Dedication
My cousin Valerie Kerxhalli, who has faced her own life challenge with all the courage, resourcefulness, grace, and good humor of a true heroine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter 18
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Loretta Chase
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
London
Early morning of 11 June 1833
The Duke of Ashmont was not a very good duke—rather an awful one, actually. And so nobody could be in the least surprised to see him, drunk as an emperor—that was to say, ten times as drunk as a lord—staggering down the steps of Crockford’s Club on the arm of one of his two best friends.
This one was Hugh Philemon Ancaster, seventh Duke of Ripley. Where Ashmont was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and angelic-looking, Ripley was dark. Unlike Ashmont, he did not appear to be spun of dreams and gossamer, and women did not follow his movements with the moonstruck expressions they accorded His Grace with the Angel Face.
On a good day, someone had said once, Ripley’s face resembled that of a wolf who’d been in too many fights.
Furthermore, though his slightly older title ranked him a notch or two higher in precedence than Ashmont, Ripley was merely as drunk as a lord. He could still distinguish up from down. When, therefore, His Grace of Ashmont showed an inclination to stumble in the downhill direction, toward St. James’s Palace, Ripley hauled him about.
“This way,” he said. “Hackney stand up ahead.”
“Right,” Ashmont said. “Can’t miss the wedding. Not this one. It’s me doing it. Me and Olympia. Have to be there. Promised.”
“You will be,” Ripley said as he led his friend across the street. The wedding had been news to him, the choice of bride a shock: Lady Olympia Hightower, of all women. She was the last girl on earth he’d thought would marry Ashmont—or any of them, for that matter.
Not that Ripley knew her very well. Or at all. They’d been introduced, yes, years ago. That was in the days when respectable persons still introduced Ripley and his two friends to innocent girls. But those were not the kinds of girls the ducal trio wanted. Gently bred maidens were for marrying, and marriage was supposed to be years away, sometime in the dim, distant future.
Apparently, the future had arrived while Ripley wasn’t looking.
First the Duke of Blackwood, the other of his two boon companions, had married Ripley’s sister over a year ago, a few days before Ripley left for the Continent. Now Ashmont was doing it. Ripley had heard the happy news mere hours after his return to London yesterday.
No, he’d returned the day before, because today was yesterday now. He’d come to Crockford’s because he wanted a decent meal, and Crockford’s Ude was the next best thing to Ripley’s own chef, Chardot, who’d come down with a foul cold sometime during the Channel crossing.
Chardot went with him everywhere because he was amply paid to do so, and Ripley liked his comfort. Having been forced, for no sane reason, to live like a pauper during his boyhood, he lived like a king now.
Ripley was debating with himself whether, on the whole, he’d better have stayed abroad, when four men spilled out of a narrow court, one crashing into Ashmont with force enough to dislodge him from Ripley’s light grasp and push him into a shop front.
Ashmont bounced back with surprising energy. “You clumsy, bleeding, half-wit! I have to get married, you bloody arsehole!” At the same moment, he drove his fist at the fellow’s face.
One of the man’s friends tried to butt in. With a sigh, Ripley grabbed him by the back of the collar. The fellow swung at him, obliging Ripley to knock him into the gutter.
What happened after that was what often happened when Ashmont was about: a lot of filthy language and filthy fighting, and men rushing out of the clubs, shouting bets, and a female or two screaming somewhere.
Then it was over. Their foes lay strewn about the pavement. Ripley didn’t wait to count or identify them. He collected Ashmont from the railing he’d slumped against and trudged to the corner with him. He signaled, and the first in line of the hackneys plodded their way. He threw Ashmont into the decrepit coach and directed the driver to Ashmont House.
Servants waited up, as they were accustomed to do, for Ashmont. They bore him up the stairs to his bedroom and undressed and washed him without fuss. They were old hands at dealing with their master’s little foibles.
After he’d seen His Grace safely tucked into bed, Ripley left.
He needed a bath, a nap, and a change of clothes.
He had a wedding to attend in a few hours.
Chapter 1
Newland House, Kensington
Late forenoon of 11 June 1833
If the bride was drunk—which she wasn’t—it was on account of celebrating.
In a very little while, Lady Olympia Hightower was going to make all of her family’s dreams come true. Hers, too, most of them.
She would become the Duchess of Ashmont.
Teetering on the brink of six and twenty, she ought to thank her lucky stars she’d won the heart . . . admiration . . . something . . .
. . . of one of England’s three most notorious libertines, a trio of dukes known as Their Dis-Graces.
She narrowed her eyes at the looking glass.
Behind gold-rimmed spectacles, eyes of a can’t-make-up-their-mind grey-blue-green took a moment to focus on the grandeur that was her. She. Whatever.
Elaborate side curls of a commonplace brown framed her heart-shaped face. An intricate arrangement of plaits, topped by a great blossom of pleated lace adorned with orange blossoms, crowned her head. A blond lace veil cascaded over her bare shoulders, down over the full, lace-covered sleeves, and on past her waist.
She looked down at herself.
Four knots marched down to the V of the waistline. Below that swelled full skirts of brocaded silk.
A great waste of money, which would have been better spent on Eton for Clarence or a cornetcy for Andrew or something for one of the boys. Apart from his heir—Stephen, Lord Ludford—the Earl of Gonerby had five sons to support, a subject to which he’d given no thought whatsoever. His mind, unlike his daughter’s, was not practical.
Thus, her present predicament. Which wasn’t a predicament at all. So everybody said. There was nothing predicamental about being a duchess.
In any event, practicality had nothing to do with this bridal extravaganza. The money must be thrown away on Olympia, on a single dress, because, according to Aunt Lavinia, it was an investment in the future.
A duchess-to-be couldn’t wear any old thing to her wedding. The bridal ensemble had to be expensive and fashionable, though not flamboyantly so, because a duchess-to-be ought to look expensively fashionable, though not flamboyantly so.
After the wedding was another matter entirely. A duchess could pour the entire contents of her jewel boxes over herself and never be overdressed.
With a few adjustments, a different arrangement on her head, and more diamonds or pearls or both, Olympia would wear the dress to the next Drawing Room, when her mother or perhaps Aun
t Lavinia, the Marchioness of Newland, would present the new Duchess of Ashmont to the Queen.
That wasn’t all that would happen after the wedding.
There was the wedding night, which, according to Mama, would not be unpleasant, although she’d been rather vague regarding details. But after the wedding night came the marriage, years and years of it. To Ashmont.
The about-to-be Duchess of Ashmont picked up the cup of brandy-laced tea Lady Newland had brought to steady bridal nerves. The cup was empty.
“Do not even think of bolting,” her aunt had said when she delivered the doctored tea.
Certainly not. Too late for that, even if Olympia had been the sort of girl who backed down or ran away from anything, let alone the chance of a lifetime. She had six brothers. Being the second eldest child counted for nothing with boys. It was dominate or be dominated.
Some said she was rather too dominating, for a girl. But that wouldn’t matter when she became a duchess.
She bent and retrieved from under the dressing table the flask of brandy she’d stolen from Stephen. She unstopped it, brought it to her mouth, and tipped in what she gauged as a thimbleful. She stopped it again, set it on the dressing table, and told herself she was doing the right thing.
What was the alternative? Humiliate the bridegroom, who’d done nothing—to Olympia, in any event—to deserve it? Disgrace her family? Face permanent social ruin? And all on account of what? The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, which surely was nothing more than the usual wedding-day anxiety.
Only a lunatic would run away from becoming the bride of one of the kingdom’s handsomest, richest, most powerful men, she told herself. That was to say, Ashmont could be powerful, if he’d bother, but he . . .
She lost her train of thought because somebody tapped at the door.
“Please,” she said. “I’m praying.”
She’d insisted on time alone. She needed to collect herself and prepare for this immense change in her life, she’d told her mother and aunt. They’d looked at each other, then left. Soon thereafter, Aunt Lavinia had returned with the doctored tea.
“Ten minutes, dear,” came her mother’s voice from the corridor.
Ten minutes already?
Olympia unstopped the flask again and took another sip.
Nearly six and twenty, she reminded herself. She’d never get an offer like this one, ever again. It was a miracle she’d got this one. And she’d known what she was doing when she said yes.
True, Lucius Wilmot Beckingham, the sixth Duke of Ashmont, was a bit of an ass, and so immature he made nine-year-old Clarence look like King Solomon. And yes, it went without saying that His Grace would be unfaithful.
But Ashmont was handsome, and he could charm a girl witless when he set his mind to it, and he’d definitely set his mind to charming her. He seemed to like her. And it wasn’t as though any great shocks were in store for her. His character was well known to anybody who read the gossipy parts of the fashionable periodicals.
The important thing was, he’d asked. And she was desperate.
“A duchess,” she told the looking glass. “You can practically change the world, or at least part of it. It’s as close as a woman can come to being a man, unless she becomes the queen—and no mere consort either, but queen in her own right. Even then . . . Oh, never mind. It’s not going to happen to you, my girl.”
Somewhere in Olympia’s head or maybe her heart or her stomach, a snide little voice, exactly like her cousin Edwina’s, said, “The Love of a Lifetime is never going to happen to you, either. No Prince Charming on his white charger will come for you. Not even a passionate lord. Or a shop clerk, for that matter.”
She suffocated the voice, as she had wished, many times, to suffocate Cousin Edwina.
The Olympia who’d entertained fantasies of princes and passionate gentlemen had been a naive creature, head teeming with novel-fed romantic fantasies as she embarked on her first London Season.
For seven years, she’d been voted Most Boring Girl of the Season. In seven years, she’d received not a single offer. That was to say, she’d received no offer any young lady in her right mind, no matter how desperate, would accept or, as had happened in the case of an elderly suitor, would be allowed to accept.
And so, when Ashmont had asked, what could she say?
She could say no, and face a future as an elderly spinster dependent on brothers who could barely support themselves and their own families. Or she could say yes and solve a great many problems at once. It was as simple as that. No point in making it complicated.
She took another sip of brandy. And another.
There came louder and more impatient tapping at the door.
“It’s the right thing to do and I’m going to do it,” she whispered to her reflection, “because somebody has to.”
She took another swig.
“What the devil’s keeping her?” Ashmont said.
The guests whispered busily. At every sound from outside the drawing room, heads turned to the door through which the bride was to come.
No bride had made her entrance. It must be half an hour past the appointed time.
Ripley had gone out to inquire of the bride’s mother whether Lady Olympia was ill. Lady Gonerby had looked bewildered and only shook her head. Her sister Lady Newland had explained.
“Something to do with the dress,” Ripley said. “The aunt’s gone up with a maid and a sewing case.”
“A sewing case!”
“Something’s come undone, I take it.”
“What the devil do I care?” said Ashmont. “I’m going to undo it later, in any event.”
“You know how women are,” Ripley said.
“It isn’t like Olympia to fuss over trifles.”
“A wedding dress is not a trifle,” Ripley said. “I ought to know. M’sister’s cost more than that filly I had of Pershore.”
His sister wasn’t here. According to Blackwood, Alice had gone to Camberley Place, one of Ripley’s properties, to look after their favorite aunt.
“This is boring,” Ashmont said. “I hate these bloody rituals.”
Lord Gonerby left the drawing room. He returned a moment later and said, jovially, “Apologies for the delay. Something to do with a troublesome hem or flounce or some such. I’ve sent for champagne. No sense in getting thirsty while the sewing needles are at work.”
A moment later the butler entered with a brace of footmen, all bearing trays of glasses.
Ashmont drank one, then another and another, in rapid succession.
Ripley drank, too, but not much. This was partly because he hadn’t yet recovered from last night’s activities. He must be getting old, because he could have used another hour or more of sleep, after the extended bout of gambling and drinking followed by a street brawl followed by the too-familiar labor of getting Ashmont out of a melee and home and to bed.
The other reason he abstained was the job he’d undertaken.
Last night, at Crockford’s, Ashmont had asked—or insisted, rather—that one of his two friends supervise today’s proceedings.
“One of you has to make sure I get there on time, with the ring,” he’d said. “And the license and such. Everybody thinks I’m going to bungle it. I won’t.”
“I’ve already done a wedding,” Blackwood had said. “My own. I should like, this time, to look on, irresponsibly.” Having shifted the job to Ripley, Blackwood had smiled and waved them on their way, suggesting they both go home and get some sleep.
If he knew more about Ashmont’s urgent wish to be shackled, Blackwood hadn’t said. Not that he’d had time to say much of anything. Last night, Ashmont had done all the talking, and his tale had knocked Ripley on his beam ends.
In the first place, Ashmont had acquired his betrothed fair and square, in the usual manner of wooing and asking. In other words, the bride wasn’t pregnant. Second, and equally amazing, Ashmont had persuaded an attractive, eligible, and sane girl to accept his
suit. Ripley would have bet a large sum that there didn’t exist in all of England a gently bred maiden desperate enough to take on Ashmont—or whose family would let her, in the event his looks and charm got the better of her wits.
As he’d boasted in his infrequent letters, Almack’s hostesses had barred him from their assemblies, the King had let His Grace know he wasn’t welcome at the Royal Levees, and the majority of hostesses in London had cut him from their invitation lists. For a good-looking, solvent duke, these sorts of accomplishments took some doing.
However, it seemed that Ashmont’s and Lady Olympia’s paths had crossed near the Clarendon Hotel some weeks ago. Somebody’s ill-tempered dog, taking instant dislike to His Grace, had tried to tear his boot off. Ashmont, being well to go, as usual, had tripped as he tried to shake off the dog, and nearly tumbled into the street—into the path of an oncoming hackney cabriolet going at top speed, as they usually did.
“But there was an umbrella handle,” he’d told Ripley. “It hooked about my arm, pulling me back. And in a moment I was stumbling back onto the pavement, trying to recover my balance. Meanwhile the dog was barking his head off. And she said, ‘Hssst,’ or something like that, and set the umbrella on the pavement, point down this time, with a sharp click. And do you know, the dog went quiet and skulked away!” Ashmont had laughed at the recollection. “And she said, ‘Are you all right, duke?’ And her maid was muttering something, trying to get her lady away from me, no doubt. I thought I was all right, but Olympia looked down and told me my boot was badly torn. I looked down. So it was. She said I couldn’t walk about London like that—heaven only knew what would get into the boot and onto my foot, she said. And then, of all things, she said, ‘My carriage will be here in a moment. We will take you home.’ Which she did, though her maid didn’t like it one bit. Neither did the coachman or footman but there was nothing they could do. Lady Olympia Hightower! Can you credit it? I couldn’t. How many times have we seen her at this do or that?”
Countless times, Ripley thought. A tallish girl, bespectacled, but not bad-looking. Good figure. No, make that very good. But she was a gently bred maiden, of very good family, and reputed to be bookish. She might as well have had the label Poison, with skull and crossbones, pasted over her fine bosom.
A Duke in Shining Armor Page 1
