by Burke, Darcy
A Duke Will Never Do
Darcy Burke
For the three funny and lovely humans and four sweet and cuddly cats who make staying at home a pretty great place to be.
This is book #41.
“I'm only this far
And only tomorrow leads the way”
-David J. Matthews
Contents
A Duke Will Never Do
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
Epilogue
Also by Darcy Burke
About the Author
A Duke Will Never Do
After failing on the Marriage Mart, Jane Pemberton has two choices: submit to her parents’ edict to marry their boring neighbor or become a self-declared spinster and take up residence in the official headquarters of the Spitfire Society. It’s really no choice at all, and Jane is eager to embrace her newfound independence. She soon finds an unconscious viscount on her doorstep and nurses him back to health. When he offers to compensate her, she requests payment in the form of private instruction of a scandalous and intimate kind.
Having spiraled into a self-destructive abyss following the murder of his parents, Anthony, Viscount Colton, physically recovers under the care of an alluring spitfire. But it is her charm and flirtatiousness that soothes his soul and arouses his desire—until an extortion scheme forces him to face the sins of his past. Now, to save the woman who’s given him everything he lost and more, he’ll have to pay the ultimate price: his heart.
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A Duke Will Never Do
Copyright © 2020 Darcy Burke
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781944576745
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.
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Chapter 1
London, May 1819
Jane Pemberton hummed to herself as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I’m just going for a quick walk around the square before the meeting, Culpepper.”
The butler, a thoroughly capable and unflappable man in his late thirties with thick sandy-brown hair and sherry-brown eyes, inclined his head. “Enjoy your walk, Miss Pemberton.”
“Thank you.” Jane smiled at him as he reached for the door. Though she’d only moved to the house just over a fortnight ago, she felt completely at home, and that was due in large part to Culpepper’s kindness and support. It was most welcome considering the disaster she’d caused by taking up residence here in her friend Phoebe Lennox’s house.
No, not Phoebe Lennox. She was Marchioness of Ripley now, after marrying the marquess a fortnight before. Today would be the first time Jane had seen her since the wedding.
Culpepper opened the door, and Jane stepped toward the threshold. Where she stopped short before tripping over a…
“Good heavens! There’s a man on the doorstep!” Jane squatted down and moved his hat, which was sitting askew and covering most of his face. At least she thought it was a face. His eye was so swollen, she doubted he could open it, and a cut, coated with dried blood, marred his upper cheek. Dried blood also covered the space between his nose and mouth, and his lower lip was split. Whoever he was, he’d been in a terrible fight.
“Is he alive?” Culpepper asked.
Jane leaned over him, lowering her cheek to his mouth and nose. His breath, reeking of alcohol, told her he was. “Yes. Let’s take him inside.”
“I’ll fetch Jones.” Culpepper referred to one of the footmen.
While the butler was gone, Jane brushed the stranger’s dark, wavy hair back from his battered face. Who was he, and why was he on her doorstep?
Culpepper and Jones arrived and hefted him into the entry hall. The stranger moaned but didn’t open his eyes.
“Take him up to the front bedchamber.” It was the room Jane had used when she’d first arrived, but Phoebe had insisted she take her chamber, which was larger and boasted an adjoining sitting room. Since Phoebe now resided with her husband just down the street in Hanover Square, Jane hadn’t refused.
“Yes, Miss Pemberton,” Culpepper answered as he led the way, carrying the man’s shoulders, going backward up the stairs.
Jane untied her bonnet and removed her gloves as she followed them. Depositing the items on a table at the top of the stairs, she trailed them to the bedchamber, where they placed the man on the bed.
Culpepper turned to her in question.
“Please fetch cloths and water so we can clean him up,” Jane said, moving to the bed.
The butler and footman left, and Jane studied the stranger. She could see the other side of his face now, and it was a bit less damaged than the other. “Who are you?” she murmured, gently touching his forehead, which seemed the only unhurt part of his face.
Simultaneously, his hand curled around her wrist, and his lids opened to reveal stunning cobalt eyes. She gasped as recognition finally shot through her. “Lord Colton!”
His eyes narrowed briefly, then his features relaxed into a lazy smile. “Good evening, my lady.”
“It is neither evening nor am I a ‘my lady.’ Don’t you know who I am?”
He struggled to sit up and loosened his grip on her wrist, but didn’t let go. Instead, he caressed her forearm up to her elbow. “Sorry, love, I’ve forgotten your name. It’s no longer evening, you say? We must have had a lovely time.”
Jane stared at him, thinking he had to have lost his senses in the fight. “You don’t remember?”
He winced. “It seems not. Ah well, all the reason to begin again.” He released her elbow and snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her down.
Surprised by his maneuver, Jane lost her balance and landed against his chest.
He let out a howl of pain that ended in a groan. “Bloody hell, that hurts.” He let her go and lifted his hand to his head. “Everything hurts.”
“I should think so,” Jane said, working to push herself off him without causing him more discomfort. Given how he’d reacted, she assumed his body was also injured.
A maid entered at that moment with towels as well as fresh water, which she brought to the table beside the bed. J
ane turned to her. “Thank you. Did you happen to bring some salve?”
The maid glanced toward the viscount and flinched. “No, but I will.” She turned to go.
“And Cook’s headache tonic,” Jane called after her.
“Yes, Miss Pemberton.”
Jane turned back to the bed and saw that the viscount’s eyes were closed once more, and he appeared to be asleep again. Dipping a cloth into the warm water, she applied it to the cut on his cheek, wiping away the blood. When it was clean, she set about cleaning the rest of the blood from his face. But he was so swollen and his flesh so reddened, she didn’t feel as if she was helping all that much.
Leaning toward him slightly, she studied his features for the man she knew. Anthony, Viscount Colton, was a very handsome gentleman, buried somewhere beneath the injuries he’d suffered. He was also the brother of a good friend, Sarah, the Countess of Ware, who was currently in the country preparing to give birth to her first child any day.
What on earth had happened to him? And why was he on Jane’s doorstep, of all places?
“Miss Pemberton?”
Jane turned her head to see Culpepper stepping into the bedchamber. “Should we send for a doctor? I think his injuries may go beyond his face.”
“Do you know a discreet physician?” he asked.
No, she did not. And discretion would be vital. Jane might have shunned society’s rules when she’d declared herself a spinster and moved away from her parents’ house, but she didn’t wish to add fuel to her smoldering reputation.
“Let us just take care of him for now,” Jane said. “We’ll see how he is later.”
“Should you notify Bow Street to perhaps find out who he is?”
“Oh, I know who he is.” Jane glanced down at his almost-unrecognizable face. “He’s Lord Colton.”
Culpepper’s eyes flickered with surprise. “I see. My apologies, Miss Pemberton, but I came to tell you Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford have arrived.”
“Thank you, Culpepper. Will you have Meg come up and tend to Lord Colton?”
“Right away.”
Jane sent one last lingering look toward the unconscious man on the bed and hastened from the room. She rushed downstairs to the garden room, situated at the back of the house. A bright, cheerful chamber, Phoebe had refurbished it to feel as if it were part of the garden that lay just outside the doors that led outside.
Phoebe was, in fact, also there, along with Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford. Seated in what had been her favorite chair when she’d lived there, Phoebe smiled at Jane in greeting. She looked incredibly happy, her green eyes sparkling.
Jane took the empty chair near Phoebe’s, which was opposite a settee where the sisters, Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford, were seated. “Welcome, ladies. I’m so glad you could come to our first official meeting of the Spitfire Society.”
“We’re delighted to be invited,” Lady Gresham said. Tall and slender with a delicate bone structure and glossy, honey-brown hair, she was the epitome of elegance—at least to Jane.
“What is the purpose of this meeting?” Miss Whitford asked without preamble.
Lady Gresham looked toward her younger sister, and it seemed she was going to speak, but Phoebe got there first.
“Before we get into the meeting, Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford found a gentleman’s hat on your doorstep.” Phoebe stood and went to a table near the door where she picked up a black hat and brought it back to where they were seated. “Do you know to whom it belongs?”
Jane’s mind scrambled as she took it from her. If it was just Phoebe here, Jane would tell the truth of it, but she didn’t know Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford well enough to disclose that there was an unconscious man upstairs in the guest chamber. “I don’t. Perhaps it blew there from the square.”
“Surely a gentleman would know if he’d lost his hat,” Phoebe said.
“Maybe someone left it there on purpose,” Miss Whitford suggested as a maid entered with a tray of refreshments, which she arranged on a low table situated between the settee and chairs.
“Would you pour the lemonade, please?” Jane asked.
“Thank you, Laura,” Phoebe said warmly to the maid, who smiled in response.
“It’s nice to see you, my lady,” Laura said to Phoebe while pouring.
Miss Whitford appeared to be a few years younger than her sister. With blonde hair, light hazel eyes, and a shorter, more curvaceous frame, she and Lady Gresham did not look very much like sisters.
“That’s right, this is your house, isn’t it?” Miss Whitford asked.
“Yes, but it’s Jane’s home now.” Phoebe inclined her head toward Jane.
Miss Whitford reached for her glass while glancing toward Jane. “And how is it that you find yourself living here alone?”
“Beatrix,” Lady Gresham said quietly before sending an apologetic glance toward Jane and Phoebe. “Pardon my sister. Sometimes she speaks a bit recklessly. Having come from the country, we are not used to polite society.”
“Please don’t concern yourself, Lady Gresham. I find Miss Whitford’s demeanor refreshing, for you see, I am quite weary of Society myself.” Jane smiled encouragingly at Miss Whitford. “That is why I am living here alone. I don’t wish to participate in the rituals required of unmarried women of my age. Furthermore, the purpose of the Spitfire Society is to celebrate womanhood and whatever independence we can claim.”
Miss Whitford blinked, her lashes sweeping briefly over her hazel eyes. “Fascinating. We came to town so I could have a Season. I must say, independence sounds rather lovely.” She cast a glance toward her sister, who, as a wealthy widow, enjoyed as much independence as a woman could probably hope to.
“Marriage is also lovely,” Lady Gresham said, eyeing Phoebe, who was, of course, very recently—and blissfully—wed. To a consummate rake, no less. Rather, former rake.
Phoebe picked up her lemonade. “I certainly can’t complain. And I daresay if any of you are lucky enough to find a man like Marcus, you wouldn’t either. Not that there are any other men like him.” A faint blush stained her cheeks as she sipped her drink.
“So what do spitfires do?” Miss Whitford asked.
“That’s up to us,” Jane said. “We support each other, obviously, but perhaps we can also do something meaningful for other women.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Lady Gresham said, perhaps with a hint of surprise to her tone. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”
“No, but I’m sure we can come up with something.” As Jane plucked a biscuit from the tray, a loud crash upstairs made her drop it. Her gaze shot toward the ceiling as her pulse picked up.
Phoebe frowned. “My goodness, what was that?”
“My, er, kitten!” Jane said quickly. “I just brought him home yesterday.”
Surprise flashed across Phoebe’s face. “You have a kitten?”
“Yes, I hope that’s all right. I should have asked you first, but the poor thing needed a home.” Jane realized she could have been talking about Lord Colton. He was in desperate need—not for a home, but for care. And she’d tell Phoebe about him too—later.
Culpepper appeared in the doorway, his forehead rippled with concern. “Miss Pemberton, might I have a word?”
Alarm spread through Jane as she rose from the chair. “Please excuse me a moment,” she managed to say calmly before walking sedately from the room just as a second noise sounded from upstairs.
She followed Culpepper into the hall and spoke in a frantic whisper. “What the devil is going on?”
Culpepper’s brows pitched low with a mixture of frustration and annoyance. “I’m afraid his lordship has awakened and is being rather…disruptive. Meg and Jones are trying to keep him quiet, but I don’t know if they will be successful.” The sound of something breaking carried down the stairs, and Jane prayed her guests, especially Phoebe, couldn’t hear it.
“Clearly not,” Jane said. “I’ll go right up—after I adjourn the me
eting. Will you please show them out with alacrity?” She bustled back into the garden room with a wide, artificial smile. “I beg your pardon, friends, but I’m afraid the kitten is having some difficulty. Might we postpone the meeting? I do thank you for coming today and am sorry to shorten our time together.” Jane turned and hurried from the room before another noise further stretched the believability of her kitten story.
Rushing into the bedchamber where she’d left Lord Colton unconscious, Jane stopped short at the sight before her. A broken vase cluttered the floor, a table lay overturned, and Jones, the strong, young footman who’d helped carry Lord Colton upstairs, massaged his jaw while frowning at the viscount. Who was currently on the opposite side of the bed, holding Meg’s hand and smiling at her.
“What is going on here?” Jane demanded. She walked past Jones and threw him an apologetic look as she made her way to Colton and Meg.
“I was just telling this beautiful creature how beautiful she is,” Colton slurred.
Meg’s lip curled, and she snatched her hand away.
Jane touched the maid’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Meg.” Then she put herself in between them and glared at the viscount. “You’re drunk. And injured. Why are you even out of bed?”
He winced, his blue eyes squinting briefly. “How injured am I? I don’t recall—”
Jane pushed him against the side of the bed, her hands briefly connecting with his chest. He yelped in pain, and she felt a moment’s regret. But only a moment. He was behaving horribly. Perhaps she should throw him into a coach and send him home. Yes, that would be best.
