A Woman of True Honor (True Gentlemen Book 8)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Polite society is changing, Emily, and you excel at business. Moreover, your father needs somebody to curb his enthusiasms, because Caleb and Tobias are apparently having a grand time becoming cloth nabobs in Australia.”

  “My condolences to Australia.” Briggs had found a husband within a month of setting foot on Australian soil, and Emily had not heard word of her since—nor had Emily inquired, nor did she intend to. “As for Papa, Mrs. MacLellan curbs his enthusiasms, and she doesn’t even have to raise her voice to do it.”

  Valerian peered at her. “Are you saying you’d rather not go up to London?”

  “Yes, I’m saying I’d rather stay here at Abbotsford. You have books to write, I’m learning the herbal recipes from Margaret, the renovations at Pepper Ridge require our supervision, Hawthorne hardly makes a decision regarding the botanicals without consulting you, Casriel is forever asking your opinion on his demolition and rebuilding at Dorning Hall. We are busy, we are happy, we have family nearby, and we are soon to become parents. I will at some point become responsible for Papa’s business by virtue of his passing, if nothing else. For now, let’s stay home, Valerian, and let London roar along without us.”

  “You’re certain?”

  How she loved him. How she loved that he listened to her, that she could tell him anything, that she was to have a child with him.

  “I am competent to run a household the size of Abbotsford,” she said, “and I enjoy doing it. I enjoy the company of our tenants, I enjoy haggling with the factors in Dorset over the price of seed and horseshoes. That’s business too, you know.”

  She maneuvered up off the sofa—an increasingly ungainly effort—and straddled Valerian’s lap. “You ambushed me,” she went on, kissing him. “I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, and exactly what I did not want. I thought Dorset at the ends of the earth, but now… you are here, and home is here, and”—the baby kicked, which Valerian had to have felt—“the baby agrees with me. This is home.”

  “You are home,” Valerian said, returning the kiss. “You are my home, and if we never spend another week in London, I will be content. That child is quite lively.”

  Emily snuggled close, so she and Valerian could enjoy their lively child together. “What shall we name this baby?”

  “Do we favor a botanical name,” Valerian asked, pressing a kiss to Emily’s temple, “in the Dorning tradition, or have you a Pepper family name you’d like to bestow?”

  “I like classical names. Do that again, please.”

  He did it again, and added a gentle caress to Emily’s breasts, which had become marvelously sensitive. From there, matters tended in a horizontal direction, and it wasn’t until a good hour later that Emily was able to resume the discussion of the baby’s name.

  Over the ensuing months, many similar discussions took place, until the child was born and—with her Uncle Adam standing as godfather, and her Aunt Jacaranda as godmother—christened Calantha Terpsichore Dorning. She loved flowers, she loved to dance. She had exquisite manners, and quite a head for business too!

  To my dear readers

  To my dear readers,

  Valerian has been charming me and straightening out his brothers for several books now, and I did wonder who could successfully charm him. Emily Pepper stepped forth, and the wild rumpus was immediately under way. But what of our dear Oak, all on his lonesome in the wilds of Hampshire?

  What do you know, Oak’s not so lonesome. Mrs. Verity Channing, a widow formerly married to a very successful artist, has hired Oak to restore some paintings for her. Oak has his eye fixed on London as the only address for a successful portraitist, but he cannot refuse the coin or the cachet that working for Verity might afford him.

  Then he finds some scandalous art hidden among the widow’s treasures, and matters grow exceedingly delicate. Smooching happens, which only complicates the whole situation even more. Excerpt below, and A Lady’s Dream Come True will be available from my webstore in May, and on the major retail platforms in June.

  Which is just too far away, isn’t it? Fortunately, my next Rogues to Riches story, A Duke by Any Other Name, comes out in April. Lady Althea Wentworth, having failed miserably in Mayfair’s ballrooms, is determined to wedge her way into Yorkshire’s rural society. Her plan hinges on the cooperation of a grouchy, reclusive neighbor who just happens to be a duke. Nathaniel, Duke of Rothmere, wants no part of polite society, but neither can he countenance anybody treating Althea badly.

  What’s a duke to do? Well, yes. More smooching, which again, only complicated matters. Excerpt below.

  I’m also busy, busy, busy bundling up previously published novellas from anthologies no longer in circulation (A Duke Walked into House Party is my first venture in this regard), pondering stories for Ash and Cam Dorning, and noshing on my Regency whodunits, the Lady Violet Mysteries. To keep track of all my upcoming releases and pre-orders, simply follow me on Bookbub. You might also check out my Deals page, where I always have some title or other discounted. (I went a little overboard for True Honor’s release—it’s a triple discount for all of February.)

  Wherever you find the books, happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  Read on for an excerpt from A Lady’s Dream Come True!

  Excerpt—A Lady’s Dream Come True

  Oak Dorning has accepted a temporary post restoring old paintings for Verity Channing, widow of a very successful artist. Oak’s ambitions lie squarely in London, the only venue for successful English portraitists, while Verity wants nothing to do with art, London, or portraits. Then Oak finds fascinating treasure lurking amid Verity’s art collection, and possibly in a few other unexpected places too…

  The tub was a trifle cramped for a man of Oak’s proportions, but he made do, and the heat of the water was exquisite after the day’s chilly, interminable journey up from Dorset. He scrubbed off and lay back, happy to soak until the water had cooled a bit more.

  Night had fallen, hastened by the miserable weather, and thus Oak’s chamber was illuminated only by candles and the fire roaring in the hearth. Mrs. Channing apparently did not skimp on fuel, nor did she believe artists ought to be housed in drafty garrets.

  Oak’s bedroom came with a cozy sitting room, and both chambers sported lit fires. A dressing closet off the bedroom added further to the sense that Oak was a guest rather than an itinerant tradesman.

  He took another nibble of a pale, blue-veined cheese and washed it down with a sip of excellent port. He’d begun the argument in his head—to doze off in the tub or climb out before the water grew cold—when a quiet snick sounded from the other side of the fire screens.

  “I’ll unpack the valise myself,” he said, giving up on the nap. “You needn’t bother. I can see to it later.” God willing, his clothes weren’t entirely soaked. His trunks would probably not arrive at Merlin Hall for another few days and damp shirts were a misery not to be borne.

  He expected a footman’s cheery greeting, or maybe a disapproving comment from the butler, Bracken. Instead he heard a quiet rustling.

  “Halloo,” Oak said, sitting up, though the fire screens blocked his view of most of the room. “Who’s there?” Had a maid stumbled into his room by mistake? Did somebody think to rifle what few belongings he’d brought with him?

  He stood reluctantly, water sluicing off him into the tub, and cold air chasing the drowsiness from his mind.

  “Show yourself,” he said, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his middle. “I already have an extra bucket of coal in both rooms.”

  Over the top of the fire screens, Oak saw the door to the corridor open. Soft footsteps pattered from the room, though in the gloom, all he could make out was a shadow slipping into the greater darkness beyond the doorway.

  “Bloody hell.” A thief stealing his razor would not do. Oak extricated himself from the tub and bolted for the open door. “Get back here, whoever you are. Stealing from a guest is not the done thing.” Though Oak wasn’t quite a guest.
He was an employee at Merlin Hall, an artisan rather than an artist.

  The air in the corridor was even colder than the air in the sitting room had been, and Oak hadn’t gone two yards from his doorway before it occurred to him that he was racing about a strange house wearing nothing but a towel.

  He came to an abrupt halt just as footsteps faded around a carpeted corner. “Christ in swaddling clothes. What was I—?”

  A throat cleared.

  Oak turned slowly, clutching his towel about his waist with one hand.

  “I see the swaddling clothes,” the lady said. “I rather doubt the son of the Almighty stands before me.”

  She wore an aubergine dress so dark as to approach black in the corridor’s shadows, and she held a carrying candle that flickered in the chilly breeze.

  “Oak Dorning, no relation to the Almighty. I would bow but as I am a man wearing only a towel, I’ve no wish to look yet more ridiculous.”

  She cast an appraising eye over him. “I assure you, Mr. Dorning, you do not appear ridiculous, though I can understand why you’d be a bit self-conscious. I am Verity Channing.”

  Oak considered himself too slender, at least when compared to his brother Hawthorne. Compared to Valerian, his toilette and manners were unpolished. He lacked Casriel’s Town bronze. He hadn’t Ash’s head for business, Sycamore’s cunning, or Willow’s imperturbable calm.

  But Verity Channing apparently saw something in Oak’s nearly naked form that held her interest. Her gaze conveyed no prurient curiosity, but rather, the sort of assessment Oak made when he considered sketching a subject. How did the light treat this particular complexion? Was a slightly different angle more revealing? More honest?

  Candlelight was said to be flattering, but in the few instants Oak took to study Verity Channing, he concluded that she needed no shadows to obscure her flaws, if any she had. Her eyes tilted ever so slightly, the perfect complement to a strong nose, full lips, and swooping brows. Her features had a rare symmetry and came together in ideal proportions. Brows, chin, jaw, cheeks… all the structures of a human face were presented in her physiognomy on the balancing edge between grace and strength, beauty and perfection.

  She was, quite simply, stunning. So lovely to look at that for a moment, Oak forgot he was wearing only a towel, forgot this was his employer, and forgot that he stood gawking at her in the middle of a chilly corridor.

  “I owe you a favor, Mr. Dorning,” she said, lowering the candle. “You extracted a gig from the muck earlier today, and spared Dante a long, chilly walk back to the Hall. For that reason, I will promise never to mention to another soul the circumstances of this meeting.”

  Oak could not tell if she was teasing him, but he believed she’d keep her word, and thank God for that, because his brothers would never stop laughing if they learned of this encounter.

  “I don’t suppose you might forget the circumstances of this meeting, ma’am? Wipe them from memory, perhaps?”

  He’d have to pass her to return to his room. Her smile, so slight, so devilish, suggested she knew that.

  She approached and handed him the candle. “When I am an old woman who hums under her breath to the distraction of all who must endure my company, I will still recall the sight of you clad in only a towel.” She made a slow inspection of his chest, his arms, his shoulders, then his face. “The memory will make me smile. Good evening, Mr. Dorning. I’ll see you at breakfast, though—lamentably, for me—somewhat less of you, I trust. One wouldn’t want such a fine specimen coming down with a lung fever.”

  She sauntered off into the darkness, and Oak remained in the corridor, sorting through his thoughts. He could not recall anybody—male or female—regarding him with such frank appreciation. The attention was unnerving, but also… gratifying in an odd way.

  And besides that lingering sense of gratification, he had the artist’s aching need to render on paper something he’d experienced mostly through his visual senses—but not entirely. A hint of cinnamon hung in the air, a throb of awareness such as a man feels toward a woman who has impressed him viscerally.

  “That smile,” he murmured, gathering up his toweling and returning to his sitting room. “That knowing, impish, female…”

  When three footmen arrived to deal with the tub, Oak barely noticed. He sat swathed in towels on the sofa, trying to sketch Verity Channing’s smile.

  Order your copy of A Lady’s Dream Come True, and read on for an excerpt from A Duke by Any Other Name!

  Excerpt—A Duke by Any Other Name

  The usual polite means of gaining an introduction to Nathaniel, Duke of Rothmere, have failed Lady Althea Wentworth utterly. Being a resourceful woman, she’s turned to unusual measures to achieve her goal…

  Althea heard her guest before she saw him. Rothhaven’s arrival was presaged by a rapid beat of hooves coming not up her drive, but rather, directly across the park that surrounded Lynley Vale manor.

  A large horse created that kind of thunder, one disdaining the genteel canter for a hellbent gallop. From her parlor window Althea could see the beast approaching, and her first thought was that only a terrified animal traveled at such speed.

  But no. Horse and rider cleared the wall beside the drive in perfect rhythm, swerved onto the verge, and continued right up—good God, they aimed straight for the fountain. Althea could not look away as the black horse drew closer and closer to unforgiving marble and splashing water.

  “Mary, Mother of God.”

  Another smooth leap—the fountain was five feet high if it was an inch—and a foot-perfect landing, followed by an immediate check of the horse’s speed. The gelding came down to a frisking, capering trot, clearly proud of himself and ready for even greater challenges.

  The rider stroked the horse’s neck, and the beast calmed and hung his head, sides heaving. A treat was offered and another pat, before one of Althea’s grooms bestirred himself to take the horse. Rothhaven—for that could only be the dread duke himself—paused on the front steps long enough to remove his spurs, whip off his hat, and run a black-gloved hand through hair as dark as hell’s tarpit.

  “The rumors are true,” Althea murmured. Rothhaven was built on the proportions of the Vikings of old, but their fair coloring and blue eyes had been denied him. He glanced up, as if he knew Althea would be spying, and she drew back.

  His gaze was colder than a Yorkshire night in January, which fit exactly with what Althea had heard of him.

  She moved from the window and took the wing chair by the hearth, opening a book chosen for this singular occasion. She had dressed carefully—elegantly but without too much fuss—and styled her hair with similar consideration. Rothhaven gave very few people the chance to make even a first impression on him, a feat Althea admired.

  Voices drifted up from the foyer, followed by the tread of boots on the stair. Rothhaven moved lightly for such a grand specimen, and his voice rumbled like distant cannon. A soft tap on the door, then Strensall was announcing Nathaniel, His Grace of Rothhaven. The duke did not have to duck to come through the doorway, but it was a near thing.

  Althea set aside her book, rose, and curtsied to a precisely deferential depth and not one inch lower.

  “Welcome to Lynley Vale, Your Grace. A pleasure to meet you. Strensall, the tea, and don’t spare the trimmings.”

  Strensall bolted for the door.

  “I do not break bread with mine enemy.” Rothhaven stalked over to Althea and swept her with a glower. “No damned tea.”

  His eyes were a startling green, set against swooping dark brows and features as angular as the crags and tors of Yorkshire’s moors. He brought with him the scents of heather and horse, a lovely combination. His cravat remained neatly pinned with a single bar of gleaming gold despite his mad dash across the countryside.

  “I will attribute Your Grace’s lack of manners to the peckishness that can follow exertion. A tray, Strensall.”

  The duke leaned nearer. “Shall I threaten to curse poor Strensal
l with nightmares, should he bring a tray?”

  “That would be unsporting.” Althea sent her goggling butler a glance, and he scampered off. “You are reputed to have a temper, but then, if folk claimed that my mere passing caused milk to curdle and babies to colic, I’d be a tad testy myself. No one has ever accused you of dishonorable behavior.”

  “Nor will they, while you, my lady, have stooped so low as to unleash the hogs of war upon my hapless estate.” He backed away not one inch, and this close Althea caught a more subtle fragrance. Lily of the valley or jasmine. Very faint, elegant, and unexpected, like the moss-green of his eyes.

  “You cannot read, perhaps,” he went on, “else you’d grasp that ‘we will not be entertaining for the foreseeable future’ means neither you nor your livestock are welcome at Rothhaven Hall.”

  “Hosting a short call from your nearest neighbor would hardly be entertaining,” Althea countered. “Shall we be seated?”

  “I will not be seated,” he retorted. “Retrieve your damned pigs from my orchard, madam, or I will send them to slaughter before the week is out.”

  “Is that where my naughty ladies got off to?” Althea took her wing chair. “They haven’t been on an outing in ages. I suppose the spring air inspired them to seeing the sights. Last autumn they took a notion to inspect the market, and in summer they decided to attend Sunday services. Most of our neighbors find my herd’s social inclinations amusing.”

  “I might be amused, were your herd not at the moment rooting through my orchard uninvited. To allow stock of those dimensions to wander is irresponsible, and why a duke’s sister is raising hogs entirely defeats my powers of imagination.”