Never Say Duke
Page 1
Never Say Duke
12 Dukes of Christmas #4
Erica Ridley
Contents
Never Say Duke
Also by Erica Ridley
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
Epilogue
Thank You For Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Jewels of Historical Romance
ISBN: 1943794200
ISBN-13: 978-1943794201
Copyright © 2018 Erica Ridley
Photograph on cover © PeriodImages
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Never Say Duke
Yes, Virginia, there is a Viscount...
* * *
Miss Virginia Underwood cannot resist rescuing a stray. Her latest find turns out to be a surly, reclusive war hero trying to recover from his wounds in peace. He doesn't want her help—and Virginia definitely doesn't want to fall in love. Not when a future with him would mean returning to the the same haut ton who laughed her out of Town during her very first Season.
* * *
Theodore O’Hanlon, Viscount Ormondton, sequestered himself far from London to heal in anonymity. For now, he can be himself. As soon as he returns, he's meant to wed the woman his father selected years before. But when Miss Underwood turns his carefully mapped life upside-down, Theo must decide which battles are truly worth fighting for.
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a laugh-out-loud historical romance series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!
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Also by Erica Ridley
Rogues to Riches:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
* * *
Dukes of War:
The Viscount’s Tempting Minx
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway
The Duke's Accidental Wife
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas:
Once Upon a Duke
Kiss of a Duke
Wish Upon a Duke
Never Say Duke
Dukes, Actually
The Duke’s Bride
The Duke’s Embrace
The Duke’s Desire
Dawn With a Duke
One Night With a Duke
Ten Days With a Duke
Forever Your Duke
Chapter 1
Theodore O’Hanlon, Major Viscount Ormondton, grimaced against the relentless pain. It pulsed through his head, his knee, his side. He promised himself the torture would soon end.
With a shaking finger, he cracked the curtains and allowed himself a brief glimpse outside the carriage.
Evergreens. Blinding sun on endless snow. A winding, narrow path up a remote mountain, leading him ever further from the ravages of war-torn France and the battles that still awaited him in London.
A bright red sign rose from the drifts of snow like a beacon:
* * *
Welcome to Christmas!
* * *
At last.
Theo closed the curtains tight. He was almost there.
He held no interest in the year-round Christmastide promised by the cozy little village. Nor did he care to be welcomed. Indeed, he had no wish to be recognized at all. That was why he was rattling along in a hired hack rather than the elegant coach-and-four bearing his family’s crest.
It was also why he had come here straight from France, rather than wade into the whirling madness of London in full Season.
Theo desperately needed time to heal. A place to do so where no one would recognize him. A respite from all the chaos.
His childhood friend, the Duke of Azureford, had assured Theo the tiny village of Christmas was just the place. A winter wonderland in the northernmost corner of England, hundreds of miles from conflicts and battles. He was to avail himself of the duke’s private cottage for as long as it took to regain his strength.
Theo prayed the process would not take long. He was so used to being active, being in control. Charging in from the front lines. He could not stand giving less than his all, in anything. Even if the reason for his diminished capacity was musket fire and the punishing hooves of his enemy’s horse.
The carriage drew to a stop.
Theo’s aching head sagged against the wall in relief. They had arrived at Azureford’s secluded cottage. No more punishing journeys until his body could once again withstand the onslaught.
The young valet Theo had hired under an assumed name hopped out of the carriage in order to arrange the custom-built wheeled chair on the ground.
Theo hated the chair. He was not an invalid. He was a lord. An officer.
But the one time he’d allowed his pride to get the better of him in an attempt to rely solely on a pair of crutches and his own determination, Theo had buckled over, face first, right in front of a posting-house.
Never again.
An older gentleman with quick blue eyes and a shock of white hair cast a slow, impassive glance into the carriage’s dark interior toward Theo.
That must be Swinton, Azureford’s beloved butler. Theo carried a letter sealed with the duke’s insignia for the staff to read, granting the letter’s bearer all possible hospitalities.
The butler’s gaze met his. “May I be of service, sir?”
Theo’s lips might have curved if moving his facial muscles didn’t feel like he was ripping the tender skin anew.
He had never been a “sir.” He had been born a viscount, thanks to a courtesy title from his father. Major belonged to Theo alone. Both were inextricable from his identity. Yet for now, he was forced to hide the truth.
“Swinton, I presume?” Theo held out the folded letter. “I am sent by the Duke of Azureford.”
The butler inspected the wax insignia before breaking the seal and reading the letter’s contents.
Theo’s blood chilled. Either Swinton was not a fast reader, or Azureford had included more information than expected.
His muscles tightened. Theo had come to this remote village in order to be anonymous. If the duke had destroyed that possibility, Theo would need to find alternate lodging. His stomach sank. He might not truly rest for another day or more.
Swinton handed the duke’s letter to someone outside Theo’s line of vision. “I shall have the maids air out the guest chambers. Do you require assistance into your chair?”
Theo clenched his jaw. How he hated any sensation of helplessness. He had not required assistance since he was a child, and rarely even then. He had pushed himself to new levels. Relied on no one’s aid. He was the one sought after to help others. Counted upon to be strong, decisive, and capable in all things.
And, yes, he needed help into the accursed chair. Help, he bloody well was not going to ask for from his friend’s butler.
Theo braced himself against a tidal wave of pain as he rose from the squab on his good leg and grappled for purchase on the frozen edge of the open doorway. He ducked his head as a gust of bitter wind threatened to rip the bandages from his face and expose the gashes bullets had left behind.
He could do this. Even if lowering himself into that chair sapped the last bit of strength from his ravaged body, Theo would do it on his own.
Pain shot through his hip and side as he landed far too hard on the chair’s leather surface. His swollen knee screamed with renewed pain as it jarred into place. The edges of Theo’s vision blurred and went gray as he tried to block his body’s panicked reaction and focus only on slowing his galloping heart.
He had done it. He was still capable. He was going to get better.
“What shall we call you?” The letter was back in the Butler’s hands. “My master’s instructions only refer to you as ‘T.’”
“I…” Theo was concentrating too hard on masking his pain to dream up an appropriate pseudonym. “I don’t need a name.”
“Very well.” Swinton gestured toward a footman. “Please see Mr. T to the guest chamber.”
But the moment the footmen navigated the chair off the snow-packed lawn and inside the entryway, Theo held up a hand to still them. “I can follow from here.”
Wheeling himself about had not been one of the many skills Theo had painstakingly prepared for before going off to war, but he had quickly learned its finer points. His arms had never been in better shape, and no longer tired from the effort.
It was the rest of his body that could not wait for the endless jostling and jarring to finally cease.
“This way.” Swinton strode down the corridor at a pace Theo very much appreciated. Brisk. Normal.
As if Theo was not a bandaged husk crumpled at all angles inside a wheeled chair, but a capable and healthy man.
The guest chamber was large and comfortably equipped, boasting several windows with a view of the snow-covered lane leading up to the picturesque castle perched atop the mountain. This would do.
As soon as the rooms had been sufficiently aired, Theo would seal the curtains at once. Until he was completely healed, he could not be recognized. Not like this.
That was why he was so far from home. Why he had avoided inns and other such public meeting-houses. As far as the beau monde knew, he was still at war, leading his troops, doing his part.
“Shall I help you into the bed?” his valet asked with obvious hesitation.
Despite the wounds and bandages covering much of his face, Theo’s infamous leveling glare had no trouble setting the lad aquiver.
“No,” Theo growled. He tossed the lad a small pouch filled with coins. “Have Swinton divide this amongst the staff for their trouble. Then go have a rest. You deserve it.”
When his valet quit the room, Theo glanced down at his twitching limbs and sighed. He was exhausted, but it would be some time before his brain and body were calm enough to sleep.
He had been prescribed laudanum but was loath to use it. For too many men, that way lay addiction. Theo would not allow himself to rely on anything but his own power.
His hands curled into fists. How he resented being plucked from the battlefield before the war was over. So many had been counting on him. His troops, his peers, the citizens whose rights he had been fighting for. As soon as Theo was better…
He reached into his inner pocket to retrieve a very different letter. This one had been addressed to him. Written by none other than Theo’s soon-to-be betrothed, Lady Beatrice Munroe.
He wondered if his father had put her up to it.
Theo was but eight years old when Lady Beatrice had been born. That same day, their fathers determined that a mix of their bloodlines and associated political connections would be advantageous for all parties. Children were tools. This was how they could best be used.
The expectation to join two powerful families in marriage had been communicated to Theo at once, and to Lady Beatrice as soon as she was old enough to grasp her required role.
Until this winter, that had been the end of it. Theo had seen Lady Beatrice on occasion over the years, but they had not formed any particular attachment.
An attachment wasn’t necessary.
Theo wasn’t expected to enjoy Lady Beatrice’s company. He was expected to marry her. Beget the requisite heir and a spare. Enhance the family’s power and reach. Keep their sterling reputation polished.
To that end, one could not ask for a better match than Lady Beatrice. Good breeding, good blood, good looks. Educated in all the proper things a Society wife was meant to master.
If anything, landing Lady Beatrice was a coup. Her father outranked his. And although Theo’s future marquessate did not lack for coin, Lady Beatrice’s dowry was eye-watering indeed.
What did it matter if he could not abide her personality?
He glared down at the letter in his hands. He did not need to unfold it for the tenth time to know what it said. This was a summons.
She dared to command him.
Their fathers had made their intentions known years before, but no contracts had been signed and Theo had made no promises.
Lady Beatrice felt it was time for that to change. Since her come-out three years earlier, she had quite enjoyed her reign among the other young ladies.
Theo preferred to make fewer waves. His unblemished reputation had kept him out of the caricatures and the society columns… until now. Apparently, his accomplishments at war had turned him into some sort of mystical hero.
Lady Beatrice had not missed his presence during her prior three Seasons. But now that his fame in absentia had eclipsed hers in person, his intended felt the time was ripe to make their betrothal official. She would become the toast of the ton overnight.
He wheeled himself closer to the fireplace in order to toss Lady Beatrice’s elegant penmanship into the crackling flames.
Theo had always known the chit was far more eager to reap the privilege that came with being a future marchioness than she was interested in him specifically.
Such pragmatism had never bothered him. He could not claim to feel differently, when they were both commodities. That was how ton marriages worked. He would marry her eventually, but Theo would be the one to decide when.
He had no intention of presenting himself next to the queen of the ball like some species of prized pet. Lady Beatrice might rule over other young ladies, but she would not rule him.
There was, however, one woman in London who Theo could be tempted to dance attendance upon.
This Season was his cousin Hester’s come-out.
A painfully shy wallflower, Hester had long been terrified she would suffer through her entire Season without a single gentleman offering to stand up with her for a dance.
Theo glared at his useless leg. If anyone deserved to be the toast of the ton, it was Hester. The second he could dance again, he would ensure his name appeared on every one of her dance cards. He’d encourage his unmarried friends to follow suit until every man present realized just how special Hester was.
She needn’t worry. Theo would save the day. He just… needed a little time to heal.
Movement outside the open windows caused Theo to drag his gaze from the dancing orange flames out to the gently falling snow.
A young lady walked alone down the winding narrow path from the castle, accompanied only by a coal black cat with a tall plume of a tail, his paws obscured by snow.
Theo’s curiosity turned to growing disbelief as he watched the c
at accompany its mistress like a dog. The beast hurried to her side after falling behind to sniff something. Glanced over his shoulder to ensure her impending arrival if it happened to prance too far ahead. Paused when she paused, continued when she continued. Theo watched, transfixed.
The closer the pair drew to Azureford’s cottage, the more details he could pick out.
The woman’s hair was the red-brown of autumn leaves. Her lips and cheeks were a flushed, becoming pink. Her coat was the same dark green as the snow-speckled forest behind her, her boots as dark black as the cat’s fur.
She was too old to be a debutante, too young to be on the shelf. Her attire appeared warm, serviceable, and well-tailored, but without any particular pretension toward current fashions.
In other words, the mystery lady was of indeterminate age, indeterminate background, indeterminate everything.
Theo could not help but be intrigued.
Almost without fail, every person he came in contact with all but broadcast who and what they were. Not this woman. Even her cat made no bloody sense.
As he watched, she spied something in the trees just across the street from his window.
Without bothering to so much as glance over her shoulder to make eye contact with her pet, the woman held up a gloved palm and murmured, “Heel!” as if the ball of black fluff at her side actually was a dog.
Despite the pain, Theo could not help but indulge a small quirk of his lips at such folly. Obviously, a cat would never obey a command like—