by Erica Ridley
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I can’t oversee the staff and monitor the guests’ comfort if I’m twirling about with you.”
“Precisely. When was the last time you let yourself do as you wished, without analyzing or managing? Never?”
She opened her mouth to agree with him (she could no more cease analyzing than she could stop breathing) when she realized it was no longer true.
“Once,” she said in wonder. She held herself perfectly still as she finally admitted the truth. The world hadn’t ended just because she’d ceased managing it. She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “At the masquerade. With you.”
“Have you enjoyed your time with me?” he asked softly. The unwavering intensity in his eyes gave the impression he might be holding his breath.
She smiled up at him. “You know I have.”
“Then let’s dance.” He pulled her back into his arms, his face serious. “Enjoy the moment with me, my love. Not just today, but every day. I want you in my arms for the rest of my life.”
Her legs trembled. Once again, he’d managed to surprise her. As she twined her arms about his neck, she was struck with the sneaking suspicion that as much as she’d been guiding him into making the party decisions she’d already chosen for him, he’d been just as skillfully steering her down a path of his own.
“Have you maneuvered me into falling in love with you?” Her voice was teasing, but her eyes surely betrayed all the joy in her heart.
“It would be impractical for me to be the only one of us in love.” He affected an exaggerated leer. “My next step is to maneuver you right into the marriage bed.”
“And to think,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him. “I’d been planning the very same thing.”
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THE END
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In order, the 12 Dukes of Christmas:
Once Upon a Duke
Kiss of a Duke
Wish Upon a Duke
Never Say Duke
Dukes, Actually
The Duke’s Bride
The Duke’s Embrace
The Duke’s Desire
Dawn With a Duke
One Night With a Duke
Ten Days With a Duke
Forever Your Duke
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In order, the Rogues to Riches books are:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
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In order, the Dukes of War books are:
The Viscount’s Tempting Minx (FREE!)
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway
The Duke's Accidental Wife
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The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
Oliver York returns from war to find his father dead, his finances in arrears, and himself the new Earl of Carlisle. If he doesn't marry an heiress—and fast!—he and his tenants are going to be pitching tents down by the Thames. He definitely shouldn't be trading kisses with a penniless debutante...no matter how captivating she is!
Miss Grace Halton is in England just long enough to satisfy the terms of her dowry. But a marriage of convenience isn’t as easy as she’d hoped. Back in America, her ailing mother needs medicine only Grace’s dowry can afford. Which means the dashing earl she can't get out of her mind is the one man she can't let into her heart.
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The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
January 1816
London, England
* * *
It could be worse, Lord Carlisle reminded himself as he trained his narrowed eyes on this newest battlefield. It had been three years since he’d set foot in a ballroom. The styles had changed and the faces had aged, but London soirées were as treacherous as ever. He tried to relax. At least no one was shooting at him.
When he’d left home, he’d been plain Mr. Oliver York, heir apparent to a silent dictator whom he’d been certain would live forever. Full of ennui and patriotism, he’d defied his father and skipped off to fight the French with his three best friends. Because what was the worst that could happen?
Answer: War.
He’d lost all three of his best friends. Edmund had been felled by an enemy rifle. Xavier hadn’t spoken a word in months. And Bartholomew… Oliver had lost that friend when he’d had the bad grace to save the man’s life.
Not that Oliver could blame him. Bart had made it back to England without his left leg or his brother. He would rather have died than let go of his dying twin. He would have succeeded in that endeavor, had Oliver not hefted his mangled body in his arms and speared his way through the bloody battlefield to the last surviving sawbones.
It was a miracle the man survived. An even bigger miracle that he hadn’t picked up the first blade he’d chanced upon and driven it between Oliver’s ribs.
Heroes, all of them. Heroes and murderers.
They each had blood on their hands. Scars in their hearts. One couldn’t slice a bayonet through someone else’s neck to save one’s own, and then pick right back up in London with carriage races and drunken wagers.
Drunken, yes. He was very good at drunken. Alcohol was the only thing that dulled the anger. And the guilt.
There had been no postal service on the front lines, so he’d actually made it all the way to his front door before the rest of the news had reached him.
He’d lost his father. Oliver was earl now. Congratulations.
His father—per the subsequent scandal sheets—had come to his untimely end in the bed of his latest mistress, when her cook, unaware of his seafood allergy, had sent a tray of salad tossed with lime and prawn to the lovers’ boudoir.
Death by salad. And just like that, Oliver inherited an earldom.
He didn’t know a button about being earl, of course. His father had rarely even spoken to him; therefore Oliv
er was in no position to replace him. It would take months just to go through the journals and correspondence. Let alone set about producing an heir.
Nor was he in the market for a wife. He could scarcely be responsible for one. He was having a hard enough time wrangling this beast of an earldom without adding a dependent to the mix. Not with his future uncertain, his past a nightmare.
Men of his class didn’t marry for love. Men with his past shouldn’t marry at all.
War had taught him that there was no vulnerability like being helpless to save someone he cared about. Like his best friends.
Xavier still had a chance to recover. At the moment, he was propped up in the library like a great silent doll, but Oliver had faith his listless friend would come out of his fugue.
That belief was precisely why Oliver, savior of all people who did not wish to be saved, had shoved his friend into a carriage and forced them both into an environment alive with lights and color. He might be dead inside, but he refused to allow the same to happen to Xavier.
Captain Xavier Grey had once been the jolliest rattle of them all. Now, he was one ragged breath away from catatonia.
Surgeons were at a loss. He was more dead than alive, but there was nothing visibly wrong with him. Perhaps all he needed was some re-assimilation. Wine. Women. Dancing. A reminder of what they’d fought for, and what was still worth living for.
So Oliver had sent for his friend and an army of tailors. The two of them could out-dandy Brummel himself. Xavier had been easy enough to shepherd along, since he was mute and pliant as waxwork. Perhaps a smidgen more lifeless.
And now they were at a ball. One look at Oliver’s face ensured no one would deny them entrance. But what was he to do with Xavier? He had fallen off his chair when Oliver had attempted to seat him in the ballroom with the spinsters, so Oliver had been forced to settle him in the library, in a wingback chair with plenty of pillows.
That had worked. Somewhat. The man hadn’t changed position in the past two hours, and would likely sit there like a lump of clay right through Armageddon.
Oliver trudged from the library back to the ballroom. He clearly wasn’t curing Xavier tonight. Maybe the one most in need of wine, women, and dancing was Oliver himself.
Except the ratafia was warm, the wine bitter, the music off-pace. The debutantes were only attracted to his ignominiously gained title. The men only approached him to hear gore-splattered war stories Oliver had no inclination to retell, much less relive.
Ballroom Waterloo. The deafening orchestra, the cloying perfume, the swirls of satin and lace—it was as much a hell as the battlefield he’d escaped.
Anybody who fantasized about war was an imbecile. Anyone who fantasized about inheriting a title was an even bigger imbecile. This whole ballroom was chock full of imbeciles, and Oliver was the biggest of them all for thinking Xavier was a soldier he could save, this soirée a skirmish he could win. He didn’t know these people anymore. He wasn’t certain he even wished to. He curled his hands into fists.
Look at them planning their attacks. Sharpening their rapier wits. All of them, pawns in the same war, playing the parts they were born to play. He could no more have escaped inheriting his earldom than a wallflower could avoid being labeled a—
Oliver frowned. Brow furrowed, he squinted through the swirl of dancing couples and frowned again.
There was a girl. Across the room. Pressed into the wallpaper. A pretty girl who didn’t know her part.
Not a wallflower, this young woman, despite her back-to-the-wall stance. True wallflowers dressed in drab colors and did their best to blend with the shadows. This one wore a gown with enough silk and lace to befit an empress. The colors could blind a peacock. Her cleavage would tempt the Prince of Wales himself.
And yet, something about her gave the impression that her come-hither bodice and opulent trappings were nothing more than costuming. The true her—whoever that might be—was hidden from the naked eye. Oliver tilted his head. Something in the set of her jaw, the stiffness in her spine, the softness of those ripe, full lips…
Even as he watched, she trapped her plump lower lip beneath a row of straight white teeth. Dark hair. Pale skin. Voluptuous curves. He shifted his weight.
This Snow White belonged to a different type of bedtime story. What man wouldn’t want those soft red lips on every part of his body? She must’ve infatuated half of London by now. The delicate lace at her bosom, the way those thick black lashes blinked a few more times than strictly necessary…
Oliver’s intrigued half-smile died on his face as he realized the truth. This wasn’t coquetry. His enticing wallflower was uncomfortable. Nervous. His jaw tightened. Where the devil was her chaperone? Her friends? Hell, her suitors? She was utterly alone. Someone this beautiful, with skin that fair and hair that dark couldn’t have any difficulty attracting a man.
“Got your eye on the new one, Carlisle?” came a sly whisper from behind Oliver’s shoulder. “Better dip your wick now, before all the others have their way. Miss Macaroni won’t be looking half as nubile once she’s had a mouthful of—”
“Macaroni?” Oliver interrupted, barely managing to tamp down his impulse to plug his fist into the speaker’s face, sight unseen. He wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation for long. War did that to a man.
The voice chuckled. “Eh, she’s a Yank. Best thing for anyone to do is keep a hand over her mouth, because you can’t understand a single word coming out of it.”
Oh, mother-loving shite. That was Phineas Mapleton talking. The ton’s worst gossip.
“Not that anyone’d want her for conversation anyway,” Mapleton continued. “Every female worth her salt has already given her the cut direct. The only creatures putting themselves in her path now are the desperate hostesses and the profligates planning to give her a tumble or two. Dirty money, dirty gel. Not much else a chit like that can hope for. Old man Jarvis already put his name down in White’s as being the first to tup her. Got fifty quid on it, myself. Want to add your name to the pot?”
Oliver’s lip curled in disgust. Ballrooms were treacherous indeed. This jackanapes had an innocent American in his sights. One who didn’t even seem to have a duenna, much less friends to keep away wolves like Mapleton.
His temples began to throb as he forced his fists to unclench. This was a different type of combat, he reminded himself. The worst thing to do would be to make a scene with Mapleton. The scandal would be horrific.
Yet he couldn’t walk away. Not when the wallflower needed rescuing. His goddamn Achilles’ heel, no matter how disastrous the outcome tended to be. He wished his heroics would work out for once.
He kept his eyes trained on the pretty black-haired American, every muscle tensed for action. An eternity ticked by. No one approached her. She had no one to dance with, to talk to. She looked… lost. Hauntingly lonely. Frightened and defiant all at the same time.
’Twould be better for them both if he turned around right now. Never met her eye. Never exchanged a single word. Left her to her fate and him to his.
It was already too late.
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Once Upon a Duke
Beware romantic spirits from Christmas past...
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Due to the terms of an estranged relative's will, the Duke of Silkridge must revisit the cold, unforgiving mountains where he lost everything he once loved. As soon as he restores his family legacy, he'll return to London where he belongs. He definitely won't rekindle the forbidden spark crackling between him and the irresistible spitfire he'd left behind...
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Noelle Pratchett is immune to charming scoundrels like the arrogant duke. He stole her heart, stole a kiss, and then stole away one night never to return. Now he's back—and they both know he won't stay. But how can she maintain her icy shields when every heated glance melts her to her core?
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The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a laugh-out-lou
d historical romance series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!
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Sneak Peek
Once Upon a Duke
Benjamin Ward, the fifth Duke of Silkridge, didn’t want to mingle with the other guests in this godforsaken castle. He wanted a room for the night, he wanted his mother’s locket, and he wanted to be gone.
Before he could have any of these things however, he caught sight of golden blond hair and laughing brown eyes. Just like that, his world tilted on its axis.
Noelle was here. Right here.
His heart beat uncomfortably fast.
She looked both the same and yet somehow even better than before. Soft curves and gold-rimmed spectacles. Happy and smiling and beautiful. Surrounded by a group of equally cheerful friends.
He’d thought she would be gone. He’d hoped she would be gone.
So many years had passed since he’d last seen her. For the longest time, he had expected her to have a Season in the capitol, to take London by storm. Perhaps she had done so, and he had missed it. After all, he spent his days in the House of Lords and his nights in his study.
