Lord Love a Duke

by Renee Reynolds

  “Jonas, I need – oh!” she began before he suddenly came alive, flipping her onto her back and covering her torso with his own. He dropped his head to hers and kissed her leisurely but thoroughly.

  “Good morning, wife,” he growled before settling his lips back on hers. Juliet felt herself losing focus and mentally shook herself before breaking their kiss.

  “Good morning, husband,” she returned, giving him one more small peck of a kiss. “How did you sleep?”

  “Extremely well until I was prematurely awakened by a bewitching temptress. Now that I am awake, however . . .” his words faded away as he dropped his head to trail teasing kisses across her jawline. She angled her head to grant him easier access and again struggled to keep her mind focused.

  “Jonas, I need to make a request of you.” She paused to get his attention but he remained stubbornly committed to kissing a path now down her neck. “Jonas. It is a serious request. Are you paying attention?”

  “Oh, I am definitely paying attention,” he murmured against her neck. “But make your request quickly, if you must, and then I have a few of my own,” he replied, raising his head only long enough to voice his comment. He moved to kiss that most sensitive spot just behind the lobe of her ear.

  “Oh, that feels – Jonas! Cease for one moment so I may make my thoughts coherent,” she exclaimed, pushing on his chest to stop his progress.

  He raised his head to smile wickedly at her, his dimples appearing with mischievousness. “So, I muddle your thoughts, do I, madam? I quite like the sound of that.” He once again dropped his head but Juliet squirmed to avoid his sensuous assault.

  “I like it too, but I must have your attention for just a moment, if you please,” she requested.

  Jonas tightened his arms around her and quickly reversed their positions, falling onto his back and dragging her form to drape across his chest. “You may proceed, but be gentle,” he admonished with a gleam in his eyes. His hands moved to her back and she felt him began to undo her long braid.

  Juliet laughed at his teasing before sliding her body up the length of his until their faces were nose to nose. “I am always gentle, or at least I am when you want me to be so,” she returned saucily. “But I am in earnest. I must ask a favor of you concerning Miranda.”

  His pupils narrowed with suspicion but her position on his body kept him still and currently content. “Very well. I know I am going to regret this, but ask away.”

  Juliet brought her hand up to lazily draw circular patterns on his chest as she raised up to look him in the eye more clearly. “I want to plead Miranda's case for the allowance of this final Season without compelling her to make a match. Before you can say anything,” she continued, placing a finger over his lips, “let me offer up the conditions.” She paused as the Duke began to nibble on her quelling finger. “Oh! Um, the conditions. Yes . . . Miranda wants to enjoy this season without pressure, just to dance and flirt and have a good time. While she does not want to actively search for a suitor, she has promised to not flee from the possibility, either. Oh, you must stop that!” Juliet rescued her finger before the ministrations of his mouth made her dissolve into a mindless puddle.

  Jonas drew in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling as he processed her words, his hands now fanning out the hair he had released from its plait. “She needs a keeper, Jules, and I no longer want the job. Never wanted the job, actually. But now I find my focus is shifting toward other pursuits.” His hands began a slow journey up her body, pausing strategically each time he heard her gasping responses.

  Juliet attempted to bat his hands away. “Here is the beauty of this arrangement: I told her she must surreptitiously weed through the sea of gentlemen this Season with the object of using the Little Season to narrow her options and make a choice. She agreed, reluctantly but assuredly, and vows she will marry by Christmas. And your mother and mine, plus Aunt Catherine, have consented to chaperone her social events. There will be a few gatherings that you and I will need to attend, so you can observe Miranda's behavior and progress. I think this is a fine accommodation of everyone's desires.” Juliet finished her speech slightly winded, partly from the quantity and rapidity of her speech, and partly from the resumption of the Duke's wandering hands.

  Jonas took in another deep breath before releasing a long sigh. “I hear nothing of a promise from Miranda to behave. If she is serious about looking this summer, with the goal of selecting a gentleman by year's end, I can agree to the terms. But I want her unequivocal promise to refrain from pranks and shenanigans the likes of which you two pulled in the past.” He paused to grasp her face in his large hands. “I wonder if Miranda knows how fortunate she is that her staunchest defender is also my greatest treasure? And my Achilles heel should she ever decide to try to abuse her power,” he added wryly, moving his hands to once again blaze a path of fire, this time down her back and through her tresses. He was so fascinated by her hair.

  Juliet raised her eyebrows. “Miranda knows I will defend only what is defensible. Should she test me on this she will quickly find that my allegiance has shifted to another member of the illustrious Leighton family. I should remind you as well, however, that our pranks succeeded in securing a husband for me. Perhaps further scheming will yield one for Miranda,” she teased. He moved to reply but she placed her finger against his lips again and was rewarded with sparks of interest flaring in his eyes. “I am only jesting. She will agree, at least in principle, so our mothers will need to be sufficiently warned. Miranda is convinced she will miss out on something in her life once she marries. As an old, married woman now myself, I cannot for the life of me imagine what she thinks that to be. I confess I missed out on much, much more prior to marriage than since.” Juliet punctuated this last statement with kisses to her husband's chest and found herself once again flipped onto her back, his weight pressing her down into the mattress.

  Jonas raised himself up on his arms to search her face. “Truly, Jules, you have no regrets?” he asked earnestly, his expression at once serious and even somewhat fearful. She looked deeply into his bold, blue eyes before bestowing on him a brilliant smile.

  “I will admit to feeling regret at the looby pranks we attempted, but never their outcome, Your Grace. I am so utterly happy, so blissfully content that I am most likely sickening to be around.” She paused and raised both hands to cup his face. “You have ruined me, Your Grace. I find that I am solely purposed to be your wife.” She lowered her lids to stare at him languidly behind her heavily-lashed eyes.

  He looked down into the face of his beautiful wife and felt a rush of pride and love, along with a healthy amount of lust. “You do remember what happens when you address me with my title, do you not?” he asked huskily, grabbing her wrists and raising them to above her head on the pillow.

  “I do,” she smiled wickedly in return, “and am counting on it.”

  He dropped his head until his mouth brushed hers in the barest of kisses. “How I love you,” he whispered against her lips.

  “And I love you,” she replied, already breathless in her anticipation. “Your Grace.”

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, gentle reader, for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet the characters that live in my little world. I hope you have enjoyed getting to know them as much as I have. Please consider leaving a review at your point of purchase or Goodreads at https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18680920-lord-love-a-duke. We authors cherish the feedback and rely on your good words to help others learn about our stories. You may also contact me personally at reneereynoldsauthor@gmail.com. I read and respond to all my emails, so ask any questions or make any observations. I would love to hear from you!

  When I began to write about Jonas and Juliet, I wanted to tell a love story, about a love that came from essentially nowhere and blindsided them both. I threw in some trickery and scheming, but their blossoming love for each other was my theme. And while the peers, homes, and locatio
ns used in my story are real, the names and historical details are complete fiction, solely the written figments of my imagination.

  I am blessed to have a terrific support team which helped me bring this novel to publication. Huge thanks and more go out to Kathy and Wanda, my proofreader and editor, who (hopefully) caught every split infinitive and misplaced modifier that slipped past an author who already had the best of editorial intentions. I cannot thank my beta readers, Doreen, Julia, and Lisa, enough for their ruthless quest for anachronisms and clichés, as well as the good ol' typo and grammar goof. An author may write alone, but she publishes with the aid of an army. If any errors managed to sneak into the story, rest assured, they are my fault alone.

  My beautiful cover is the work of the talented Lily Smith at www.coversbylily.com. I wanted to crawl inside and live at Edgecliff after seeing her cover art, and I thank her for sharing her talent and time with me.

  I would be remiss if I did not also thank the Bard, William Shakespeare, for his wonderful writings that lent themselves well to quotes that set the stage and tone for each chapter of the story.

  On a personal note, I could do nothing without the support of my family. I am surrounded by boys, but they all understand and applaud my efforts, even if it is, as my youngest states, “a kissing book.” Thank goodness my husband believes you can never have too much kissing.

  About the Author

  Author Renée Reynolds grew up all over the world as the daughter of a globe-trotting Marine father and spirited and supportive mother. Their family motto was you can never learn too much, travel too much, or talk too much.

  She majored in majors in college, and after obtaining a host of degrees she decided not to use any of them and instead writes about what she cannot do - go back in time to dance at balls, flirt with lords, gentlemen, and scoundrels, and gallop unfashionably down Rotten Row during the most fashionable hour.

  After dodging a few Collinses and Wickhams, Renée happily snared a Darcy. Her HEA turned out to be in Texas, where she resides with "the hubs, the kiddos, a boisterous menagerie of indoor and outdoor animals, and a yard of meticulously maintained weeds." She has happily tagged on this addendum to the family motto: you can never read too much, too often, or too late at night.

  Catch up with Renée on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/obstinate.headstronggirl.5 or Twitter @eenayray. Her further musings and mischief can also be found on her blog at www.obstinateheadstronggirl.wordpress.com.

  Please continue for a preview of Renée Reynolds' second book in the Lords of Oxford Series

  A Marquis for All Seasons

  the adventures, and misadventures, of Lady Miranda Leighton and Roman de Courtenay, Marquis of Stafford

  Chapter One

  Oh, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do!

  William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1

  “Madam, you would do well to cease this topic of conversation,” growled Roman de Courtenay, Marquis of Stafford, “for it is in the best interest of your health.”

  “And you would do well to speak with condescension and respect, my son, and heed my words. You need a wife!” his mother all but screeched before checking herself, fluttering a dainty hand about her neck. “Your friend has now married. The same friend who is of an age with you. The same friend you vouchsafed to me was not of a mind to marry. Nothing should impede you now. I declare again, you need a wife!” This last vow was made with more decorum and less volume, but was no less earnest than the first.

  T'was the same thing she said to him at their nearly every private meeting of late: get a wife. Sometimes it was merely a brief toss of the notion; more often it was a voluble and voluminous harangue of duty, necessity, and most importantly, heirs. If only his friend, the Duke of Dorset, had not married, his mother would not have flown so precipitously to the boughs and began to dream of weddings, grandchildren, and a new Marchioness.

  “I need nothing other than your promise to desist this unholy quest of yours. You have made your opinion abundantly clear and with unerring frequency. I have taken note of your words, weighed their relevancy, or lack thereof in this instance, then applied my thoughts toward other matters. So should you.”

  He watched his mother take in a deep breath, every inch the Marchioness, and he mentally braced himself. It was evidently harangue day in Stafford House. He cast his gaze about the room in search of something with which to occupy his mind during her diatribe. He settled for an inordinately focused study of the pattern in the Aubusson rug when he belatedly noticed the unexpected and highly unnatural quiet of the room. He raised his eyes suddenly and met the very shrewd and determined stare of his mother.

  “We are of course in disagreement over this issue so I propose we find some common ground. Let us strike a bargain, therefore, in the care of your family. I say you need a wife while you say nay; on this we cannot meet. I say you need an heir, while you cry off and claim cousin Eustace as such. It is your manner of saying that imbecile's name with a straight face that gives me true cause for alarm. You imply his hands would be just so in taking care of your mother and sisters. If this you truly believe then I shall call on our solicitor to begin commitment papers on you immediately.” The Marchioness barely paused to draw another deep breath. “You seem to care naught for the title or the responsibilities to estate and name that you carry, but I find I must beg you take greater interest in the security of your most immediate family. It would not do for us to be beholden to Eustace for anything, the least of which be our food and shelter.”

  Roman's breath hitched at the validity of her remarks. She was correct. Eustace was thick-headed and selfish, a most lethal combination in any gentleman but of significant detriment to the future solvency of the marquisate. Her accusations were pointed and her aim true, and she had drawn blood in this round. He took a few steps away from her, toward the window overlooking their garden, so she could not pick up on the scent of the wound she had inflicted.

  “Mother, I assure you I would not leave you without prospects should I expire in an untimely manner.” This was a complete fabrication, for he had done just that. He had no true idea what provisions lay in the estate plans. While he met weekly with his man of business and read every report from his stewards, that was the extent of his attentions to the title. He would rectify that this very afternoon, if possible. She had upset his equilibrium and he waffled back to the course from which he had sought to distract her. “And I do not plan to avoid marriage forever, just for the foreseeable future. There is no rush. All is well.”

  “All is not well, you ungrateful child! I call you such for it is exactly appropriate: you think only of yourself while you ignore the title, pawn your responsibilities off on your stewards, and subsist only on what interests you. Your negligence leaves me the responsibilities for running our household, rather than your wife, as it should be. You had not the obligation to launch your elder sister whilst your father lived, and he did a most excellent job, leaving a fitting example for you to follow. Your younger sister is out this Season, as you know, and I have been left adrift to chaperone and deflect improper attentions. Rowena matched quickly and well; I fear Rosalind will not be so amenable to a calm and sensible suitor. This is badly done, Stafford, and you know it! You shame your father's name! You shame us all.” The last was uttered with a small cry as his mother tucked a handkerchief to her mouth and swiveled in her seat to turn her back on him.

  Roman felt profound regret as the full weight of her accusations fell on his chest, a newfound and unwelcome shame taking root. He sank into a chair, suddenly weary. Rowena, his elder sister by three years, did marry well, and had been happily settled with her Earl for over ten years. Rosalind, the youngest de Courtenay sibling at eighteen, lacked the docility and modesty of her sister and was instead willful, to put it mildly. He had neglected his duties and failed to consider the heavy burden of worry and responsibility it had placed on his mother's shoulders
. Shoulders that were looking decidedly drooped and frail of a sudden. His sigh was loud and tinged with regret.

  “You are correct, Mother,” he confessed, causing the Marchioness to spin back around. “I am sufficiently chastened. I will endeavor to be more circumspect in my duties,” he stressed.