How to Find a Duke in Ten Days

by Grace Burrowes

  Ramsdale took her hand. “I can bring a lawsuit for the way he maligned you, and that would be the end of his chicanery. I should have taken that execrable sign with us as evidence. To think that my future countess’s scholarly research was bandied about as fodder for shop-window gawkers. Perhaps I’ll threaten him a bit, give him a few sleepless years.”

  Frightening the little toad within an inch of his larcenous wits had probably already accomplished that aim.

  “Ramsdale, be sensible. You lied too.” All in good cause, but the nature of those fabrications dulled the golden lining from the morning’s adventure.

  Ramsdale turned a lordly scowl upon her. “I am not prone to dissembling, Philomena. Unlike some people, I present myself as I am in all particulars at all times.”

  How did he make the hackney’s interior shrink? How did he fill the entire space with two indignant sentences?

  “I’ve seen your particulars, Ramsdale, and I’d like to see them again soon, but you told that scoundrel I am your prospective countess. I doubt he’ll be gossiping about your conversation, but you did misstate matters.”

  Though Philomena had dreamed. Despite all common sense and logic to the contrary, she had dreamed. She knew where the Duke was, though, and thus her dreams, and even her time with Ramsdale, were over.

  How ironic, that finding the Duke meant losing the earl.

  “Shall I kneel in the dirty straw of a moving conveyance, Philomena? Shall I go down on bended knee now, when the ring I ordered has yet to be delivered and your infernal Duke has revealed his whereabouts to you?”

  Two realities collided as Philomena searched Ramsdale’s gaze.

  At this moment, she didn’t care one whit for the Duke. Let Papa’s reputation rest on decades of sound scholarship and inspired teaching. He didn’t need the Duke to polish his academic halo.

  Philomena didn’t need the Duke either. She needed the earl.

  And apparently, the earl needed her. “You aren’t jesting.”

  “When do I jest?”

  “When you haven’t any clothes on. You tickled me. That’s a jest of sorts. You truly want a bluestocking spinster for your countess?”

  He did not lie. He did not dissemble. He did not… well, he did embrace pretty young women on staircases, or they embraced him. Philomena had done likewise at the first opportunity, so she couldn’t really blame Lady Maude for attempting to secure Ramsdale’s notice.

  “Spinsters are fine company,” Ramsdale retorted. “They are fearless and direct, also given to independence and blunt opinions.”

  “You’ve just described yourself, my lord.”

  He kissed her on the mouth. “So I have, but it’s not a spinster to whom I offer my hand in marriage. I plight my troth with a brilliant, dauntless, wily, unstoppable, beautiful, passionate woman, with whom I’d consider it the greatest privilege of my life to be married. What say you, Philomena?”

  The hackney swayed around a corner, pushing Philomena away from Ramsdale, and yet, he held her hand. She mentally searched for words—any words, in any language—and found only one.

  “Yes. I say yes, and yes, and yes. I will be your countess, your wife, your lover, your greatest privilege.”

  “And if I haven’t any connection to His Perishing Literary Grace?” Ramsdale asked. “If all of Uncle’s maunderings are only that and no part of the Duke lies in my possession?”

  That this bothered him gave Philomena’s conscience a pang. “What matters the Duke when I can possess myself of the lover, the husband, the companion?”

  The hackney slowed.

  “You’re not enamored of the earl?”

  “Let’s repair to your lordship’s office,” Philomena said. “I’ll show you just how enamored of the earl I am.”

  *

  Thank God for the servants’ half day and for a widowed sister with a sense of discretion. Ramsdale had taken “Mr. Peebleshire” not to the office and not to the library—so there, Your Grace—but to the earl’s private sitting room.

  Which adjoined the earl’s bedroom, of course.

  The midday sunshine turned the skin of Philomena’s shoulder luminous as she slept on Ramsdale’s chest. Her hair was a chestnut and cinnamon riot tumbling down her back and her breath a soft breeze against his throat.

  They’d worn each other out, twice.

  Ramsdale was determined that their next bout of passion would wait until after the vows had been spoken, so that his bride—and her groom—could fully enjoy the wedding night. Philomena would probably poke eight holes in that strategy before next week, and what pleasurable holes they’d be.

  “You’re awake,” Philomena said, pushing up to straddle him.

  “I’m engaged, also in love.”

  She blushed, which on a naked woman was a fascinating display. “As am I.”

  For a polyglot, she could be parsimonious with her declarations.

  Ramsdale patted her bottom. “You’re shy. No matter. I will earn your passionate devotion, and soon you’ll be declaiming panegyrics in my honor from the—”

  “Dining parlor,” Philomena said. “I’m hungry. Your passionate devotions have put an appetite on me.”

  Also a rosy flush and a smile. Ramsdale’s whole body was smiling in response. “I could order a tray.”

  “We’ll go down to lunch. Do you suppose your sister might lend me a dress? We’re of a size.”

  Melissa made that loan without a question, though it would likely come at a high rate of sororal interest. Ramsdale played lady’s maid, Philomena served as valet, and a composed and proper couple descended to the dining parlor.

  “You wouldn’t rather stop by the library first?” Ramsdale asked.

  “The Duke has waited two hundred years,” Philomena said. “He can wait another hour.”

  “A fine notion.”

  Philomena did justice to the food, Ramsdale did justice to the wine, and the afternoon was half gone before they joined the cat in the library.

  “I should put him out,” Ramsdale said, lifting feline dead weight off the Bible. “He’s overdue for a trip to the garden.”

  “Let him stay,” Philomena said. “We can all admire the roses together once we’ve found what we came for.”

  She was eyeing the Bible, and chess pieces rearranged themselves in Ramsdale’s head. “All those biblical references and allusions.”

  “But only when your uncle was discussing you or your father. For everybody else, Dante, Chaucer, Voltaire… but for you, always the Bible. For the cat, a book of the Bible. Your uncle would have been in this room, probably alone, on those few occasions when he was allowed to visit his books.”

  Philomena carried the Bible over to the desk and sat.

  “I’d examine the front first,” Ramsdale advised. “He named the cat—my first bequest—Genesis.”

  Said cat began to purr.

  Philomena took up Ramsdale’s quizzing glass, peering at each edge of the front cover. “Here, right along the edge. The stitches are so fine, I can barely see them even with your glass. It’s here, Ramsdale, but I’d best not wield a knife when my hand is shaking.”

  Something lay beneath the binding covering the front of the family Bible. When Ramsdale joined Philomena at the desk, he could feel the slight bump beneath the leather and feel the lack of a corresponding bump under the back cover.

  The cat sat on the blotter, as if having called the meeting to order himself.

  “It might be a map or a letter,” Ramsdale said, “or another codicil.”

  “We can give it to Papa to translate, then, something to occupy him in retirement.” She sent Ramsdale a look that promised he’d be too busy to aid the professor—and so would she.

  Ramsdale tested the edge of a penknife against his thumb. Sharp, not too sharp. Stitch by stitch, with Philomena holding the quizzing glass for him, he worked his way down the binding.

  “Do you suppose Uncle enjoyed taking a knife to an heirloom?”

  “Not at
all. He knew that of all your possessions, the one you’d likely carry from your home in case of fire or flood, the one you’d safeguard against mobs or invading armies, was this Bible.”

  Philomena’s confidence was comforting, also convincing. Uncle had been eccentric, not unhinged.

  “Something has been secreted in here,” Ramsdale said when the last tiny stitch had been cut.

  “You do it,” Philomena said. “Do it carefully.”

  Little care was needed. The old leather was supple, and a document about a half-inch thick and maybe seven by ten inches otherwise, slid easily from behind the Bible’s binding.

  “That’s it,” Philomena said softly. “Don’t open it. Give it a chance to adjust to the air and light, but that’s it.”

  The weight of the volume suggested vellum rather than paper pages. No glue had been used to fasten the pages to the leather protecting them. A Latin title had been scripted onto the leather in a handsome hand: Liber Ducis de Scientia—de Motibus Humanis. Below the title was an ornate numeral 4 and golden shield bearing three fleurs-de-lis on a blue circle with six red balls beneath.

  “That’s the Medici coat of arms,” Philomena said. “The number of red balls tells us this cover is dated from…” She fell silent, a tear meandering down her cheek.

  Ramsdale set the manuscript aside, out of reach of the cat, and took Philomena in his arms. “You found your love potions. You put together the clues, you did the translations, you had the combination of knowledge, dogged persistence, and inspiration to find the treasure, Philomena. The world is in your debt, and I am obnoxiously proud of you.”

  Tears intended to manipulate could not move him, but honest tears—of relief, joy, gratitude, and exhaustion—earned his respect. Philomena shuddered in his embrace for a time, the cat stropping himself against her hip all the while.

  “You helped,” Philomena said at last, stroking the cat’s head. “You perched on the Bible, you kept us company. I want to be married in this room, Ramsdale.”

  “And shall we travel to Florence on our wedding journey?”

  If he’d given her the other three volumes of the Liber Ducis, Ramsdale could not have earned a more brilliant smile from his countess.

  They were married in the library, and they did travel to Florence—also Rome, Siena, Paris, Budapest, Berlin, Vienna, Copenhagen, St. Petersburg, and Amsterdam.

  And Philomena eventually had an opportunity to study the entire compendium of The Duke’s Book of Knowledge, but the stories of those other three volumes involve other members of the Bibliomania Club and are tales for another time.

  What did Ramsdale inscribe on his beloved’s engagement ring?

  Amor omnia vincit—of course!

  To my dear Readers,

  So who was that Duke of Lavelle fellow? I know him as Philippe Ellis, who comes a cropper for true love in His Grace for the Win, a story in the novella duet, The Duke’s Bridle Path.

  My most recent full-length Regency novel is Too Scot to Handle, the second book in the Windham Brides series (excerpt below). No Other Duke Will Do (November 2017) is the third story in that series, and my first romance set in Wales—but not my last! Because the Duke of Haverford is a very persuasive gentleman, I’ve also included a sneak peek from his courtship of Miss Elizabeth Windham.

  If you’d like to stay up to date with all of my new releases, sales, and special deals, but you aren’t keen on receiving yet another newsletter, please considering following me on Bookbub. Those folks will send out a short email alert when one of my books is listed for pre-order or on discount, and unsubscribing is easy. If you’re more the newsletter type, I only publish those when I have illustrious doin’s to pass along, and I will never convey your information to third parties, ever.

  Happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  Read on for an excerpt from Too Scot To Handle:

  Colin MacHugh and Miss Anwen Windham share an interest in a certain Home for Wayward Urchins. After a morning gallop in the park, they tarry on a bench, discussing the children, and touching on a few other topics…

  Anwen unpinned her hat, or whatever the thing was. A toque, maybe. Her wild gallop had set it slightly askew.

  “You think the boys will consider working on the grounds a reward?” she asked. “I thought house servants ranked above the outdoor servants?”

  Colin took her hat from her, examining the collection of pheasant feathers and silk roses that had probably cost a footman’s monthly wages.

  “I think we do best that which we enjoy most.” He enjoyed kissing and that which often followed kissing exceedingly. “If a boy is to spend his entire life at a job, it had better be a job that he has some aptitude for. Let the fellow with a passion for horses work in the mews, and the fussy young man who delights in a perfectly starched cravat become a valet. It’s all honorable work.”

  He was being a Scottish commoner with that sentiment.

  “That’s sensible,” Anwen said. “Sense is what the orphanage needs. Not good intentions, or idle talk. Common sense. What are you doing with my—Lord Colin?”

  He’d pitched the thing with feathers into the bushes five yards off, so it hung from an obliging branch of the nearest maple.

  “Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “The squirrels have no need of such fetching millinery, and the grooms are busy with the horses.”

  “Right,” Anwen said, rising. “Enough serious talk, for now. I’m full of ideas, and can’t wait to put them into action.”

  “Exactly so,” Colin said, leading her into the deep shade beneath the tree. “Time to put a few well chosen ideas into action.”

  Also a few foolish ones.

  He made sure they were safe from view, drew the lady into his arms, and kissed her, as a snippet of her earlier words settled into his imagination. She’d said he’d given her hope.

  She’d given him hope too.

  *

  Nothing penetrated Anwen’s awareness except pleasure.

  Pleasure, to be kissed by a man who wasn’t in a hurry, half-drunk, and all pleased with himself for being brave enough to appropriate liberties from a woman taken unawares by his boldness.

  Pleasure, to kiss Lord Colin back. To do more than stand still, enduring the fumblings of a misguided fortune hunter who hoped a display of his practiced charms might result a lifetime of security.

  Pleasure, to feel lovely bodily stirrings as the sun rose, the birds sang, and the quiet of the park reverberated with the potential of a new, wonderful day.

  And beneath those delightful, if predictable pleasures, yet more joy, unique to Anwen.

  Lord Colin had bluntly pronounced her slight stature an advantage in the saddle—how marvelous!—and what a novel perspective.

  He’d listened to her maundering on about Tom, Joe, John, and Dickie. Listened and discussed the situation rather than pontificating about her pretty head, and he’d offered solutions.

  He’d taken care that this kiss be private, and thus unhurried.

  Anwen liked the unhurried part exceedingly. Lord Colin held her not as if she were frail and fragile, but as if she were too precious to let go. His arms were secure about her, and he’d tucked in close enough that she could revel in his manly contours—broad chest, flat belly, and hard, hard thighs, such as an accomplished equestrian would have.

  Soft lips, though. Gentle, entreating, teasing…

  Anwen teased him back, getting a taste of peppermint for her boldness, and then a taste of him.

  “Great day in the morning,” he whispered right at her ear. “I won’t be able to sit my horse if you do that again with your tongue.”

  She did it again, and again, until the kiss involved his leg insinuated among the folds and froths of her riding habit, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, and her heart, beating faster than it had at the conclusion of their race.

  “Ye must cease, wee Anwen,” Lord Colin said, resting his cheek against her temple. “We must cease, or I’
ll have to cast myself into yonder water for the sake of my sanity.”

  “I’m a good swimmer,” Anwen said. “I learned very young, and one doesn’t forget. I’d fish you out.” She contemplated dragging a sopping Lord Colin from the Serpentine, his clothes plastered to his body….

  “Such a sigh,” he said, kissing her cheek. “If ye’d slap me, I’d take it as a mercy.”

  “I’d rather kiss you again.” And again and again and again. Anwen’s enthusiasm for that undertaking roared through her like a wild fire, bringing light, heat, and energy to every corner of her being.

  “You are a bonfire in disguise,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “An ambush of a woman, and you have all of polite society thinking you’re the quiet one.” He peered down at her, his hair sticking up on one side. “Am I the only man who knows better, Anwen?”

  She smoothed his hair down, delighting in its texture. Red hair had a mind of its own, and by the dawn’s light, his hair was very red.

  “No, you are not the only one who knows better,” she said, which had him looking off across the water, his gaze determined.

  “I’m no’ the dallyin’ kind,” he said, taking Anwen’s hand and kissing it. “I was a soldier, and I’m fond of the ladies, but this is… you mustn’t toy with me.”

  Everlasting celestial trumpets. “You think I could toy with you?”

  “When you smile like that, you could break hearts, Miss Anwen Windham. A man wouldn’t see it coming, but then you’d swan off in a cloud of grace and dignity, and too late, he’d realize what he’d missed. He wouldn’t want to admit how foolish he’d been, but in his heart, he’d know: I should ne’er have let her get away. I should have done anything to stay by her side.”

  I am a bonfire in disguise. “You are not the only one who knows my secret. I know better now too, Colin.” She went up on her toes and kissed him. “It’s our secret.”

  Order your copy of Too Scot to Handle!

  And read on for an excerpt from No Other Duke Will Do!

  Elizabeth Windham is attending a house party hosted by Julian, Duke of Haverford. His Grace has done the unthinkable and disagreed with a lady, and then—in an effort to further elucidate his position, he offers an argument by way of demonstration…. Or something.