistress’s dog.” He called out, “Biscuit!” over her head. Though he was nearly a foot taller than her five feet three inches, she still flinched from the sound.

  He seemed to notice, for he immediately apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Shall we walk toward where she ran off?”

  “Yes, please.” She led the way from the clearing and picked her way back to the footpath, glad she wasn’t actually lost at all. Just turned around by an undressed gentleman she wished she’d seen in the act of fencing. She imagined his muscles rippled spectacularly as he thrust his sword.

  Other meanings for “thrust his sword” ricocheted in her mind, and she mentally chided herself for her impure thoughts. They’d led her into temptation once, and she couldn’t allow them to do so again. Especially not with a man like this. A man whose name she didn’t know and wouldn’t ask for.

  They called out for Biscuit in turns as they walked along the path—first her, then him.

  “Do you always bring the dog here for a walk?”

  “Not always,” she said. “And never again, probably. Assuming I find her.” She couldn’t quite keep the anguish from creeping into her voice.

  He paused, turning toward her, and gently clasped her shoulders. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

  “If I don’t, my”—she’d almost said mother—“mistress will be so upset.”

  “I hope not at you,” he said. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “No, she won’t be angry at me.” She would just be inconsolable, and she was already overwrought about their troubles.

  “Good.”

  The distant sound of a bark made them both freeze. Their gazes found each other’s and locked, their eyes widening in unison.

  He turned his head toward the high-pitched yap. “Is that—”

  “Biscuit!” she finished.

  They dashed toward Cumberland Gate, calling the dog’s name in perfect time together. The terrier appeared on the path, her short legs carrying her much faster than anyone would think possible, the brown leather leash trailing behind her.

  Arabella swept the dog into her arms with a relieved cry. “There you are, you silly nincompoop!”

  A masculine laugh rippled across her neck as the gentleman moved closer to her. “Nincompoop? Biscuit, I think you’re in trouble.” He bent his head and scratched the dog’s head. Then his gaze found hers again. “You won’t be too hard on her, will you? I’m afraid I have a soft spot for dogs, even nincompoops.”

  Arabella dropped a kiss on Biscuit’s silky head. “She will be showered with treats when we get home, so I wouldn’t worry too much about her.”

  He stared at Arabella—or more specifically, at her mouth—for a moment before blinking. He cleared his throat and averted his focus toward the gate. “I’m glad to know she is safe. Please accept my apologies for knocking your cap off. I am rather single-minded in my focus when I am practicing. I didn’t hear you approach.” He looked at her again, and she noted a faint pink in his cheeks. That he would feel remorse and perhaps even a twinge of embarrassment made her curious.

  Who was he?

  Oh dear God. While she didn’t know who he was, he was clearly Someone. Presumably, she would meet him during the course of the Season, and then what would he say? “Why is a servant at a ball?”

  Arabella tipped her head down as if she could somehow banish her face from his memory. “I must go.” She turned from him, and in her haste, nearly tripped.

  He gripped her by the elbow, keeping her upright. “Careful, there.”

  She sent him a quick, appreciative glance. “Thank you. Er, bye.”

  Withdrawing herself from his grasp, she held Biscuit tight as she hurried from the park. Biscuit squirmed and yapped.

  “Quiet,” Arabella admonished her. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for today? If I set you down, will you promise to behave?”

  Biscuit barked in response.

  “Good girl.” Arabella set her down, keeping a tight grip on the leash. She led her over to Oxford Street and walked quickly toward Holles Street, where they lived around the corner from Cavendish Square.

  It was a narrow, unassuming house they could barely afford. When Arabella visited her neighbor, Miss Phoebe Lennox, who lived in a large, elegant house on the square around the corner, she was aware of how far her family had fallen. Last year, they’d leased a larger house and had employed
ten servants. Plus, they’d had a coach and four. The year before, an even larger house with fourteen servants. It seemed obvious now to Arabella that they’d lived beyond their means for some time. The loss of their small country estate, the house she’d been born in, last year had been quite a blow. The blow, probably, that had led to her father’s sharp decline.

  How she wished she could be like Phoebe, who’d inherited a fortune last year. Phoebe had declared herself a spinster and set herself up in Cavendish Square. Together with her friend, Miss Jane Pemberton, they’d formed a small group of unmarried women and ironically referred to themselves as the Spitfire Society. Spinster, they’d said, didn’t appropriately encompass who they were, not as well as spitfire did.

  If Arabella could inherit a fortune, she could save her family, restore her father’s health, and maybe even seize the independence Phoebe enjoyed. But that was a dream, and an impossible one at that. If there was anything to be inherited, she’d have done so by now, and her family wouldn’t be in the dire straits in which they currently found themselves.

  Arabella walked down the steps to the servants’ entrance, and let herself inside. The cook called from the kitchen, “Miss Arabella, is that you, I hope?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Woodcock.” She unfastened the leash from Biscuit and let the dog take off toward the kitchen. Then she removed her cap and coat, hanging them on a hook near the door.