“God, Ara,” he said. “I am terrified. Thrilled and terrified and in complete awe all at once. We need to tell Edward and my mother. Leo too. He shall wish to know he is to be an uncle again.”
“Of course we will tell them all, together.” A naughty coil of heat snaked through her then as she gazed up at the masculine perfection of the man she loved. “But first, perhaps we might involve ourselves in a bit of afternoon wickedness. What do you say?”
The look of sensual promise he gave her set her ablaze. “I say that is a capital idea, my Lady Stanwyck.”
His lips claimed hers then, hot, insistent, and hungry. Laden with the promise of a love that had lasted eight years and had only grown more resilient for the time and distance they had faced.
He broke the kiss to scoop her effortlessly into his arms. “I love you, Ara.”
She linked her arms around his neck, heart bursting with happiness. “I love you more.”
The End.
Dear Reader
Thank you for reading Nobody’s Duke! I hope you enjoyed this first book in the League of Dukes series and that you loved Clay and Ara as much as I loved writing their hard-won happily ever after. After everything they had been through, they deserved to have their second chance at love. When Clay first appeared in Her Deceptive Duke, I had no intention of writing his story, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that the first book in the League of Dukes series had to be his.
As always, please consider leaving an honest review of Nobody’s Duke. Reviews are greatly appreciated! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and series news, sign up for my newsletter here or follow me on Amazon or BookBub. Join my reader’s group on Facebook for bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.
If you’d like a preview of my upcoming standalone Heartless Duke, Book Two in the League of Dukes series featuring Leo, Duke of Carlisle, and the plucky Irish lass who melts his ice with her fire, do read on.
And if you’re in the mood for another, extended sneak peek of Heartless Duke plus a swashbucklingly sexy novella, check out Lord of Pirates, coming in February 2019.
Until next time,
Scarlett
Heartless Duke
League of Dukes Book Two
By
Scarlett Scott
He’s a heartless cad. A relentless rake. Dangerous to know. As hardhearted and cruel as can be.
He’s the Duke of Carlisle, leader of a secret branch of the Home Office charged with keeping the peace amidst great peril and upheaval. By day, he hunts anarchists and murderers with savage intensity. By night, he rules over London’s darkest, most depraved souls.
But he’s about to meet his match in his latest prisoner.
She’s a strong, independent woman. Fearless and determined. Unlike any lady he’s ever known. As unfettered and plucky as can be.
She’s Bridget O’Malley, a trusted member of the underground organization to gain Irish independence. By day, she is a respectable young woman of modest means, attempting to make her way in the world through honest employment. By night, she is embroiled in a world so treacherous and dangerous that even she finds her own life at risk. To save herself, she will commit any sin.
When the heartless duke and the fiery rebel clash in a fierce battle of wills, unexpected passions flare to life. Threats lurk at every turn, and no one is as they seem. Will they be each other’s ruin? Or is love enough to become their salvation?
Prologue
Oxfordshire, 1882
The Duke of Carlisle landed at his half brother’s estate in Oxfordshire with a small cadre of servants and one armed guard, dusty, travel-worn, and weary. It seemed wrong somehow to arrive at Clay’s wedding after having spent the previous night surrounded by the most depraved and licentious acts imaginable.
Or at least those imaginable to Leo, and his mind was blessed with a boundless creativity for the wicked.
But here he was, prepared to do his duty.
Duty was everything to him, for it was all he bloody well had.
He was also late, the hour approaching midnight, but he had allowed himself to be distracted at a tavern blessedly in possession of a hearty store of spirits. It was possible that he was drunk as well, having consumed roughly enough ale and wine to float the Spanish Armada.
A poor decision, that. He ought to have arrived earlier like a gentleman.
He flung open his carriage door and leapt down without waiting for it to reach a complete stop. Fortunately, he was blessed with a cat’s stealthy reflexes even when bosky, and he landed in the gravel on two booted feet with effortless grace.
Farleigh, one of the men standing guard over Harlton Hall whilst his brother’s wife-to-be continued to be in danger, approached him first. The political assassination of her husband had left her a target for a particularly ruthless ring of Fenians.
An unfortunate business, indeed. One Leo was doing his utmost to rectify. The criminals would be brought to justice by his hand, one way or another. Death was just as swift a sentence as prison. He would choose death for the miscreants over imprisonment every time.
“Your Grace,” Farleigh said, bowing. “You ought to take better care. You could have been injured.”
Leo flicked a cold gaze over the man. “Yet, I was not. Is the entire household abed, sir?”
“There are some who have awaited your arrival. They will see to it that your belongings are taken to the proper chamber and you are settled.”
Leo’s lips thinned. Apathy, as vast as it had ever been, was a chasm inside his chest, threatening to consume him. Likely, he ought to find his chamber, order a bath, and scrub himself clean of the stink of London and the road.
But all he truly wanted was more liquor and some distraction, not necessarily—but preferably—in that order.
“Have there been any incidents since the relocation from London?” he asked sharply.
Even in his cups, he could not shake himself of the burden of his duties. He was the leader of the secretive branch of the Home Office known as the Special League. The safety and wellbeing of England’s citizenry was in his hands. And the plague of the Fenian menace was evidenced everywhere these days: bombs exploding across England, vicious murders carried out, all in the name of Irish nationalism.
Some days, he needed to over imbibe.
He allowed such a weakness once per month, no more.
“There have been none, Your Grace,” Farleigh confirmed. “The decision to leave town and come here with Her Grace was a wise one.”
“Of course it was,” Leo drawled. “I made it.”
Aware of his rudeness and not giving a good goddamn, Leo stalked past Farleigh, his long legs taking him up the stairs leading to Harlton Hall. He did not bother himself with the details of his trunks or even which chamber had been assigned him. Instead, he went in search of his quarry.
Whisky. Brandy. Ale. Holy hell, even Madeira would do at the moment, and he disliked it intensely. He was in a foul mood, and he did not know why, other than that the Fenians continued to outmaneuver him.
No one outmaneuvered the Duke of Carlisle, by God.
He stalked through the entry and main hall, and was about to acknowledge defeat when he strode into a darkened chamber and collided with something soft. Something feminine and deliciously scented. Ah, lemon and bergamot oil. Something—his hands discovered a well-curved waist—or rather someone.
“I beg your pardon,” the lady said with a huff and the slightest lilt to her accent he could not place.
“You may, but perhaps I shall not grant it,” he said, feeling like the devil tonight.
“Grant what, sir?”
“My pardon.” He dipped his lead lower, drawn to her warmth. Though he could see only faint outlines of her as his eyes adjusted to the dim light—a cloud of dark hair, a small, retroussé nose, a stubborn chin—he was nevertheless drawn to her. “Have you done something requiring it?”
She made a sound of irritation
in her throat. “Release me, if you please. I have neither the time nor the inclination to play games with a stranger who arrives in the midst of the night, smelling of spirits.”
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He stepped back, offering her an exaggerated bow. “The Duke of Carlisle, m’lady. And you are?”
She moved forward, into the soft light of the hall. With the gas lamps illuminating her fully at last, he felt as if he had received a fist to the gut. She was striking, from her almost midnight hair, to her arresting blue gaze, to the full pout of her pink lips. And she was proportioned just as he preferred: short of stature yet shapely. Her bosom jutted forward in her plain dove-gray bodice.
Damn him if the woman wasn’t giving him a cockstand here and now, at midnight in the midst of the hall with the hushed sound of servants seeing to his cases fluttering around them. They were not alone, and yet they might have been the only two souls in the world.
Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and he could not shake the feeling that she was assessing him somehow. “I serve as governess to the young duke.”
Governess.
That explained the godawful gray gown.
It did not, however, explain his inconvenient and thoroughly unwanted attraction to her. He did not dally with servants.
More’s the pity.
Leo frowned. “What is the governess doing flitting about in the midst of the night, trading barbs with a stranger who smells of spirits?”
He could not resist goading her, it was true.
Her brows snapped together. “You waylaid me, Your Grace.”
He would love to waylay her. All bloody night long.
But such mischief was decidedly not on the menu for this evening. Or ever. He had far too many matters weighing on his mind, and the last thing he needed to do was ruin a governess. He had come to celebrate his brother’s nuptials, damn it, not to cast the last shred of his honor into the wind.
“Whilst you are being waylaid, perhaps you can direct me to the library,” he said then. “I am in need of diversion. My mind does not do well with travel.”
The truth was that his mind was not well in general, and it hadn’t a thing to do with trains and coaches. But that was his private concern, yet another weakness he would admit to no one.
He expected the woman to inform him which chamber he sought and how he might arrive there. He did not expect her frown to deepen, or for her to turn on her heel and stride away down the hall in the opposite direction.
“Follow me, if you please,” she called over her shoulder. “I shall take you there.”
Leo followed, admiring the delectable sway of her hips as they went.
The governess intrigued him far too much, and he hoped to hell it wasn’t going to become a problem. As it stood, he would only be at Harlton Hall for a few days’ time. What could possibly go wrong?
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Lord of Pirates
When a dangerous-looking stranger raps on Lizzie Winstead’s door in the middle of a stormy night, the peace of her humdrum life is shattered. She’s shocked to discover her visitor is Captain Edmond Grey, one of the most feared pirates of the realm. But he’s also her lost love.
Edmond is a wanted man throughout the Colonies, but despite his formidable reputation, he desperately needs help to nurse his wounded brother back to health. Only Lizzie can be trusted not to turn Edmond over to authorities for the price on his head.
Lizzie can’t quell the feelings Edmond stirs in her heart or the fire he ignites in her blood. Before long, both succumb to the reckless desire renewed between them. She follows him aboard his pirate ship and sets sail into a world rife with passion and peril.
Together they brave fierce battles and frightening storms, determined to discover whether the love they once shared is strong enough to reunite them forever and conquer the demons of Edmond’s past.
Chapter One
Philadelphia 1719
At first listen, Lizzie mistook the commotion for thunder from the angry spring rainstorm that had been assaulting the city since sundown. She stilled at her writing desk, pen poised above the notes she’d been transcribing on one of her father’s medical treatises. No indeed, the loud pounding sound was not caused by a storm, she realized with growing concern, but someone at the front door.
She dropped her pen in its inkwell and stood. Only a desperate person would call at the house of a physician at this hour, someone in dire need of aid. With her father gone to Boston to visit with an old associate from London, Lizzie would have to see to the patient as best she could. Although she had not been permitted to attend university, she had served as her father’s apprentice for nearly half her twenty-eight years. She only hoped the problem was one with which she was already familiar. After all, she was unaccustomed to practicing on her own.
The knocking grew in intensity. There was no time to tarry. She secured the wrapper she’d donned over her night shift. Although she was hardly dressed to receive a visitor, she had little choice. Taking a candle with her, she left her bedchamber and navigated her way downstairs.
By the time she reached the front hall, the ever-efficient Jeremiah and Judith, her father’s faithful retainers, waited.
“Shall I answer, Mrs. Winstead?” Jeremiah asked in grim tones.
Philadelphia was still relatively young and could, at times, be quite rough. However, Lizzie could never deny care to someone in need on account of a misplaced sense of caution. Indeed, her father had asked her to carry on in his absence should the need arise.
Praying it was not some drunkard or scoundrel at their door, she nodded to Jeremiah. “Please do, Jeremiah. I’m certain it must be one of Papa’s patients.”
“Yes, madam.” Raising his candle high, he swung open the front door to reveal a large silhouette.
“I need to see Dr. Crawley at once,” announced their guest in a voice as low as it was commanding.
“He’s not at home,” Jeremiah responded. “Can I help you in some way, sir?”
“Rouse him from bed if you must. Damn my blood, I don’t have time for a servant with a cane up his arse.”
Irritated at the man’s rudeness, Lizzie swept forward. Jeremiah was of slight build with graying hair and a gouty limp. If their unexpected guest wanted to cause trouble, he easily could. Best to try to tamp down a problem before it began.
“I’m afraid my father is out of town, sir.” She tried to peer through the murkiness of the night to see the man’s face but could discern only long hair too straight to be a wig. The brim of his hat hid all else from her view.
“Lizzie?” Disbelief underscored the stranger’s tone.
Something about that rough, demanding voice sent a trill down her spine. A trigger of remembrance flared in her stomach. His use of her father’s pet name for her more than startled her. She could not shake the sense that she knew this man.
But how, and who?
She stiffened. “Sir, do I know you?”
“Indeed.” Silence descended for a beat, interrupted only by the slashing rain and violent rumble of the storm beyond him. “I’m an old family…friend. Might I have a private word with you?”
When she hesitated, he spoke again, cajoling. “I beg of you, Lizzie. It is a matter of life and death.”
He spoke like a gentleman but hardly looked like one, even in the dim light. That he would not reveal himself before the servants was particularly telling. Her instincts told her to shut the door in his face, bar it, and never think of him again. But there was an urgency in his tone, a pleading almost. Her heart was ever too soft.
“You may come inside,” she conceded after a long pause. “Judith, please put on a pot of water for tea.”
“Mrs. Winstead,” Jeremiah protested, giving voice to her private concerns.
“Our guest is a family friend, Jeremiah. Please stand by should we need you.” S
he would give the man the privacy he requested, but not the opportunity to do mischief. If Jeremiah remained within earshot, she would feel somewhat safe, at least. She inclined her head to the mysterious man before her. “Follow me, sir.”
Lizzie led him into her father’s study and lit a handful of tapers. The light afforded her the opportunity to make a closer inspection of the man. He wore a greatcoat over the customary jacket of seamen, and a pair of breeches and boots much finer than the rest of his garments. He appeared thoroughly sodden from the rains. His hair was dark, perhaps black, his features mostly obscured by a beard. He looked, in fact, like a man who was dangerous.
She placed her candle on her father’s desk and clasped her hands at her waist, trying to staunch the unease sliding through her. “Pray explain who you are, sir, and what brings you to our door at this time of night.”
“First, I must have your word that what I tell you remains between us only.”
Lizzie scoffed. “I hardly think you’re in a position to make demands of me.”
In two strides he closed the distance between them. His large hands clamped on her waist, which was nearly naked without her customary stays and stomacher. She felt the heat of him through the thin fabric as the salty scent of sea water assailed her. He yanked her flush against his body.
Excitement mingled with fear as he held her. It had been years since a man had touched her so intimately and she was shocked to discover a stranger could have such an effect upon her.
“Listen closely, Lizzie. You’ve a gouty old man and woman for protection and nothing else. I haven’t the time to play bloody games with you. I’ll have your promise or you’ll pay the price,” he growled.
Beneath the commanding boom of his voice hid a lingering sense of familiarity. Comprehension hit her with the force of a runaway stallion. She knew the man before her. Hand shaking, she reached up and traced the strong edge of his jaw. The bristles of his beard tickled her fingertips. She studied his eyes, his sensual full mouth. He had changed much, but beneath the grizzled façade of a seaman she recognized the first man she’d ever loved.
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