by Emily Bow
The Duke's
Fated Love
Emily Bow
The Duke’s Fated Love
Copyright October 2019 by Emily Bow
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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[1. Fiction. 2. Romance. 3. Contemporary]
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgements
Book Description
The Duke’s Fated Love…
Readers are falling for the Duke in this captivating new love story from contemporary romance author Emily Bow.
He’s the one. We’re fated. He’s my fairytale Duke and my happily ever after. I know it. He doesn’t.
Thorn, the Duke of Raventhorn, loves the future. He’s hot, witty, wealthy, confident, stressed and secretive.
Thorn’s looking for an appropriate English girl with an aristocratic background who’ll one day make a suitable duchess. To make that happen, he must lock up the medieval castle before his American volunteer unearths a giant British family secret. So what if he’s enthralled by Imogen. He can shut her out and shut her down too.
Imogen Arundel loves history. She’s diligent, witty, caring, curious and completely unable to resist exposing the big secret she found.
Behind her studious, friendly demeanor is a woman who knows how to spot treasure. Castle treasure. Check. Perfect soulmate. Check. Now she simply has to believe in her gift so she can turn Thorn her enemy into Thorn her lover.
Yeah. He’s a Duke. Sure, he lives in a castle. But I found him in the pub before I knew all that—because my hidden talent is finding treasure, and he’s mine. He just doesn’t know that yet. But he will.
First person, standalone, single female POV, rated R
Chapter 1
The hot, broody guy pointed at two tumblers sitting on the pub’s ancient bar top, indicating I should bring them to his booth.
Interest stirred in me, but so did resistance. Was that how an Englishman offered to buy a lady a drink? I’d expected so much more of this country.
The guy had given me more than one long contemplative stare from across the pub, and as a result, I was maybe intrigued a little. Okay, I was flat out interested. His pale skin and dark hair reminded me of a portrait I’d seen in the London National Gallery. His aristocratic features hinted at ages past. He was so my type.
The only way I’d see him up close was if I went nearer. There were two ways to play this. Make him bring the drink to me. Or, sucker him into thinking I was an obedient type of woman. The kind of woman who responded to pointing. An ultra-feminine woman who wanted to nurture his poor lonely soul on a rainy night. Should I carry the drink over to him? Or should I be truthful?
I caught his gaze, lifted the drinks, and strode over. I put the tumblers on his table, and then I slid onto the bench beside him hyperaware of his presence. Playing it cool, I took a sip from the second tumbler. Burning smoky liquid, yum and warming on my tongue. Whiskey suited the rainy night and him. No wonder the English loved their pubs. Hook me up with another evening like this, and I could adore their pubs too.
His lips quirked, and his blue gaze watched my mouth as I drank which was such a turn on. “You’re a terrible waitress.” He had a deep voice, and his British accent made the mild insult matter of fact.
I relished the challenge. “We both know I’m not a waitress.” My voice came out warm and friendly, a verbal invitation to get to know me.
“You’re American,” he said in a neutral fashion.
I’d heard that often in the two months since I’d been here. The words were always accompanied by a tone that let me know how they felt about my homeland, he’d left that out. “Texan,” I said in response to his assessment.
“Ah. And how do we know you’re not a waitress?” He arched one dark eyebrow. “You did tote my drink over.” His voice was playful.
Fun. I wanted to be teased more by him.
“I know I’m not a waitress because I don’t have a job.” I volunteered at a castle. The project didn’t pay, so the position wasn’t a job. But I didn’t tell him all that because saying, “I live at the castle,” sounded braggy in my head. Pretty much all sentences with the word “castle” in them sounded odd in my head and probably out loud, given my American accent, but I was loving my break away from the student life.
Here I could be free. All my studying and hard work were done for now. I’d graduated and I had a whole semester off before intense studying started up again in the spring. For now, I didn’t have to worry about the next paper due, the next exam, the chapters I had to read from tomes I hadn’t chosen. I could enjoy books I’d picked out, loosen up a lot more, and flirt with a hot guy in a pub until well past my bedtime.
“And you know I’m not a waitress because you saw me sitting with my friend across the room.” My friend Lily and American co-volunteer had left for the evening. I’d lingered here at the bar, hoping to meet the moody handsome guy in the corner. Yep, that was my truth. I was here for no other reason. Had it just been the tourist couple at the table arguing over pints or the old man behind the counter with the newspaper, I’d have been out of here.
He arched his dark eyebrow again. “Did I stare? I can’t imagine that I did.”
He had. And it was oddly hot. Not in a
creepy guy-stare kind of way like the guy at the campus gym sweating bullets and staring at my boobs. But a foreign stare of mystery and fascination and restraint, one that stirred me up. The best kind of stare. “Yes. You did.”
“How do you know I wasn’t checking out your friend?”
I knew. “The same way you know I wasn’t looking at your friend.” His friend had left not long after we’d arrived. He was handsome, but not my type. Too fair. I liked dark-haired guys with hidden depths.
The guy here with me now had dark hair and an English accent. He was right off the pages of one of my history books. I’d studied him and his kind for four years as I got my degree. Now I was meeting him live in person, and I could barely contain my pleasure. I didn’t know if he had hidden depths yet, but I was willing to find out.
“Sebastian?” He snorted. “You’d have him like jam on a crumpet.”
The way he talked killed me. He could say the word ‘crumpet’ and still sound masculine. I wanted him to feed me one…in bed. I shifted on the bench and flipped my hair. “I’ve never had a crumpet. I might like them.”
“You might.”
“How do you know Sebastian?”
He rolled his head. “Let’s not talk about the past. Can we do that?”
I imitated his gesture, making sure my long hair fell forward over my shoulder. Fluffing my locks was my move. Guys liked the dark blond strands and I wanted this guy to like me. “But I love the past.” I drew out the word love. “I study history for fun. I am going to get a master’s degree in the past. The past is the jam on my crumpet.”
He touched the side of my glass and arched his dark eyebrow, which seemed to be an unknowing habit. I loved his looks. Shallow of me, but there you go. Sometimes I had shallow thoughts, and tonight, if my thoughts were the ocean, the waves were only lapping knee deep, and the tide was pushing me toward him.
He tapped my glass again. “Too strong?”
He was asking if I was tipsy. I wasn’t. I was floating on a cloud of freedom caused by living away from home, well-being that may have been brought on by the drink, and excitement at being near him.
He was just a guy, I needed to dial my intensity back, but he was like that last puzzle piece. I knew if I could get my hands on him, the click would be so satisfying. “You’d know if I had one too many.” After a freshman-year kegger, I knew two was my limit. I hadn’t had too many.
“I would?”
“Oh, yes. Women are easy to read. I’ll hunt desperately for my lipstick, knowing if I can apply the gloss perfectly, making my lips an ‘I’m-not-a-waitress-plum,’ you’ll be tempted beyond all reason.” There. I’d mentioned my lips, if he didn’t catch the signals I was throwing out, he was unworthy of a hair flip.
He rubbed his fingertip on the rim of his glass as if the heavy bar glass were smooth crystal. “And you’ll indulge me and only talk of the present?”
“I suppose.” I closed my eyes and let the pub’s atmosphere sink into me. The pub’s customers consisted of an old guy who nursed his pint and looked like a regular, and a middle-aged couple who argued about an upcoming trip. The barman read the newspaper and wasn’t interested in any of us, unless we went to the counter for another. A soft rock duet sounded through the speakers. The male and female singers alternated the longing lyrics. That was this moment.
“Where’d you go?”
I opened my eyes and blinked. This close, the specks of gray in his dark blue eyes gave them dimension. It was as if I’d known him for hundreds of years, and yet he was as foreign to me as England with its serene pastures, stone walls, and ancient fortresses. “I was feeling the moment.”
“Take me with you.” He had a commanding deep voice that I felt in my heart.
I liked his voice and word choice as much as I liked his looks. Did that make me more shallow or less shallow? “Well. There’s a trick to being truly present.” I shrugged off my sweater because the drink made me warm enough to reveal my blue shift top. Summertime in England still required sweaters.
They called sweaters “jumpers,” which I liked. I wiggled my newly freed shoulders. He watched the motion. I liked that too. “You have to activate all your senses. The air is crisp in here. But add a warming drink to the evening, and the atmosphere changes.” I took a sip of the burning whiskey.
“Is it nice?”
“Like liquid oaky fire. And the rain pinging outside is relaxing.” I stretched my feet out and found his under the table. He let me and didn’t move his feet. I left the weight of mine resting against his.
He rolled the amber liquid in his glass in a languid circle, and then lifted his drink to take a long sip.
Would he kiss with the same slow purposeful intent? I ran my palms over the blackened, scarred tabletop. The ridged wooden planks were seamed together and sticky as if someone had spilled their drink. I raised a coaster, which had a picture of a dark ale and the logo for the brand. “The brand names are modern and the music’s contemporary, so we know that despite being in an ancient pub, we’re also in the here and now.”
“And now is better than the past? Which you love.” He drew out the word as I had.
“Well, I can vote.” I may love studying the past, but I didn’t want to time travel to an age of oppression.
He acknowledged last century’s accomplishment with a nod.
“The beams are old and solid, and reassuring. The building was here before we came, and the structure will be here long after we’re gone. There’s something wonderful in that continuity.”
“You think so?” His voice was dry, but his expression was interested. “I’ve seen American renovations. You’d toss out the gray muck of a painting over the bar, take down the walls to gain an open concept, and rename the place something dreadful and trendy. Whereas we like our shabby, even when we recognize it’s shabby. We’d leave the painting, the nooks, and call the pub The Bell and Swan forever.”
“No.” I grabbed his hands to make my point but froze at the tingling feeling of my palms against the back of his hands. The warm, electric sensation moved up my arms and through me. This moment was transforming me. Did he feel our chemistry? The sensation I felt was like when I found a valuable object and simply knew the item’s worth. Looking into his deep blue eyes, I had the sense that I knew him again. My lips parted, and I blinked. I pressed and flattened his palms against the table. My capable hands looked dainty against his larger ones. “Feel it.”
He stared at me steadily, freed one hand to cup my neck, leaned forward, and kissed me. His lips were burning, like the whiskey. And I lit up inside as if I’d had five drinks instead of one. His kiss wasn’t a stranger’s kiss; his lips felt familiar yet exciting. I was relaxed and on fire at the same time. The motions were hot and drugging and melting, and very much in the now.
He pulled back to look at me, his eyes glittery and intense.
It was as if a thousand years had brought us to this point.
He turned his palm up so the back of his hand rested against the tabletop. His fingers curled up in an open invitation to me. “I’m staying upstairs.”
Yes.
No.
OMG. Forward. “The kiss was good. But not that good.” His kiss was almost that good.
His dark blue-gray gaze heated and lit. “Challenge accepted.”
Chapter 2
My lips parted with his words. The English were cold on the outside but warm on the inside. The contradiction lured me like a riddle from the past.
He put both hands on my waist and leaned down and took my lips again. There was a hard press, then a lick, then a soft kiss. His teeth nibbled on my bottom lip, begging me to open. Sensation darted through me from my lips to my thighs, and I wanted what he wanted.
I opened my mouth, and my body melted like the toffee in last night’s sticky toffee pudding. There was the pub and pop music and dark lighting, and then there was just him.
My eyelids closed and the lack of vision narrowed my focus: the hint of h
is clean masculine cologne, the taste of him, and the drugging sensations he produced in me. His thumbs rubbed at the skin of my waist, just under my top and the feeling from that small stroke, sexy. He slid one hand from my waist down to my knees. With one scoop, he had my legs over his lap, and I was that much closer to him.
I liked my legs against his and the feeling made me want to be even closer. I wanted his hand on my leg to move and press and dip. I pressed one hand into his thick silky dark hair and pulled my fingers through the short length and back. I gripped his shoulder with my free hand and slid it down his arm, feeling the strength of his bicep, exploring, becoming familiar with him. In response, his free hand roamed from behind my knee up to my waist.
I shifted.
All the while, our parted lips remained connected. They brushed and tilted to explore angles. They didn’t lift. I pressed into him, and his hands were greedy, helping link us, pulling me to him as if separating would end us.
He shifted into me and then pulled back, blinking.
“Yes,” I said, my voice husky.
His eyes lit and he slid from the booth, holding out his hand to me. We were side by side and he was tall and built. I wanted to look at him longer, in a darkened room with less on. He put his arm around me as we walked upstairs.
I should have been hesitant. I should be doubting my new wild intentions. But my body knew him and was beyond invested. I’d spent four years in college never feeling what coursed through me, the sensation was a combination of excitement, interest, and instinct that said this was right.
He took out the key and turned the lock and turned to me again. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He pulled me to him and drew me inside. He found my lips again, and his were sure and demanding, wet and parted, intent and imitative. I pulled my mouth away to breathe and his lips found my neck, brushing, stroking.
I was melting, my knees weakening, my mind blurring.
