by Fiona Miers
Sarah’s Duke
By
Fiona Miers
Followed by Ellie’s Gentleman by Fiona Miers.
Dedication:
To my mother- the best woman I have ever known, and the main reason I love Regency romance. Thank you for feeding my obsession. I love you.
Sarah’s Duke
Fiona Miers
Published by Fiona Miers
Copyright © 2016
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Table of contents:
Sarah’s Duke:
Prologue
Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Chapter 3.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 8.
Chapter 9.
Chapter 10.
Chapter 11.
Epilogue.
Ellie’s Gentleman
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Prologue
London 1811
Lord Oliver Lyre’s twenty-fifth birthday was a night like most nights. His friends from his Eton days had decided to celebrate the less than momentous occasion in the usual fashion, with a night of wenching and drinking. The four of them sat around a table at ‘The Prince’s Arms’, a drinking hole in a not so prominent part of the town, to celebrate.
“To the Spares!” cried Rupert, always the loudest and the largest of the four men. They all raised their mugs of ale to the toast and drank. It was a toast of which they had happily been the center for many years. As a buxom tavern maid came by to replace their empty glasses, Rupert eyed her appreciatively.
‘The Spares’ was the name their group had been given during their days at school. The term had been used continuously from the day the four boys had banded together, after realizing they all shared a common bond. They were all the second sons of prominent, families of the British aristocracy. To make the group even more elite, all four of them were not only the second sons to each proud aristocrat, they were also the second of only two sons.
Lord Oliver Lyre, had been born the second son of the Duke of Lincoln. His elder sibling, Gerald, the Marques of Sollington was heir to their family’s massive estates and holdings and no-one could think of anyone more suited to the life of land owner and protector of a Dukedom than Oliver’s serious brother.
Lord Oliver was similar to all three of his friends, in that none of them had ever coveted their brothers’ inheritances, as so many other second or third sons did. The four of them all enjoyed being the second-in-line to their father’s power and title. The heir, once he inherited, had a prestigious title, yes, and tremendous wealth, definitely, but it was the responsibility that the boys had never wanted. Tenants, housing estates and more servants than one could count, all dependent on one man for their livelihood.
“More ale,” yelled the man next to Lord Oliver, staring into his empty glass. That was John, always happy to greet the morning cup-shot. He could, perhaps, drink more than all the other three put together. John, to the London ton, was Lord John Dunford, second son of the Duke of Arrow. Lord John Dunford’s family was hugely wealthy, its ‘pure’ bloodline going back generations. John, like the rest of their group members, received a very generous allowance from his father, which he invested wisely and from which he reaped considerable benefits. Most second sons had to enter the army or even the church, but all of ‘the Spares’ had enough money never to need to work a day in their lives.
The Honorable Rupert Willoughby was the second son of the Earl of Sweeting and he had come the closest of any of them had to actually inheriting a title and wealth. His brother was more than fifteen years his senior and after five daughters, Rupert was undoubtedly his brother’s heir. This fact was one of the main reasons why Rupert was enjoying what freedom he still had. He was loud and boisterous and it was hard not to love him. He never took life too seriously and if ever any one of his friends needed someone to cheer them out of melancholia he would be the likeliest candidate for the task. Reckless in excess, he had a nasty temper when pushed, but he was loyal to a fault.
Rupert lifted his foaming glass once again and inclined his head, “Happy Birthday, Lyre.”
John repeated the toast, and to Oliver’s left, the quietest of the four spoke up.
“Yes, happy birthday, Oliver.” Lord Archibald Turner raised his glass in silent salute and took another sip from his first and only drink.
Archie, as he was known to his friends, was their resident virgin. The three boys had tried to get him into a brothel at the age of eighteen, without any success whatsoever and seven years later, they still hadn’t managed the feat.
Some people within their circles assumed it was a lack of m
oney that kept him away from the whores. But his closest friends knew very that wasn’t the case—he was the wealthiest among all of them. He had a shrewd head for investing, a perfect memory and never wasted money on the muslin company as the rest of their group had done. Some had suggested that Archie had a liking for ‘different company’, because he surely was a dandy. His clothes were immaculate, his tailoring costing a considerable amount.
But as his close friends knew, he simply didn’t trust the light skirts not to give him a disease. The rest of their group happily ignored that side of the business, but as Archie once told them: “I’ll only tup someone I know has never had another. You can keep your whores.” Archie was the second son of the Marquis of Hunting.
Between the four of them, their fathers included two Dukes, a Marquis and an Earl. In a world of heirs, their group of titled gentlemen was indeed an elite one. They were all happily single and enjoying the usual ten years of recklessness allowed to a young gentleman before getting a wife and begetting an heir. They all loved having no responsibilities, enjoyed wonderful bachelor lodgings thanks to their wealthy families and didn’t have a care in the world. Who would have known that within the next twenty-four hours, the lives of this group of second sons would begin to change forever?
One
London 1812
One year and Six months later.
Oliver, the newly inherited tenth Duke of Lincoln, could not believe he was attending a ton ball. He shook his head and clenched his teeth tightly together. He had sworn to himself that he would not attend another until he intended to marry. There was no other reason to put himself through such torture.
If it were not for the ball in question being the birthday of Lady Charlotte Dunford—the little sister he’d never had—he would not be here. Lady Charlotte was the younger sister of his best friend, Sir John Dunford, the son of Duke of Arrow. They’d grown up together and Oliver loved Lady Charlotte for treating him like she treated her own brother—with unwaning, unconditional hatred one day and overpowering affection the next. Oliver had only had an elder brother for company and had often coveted the sisters about which his friends complained.
He let his jaw relax as his mind swirled around the waltz music. Lady Charlotte, the little brat, had used every trick she possessed, including fake tears, pleading and even threats, to get Oliver to attend her twenty-first birthday ball. He, of course, had succumbed. It would take a force of nature to stop Lady Charlotte when she had her mind set on something.
“Excuse me,” Oliver said, bowing to the gentlemen to whom he had been speaking and he made his way across the room to where Lady Charlotte stood, holding court. The crowd parted in front of him like the Red Sea before Moses. Oliver’s heart sank and he couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped him. He missed being the second son, relatively unimportant and unnoticed by the haut ton. He’d have given absolutely anything to have Gerald back. Gerald knew how to behave, he knew how to be the esteemed holder of a Dukedom. He’d been raised for it, bred for it, even. How he would have laughed to see Oliver struggle with the responsibility. A wry smile crept onto Oliver’s face as he remembered his departed elder brother, and he drew up next to the now unoccupied Lady Charlotte.
“My lady,” Oliver leaned closer than was proper and spoke directly into her ear.
“My Lord!” Charlotte spun around to face him and greeted him with a smile that was both warm and genuine. The icy discomfort he’d been feeling from the moment he’d entered the room, melted away. Lady Charlotte was worth the pain. She would never be one to call him by his brother’s title, and he would be forever grateful for that.
“May I claim my dance? I do believe this is ours.” Oliver extended his arm and grinned at his surrogate sister. An action which he knew would cause the dimple in his right cheek to become pronounced.
“Of course,” Lady Charlotte smiled and took his arm for a waltz.
Swinging Lady Charlotte into the perfect waltz position that included at least six inches between their bodies and no hands below the waist, he looked down at her laughing blue eyes and scowled at her.
“Having fun, are you?” He didn’t even attempt a polite start to the conversation now that they were out of earshot.
She giggled, and once again Oliver was struggling to maintain the deep tightness of anger inside his belly.
“Of course I am, it’s my birthday. How are you enjoying my night, Oliver? There are so many unmarried young ladies in this room that I expected you to have run away screaming by now.” Lady Charlotte spoke with her characteristic bluntness.
“You mean to torture me, then?”
Charlotte smiled slowly, appearing to be thinking about her answer.
“I have been hoping you may find a wife, yes. You need to spend more time consorting with ladies rather, than the type of women I hear you and my brother have been consorting with lately.”
“That is none of your business, scamp,” Oliver hissed at Charlotte through his teeth. What sort of lady would say that to a gentleman?
“Which part? The part where I said you should marry a lady?” She emphasized the word with a cheeky smile. “Or the part where I mentioned the women that you frequently visit?”
Oliver gasped and stopped himself from taking a step back. Girls of Lady Charlotte’s social rank were not meant to even know about such women, let alone speak to a gentleman about them. Was this really the same girl who had put worms under his pillow, and cried on his lap when she’d scraped her knees running down a path?
“Lady Charlotte! You shouldn’t be speaking of it either. I’m barely six and twenty, hardly old enough for you to be marrying me off to some title adoring, bird-brained, barely-out-of the school room debutante.” Oliver was just about spitting out the words by the time he’d finished.
Lady Charlotte laughed with delight, obviously pleased at getting the reaction she’d anticipated.
Time for a change of subject I think.
“What about you, scamp? Are you planning on finding a husband this season? You are getting a little long in the tooth compared to some of these pretty faces I’m seeing tonight.” It was Oliver’s turn to tease her now and he liked turning the tables on the quick-witted Lady Charlotte Dunford. They both knew that with Charlotte’s pretty face, pleasing figure and generous dowry, she’d still be a good choice of wife when she was thirty.
“Do not even think of turning it back on me, Lord Oliver, she said, addressing him by his former title and therefore pleasing him greatly. We both know that I’ll marry as soon as I find someone who is remotely interesting.”
Lady Charlotte managed to laugh softly and shrugged one creamy shoulder.
Oliver had another good look at her and tried to see Lady Charlotte as a marriageable woman, rather than as younger sister. She was beautiful in a dark haired, pale skinned, classic sort of way. She had a curvaceous figure that wasn’t precisely in mode but was certainly pleasing. Her rather ample breasts swelled up from the low neck line and Oliver knew if she wasn’t ‘Lady Charlotte’ then he would indeed have found her desirable. She was also intelligent, and not in any way flighty.
“It’s a pity I can’t marry you, Charlotte. You would have made me the perfect Duchess.”
Charlotte laughed without humour. She had been courted since her coming out by men who wanted her both for her breeding as well as for her dowry.
“I know, Lord Oliver, if only I could stand the idea of marrying you.”
Oliver laughed wholeheartedly, ignoring the glances that swung their way. He really did love this girl.
They finished their waltz, and walked over to the edge of the ballroom, with almost every eye in the room following them. Oliver tried his best to ignore it, but the heat was climbing up his collar in an embarrassing way.
Oliver turned his head and spotted a rather large matron towing not one, but two daughters in her wake. There wasn’t a chance that he’d stand there any longer, waiting to be forced into unwanted introductions. He spoke t
o Lady Elizabeth, with panic underlying his apparently calm words.
“Kindly allow me to take your leave. Lady Charlotte, I need to think for a little while. Would you forgive me for taking a walk around the gardens?” Oliver started bowing before he had even finished his sentence. His heart had sunk again and he could feel flutters of panic setting in, with the increased beat of his heart.
Lady Charlotte looked over his shoulder at the woman making a direct line through the crowd for them and chuckled.
“Go, go,” she urged discreetly, “Just don’t get caught compromising anyone.”
Oliver didn’t even break stride as he simultaneously scowled over his shoulder at Charlotte and made his escape from the room. He could still hear her tinkling laughter as he made his escape out one of the many doors to the gardens.
*****
At that exact moment in time, a very proper young lady, on her first London Season was walking around those same gardens, admiring the beautifully manicured trees. Sarah Collins was nineteen years old, slightly old to be on her first season and almost as innocent as she was handsome, which was saying something about her naiveté because she was a real beauty. She was what most people classed as a diamond of the first water. She had golden blonde hair that curled without a maid’s help and light violet eyes that gave her an angelic appearance. Her mother had chosen her evening gown, a pale yellow satin that complimented both her hair and her slightly tanned skin. Travelling in the sunshine and growing up in the countryside tended to do that to a person, however unfashionable.
“Are these not the most beautiful gardens you have ever seen, Mr. Miller?” Sarah was speaking to her handsome escort for the night, enchanted by her unfamiliar surroundings. It had been such a lovely suggestion of Mister Miller’s for her to get some fresh air. London truly was a wonder. “No one in Somerset has gardens such as these. Imagine the time and care it must have taken the gardeners.”
