“She hasn’t said yes. In fact, I haven’t even asked permission to pay my addresses.”
Though he soon would, provided Addy was willing to receive him.
Day by day, Jason and Clarinda were less careful around Addy. The children, bless them, had accepted her as Aunt Addy from the moment she’d stepped down from Tresham’s traveling coach. She was required to read fairy tales by the hour, play catch and blind man’s bluff, roll down a hill with her skirts twisting about her legs, and generally impersonate a hoyden.
The family also left her alone to wander Canmore Court’s grounds, or to retreat with a book to some secluded stream bank, where she took off her boots and trailed her toes in cool water.
Grey had been right. The company of the children was a much-needed tonic. The fresh air helped, and mad gallops still had the power to raise her spirits.
As Tresham’s traveling coach had swayed through London’s crowded streets, Addy had considered chasing Grey to Dorset. That, alas, would have provoked scandal. While a gentleman could not cry off, a lady could. If Miss Quinlan backed out of the engagement, Grey would be disgraced and impoverished.
He deserved better, and if his heiress did not exert herself in every regard to make him happy…
Addy would do nothing, for Grey would not want her to meddle.
She turned a page of Theo’s book about women’s health, though the point of escaping to the porch of the estate’s fishing cottage was not necessarily to read. The point of all Addy’s idle time at Canmore Court had been to miss Grey, to concoct letters to him that would never be sent, and to be furious with Roger.
The missing Grey felt awful. The anger felt… right.
“I was told I’d find you here, though the current Countess of Canmore nearly inspected my back teeth before she parted with that information.”
Grey Dorning stood on the steps of the porch, his hat in his hand.
Addy set aside her book, slowly, lest she blink and he disappear. “My lord, good day.”
“May I have a seat?”
Always polite, always dear. “Not if you are an engaged man. If you have plighted your troth, you will do me the kindness of leaving and staying gone.”
Where had she found the strength to say those words?
“As it happens,”—he came up the steps—“I am not yet engaged.” The swing creaked as Grey took the place to Addy’s right. “How are you?”
Not yet engaged? Hope and despair battled in Addy’s heart. “You aren’t wearing a blue waistcoat. You always wear a blue waistcoat, but that one matches your eyes.”
Almost blue, nearly blue, but veering toward lavender or periwinkle, and beautiful. The change was subtle, though it complemented his coloring marvelously.
“I used to wear blue because my father wore blue, and nobody dislikes it. Sarah Quinlan has taken me very much into dislike.” He set the swing to gently rocking.
Addy closed her book around a scrap of silk. “I will not believe you offended her on purpose.” But he had offended the most eligible heiress in London. Why, and was the insult permanent?
“She ordered me to kiss her cheek. I could not oblige. Not very gentlemanly of me.”
His smile wasn’t gentlemanly either. It was mischievous, pleased, a touch arrogant. He looked like Sycamore when he smiled like that.
“Grey, please be honest with me. What have you done?”
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? A gentleman is honest. I honestly could not commit my future to a woman who sees me as only a title. I could not vow to love and honor her, to be a true husband to her. Miss Quinlan was not appreciative of those admissions when I conveyed them to her, but in time, she might be.”
Addy set her book aside. “I am appreciative of them.”
Grey rested an arm along the back of the swing. “Her papa was a bit put out.”
“An enraged father is nobody to trifle with.”
“An enraged earl is even more formidable. Quinlan threatened to tarnish your reputation if I failed to marry his daughter. He did me the very great service of reminding me that wealth isn’t the only resource that matters, and that we sometimes go astray when attempting to do our best for our loved ones. Will you marry me, Beatitude?”
The words ambushed Addy’s thinking mind. “I beg your pardon?”
“That came out wrong, or too soon. I was an idiot to embark on a liaison with you that was anything less than honorable, but I cannot regret being that idiot. I love you, I will never love another, and if that makes me an idiot in love, so be it. Money can be earned and made and inherited, but you… You are all the treasure I will ever need.”
She scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her, and the moment was perfect.
“I am an idiot in love too, Grey Dorning. I went to your town house to tell you so, but you had left for Dorset. I assumed your course was set, and was prepared to hear an announcement.”
“So you will marry me? Be my countess? Holler at me when I track mud into the Hall? Bring me a nooning when I’m in the shearing shed impersonating a farmer?”
How prosaic his version of wedded life was, and how precious. “Of course, and you will read to our children, flirt with me before our neighbors, and host noisy holiday gatherings for your whole family.”
His embrace became more snug. “We don’t need heirs, my love, and to be truthful, I’d rather you never faced the risk and ordeal of childbed.”
Addy closed her eyes, the better to revel in Grey’s warmth and scent. “I’ve learned something.”
“Tell me.”
“Roger’s physicians were absolutely, unequivocally wrong in the advice they gave me. I’ve been reading a book Theo lent me, and the midwife is very clear about when conception is most likely and that English physicians have it all backward.”
“Truly? Backward?”
“Any farmer could probably have puzzled that out, but who was I to contradict Roger’s learned physicians? We might well have children, Grey.”
“Then we have children, and because they are our children, we will love them endlessly.”
She had to kiss him for that, which somehow led to straddling his lap and kissing him some more.
When she had kissed him almost enough—for now—Addy looped her arms around Grey’s neck and pillowed her cheek on his shoulder.
“Roger was threatening to set me aside because I was barren.” She hadn’t meant to say words, or hadn’t meant to say them at that precise moment. Even here, amid the bucolic splendor of Canmore Court, even in Grey’s arms, the betrayal was infuriating.
What peer would so disgrace his own wife?
Grey gathered her close. “And then he died, and you were expected to mourn a man who sought to cast you off. How did you ever…? I know how. You are a lady, and you allowed his memory to rest in peace.”
“He offered me a quiet dissolution of the marriage, an annulment if the bishops were amenable. The notion was raised as a jest at first, but with increasing frequency. I don’t know if he would have followed through, but I do know that being set aside was increasingly appealing. Jason was privy to most of this—men gossip, and the brothers had a few mutual acquaintances—but Jason hasn’t known quite what to say.”
“He should say, ‘Roger was a wretched scoundrel who didn’t deserve you.’”
“Roger was an earl, well liked, wealthy, charming… but he was no gentleman. I lacked the sophistication to see that. I spent my first three days here marching around by his grave, shouting at him, and airing vocabulary no vicar’s daughter should know.”
Grey stroked her hair. “Good. I hope wherever he is, he heard your tirades and was shamed by them. He did not deserve you. I hope I do deserve you—you must be the judge—and I promise, should you look with favor upon my suit, I will bend all of my being to maintaining your regard for me.”
“I love it when you turn up all speech-y and earl-ish.”
He framed her face with his ha
“I did not receive your letter. I left Town shortly after you did, which suggests you did not get my letter either. Aunt left her funds to your Tabitha and her harps to you. The sum is quite respectable, to my surprise, and Aunt’s man of business said the harps are worth a fair bit as well.”
Grey kissed her, and amid all of this discussion, Addy was aware of rising desire on his part—also on hers.
“Tabby inherited from Mrs. Beauchamp?”
Addy whispered an amount into his ear, because whispering in his ear was lovely.
“Ye gods, my daughter will soon be an heiress.”
“And she will have a double countess for a step-mama,” Addy said, nipping at Grey’s earlobe. “There’s a lovely little bedchamber inside this fishing cottage, my lord. Might we celebrate our engagement privately?”
Grey rose with Addy in his arms. “You will soon be a double countess. I am a peer of the realm, and you suggest we tryst in a lowly fishing cottage. Madam, have you no thought for the consequence of our station?” His smile would have outshone the Dorset summer sun.
“I love you. That’s all I can think about, Grey Dorning.”
“I love you too, and thank the heavenly powers that a gentleman never, ever argues with a lady.”
He dipped his knees so Addy could manage the door latch, and for the next two hours, nobody in the fishing cottage argued with anybody about anything, at all.
Nine months to the day after the happy couple’s nuptials, Lady Fredericka Gardenia Dorning made her appearance in the Dorning Hall nursery. She argued with everybody about everything, but then, a lady with three younger brothers and six protective uncles was entitled to be a bit contrary.
To My Dear Readers
To My Dear Readers,
I hope you had fun reading Grey and Addy’s story. Their tale was a delight to write, and I hope to see more of them in future True Gentlemen titles (and yes, more of Sycamore too, I suppose…). I expect to have a story done for Ash and Della in early 2019, but the exact timing is up to them.
My next exciting adventure is the release of my first Rogues to Riches tale, My One and Only Duke, which comes out Nov. 6, aka Election Day. Please vote (if you’re in the US), and then treat yourself to an HEA for the least likely duke and duchess ever to meet in Newgate’s accursed halls. I’ve included an excerpt from Quinn and Jane’s story below.
I’ve also tucked in an exclusive excerpt from Kelly Bowen’s latest, Last Night with the Earl, which released Sept. 25, 2018 (what a coincidence!). Kelly is a double-RITA winner, and writes Regencies full steam, snappy repartee, and clever plotting. If you haven’t read her before, you are in for a treat.
If you’d like a little break from all things Regency, I just released a contemporary romance, Scotland to the Max, that puts an American engineer skilled at real estate development at the helm of a Scottish castle renovation project. Max Maitland is thwarted by everything from crooked investors to a pair of legendarily besotted castle ghosts, and he needs single mom Jeannie Cromarty to keep the job from ending in disaster. He does not need to fall in love with Jeannie, but romance is in the very air at Castle Brodie, and has been for generations. Wheeee!
Excerpt below.
I have more projects in the pipeline, including Tis the Season, a multi-author anthology of holiday short stories coming out Oct. 23, 2018. My next Rogues to Riches, When A Duchess Says I Do (Duncan’s story, April 2019) is also already available for pre-order. You can never have too many HEAs!
If you’d like to receive a short email notifying you of pre-orders, deals, and new releases, following me on Bookbub is the simplest way to set that up. If you want the kitten pics and coming attractions reel, then please do sign up for my newsletter. I’ve also recently taken a stab at Instagram, and I like it!
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
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Excerpt: My One and Only Duke
My One and Only Duke by Grace Burrowes, Rogues to Riches Book One (Nov. 6, 2018)
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When Quinn Wentworth and Jane Winston spoke their wedding vows in Newgate prison, neither expected the result would be a lasting union. But here they are, a month later, no longer in Newgate, very much in love, and not at all sure what to do about it…
* * *
Having no alternative, Quinn went about removing his clothes, handing them to Jane who hung up his shirt and folded his cravat as if they’d spent the last twenty years chatting while the bath water cooled.
Quinn was down to his underlinen, hoping for a miracle, when Jane went to the door to get the dinner tray. He used her absence to shed the last of his clothing and slip into the steaming tub. She returned bearing the food, which she set on the counterpane.
“Shall I wash your hair, Quinn?”
“I’ll scrub off first. Tell me how you occupied yourself while I was gone.”
She held a sandwich out for him to take a bite. “This and that. The staff has a schedule, the carpets have all been taken up and beaten, Constance’s cats are separated by two floors until Persephone is no longer feeling amorous.”
Quinn was feeling amorous. He’d traveled to York and back, endured Mrs. Daugherty’s gushing, and Ned’s endless questions, and pondered possibilities and plots—who had put him Newgate and why?—but neither time nor distance had dampened his interest in his new wife one iota.
Jane’s fingers massaging his scalp and neck didn’t help his cause, and when she leaned down to scrub his chest, and her breasts pressed against Quinn’s shoulders, his interest became an ache.
The water cooled, Jane fed him sandwiches, and Quinn accepted that the time had come to make love with his wife. He rose from the tub, water sluicing away, as Jane held out a bath sheet. Her gaze wandered over him in frank, marital assessment, then caught, held, and ignited a smile he hadn’t seen from her before.
“Why Mr. Wentworth, you did miss me after all.” She passed him the bath sheet, and locked the parlor door and the bedroom door, while Quinn stood before the fire and dried off.
“I missed you too,” Jane said, taking the towel from him and tossing it over a chair. “Rather a lot.”
Quinn made one last attempt to dodge the intimacy Jane was owed, one last try for honesty. “Jane, we have matters to discuss. Matters that relate to my travels.” And to his past, for that past was putting a claim in his future, and Jane deserved to know the truth.
“We’ll talk later all you like, Quinn. For now, please take me to bed.”
She kissed him, and he was lost.
Order your copy of My One and Only Duke!
Read on for an exclusive sneak peek from Kelly Bowen’s Last Night with the Earl!
Excerpt: Last Night With the Earl
Last Night with the Earl by Kelly Bowen
Earl. War hero. Notorious rake. After the Battle of Waterloo, Eli Dawes was presumed dead—and would have happily stayed that way. He's no longer the reckless young man he once was, and he’s not half as pretty either. All he wants is to hide away in his country home, where no one can see his scars. But when he tries to sneak into his old bedroom in the middle of the night, he's shocked to find someone already there…
* * *
“Don’t move.”
Eli froze at the voice. He turned his head slightly, only to feel the tip of a knife prick the skin at his neck.
“I asked you not to move.”
Eli clenched his teeth. It was a feminine voice, he thought. Or perhaps that of a very young boy, though the authority it carried suggested the former. A maid, then. Perhaps she had been up, or perhaps he had woken her. He supposed that this was what he deserved for sneaking into a house unannounced and unexpected. It was, in truth, his house now, but nevertheless, the last thing he needed was for her to start shrieking for help and summon the entire household. He wasn’t ready to face that just yet.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said clearly.
“Not on your knees with my knife at your neck, I agree.” The knife tip twisted, though it didn’t break the skin.
“There is a reasonable explanation.” He fought back frustration. Dammit, but he just wanted to be left alone.
“I’m sure. But the silverware is downstairs,” the voice almost sneered. “In case you missed it.”
“I’m not a thief.” He felt his brow crease slightly. Something about that voice was oddly familiar.
“Ah.” The response was measured, though there was as slight waver to it. “I’ll scream this bloody house down before I allow you to touch me or any of the girls.”
“I’m not touching anyone,” he snapped, with far more force than was necessary, before he abruptly stopped. Any of the girls? What the hell did that mean?
The knife tip pressed down a little harder, and Eli winced. He could hear rapid breathing, and a new scent reached him, one unmistakably feminine. Soap, he realized, the fragrance exotic and faintly floral. Something that one wouldn’t expect from a maid.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I might ask the same.”
“Criminals don’t have that privilege.”
Eli bit back another curse. This was ridiculous. His knees were getting sore, he was chilled to the bone and exhausted from travel, and he was in his own damn house. If he had to endure England, it would not be like this.
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