by Erica Ridley
The Duke’s Embrace
12 Dukes of Christmas #7
Erica Ridley
Contents
The Duke’s Embrace
Also by Erica Ridley
Cressmouth Gazette
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
Acknowledgments
Thank You For Reading
The Duke’s Desire
About the Author
Jewels of Historical Romance
Copyright © 2019 Erica Ridley
Photograph on cover © PeriodImages
Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer
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.
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.
The Duke’s Embrace
Unpaid and under-appreciated journalist Miss Eve Shelling never goes anywhere without a trusty notebook and her overprotective Duenna—who happens to be a bullmastiff. Eve learned the hard way that men are not to be trusted. She’s definitely not falling head-over-heels for the deceptively charming subject of her front-page column.
* * *
Local blacksmith Monsieur Sébastien le Duc is the pillar of his community—when he’s not pillaging elsewhere. He’s a rakish dandy with a heart of stolen gold and two teeny tiny secrets. One happens to be a wee international smuggling operation. The other involves losing his heart to an ambitious journalist determined to expose the truth at any cost…
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. Twelve delightful romances… and plenty of delicious dukes!
Love romance? Have a free book, on me!
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Also by Erica Ridley
The Dukes of War:
The Viscount’s Tempting Minx
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
* * *
Rogues to Riches:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
* * *
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
* * *
Gothic Love Stories:
Too Wicked to Kiss
Too Sinful to Deny
Too Tempting to Resist
Too Wanton to Wed
* * *
Magic & Mayhem:
Kissed by Magic
Must Love Magic
Smitten by Magic
* * *
The Wicked Dukes Club:
One Night for Seduction by Erica Ridley
One Night of Surrender by Darcy Burke
One Night of Passion by Erica Ridley
One Night of Scandal by Darcy Burke
One Night to Remember by Erica Ridley
One Night of Temptation by Darcy Burke
Cressmouth Gazette
Welcome to Christmas!
Our picturesque village is nestled around Marlowe Castle, high atop the gorgeous mountain we call home. Cressmouth is best known for our year-round Yuletide cheer. Here, we’re family.
The legend of our twelve dukes? Absolutely true! But perhaps not always in the way one might expect…
Chapter 1
October 1814
Cressmouth, England
In the direct shadow of Marlowe Castle
* * *
Miss Eve Shelling plastered herself between the smothering red damask of the parlor curtains and the freezing glass panes of the front windows. From the outside, this likely made her look like a madwoman. Eve didn’t mind. She wasn’t hiding from the outside.
She was hiding from her father.
Eve was also simultaneously keeping an eye out for Wilson, who delivered the afternoon post.
The post was the main reason Eve was avoiding her father. Not their endless rows about rule-following or eternal Christmas or journalistic integrity. She could hold her own on any of those topics. But if he caught her intercepting the afternoon post… Or, worse, if he happened to discover what the letters said…
Just as her cheek was about to go numb from pressing so hard against the breath-fogged glass, Eve glimpsed Wilson’s jaunty green woolen hat heading in her direction.
She slipped out from the curtains, tossed a furtive glance over both shoulders, then cracked open the front door just as Wilson reached the front step.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shelling.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson.”
She eased her fingers through the crack just long enough to feel the early winter chill and snatch the thick pile of letters. Eve latched the door as quickly as possible. Father’s study might be on the opposite side of the cottage, but he sensed the presence of the slightest draft like a human barometer.
“Damn it, Anderson,” Father roared from his office. “You’re letting all the warm air out!”
Eve mentally apologized to the very innocent Anderson. As the sole male member of the household staff, Anderson was butler, footman, valet, and anything else that might be needed. At this moment, Anderson was out collecting firewood, but he could return at any time.
All Eve had to do was shove the letters inside her sewing basket and make her way past the open door of her father’s study to the privacy of her bedroom without him registering her presence or questioning her motives.
It might have worked, too, if Father hadn’t chosen that exact moment to step out of his study with a walking stick in his hand. He was coming her way.
“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.
He was always suspicious of her these days. Mostly with good reason.
“Nothing.” She tried to look innocent.
There was no time to shove the stack of letters into her sewing basket. Any such movement would only call undue attention to their presence.
It was too late. “Is that the afternoon post?”
“It’s for me.”
Sort of. She hoped. There hadn’t actually been an opportunity to sift through the pile to check names, but if the past four weeks were any indication… every single item would be addressed to the Cressmo
uth Gazette.
Which was mostly her. In spirit, if not legally.
Although her father owned the Gazette, Eve was the one who ran virtually every aspect. It wasn’t even unusual for her to handle the correspondence which, historically, consisted of one letter per quarter: The curmudgeonly Duke of Silkridge, begging for his name to be removed from the subscriber list.
Eve didn’t think anyone else had even noticed the Gazette, much less bothered to peruse its contents.
Until now.
“All of that is the afternoon post?” His eyes widened with obvious incredulity.
Eve gave a weak smile.
No doubt a dozen letters seemed like a proper blizzard of correspondence. Father would be horrified to learn that this was the smallest amount yet. The autumn issue’s infamy appeared to finally be dying down.
He clomped forward, placing most of his weight on his walking stick, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “If that’s because of that libelous—”
“It wasn’t libelous,” she interrupted hotly. “Every single word was true.”
“—scandalous—”
“Reporting the truth isn’t scandalous. That’s what real newspapers do.”
“—foolhardy nonsense you slipped into the paper without my knowledge or consent—”
“Yes,” she burst out. “The increased reaction from our readers is the direct result of my exposé on our village’s founder. Mr. Marlowe was a man, not a myth. He was a wonderful visionary and a terrible grandfather to the poor Duke of Silkridge, who—”
“No need to summarize the bloody article. I read it. The whole village read it.” He shook the eagle claw of his walking stick at her face. “How many times do I have to tell you that the Cressmouth Gazette only publishes positive coverage of positive things that happen in our community?”
“It was our biggest seller ever!” Eve flung out her arms in frustration. “We had to go back to press three times. Usually issues only go out to people with subscriptions, but this time locals purchased copies, subscribers actually read it—”
“You shouldn’t have written it.” He pointed at the stack of letters wrinkling in her sweaty hand. “That proves it.”
“This?” She lifted the letters high. “Nobody cared about the paper before. This proves I was right. Some people speak of Marlowe as though he were the King of England, but others have sent in stories that paint a completely different picture.”
Father’s gaze was cold. “We don’t want to paint a different picture. Our village is known as ‘Christmas’ and that is the only picture we shall paint. Sleigh rides. Wassailing. Sprigs of holly.”
“We write that in every paper.” She curled her fingers, every muscle in her body tense. “I’m not suggesting we stop writing about Christmas. I’m suggesting our village is more than just Christmas. We could include a selection of reader responses in the opinion columns—”
“The Cressmouth Gazette doesn’t have an opinion column. We are Christmas. We write about Christmas. That’s all our audience wants. The legend of the twelve dukes, casting for The Winter’s Tale, the latest biscuit flavors seen in the castle’s public buffet. Those are the rules. Follow them.”
“Those are your rules,” she gritted out. “You invented them; you can change them. I want to be a real journalist who writes real stories.”
He grimaced in exasperation. “Why?”
“I want to be taken seriously. I want our paper to be taken seriously. I want our village to be taken seriously. Frothy nonsense in a frothy gazette makes people think Cressmouth is nothing but froth, too. We are Christmas and so much more. If we print these opinion essays—”
“We will not.”
“Why not? Other newspapers print essays written by constituents.” She pinched her lips together, but could not stop the flow of words. “As it stands right now, the Cressmouth Gazette is nothing but a long-winded promotional pamphlet.”
“Yes.” He slammed the base of his walking stick against the scratched wooden floor. “That is precisely what it is. You do understand. Now go and write about it.”
“Don’t you think people would find Cressmouth even more interesting if it were presented as a village full of richness and complexity, rather than a printed stamp whose monochromatic shape never changes, year after year?”
“I think they would stop coming.” His lips twisted dismissively. “Tourists don’t flock here for stark realism and salacious drama. They come to escape all that. We’re not selling mistletoe. We’re promising joy. The next quarterly printing will be the big annual Yuletide issue.”
“The one where we practically include the same word-for-word articles we print every year?”
“Perhaps that is exactly what I should do,” he snapped. “The Cressmouth Gazette is an advertisement and a souvenir, nothing more. If you can’t adhere to the rules… then you’re dismissed.”
“You can’t give me the sack,” she spluttered in disbelief.
“Of course I can. I’m your father and I own the paper.”
“I’m your only journalist!”
Eve’s fingers clenched around the unread letters clutched in her palm. Father wouldn’t really run the same articles as last year. Would he?
He sighed. “I know you feel stifled, daughter. I’m not too proud to compromise. The annual Yuletide issue historically only contains contents related to Yule, but I will allow one uncontroversial, non-Christmas article. This issue, why don’t you write about… the swans that live on the castle pond.”
“You want me to write two hundred riveting words on aquatic birds located in their natural habitat?” she repeated slowly. “That’s a painting, not a story. By the time the paper prints, they’ll have migrated south and won’t even be on the castle pond anymore.”
“If it’s well received, we can select a different topic for the following quarter.” He patted her head and stepped around her to the door. “And if you fail to follow the rules… You won’t be writing for the paper next year. From now on, every word we print goes through me.”
Chapter 2
Monsieur Sébastien le Duc, known to his family as Bastien and to the rest of the village as the most fashionable man north of London, strolled through the public park adjoining Marlowe Castle, deep in conversation with his elder brother Lucien.
Lucien refused to speak anything but French, which meant most of the passers-by wandering these same paths had little comprehension of the brothers’ conversation. This did not bother Bastien in the least. He had not come to a public park to be listened to. He was here to be looked at.
For too many long, unendurable years, he had been forced to stitch every item of his clothing by hand. Just because a gentleman could not afford a tailor was no excuse for slovenly appearance. Bastien had become an expert at little tricks, like only using expensive fabric in areas where it would be seen, and designing garments in such a way as to make them easily alterable to fool the casual eye into believing that one jacket or waistcoat was actually multiple items.
Today, he had not needed to resort to any such tricks. Today, he had money. Today, every single item clinging and sparkling upon his person had been sewn by someone else to Bastien’s exact specifications.
He felt just as magnificent as he looked.
“Are you even listening to me?” Lucien demanded.
“Oui,” Bastien answered automatically.
He was not listening. After nine-and-twenty years of brotherhood, Lucien likely knew this. But the only other person who lent half an ear to their brother’s stern sermons was their younger sister Désirée, who had just that morning wed a father of two, and now had other things to do with her time.
A flock of whispering, blushing young ladies flitted toward them with a flurry of painted fans and feathered bonnets.
“Good afternoon, Beau,” they called out as one, fluttering their eyelashes and flushing prettily.
Bastien preened.
“Oh, for the love of…” Lucien rolled his
eyes. “Tell them you shall never be their ‘beau.’”
“Let me have this,” Bastien reproached him. “Six days a week, I toil in our smithy from dawn to dusk without complaint. Why do you begrudge every harmless flirtation?”
“They’re English.” Lucien shuddered as though the affliction might be contagious. “One cannot trust unmarried young ladies. They all have an ulterior motive.”
“Can marriage truly be considered an ‘ulterior’ motive?” Bastien inquired reasonably.
Besides, his brother was wrong. These ladies wanted a turn in his embrace, not a trip to the altar. He knew that from experience. Although Bastien had not been saving himself for France, the women who gave him the time of day were only interested in sharing a night. It was the sort of “ulterior” motive any self-respecting rake would be honored to indulge.
Lucien sent the ladies his customary all-smiting glower.
They wilted and scurried away.
“You are incorrigible,” Bastien informed his brother. “A cad amongst cads. I will find each one of those young women later, and personally make up for your mortifying rudeness.”
“At least I won’t have to see it.” Lucien shrugged. “And soon, you will not have to bother. Now that Uncle Jasper owns his property free and clear, we have nothing tying us to England.” His dark eyes shone. “We can finally retake the life we left behind. Finalement!”
