The End
If you enjoyed The Earl’s Christmas Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses) by Janna MacGregor be sure to look for other titles in this series.
THE BAD LUCK BRIDE
THE BRIDE WHO GOT LUCKY
THE LUCK OF THE BRIDE
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE DUKE
where you’ll find the next thrilling installment in this series—
available November 28, 2018.
To find out more about Janna or to sign up for her newsletter visit www.jannamacgregor.com. For reminders when new books come out and when backlist titles go on sale, follow her on BookBub @JannaMacGregor.
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke
Book 4 in The Cavensham Heiresses Series by Janna MacGregor
“Now just a minute, sir,” Daphne interrupted. “I happen to be—”
“Lady Moonbeam,” a voice behind her announced. “My escort for the evening.”
The deep sound wrapped around her in a polished smoothness that reminded Daphne of a calm bay at night off the Adriatic Sea. It was smooth as glass, but she knew that beneath the surface there lurked unfathomable danger. The Duke of Southart could blow everything out of the water for her with one word or command.
Why had she even wanted him to be here?
She turned and faced him. He moved in front of her and blocked the view of the gaming room. His cool gaze locked on hers, and the slight smile made him even more handsome than she remembered. Lit from within, his eyes blazed with a hint of temptation or mayhap seduction.
Most likely, it was just surprise.
Daphne exhaled and pushed her consternation aside for another day. She had to find the kitchen. The cook would know the whereabouts of the boy.
“Come, Moonbeam,” Paul whispered. He’d leaned close enough that she could smell his fresh, clean sandalwood scent. He extended his arm in a command for her to take it, then directed his attention to the major baboon. “Why don’t you alert my footman that Lady Moonbeam and I are ready to retire for the evening.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The majordomo nodded and snapped his fingers at one of the attendants who worked the floor of the gambling hell.
Before she could say a word, the summoned attendant was halfway out the door.
She and Paul faced each other like two ships ready to commence fire on the open seas. “You had no right to interfere.” She ignored Paul’s offered arm, and there was enough hiss in her voice to alert him that she wasn’t happy. “And quit calling me that ridiculous name.”
Paul grinned, and it transformed him from an arrogant aristocrat accustomed to getting his way into a man who took her breath away. Without taking his eyes from hers, he addressed the majordomo. “My good man, you’ve seen what type of mood she’s in. Might there be a place where Lady Moonbeam and I might have an intimate conversation for a few minutes before the carriage is brought to the door?”
“Of course, Your Grace. If you and Lady Moonbeam will follow me.”
Paul waited until the majordomo shut the door to the private room before he addressed Daphne. “Imagine my surprise and pleasure to find you standing in the middle of the Reynolds. Unfortunately, for both of us, women aren’t allowed, and there’s no exception for the sister of the Marquess of Pembrooke.” With a purposeful insouciance, he strolled to the side table against the wall where an open bottle of chilled champagne waited for him. He’d say one thing for the Reynolds brothers—they took care of their guests whether expected or not. “May I pour you a glass?”
“No, thank you.” Daphne straightened her shoulders.
Her prickly mood and appearance reminded him of an inquisition, and he was the examiner.
Interesting, since he hadn’t asked her a single question—yet. He poured a glass and, without taking his eyes from hers, took a sip. An excellent vintage, but too sweet for his tastes. He much preferred the brut variety, so he replaced the glass.
“Moonbeam, I thought with our history, you’d share without me having to ask.” He feigned a sigh and placed his hand over the middle of his chest.
“Please stop calling me Moonbeam.” She tipped her head and regarded him like an unwanted interruption. “To answer your question, I’m looking for someone.”
“Aha.” Though he said it in a lighthearted manner, his stomach twisted at her confession.
The thought that Daphne Hallworth would risk her reputation for some reprobate who frequented a place such as the Reynolds made him want to curse the vilest oaths he could conjure. There wasn’t a single man in the place he’d allow to attend her.
Shocked at the intensity of his feelings, he drew a deep breath. The only reason for such a strong reaction had to be his protective instincts. He was simply concerned for her welfare much like a brother. Granted, he’d seen her at Langham’s house and at a handful of social events, but they barely spoke. Yet she’d always left an indelible impression on him. The reason didn’t escape him. She was striking.
He shook his head to clear such inane thoughts. He would never ever in his entire life as a reprobate consider Daphne Hallworth a sister. “Who is it?” He asked the words with a nuance designed to learn her secrets.
“No one you would know.” She turned toward the door. “I’ll leave you to your evening, Your Grace.”
“Stop, please. Someone might recognize you.” In a stealth move, he followed her. By the time she’d twisted the knob, he rested his palm against the door, thwarting her escape.
“Moonbeam, you can’t go out there without a proper escort. Where you go I go.”
She turned around and flattened her back against the door in a show of defiance. “Please, I would hate to ruin your plans or festivities.”
The urge to whip out a witty quip fell silent when he caught Daphne’s gaze. She looked like a devil’s angel with her dark hair, ethereal silver eyes, and those strawberry-colored lips.
Any sin she offered, he’d have no hesitation rising to the challenge.
He leaned in close. Her chest rose and fell with a rhythm that drummed like a well-crafted metronome, and his heartbeat joined into the melee with abandon. Daphne’s warmth and her delightful scent of lavender and woman transformed into a witchery he couldn’t resist. He drew nearer until his breath mingled with hers.
“You’re not ruining anything.” He lowered his voice. “In fact, my night became much more interesting since a beautiful moonbeam appeared.”
Her black lashes drifted down when she leaned just a fraction closer. His chest swelled in response. She was affected as much as he was.
“Shall we sit until your carriage is ready?” Her breathless sigh was a welcome distraction and indicated her wariness was fading.
“After you.” Taking several steps back, he swept his arm toward a matching pair of club chairs that faced the fire. Her quick acquiescence meant it would take little effort on his part to find out whom she intended to meet.
A gentle smile adorned her face and locked him in place. She charmed him in returning one to her. When she held her smile a little too long, he instantly recognized his mistake. With her hand behind her, she opened the door and flew down the hall without a look back.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. If she returned to the game floor, her reputation would be in tatters if some lowlife libertine recognized her. There was only one thing he could do—he gave chase.
He, the Duke of Southart, had to catch a moonbeam.
Silent Night
(A 1797 Club story)
By
Jess Michaels
Chapter 1
December 1815
Charlotte Hoffstead, Duchess of Donburrow, moved through the quiet halls of her country home with a soft smile. She loved this place. It was a beautiful estate, situated on a cliff above the sea. The views were magnificent and the grounds well-tended and stunning.
Right now it was a quiet place, with just her little family in residence, but that was all about to change. In two days, these rooms would be filled with laug
hing family and friends, and their giggling children. They would boisterously sing carols by the fire, she had heard a rumor that the Crestwood family intended to put on a play for an entertainment, and there were a dozen other Christmas Day excitements to look forward to.
Yet today a cold rain fell outside, rapping on the windows and it put her to mind of a Christmas five years past now. A long time ago, before she had married the duke. Before she had called this house her home.
A Christmas when she’d thrown caution to the wind and made seduction a weapon against her now-husband, Ewan. It had been a scandalous plan, one that could have just as easily destroyed her hopes rather than given her the future she’d dreamed of.
And yet, somehow, it had worked. Ewan had surrendered to her, despite the years of heartbreak and rejection that had once separated them. They had fallen deeply in love and married swiftly enough to cause gossip in every corner, and the past five years of their marriage had been filled with love and laughter and joy beyond compare.
So she loved this time of year. Loved it for the traditions and the gaiety, yes, but loved it more because the holiday had given her the opportunity all those years ago to receive the greatest gift of her life: the man she loved to distraction.
Now she could only hope he would equally love the present she had in mind for him this year.
She smiled as she began to pass by the music room. Before she could fully do so, a hand snaked out from the chamber and caught her elbow. She laughed as she was tugged inside by her husband. He wrapped his arms around her as he used their combined weight to shut the heavy door. As he kissed her—gently at first, sweetly, then with more force, more promise—he reached around her backside to lock the door.
“Your Grace,” she giggled breathlessly as his warm mouth slid to her throat. His hands cupped her bottom as he lifted her to grind against her gently. “Is this my gift?”
He lifted his head from her throat and speared her with a pointed and playful glare. He didn’t respond in words, though. Ewan had been born without the ability to speak. That fact had caused him a great deal of pain over the years. His mother and father had abandoned him and his family had fought to keep him from inheriting.
Charlotte had never thought anything less of him, though. As children, he had been close friends with her brother Baldwin, the Duke of Sheffield. Charlotte had even helped Ewan develop a complicated hand language she and Ewan still used to this day.
But in this moment, he needed no words, nor did she as he pushed her toward the settee in the back corner of the room. So often that was true. They were so connected now, so in sync that they only needed a look or a smile or a touch to convey a hundred magical experiences.
This was one of those times. She shuddered with pleasure as he laid her back against the settee, covering her with his weight. Her arms came around his back and she smoothed the lines of muscle there, whispering crooning sounds of pleasure and encouragement. He responded by catching the fine silk of the edge of her dress and hitching her skirt up while his mouth continued to plunder hers.
She sank into the passion, something that had never faded since the first time she’d dared test him with it. Not even all the years they’d shared, nor the children who demanded their time, nor anything else that had passed between them could cool it. Their desire was as constant as their love.
He found the slit in her drawers and drew back to meet her eyes as he pushed his fingers past it. She opened her legs a fraction to allow him greater access. He traced the shape of her sex gently. She shivered. He knew exactly how to touch her. Exactly how to move those rough fingertips across her lower lips, then spread them open, then stroke her once, twice, swirling his thick thumb around the sensitive bud of her clitoris.
“Ewan,” she gasped, turning her face into his neck as pleasure began to mount. “Please, please.”
He grunted from deep within his chest, then stood up. She held his gaze as he slowly unfastened his trousers and let his cock bounce free. She sat up slightly, reaching for him, stroking him with her hand, then smiling at him with wicked intent before she let the tip of her tongue trace the head of him.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating with pleasure, but then he shook his head at her. He pushed her hands away as he caged himself over her. His mouth found hers, driving hard and insistent. She felt him position himself at her entrance, and then he was sliding home.
She arched beneath him as he seated himself fully, moaning against his kiss as he ground his hips just right. The man was magical, made for her. She for him.
He stroked, over and over, heavy and hard, grinding against her to stimulate her perfectly.
She came in a rush, jolting against him as he continued to thrust, thrust, thrust until she feared she would go mad with the pleasure that never ended. Only when he stiffened above her, his seed spilling hot inside her clenching body, did she find full relief from the mobbing crest of sensation.
He collapsed down over her with a guttural sound of relief. He kissed her neck, stroking his hands over her sides, feeling her body almost like it was the first time they’d done this. Like it was all new and wonderous. For a little while, they just lay that way, the silence comfortable, as it always was.
At last he sat up, giving her a little more room. His face lit up as he smiled at her, then he signed, “You cannot truly think that orgasms are your Christmas gift, Charlotte.”
She giggled at his return to the conversation from before her surrender.
“I would not mind if they were,” she said. “Although, to be fair, you are so good at giving them, they’re really a regular gift. I will have to keep needling the truth out of you and guessing what it is you have in mind for me.” She glanced over at the clock on the mantel. “Oh damn, you do make me forget the time. The children will be awake from their nap soon.”
She knew their family was an oddity in some ways. Outside of their group of closest friends and family, most lords and ladies were not close to their children. Detached affection was the popular method of childrearing. But her own closeness to her family and his terrible distance from his had made them both thwart the common wisdom. And their home life was better for the deep and powerful attachment they both felt for their children.
Ewan’s eyes danced even as he signed, “Are you certain we cannot send them off to the village or something for a few hours and continue to explore this orgasm as gift idea of yours?”
She swatted him playfully. “Jonathon is three and Abigail is not even two. Great God, what would you have them do alone in the village?”
“Entertain everyone with how adorable they are?”
She shook her head and sat up, adjusting her skirts before she got up and moved to the mirror along one wall. She fixed her hair and watched in the reflection as Ewan got up and trudged his way through fixing himself, as well.
She turned to stick her tongue out at him playfully. “Come now, don’t act as though I never indulge you. You know I would spend a whole week in bed with you if we could.”
“Soon,” he signed with a wicked wink.
She laughed. “Yes, I cannot wait. Isabel and Matthew are taking the children in February so you and I can have an extra special escape to London.” She could already picture all the romantic fun they could have together. “But this is Christmas, Ewan! There are a hundred wonderful things to do with our family and you will not convince me to run away with you now.”
He waved his hand, as if he were surrendering even though he knew she was wrong. She giggled as she stepped up, settling against his side as he slung an arm around her. They walked to the door together. He unlocked it, and they stepped into the hall.
Chapter 2
Ewan loved the feel of Charlotte tucked into his side. She just fit so perfectly there. It was strange to think that anything had ever made him believe she didn’t belong with him, or more aptly, that he did not belong with her. But a lifetime of abuse from his father and brothers over the mutism he could not change h
ad damaged his view of himself.
And yet Charlotte had seen through it all. Seen the man he really was. Seen the man he could be. She had taught him, day by day, year by year, to love himself as much as she loved him. That he was worthy of it.
He squeezed her a bit tighter as they stepped forward, but they had not made it three steps when there was a great sound of screeching from down the hallway that could predict only one thing. Charlotte laughed as their two children, Jonathon and Abigail, came rushing up the hallway at full speed. Little Abby’s hair bobbed around her face, the fine locks free from their ribbons as usual.
Ewan released his wife and dropped down to his haunches, opening his arms as the two hit him at full force. He toppled backward, clutching his chest playfully as if he had been shot down by their attack.
“Papa, Papa!” Jonathon squealed, his fingers moving wildly in the same finger language Charlotte and Ewan had designed decades ago.
It warmed Ewan’s heart to see it. No one else in his life understood more than a word or two, not even their friends or family, but Ewan’s children had picked it up at the same time they were learning words. Both had fallen into its use as if it were second nature. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure they knew they were signing while they spoke.
Ewan grinned as he signed out, “You are screaming the house down. What is it? Are the dogs loose? Is the house on fire?”
As he signed, their youngest child, Abigail stared and moved her fingers in time with his, mimicking his movements, expanding her understanding of the family vocabulary. His heart swelled at the sight.
“We don’t have dogs, Papa!” Jonathon said, his tone filled with incredulity.
“Of course, yes,” Ewan signed as he glanced up with a grin at Charlotte. She was beaming back at him. “How silly of Papa not to remember. Perhaps we should get a dog, though, yes?”
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 28
