How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by Tessa Dare

  While Lady Carville rang for tea and a medicinal powder, James reckoned with this new information.

  So Louisa had been telling the truth. She hadn’t schemed to take Fiona’s dance card, and she couldn’t have known his name would be on it.

  She hadn’t deceived him.

  Or rather, she had deceived him. But she hadn’t lied with the object of attracting his notice—she’d been drawing notice away from her eloping friend. He recalled the way she’d dug in when he insultingly suggested she find another partner. No doubt she would have rejoiced in doing just that, considering how he’d treated her. But she’d stood firm.

  I promised my friend, and I always keep my promises.

  All his accusations from earlier that morning . . . They rang in his ears like the braying jackass sounds they were. What had he been thinking? That Louisa had planned to collide with a bowl of mulled wine, then arranged for his coachman to be tupping a prostitute in the Thorndale carriage? Oh, and she’d put in an order for softly falling snow, as well.

  She was a clever woman, but that would have been quite a feat.

  James didn’t often reconsider his opinions, and once he’d made a decision, he seldom had cause to regret it. But from the moment they’d met, Louisa Ward had him reconsidering everything.

  And if he didn’t right this mistake, he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  And so Christmas was still Christmas, after all.

  On the twenty-fifth of December, the Ward family awoke in a house that, within a week, would no longer be theirs. And yet that didn’t stop Louisa, along with her brothers and sisters, from racing down the stairs in their socks and dressing gowns, greeting Mama and Papa with warmest hugs, and sitting down to a veritable mountain of breakfast. Piping hot drinking chocolate, sweet buns and butter, sausages crisp on the outside and juicy within. Even oranges.

  Heaven.

  By necessity, the Christmas presents were small. No one had room to spare in their trunks for anything larger than a butter mold. But there were songs and games and books and teasing. Merriment, of all the best kinds.

  In a quiet moment, Maggie nudged Louisa’s arm. “Don’t despair. We’ll come back for visits.”

  “I’m only woolgathering.” Louisa squeezed her sister’s hand. “I’m fine.”

  In truth, she was a touch heartsick, but not on account of the house. Home could be Mayfair, or home could be Jersey. Wherever the Ward family went, she knew love would travel with them.

  Even better, love didn’t take up any space in Louisa’s trunks.

  However, she couldn’t stop thinking of James. It was the most idiotic thing in the world, to worry over the man evicting her family from their home. She ought to be furious with him—and some part of her was.

  But other parts of her felt differently. Even though they’d only spent the one night together wandering Mayfair, there were couples who courted for months and shared fewer honest conversations. She felt she’d come to know him, and that he’d come to understand her.

  He must have believed it, too, if he’d been willing to marry her.

  Whenever her mind wandered out of her keeping, she saw that flinty spark of anger in his eyes. His instinctive recoil when she’d reached out, and the cutting chill in his voice.

  He’d erected a wall of ice between them.

  But walls were built for protection, weren’t they? Perhaps he wasn’t merely angry with her, but angry with himself. He was a man who didn’t trust anyone easily, and now he thought his own judgment had betrayed him.

  Oh, James.

  Emotions were so much easier to sort through one at a time, or so Louisa supposed. She wouldn’t know. Her life always delivered them in bundles, tied with impossibly knotted string.

  “Lou-EEE-saah!” Harold tromped in from the entryway. “Someone’s brought a letter for you.”

  Louisa snatched the envelope from her brother’s hand. The letter could only be from Fiona.

  After the night of the ball, Louisa hadn’t dared call on the Carvilles herself. But Mama had learned that the new Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Bettany were honeymooning in Scotland through the end of January. Presumably, the newlywed couple hoped a bit of time and distance might soften the blow. Little could they know, Lady Carville was already redecorating the nursery in anticipation of her first grandchild.

  Once she’d nestled into the chair nearest the fire, Louisa worked her fingernail under the wax seal. However, a closer look at the envelope had her confused. The letter wasn’t addressed properly—only her name, no direction. It could not have come from Scotland. It could not have come through the post at all.

  Stranger still, when she broke the seal and opened the envelope, it didn’t contain a letter. Not even a jotted note of explanation. Just a frightfully long document written in a close, almost-indecipherable hand.

  As she scanned the paper, her fingers began to tremble.

  Kat peered over her shoulder, impatient. “Don’t be greedy. What is it?”

  Louisa couldn’t be certain. She’d never seen one before. But she thought it just might be the deed to a property.

  This property.

  She elbowed Kat aside and leaped to her feet, rushing into the entrance hall. “Harold?” She stood at the base of the stairs and called up. “Harold, who delivered this?”

  “I did.”

  The rich, deep voice came from behind her. Louisa’s heart pounded as she turned in place, already knowing who she’d find.

  The Duke of Thorndale stood in the doorway, hat in his hands.

  James.

  She opened her mouth to speak. He motioned for quiet.

  “Don’t alert the cavalry just yet,” he whispered. “I need a word with you, alone. If that goes well, then I’ll go to your father.”

  “My father?”

  “Not to ask for your hand.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not yet, at any rate.”

  She was thoroughly befuddled.

  He looked at the ceiling, drew a deep breath, and then returned his gaze to hers. “Let’s begin this again.”

  “That seems best.”

  “I mean to declare my intentions to court you. That is, if you agree. I couldn’t blame you if you don’t. The things I said to you . . .” He shook his head in self-censure. “A visit to Lady Carville set me straight that very afternoon. When she told me of Fiona’s elopement, I knew at once that I’d been an ass. I wanted to come back and see you straightaway, but I forced myself to wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would have been too soon, too rushed, too muddled with questions. If a proper courtship revealed we didn’t suit one another, you’d have feared letting down your family. And much as I hate to admit it, I’d always have wondered if it was the house you truly wanted, or me.” He fidgeted with his hat. “It doesn’t speak well of my character, that I’m so quick to suspect others’ motives. But for the longest time, I was rather on my own.”

  “I know.”

  “My mother left. My brother went to school. My father was a good man, but I didn’t have”—he waved his hat toward the cheerful din in the parlor—“anything like this. And then suddenly I’m a duke and everyone scrambles for my notice. It’s too easy to believe people want what they can get from me, rather than . . . Well, rather than wanting me.”

  Her heart gave a sharp twist in her chest. “James.”

  “So I decided to do away with the doubt entirely.” He nodded at the deed. “This house is yours. It can’t be taken back, either, so you’re not to feel obligated. If you agree, we’ll start slowly. Perhaps you’ll let me take you for a drive in the park. If I don’t cock that up entirely, maybe an evening at one of those theaters you keep telling me about.”

  Louisa smiled. “That sounds lovely.”

  He hung his hat on a nearby peg and stripped off his gloves, jamming them into his pocket. “I must be clear. My intent is to win you, and patience isn’t one
of my strengths. But I swear not to rush you. You deserve the chance to think hard before making any decisions.”

  “What about your decisions? I should think you could use some time, too.”

  “Me?” He laughed a little. “I was decided the first night. I’ve had time to think on it since. Long nights of walking through Mayfair alone and forlorn, swilling bottles of finest Madeira and staring through bookshop windows.”

  “What a pathetic image.”

  “Indeed. Even the thought of three mermaids offered no comfort.”

  Louisa startled. “Oh, but the farmland. If you’ve given me this house, what about your drainage plans?”

  “I decided you’re lovelier than field drains, and a great deal more pleasant to kiss.”

  “But I know how important it is to you, what it would mean for your tenants. You shouldn’t put me before their interests. It’s not—”

  He shushed her by pressing his fingers to her lips. “Louisa. I’m teasing. You were right—I have people to think about here as well as in Yorkshire. It’s not right to be selling off properties with no thought for the occupants. I still mean to raise the capital, but I’ll go about it a bit more carefully. You know, since I’ll be in London for a time.”

  “How long a time?”

  His gaze held hers. “As long as it takes.”

  Her heart melted like a new frost in sunshine.

  “And even if all goes well here, you must visit my estate before accepting me. Yorkshire isn’t an island, but it’s a fair distance away. You’d be stranded without hope of rescue if you decided you couldn’t bear my face.”

  “I like your face.”

  He cradled her cheeks in his hands. “I like yours, too.”

  “Oh Lord,” she whispered. “But you’re a duke. And if I married you, I’d be a duchess. I can’t possibly—”

  He tsked. “You’re not one to doubt yourself, my love. Don’t start now.”

  He brushed her lips with his thumb as he slid his hand to the back of her neck. His fingers sifted through her unbound hair, sending soothing waves of pleasure through her body. Her eyelids fluttered with bliss.

  Then he leaned in to kiss her. Gently, chastely. Her family was in the next room, after all. Innocent as it was, the kiss sent a sweet thrill all the way to her toes.

  His kiss tasted like shortbread. Buttery, sweet. Irresistible.

  As they parted, someone in the parlor took to the pianoforte and banged out the first chords of a Christmas carol.

  Louisa reached for his hand and tugged him forward. “Come in and join the family. We could use a baritone.”

  Epilogue

  It was the quintessential Mayfair wedding.

  Announcement in the Times. A date set for the first week of June. Ceremony at St. George’s Hanover Square. Wedding breakfast catered by Gunthers’.

  And a wedding night in London’s finest hotel.

  As soon as he’d closed the door behind them, James swept his bride off her feet and carried her to the bed.

  “What about dinner? Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Oh, I’m hungry.” He pulled down the bodice of her gown and swept his tongue over her breast. His other hand went to her skirt.

  “I’ve rose petals for my bath,” she gasped. “A silky negligee.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I went to a great deal of trouble choosing it. You had better care.”

  “I’ll care later. I promise.” He kissed her neck, laying her back on the bed. “Louisa. I need you.”

  He’d promised her a proper courtship, and he’d done his level best. He’d made do with kisses and the occasional stolen caress. Once, in the theater box, he’d managed to slide his hand beneath her petticoats, all the way above her garter to her bared thigh. The way her breath had quickened had made him wild. He’d known they would be just as explosive together in bed as they were everywhere else.

  James had waited months to have her. He couldn’t wait another hour.

  She was his wife now. His to explore freely, inside and out. This being Louisa, she’d demand to make her own explorations, and he was eager for that part, too.

  He slid his fingers along the soft furrow between her legs. “Don’t be anxious. I’ll go as slowly as you wish.”

  “And if I wish you to go faster?”

  He looked down at his wife. “I love you.”

  Surely, she knew it. She had to know. But he had been saving the words for today, just as he’d been saving all the sweetest pleasures.

  As he kissed her, heat and determination charged through his veins. A few hours past, he’d spoken his vows in church, numbly repeating the words after the curate. He hadn’t truly absorbed their import with his muddled brain. But his blood had been paying attention.

  Love, his heart pounded as their bodies joined. Honor. Cherish. Protect.

  And of course, there was the one vow most applicable to the current moment:

  With my body I thee worship.

  He took his time coaxing her pleasure to its peak, and then he found his own release with an alacrity that would have been embarrassing, if she weren’t a virgin with no point of reference to judge.

  Afterward, he gathered her in his arms, rolling onto his back so he wouldn’t crush her beneath his weight. “Promise me we’ll make bushels of babies.”

  She laughed.

  “I mean it. I want a big family.”

  She sat tall, bracing her hands on his chest. “James, darling. You’ve just married into one.”

  His whirling thoughts came to a standstill. That was true, he had. And they’d welcomed him into the fold with surprising warmth for a family he’d nearly evicted from their home. Spending time with the Wards had required a bit of adjustment on his part. The laughter, the arguing, the sheer noise of it all. But to no one’s surprise so much as his own, he was learning to enjoy the chaos.

  Learning to love them, and to be loved.

  When it came time to share a house with them—that would be the true test. He’d promised Louisa they’d always come to London for Christmas, and that the Wards would be welcome each summer at Thorndale Abbey.

  He reached for her, gliding his hand down her arm, reveling in her skin’s unbearable softness before catching her hand. With the pad of his thumb, he polished her wedding ring.

  She admired the square-cut emerald set in gold. “You spent too much on it.”

  “Impossible.” He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. “You deserve it. You are a jewel among women.”

  Her brow wrinkled.

  “What? I thought I was being romantic.”

  “Yes, but . . . I don’t like to be praised in ways that deprecate the remainder of my sex. The world has countless jewel-worthy women. I’m not the only one.”

  He groaned in complaint. “For once, take a compliment. Am I not allowed to say you stand out from the throng?”

  “Well.” She stroked a single fingertip back and forth, teasing a path through the hair on his chest. “I suppose I’m the only bride in the world who was compromised by mulled wine and bewitched by shortbread.”

  “You’re unique in another way.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re the only bride in the world who’s mine.”

  Her fingertip stilled.

  Ah, there was that shy smile and blush he’d been hoping to see. For all her outward brazenness, Louisa had her moments of doubt and her fragile places. She needed the embrace of strong arms from time to time, and it pleased him mightily to provide it.

  “I love you so,” she whispered. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Promise me you won’t doubt it. Even when I’m sharp-tongued or stubborn or forget to say it for a few days.” She tilted his chin and stared into his eyes. “You must never doubt my love for you.”

  James could scarcely breathe, let alone speak.

  In place of a reply, he drew her down for a kiss. She kissed him back with sweetnes
s and passion and need.

  “I seem to remember mention of a silk negligee,” he murmured.

  “Mmm-hmm. You said you didn’t care about it.”

  “I said I’d care later.” He broke the kiss. “It’s later.”

  About Tessa Dare

  TESSA DARE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty historical romances. Blending wit, sensuality, and emotion, Tessa writes Regency-set romance novels that feel relatable to modern readers. Her books have won numerous accolades, including Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® award (twice) and the RT Book Reviews Seal of Excellence. Booklist magazine named her one of the “new stars of historical romance,” and her books have been contracted for translation in more than a dozen languages.

  A librarian by training and a book lover at heart, Tessa makes her home in Southern California, where she lives with her husband, their two children, and a trio of cosmic kitties.

  To receive updates on Tessa’s new and upcoming books, please sign up for her newsletter at www.tessadare.com.

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  The Duke of Christmas Present

  Sarah MacLean

  Chapter One

  Christmas Eve

  The Duke of Allryd was impressively drunk when he heard the ghost in the kitchens.

  The irony of the situation, of course, was that on any other night of the year, he would have been sober as a judge. The Duke of Allryd was a notorious nondrunk.

  Half of society thought him too rigid for it, the other half thought him too strange—though it should be pointed out that such an assessment was something of a chicken-and-egg conundrum for, when pressed, that same half would point to his teetotaling as proof of the strangeness that inspired his teetotaling.