Duke Darcy's Castle

by Syrie James

  “Welcome to the family, Kathryn,” the dowager duchess said, beaming beneath an enormous hat. “You look radiant today.”

  “It is the happiest day of my life, Your Grace,” Kathryn admitted.

  “Oh, stop with that Your Grace nonsense,” the duchess insisted. “Henceforth you will call me Grandmother.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.” Kathryn kissed her on the cheek, thrilled and grateful to have such a dear person in her life.

  Kathryn’s mother hadn’t stopped beaming since she’d set foot in the castle a week before.

  “You know how proud I am of your sisters,” Josephine Atherton said as she took in the festivities with a smile. “Alexandra is a countess. Madeleine, when her husband inherits, will be a marchioness. But you, Kathryn, have out distanced them both. You are a duchess!”

  “That was never my aim nor my ambition,” Kathryn replied, “but if my being a duchess makes you happy, Mother, then I’m glad.”

  “Oh, it makes me more than happy, my dear. I have it on good authority that when Mrs. Astor read about your engagement in the New York papers, she gasped in shock, dressed immediately, and arrived uninvited at the door of Ward McAllister, the only person alive who owns her confidence. Just think of it: the Duke of Darcy! And to live here at St. Gabriel’s Mount! Of course, your father and I have already been on Mrs. Astor’s list of Four Hundred ever since Alexandra married, but this raises our level of prestige to the highest ranks. Now she must include us forever.”

  Kathryn had declined the job offer from Mr. Patterson, deciding she’d rather risk operating on her own in a freelance capacity than continue in the employment of a man who had so readily stolen her work. To her delight, she had discovered that there was a great deal of work much closer to home, which would allow her to spend more time with Lance.

  They had agreed to put off the renovations to the castle for a while, preferring instead to update the buildings in the village, a project which Lance had turned over entirely to Kathryn. And that was just the beginning. With the Lloyds Bank building and all the projects of the past two years on her résumé, further aided by Lance’s growing contacts in the community, Kathryn had already taken meetings with prospective clients in Rosquay and Falmouth, and had been signed to design a new house in Penzance in the coming year.

  When they were at last in the privacy of the master bedchamber later that night, and Kathryn was snuggled into her new husband’s embrace after making love, Kathryn said, “Lance. There is something I have been meaning to ask you.”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “Oh, how I adore it when you call me that.”

  He smiled and kissed her. A kiss that lingered and continued for several delectable minutes.

  “I can’t think when you kiss me,” she said breathlessly.

  “Then don’t think.” His eyes glittered as his hand roved up to cup her breast. “Just feel.”

  “But I’m curious about something,” Kathryn said, her body tingling with desire all over again. “That night in London . . . what did you say to all those men at your club?”

  “Do you really want to talk about that now?” he asked as he kissed the sensitive skin at the side of her throat.

  “The fact that they all capitulated at the drop of a hat. I’ve often worried that you . . . paid them off.”

  Lance stopped kissing her neck and looked at her. “Paid them off? Not at all. It would never have occurred to me.”

  “Then how did you convince them?”

  “I told them you were incredibly smart and talented, you had done the work, and you’d earned it. I said it was almost the twentieth century and time to let a woman into the fold.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, I may have waved my ducal power about just a bit.”

  Kathryn laughed as she drew a fingertip along the seam of his lips. Oh, how she loved those lips. “I’m relieved to know that money wasn’t involved. But dismayed that you had to bully them into it.”

  “What fun is there in being a duke if you can’t put the position to good use?” He grinned, then added: “Trust me, if you hadn’t been qualified, my title wouldn’t have helped. You have changed history, my darling. You are the first woman architect in Great Britain. And I couldn’t be more proud.” He kissed her again as his hands continued their exploring.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Kathryn said, struggling to maintain her wits, despite the sparks that were igniting everywhere he touched. “Dukes are like gods. People will jump through hoops to make your every wish happen.”

  “Would you jump through a hoop for me, my love?” His voice was deep and sultry as he moved on top of her.

  “I would,” Kathryn replied with a gasp.

  “Good to know,” he said softly. “But in this case, I would rather be the one . . . taking the plunge.”

  And all thought vanished from Kathryn’s mind as she gave herself over to the pleasure of making love to the man she adored.

  Author’s Note

  My greatest pleasure in writing the Dare to Defy series has been the opportunity to create motivated characters who must struggle to achieve their dreams and aspirations, since they go against society’s dictates at the time.

  For Duke Darcy’s Castle, the third book in the series, I immediately seized upon architecture as my heroine’s professional goal. Being an architectural enthusiast myself, I was appalled to learn how few female architects there were in the world at the time this story takes place—and that nearly all had been refused admission to architectural schools and societies.

  In real life, the first woman to be admitted to Britain’s Royal Institute of British Architects was Ethel Charles in 1898. After training as an architect at a private firm, in 1893 she applied to the Architectural Association School of Architecture, but as a woman, was refused entry. Ethel completed part of the course at another school, receiving distinctions. After passing the RIBA examination, despite opposition from many members, Ethel was finally granted membership. She faced discrimination in the workplace, and was forced to concentrate on modest housing projects.

  Louise Blanchard Bethune, as noted in this novel, was the first American woman known to have worked as a professional architect. Mary Gannon and Alice Hands graduated from the New York School of Applied Design for Women in 1892, and later opened an architectural firm focusing on low-cost residential housing. Several other American women, including Fay Kellogg and Mary Rockwell Hook, traveled to Paris hoping to study at the École des Beaux-Arts, but suffered from discrimination after sitting for examinations, and were refused admission. In spite of this, Kellogg went on to design hundreds of buildings in the New York area, and Hook designed a school in Kentucky and a number of buildings in Kansas City, employing innovative architectural techniques. Julia Morgan was the first woman to receive a degree in architecture from the École des Beaux-Arts (1901), and the first woman architect licensed in California. Morgan completed over 700 projects, including Hearst Castle in San Simeon.

  When it came to my hero, Lord Darcy, I was excited by the idea of a man in a career transition, who had never expected to inherit a dukedom. At first, when I envisioned Lance in the Royal Navy, my head was full of images of wooden ships and the Age of Sail. I was fascinated to learn about the enormous changes that had taken place in the Royal Navy during the nineteenth century.

  A very special aspect of this novel, for me, is the location. St. Gabriel’s Mount is based on the real life St. Michael’s Mount in southern Cornwall, which I visited a few years ago. As I strolled across the causeway to the island at low tide and spent the day exploring the nooks and crannies of the castle and grounds, I fell in love with the place. I will never forget the sweeping views from the upper terrace, the majesty of the ancient castle with its towers and turrets and rows of cannons, the crash of the waves on the rocks below, and the invigorating scent of the sea air. The remote location seemed like the ideal setting for a steamy romance. I hope you enjoyed the result! />
  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thank you to Lucia Macro, Asanté Simons, Brittani DiMare, and everyone at Avon for all your hard work preparing this novel for publication. I’m especially grateful to Guido Caroti, who designed my cover, which I think is absolutely stunning!

  Thank you so much, Tamar Rydzinski, for your helpful notes. I so appreciate you and all that you do on my behalf.

  A big thank you to Laurel Ann Nattress, for pointing out the little things that required tweaking with regard to nineteenth-century British customs and manners. Your input was invaluable.

  A huge thank you to my dear late husband, Bill, who was a big supporter of my writing, and was very excited about this book in particular. I will miss him forever, with every breath I take.

  And to my readers: I couldn’t do this without you. Writing is my love and my life. Thank you so much for your support!

  An Excerpt from Runaway Heiress

  Don’t miss the beginning of the amazing Dare to Defy series!

  Keep reading for a look at the very first book in the series,

  Runaway Heiress!

  Chapter One

  London, England

  May 8, 1888

  “One first-class ticket for Liverpool, please.” Alexandra Atherton managed a smile for the ticket agent behind the window.

  “One way or return?”

  “One way.” Alexandra anxiously made her way across the busy train station, hardly able to believe she was doing this: running away, dressed in her maid’s old clothes, bound for Liverpool and the steamship that would take her home.

  Her escape, she knew, would cause something of a scandal. Over the past few years, whenever her name or one of her sisters’ names had cropped up in the press, it was always followed by “the American heiress,” or “the daughter of multimillionaire banking tycoon Colis Atherton.” As if they were not actual people in their own right.

  Alexandra hated to feed the gossip, but after last night, what choice did she have?

  She had left a note explaining where she’d gone and why, which her maid Fiona was to “accidentally discover” later that afternoon. By then, it would be too late for her mother to prevent Alexandra from sailing. She just prayed that upon her reaching Liverpool, a berth would be available aboard the Maritime.

  The train platform was alive with the clamor of movement and conversation. Gentlemen in black frock coats and ladies in elaborate plumed hats darted to and fro, checking the printed timetables, studying the large clock hanging from the rafters, purchasing apples from a vendor and papers from the newsstand. As Alexandra wove through the crowd, she heard a high-pitched voice at her elbow:

  “Got a penny for a poor orphan?”

  She paused. Before her stood a raggedly dressed, dirty little girl. Alexandra’s heart went out to the creature, who gazed up at her with wide eyes, her hair all in a tangle.

  Alexandra wondered how a penny could possibly be of any help to a child in such need. Withdrawing her coin purse from her reticule, she offered the child a shilling. “Here you go, little one.” Suddenly, more children in similarly dirty clothing appeared and crowded around her.

  “Mine!” cried a boy.

  “No, mine!” cried another.

  A grubby fist flashed out and snatched the shilling from Alexandra’s grasp. She couldn’t tell if it was the first girl who took it or one of the boys; indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure what happened next. All Alexandra knew was that multitudes of small, filthy hands were striking at her as young voices erupted in raucous shouts. Her coin purse was suddenly wrenched from her grasp, and a second later her handbag was gone.

  “Wait! Give it back!” Alexandra cried as the flock of children fled. “Help! Stop those children! They’ve stolen my bag!”

  No one made any move to help her. Alexandra pushed her way through the crowd, racing after the children, but the ragamuffin band vanished as quickly as it had appeared. At the end of the platform, she stopped to catch her breath. The whole incident, she saw now, had been cleverly played, the efforts of a pack of urchins who preyed on unsuspecting travelers.

  She searched for a policeman (what did they call them here? Bobbies?), but realized that even if one materialized, she couldn’t report the theft. She was dressed as a servant, in the act of running away.

  Alexandra stood rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by a crushing sense of horror and disappointment as the depths of her predicament became clear to her. Her handbag was gone. It had held all her money as well as her train ticket. She hadn’t been able to take anything else with her, and now had nothing left except the clothes on her back. Clearly, there would be no trip to Liverpool today, and no voyage to New York.

  Tears stung Alexandra’s eyes as she made her way back through the train station. What should she do now?

  She considered the English girls she’d met over the past five weeks of the London Season, but realized they’d be no help. Not a single one had responded to Alexandra’s attempts at friendship. They’d seemed to consider Alexandra too outgoing, too outspoken, and had eyed her with reserved and stony suspicion, as if she were there to deliberately steal away all the best men. The matrons Alexandra had met had all befriended her mother. Nor could she seek refuge from Rose Parker, a debutante from Chicago who’d landed her titled man the year before and was now the most miserable human being in creation, entirely under the thumb of her husband.

  As Alexandra exited through the train station’s high Doric portico, she wiped tears away. It was over. It was all over. Unless she wanted to starve on the street like the poor, ragged, toothless woman selling apples at the curb, Alexandra had no alternative but to go back to Brown’s Hotel with her tail between her legs.

  Even though it would spell her doom.

  Even though her mother would surely lock Alexandra in their suite again until she agreed to marry Lord Shrewsbury.

  Well, Alexandra told herself as she hailed one of the waiting hansom cabs and climbed aboard, her ruse hadn’t worked this time. She would just have to think of something new and try again in a few days for another ship.

  “Brown’s Hotel,” she instructed the cabbie through the trapdoor near the rear of the roof.

  “That’ll be a shilling.” The man’s tone conveyed his distrust of such a shabby customer.

  Alexandra peered up at him through the tiny window behind her. “Sir, I’ve been the victim of a robbery. My handbag and all my money were stolen. I’ll see to it, however, that you are paid upon arrival.”

  “Cash in advance, Yank, or there’s no ride.”

  “Sir, my name is Alexandra Atherton. My father is a multimillionaire. If you will please take me to Brown’s Hotel, I assure you that my mother will pay my fare.”

  “And who’s your mother? America’s first lady?” A brief, contemptuous laugh escaped his mouth. “There’s plenty of folk who’ll be happy to pay in advance, girl. Go on, step down.”

  Cheeks flaming, Alexandra climbed down from the vehicle. She tried every cab in sight, but it was always the same story: no fare, no ride. Alexandra was incensed and humiliated. She was an heiress. She’d attended college! She’d been the belle of the ball at numerous events of the London Season. Yet she was being treated harshly, simply due to the clothing she wore.

  Alexandra realized she’d have to walk. How many miles lay between Euston Station and Brown’s Hotel? She had no idea. During the cab ride that morning, she’d been so absorbed in her thoughts she hadn’t paid attention to their route.

  Pausing at a corner, Alexandra asked a shoeshine man how to get to Brown’s Hotel. His instructions were long-winded and delivered in a thick cockney accent. She was able to gather, though, that it was a journey of about two miles. Following his gesticulations, she began walking south.

  It was a gray, cloudy spring morning with the threat of rain. Although Alexandra had always enjoyed long walks in the countryside growing up, she’d never been enamored of strolling in a city. The sidewalks of London were jammed
with men and women rushing about their business, and the streets were clogged with traffic. Horse-drawn carriages of every size and description jockeyed for position with hansom cabs, men on high-wheel bicycles, and buses topped with crowds of people. The air, heavy with soot and smoke, was further befouled by the stench of horse dung and urine that covered the street and lay piled up in heaps at the curb. A boy of twelve or thirteen dodged among the vehicles, struggling to scoop the excrement into a bucket, but it was a futile battle.

  Alexandra waited for an opening in the traffic, then raised her skirts and picked her way across the street. Thank goodness she’d worn her oldest, sturdiest pair of walking boots, the only shoes she possessed that wouldn’t have looked out of place with the plain black cotton dress she wore. Even so, by the time she reached the opposite curb, she’d had to scrape off the filth that clung to her soles.

  She plodded on, past a street locksmith’s stall, a man towing a barrel organ on wheels, and a fancy wares dealer selling porcelain ornaments from a wheelbarrow. Sandwich-board men crowded the curb, wearing signs proclaiming such slogans as try dr. clarke’s tonic and hair restorer and drink cola: it quenches the thirst as nothing else will.

  Twice more, she stopped to ask for directions. Eventually, a clock on a bank building told Alexandra she’d been walking for two and a half hours, and she began to wonder if she’d made a wrong turn. She should have reached Brown’s Hotel by now. At the very least, she should recognize something of the neighborhood. But nothing looked familiar. Instead of elegant white houses, she saw rows of redbrick buildings and streets lined with shops and pubs.

  “Fresh muffins!” shouted a woman in a cheap dress and dirty apron who was selling bread and pastries beneath a makeshift tarp.

  The aroma of freshly baked goods made Alexandra’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, having planned to purchase something at the station. Although she’d never bought food off a city street cart in her life, she would have been happy to do so now, if only she had the money.