by Darcy Burke
“Empty,” Nathan declared.
She moved back into the hallway, and he followed.
“There’s only one more room this way, a servant’s closet.”
“And that door?” She pointed to a doorway made to look like the wall’s paneling.
“The servants’ stairs. I’m betting he took those.”
“I think you’re right. He wants to escape.”
“He wants to kill you. I don’t think he’s given up yet.”
She agreed with him on that point as well. He started for the end of the hallway, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“Nathan.”
He gave her an impatient glance, then looked over his shoulder at the door. Vivienne placed a hand on his cheek. That earned her his full attention.
“Just in case I don’t have another opportunity, I want to tell you I love you.”
“You will have another opportunity. But I love you too.”
She smiled. She couldn’t contain the burst of joy that raced through her. “Do you have the ring?”
“What?”
He must think her mad, and perhaps she was. This was no time to discuss marriage, and yet, she’d seen how quickly life as one knew it could come to a crashing end. Now might be the only chance she ever had.
“Your mother’s emerald ring?”
He stared at her for a long moment, then his hand passed over the pocket of his waistcoat. “Are you saying you’ll marry me?”
“Yes. I was coming to tell you when I interrupted that tête-à-tête in your room.”
“I much prefer your company at any rate.” He pulled the ring from his waistcoat. “I don’t have time to do this properly.”
She waved his protest away. “Put it on my finger. That’s as proper as I need or want.”
He took her hand, slid the ring on her finger clumsily.
She kissed him quickly, ran her thumb over the unfamiliar piece of jewelry on her hand.
“Now, let’s go catch an assassin,” she said.
He would die. She’d finally told him she loved him, finally agreed to be his wife, his duchess, and now he was off to his death. Life was full of injustice. Nathan just hadn’t ever had so much of it thrown his direction.
He led her down the servants’ stairwell, emerging silently onto the house’s ground floor. He mentally outlined the geography of the house. Short corridor leading to the expansive vestibule in front of him, door to his library, which led to a parlor on his left. Door to the music room, which opened to a large sitting room on his right. The dining room was on the other side of the vestibule.
“I’ll take this side, you take that,” Vivienne said.
“Hell no. Stay with me.” He would not let her out of his sight. “Let’s start in the library.”
He opened the door, crept inside, keeping his back to the wall. Vivienne followed, closing the door behind her. Smart woman, he thought. No one could come in or out without alerting them.
Nathan jerked his head toward a couch facing the fire. He doubted the man would be lying on it, but he motioned for her to cover him while he checked behind the curtains. The two of them moved silently toward their corners.
Just as Nathan tugged the drapes open, he heard the swish of an arrow. He turned just in time to see the assassin raise his knife and hurl it.
At him.
Nathan jerked to the right, and the knife clattered against the window inches from where he’d stood.
“You missed!” Nathan yelled.
“So did she,” the assassin answered.
Vivienne was already readying another arrow, but the assassin didn’t wait. He flung himself at Nathan, and the two men rolled to the floor, Nathan’s knife tumbled under his desk.
“Nathan!” Vivienne shouted. “I can’t get a clear shot.”
The assassin’s fist collided with his nose, and Nathan smashed his forehead into the man’s nose while the assassin kneed him in the breadbasket. The two tumbled over each other again and again, overturning tables and lamps. He smashed the assassin with an antique bowl and stumbled to his feet. For a moment, he thought he’d won, but the man was up again and plowed him in the face.
Nathan saw darkness right before his head hit the floor. Vivienne’s scream brought him back, and he moved his head right before another fist slammed into it. The assassin pulled the punch but too late. His fist hit the hard wood of the floor.
Nathan grabbed his neck and pushed him off, using his elbow to pop the assassin in the mouth. When the man was down, Nathan hit him again. And again.
He would have punched him a third time, but Vivienne stayed his hand.
“It’s done,” she panted. “He’s unconscious.”
Nathan gained his feet, putting his hands on his hips and drawing in gasps of air. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It hurt to exist.
“And my father made me take fencing,” he said between breaths. “I told him those lessons were a bloody waste of time.”
Vivienne gave him a bewildered look. “What did you want to take?”
“Boxing.”
She nodded, drew in a breath. “All of our children will be pugilists.”
“Even the girls?”
“Especially the girls.”
He opened his arms, and she fell into them. He didn’t care if the servants were gathering in the doorway now, if Fletcher was calling for a doctor, if somewhere above a maid screamed.
Vivienne was in his arms. His princess.
His duchess.
Epilogue
“He’s an insufferable muc,” she said, using the Glennish term for pig. The door of the Grecian parlor at the residence of the Duke of Stoke Teversault closed as the Prince Regent made his exit.
“I will not argue.” Nathan leaned against one cream and dark lilac wall and watched her pace. His wife’s ire was stoked now.
She was his wife. His wife. After they’d dealt with the business of the dead assassins and the live one, they’d received a letter from Prinny summoning them to an audience at the Duke of Stoke Teversault’s ball. Nathan had already planned to attend and to approach the prince, who never missed the annual affair, but he’d thought a formal audience a good sign. He should have listened to Stoke Teversault. The duke had cautioned him against reading anything into Prinny’s invitation. Nathan had hoped Stoke Teversault was just being…well, Stoke Teversault. He was naturally sober and restrained. Fortunately, Nathan had the foresight to procure a special license and marry Vivienne before the ball.
Prinny might offer his protection, but she’d have Nathan’s in any event.
“Can you believe the way he spoke to me?” she said, striding across the parlor and then back again. Through the open windows behind her, he could see the famous row of lime trees that lined the house’s drive. “He acted as though it was my father’s fault he and my mother were killed. As though anyone deserves to die that way!”
“He’s afraid,” Nathan said, moving toward her and laying his hands on her shoulders. “He knows but for luck and the grace of God, that could have been him.”
She turned into his arms. “He’s allowing me to stay in the country only because of your gift.” Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly was this gift?”
“A small token of my fealty.” Three ships were a token indeed. “But you are the Duchess of Wyndover now. He couldn’t make you leave even if he wanted.”
“And so there’s to be no outcry over the massacre at Glynaven Palace, no public condemnation.”
“Not from England, but you’ve written dozens of letters to other world leaders. Surely one of them will condemn the actions of the revolutionaries. Perhaps Spain or Russia.”
“Perhaps.”
He wrapped his arms around her, looked into her lovely eyes. The music from the orchestra Stoke Teversault had hired for the ball swelled and carried on a breeze scented with flowers. “I cannot give you public condemnation. But I can give you revenge.”
She stiffened.
“What do you mean?”
He touched his forehead to hers. “Happiness.”
“Happiness?”
“Did you think I would suggest we hire mercenaries and order the revolutionary leaders slaughtered?”
“It would be a nice gesture.”
“You don’t want that.” Although he imagined a small part of her did, and he could hardly blame her. “Why not be my wife, have children with me, grow old with me? The revolutionaries who tried to kill you, to kill off the royal line, will always know they never succeeded. Our children and our happiness will be the best revenge.”
She heaved a sigh of resignation. “You make sense, as usual.”
“I am an extremely sensible man.”
“You must be to tolerate all those swooning females. Three fainted in your path on the short walk to the ballroom.”
He scowled, clearly not wanting to speak of the incidents.
“I’m certain the heat overcame the ladies, nothing more. This ball is a crush.”
“I’m certain it was one look at your pretty face. Oops!” She fell against his chest. “I accidentally looked directly into your eyes. Help!” She arched back so he was forced to catch her. “I shall faint.” Her hand brushed her forehead.
He lifted her off her feet and swept her into his arms. “In that case, perhaps we’d better retire to the bedchamber Stoke Teversault thoughtfully supplied. You’d better lie down, wife.”
“Take me to bed, husband.”
“With pleasure.”
Books By Shana Galen
Regency Spies
WHILE YOU WERE SPYING
WHEN DASHING MET DANGER
PRIDE AND PETTICOATS
Misadventures in Matrimony Series
NO MAN'S BRIDE
GOOD GROOM HUNTING
BLACKTHORNE'S BRIDE
THE PIRATE TAKES A BRIDE
Sons of the Revolution
THE MAKING OF A DUCHESS
THE MAKING OF A GENTLEMAN
THE ROGUE PIRATE'S BRIDE
Lord and Lady Spy Series
LORD AND LADY SPY
THE SPY WORE BLUE novella
TRUE SPIES
LOVE AND LET SPY
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS BLUE novella
Jewels of the Ton Series
WHEN YOU GIVE A DUKE A DIAMOND
IF YOU GIVE A RAKE A RUBY
SAPPHIRES ARE AN EARL'S BEST FRIEND
Covent Garden Cubs Series
VISCOUNT OF VICE
EARLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN
THE ROGUE YOU KNOW
I KISSED A ROGUE
Anthologies
A GROSVENOR SQUARE CHRISTMAS
CHRISTMAS IN THE DUKE'S ARMS
DANCING IN THE DUKE'S ARMS
CHRISTMAS IN DUKE STREET
A GENTLEMAN FOR ALL SEASONS
THE DUKES OF VAUXHALL
HOW TO FIND A DUKE IN TEN DAYS
Standalones
THE SUMMER OF WINE AND SCANDAL
A ROYAL CHRISTMAS
The Survivors Series
THIRD SON'S A CHARM (November 2017)
The Scarlet Chronicles Series
TRAITOR IN HER ARMS
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my friend Gayle Cochrane for her help with Nathan and Vivienne. And thanks to my co-authors, who challenge me and inspire me.
About the Author
Shana Galen is three-time Rita award nominee and the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers' Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, "The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun," and RT Bookreviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching." She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston's inner city. Now she writes full time. She's happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.
www.shanagalen.com
When I Met My Duchess
Caroline Linden
Chapter 1
It was going to be a terrific storm.
Gareth Cavendish, Duke of Wessex, surveyed the rapidly darkening sky as he stood on the steps of his country estate. Gray-violet clouds boiled up in angry billows and every few seconds thunder rumbled, as if the storm were clearing its throat, preparing to roar. But so far not a drop had fallen.
“I do hope they’re near,” he murmured, scanning the pristine landscape of his property. “The clouds may burst at any moment.”
The man behind him shifted his weight. “Sir William is a very punctual man.”
“Yes.” Gareth narrowed his gaze upon a far-off puff of dust, just visible beyond the stately oaks that lined the road leading to Kingstag Castle. A servant had been sent out to watch for the visitors’ arrival, but it was still over a mile from the main gates to the house. A moment later, a traveling chaise-and-four emerged around the last turn. “There. Just as you said, Blair. Very punctual.”
His secretary murmured a vague reply.
The carriage bowled smartly down the drive, drawing nearer. He stood a little straighter. It wasn’t every day a man welcomed his bride-to-be to his home. Miss Helen Grey, younger daughter of Sir William Grey and the toast of the Season, would be the Duchess of Wessex by the end of the month. Gareth was very pleased with the match. Her father’s best property marched with one of his smaller estates, and according to the marriage settlements, that land would be his one day, as Grey had no sons. It was a good match as well, for the Greys were an old and respected family, even if they had fallen on rather hard times of late. And the young lady herself was ideal: a serene, gracious manner, a lovely face and form, and a beautiful voice. Helen Grey would make the perfect Duchess of Wessex.
Gareth glanced again at the sky. He hoped the storm broke soon and blew over quickly. Guests were to begin arriving the next day, and he shuddered to imagine the chaos if everyone was kept indoors for the next week.
“Let us hope there are no lightning strikes, hmm?” He half-turned to flash a faint smile at his secretary, who nodded, stony-faced. Gareth took another look at the man who was not merely his secretary. James Blair was his distant cousin from a poorer branch of the family and superbly competent. He relied on him like he relied on his right arm. Normally they worked together in perfect tandem, Blair anticipating his thoughts and Gareth relying on his cousin’s uncommonly good judgment in all matters. No one was more closely acquainted with his business concerns or personal matters, nor a better friend. He trusted the man completely.
But now his secretary looked as though a funeral train were approaching instead of a bridal party. “All right, Blair?” he asked curiously.
Blair stared straight ahead, his eyes flat. “Yes.”
He glanced toward the approaching chaise as an awful thought struck him. Good Lord. There couldn’t be something about this marriage giving him pause, could there? Blair had conducted the marriage settlement negotiations on his behalf while estate business had kept Gareth in the country. Naturally, he must have seen Miss Grey and her family a fair amount. Alarm stirred in his chest. Perhaps Blair has seen something troubling but hesitated to bring it up now that the documents had been signed and the engagement announced. Blair would notice. Blair also would not want to embarrass him.
He cleared his throat. “You seem quiet. No reservations about the bride, I hope?”
At last Blair looked at him, albeit reluctantly. “No. Miss Grey is a very suitable choice.”
That seemed an evasive answer. “Were there any problems with Sir William?” he asked, lowering his voice even further. Blair shook his head. “Come, man, what is it?” he prodded. “You look positively grim.”
Blair’s chest filled as if he would speak, and then he sighed. “My apologies, Wessex,” he muttered. “It must be the storm.”
Gareth closed his eyes and mentally smacked himself on the forehead; he’d completely forgotten Blair h
ad been frightened of storms as a boy. Perhaps he still was, and now Gareth had just gone and forced him to admit it aloud. “Of course,” he murmured quickly.
“I wish you and Miss Grey every happiness,” added his secretary with a forced smile.
Gareth nodded, happy to let the conversation lapse. The carriage was almost to the steps, and for a second he wondered what he might have done if Blair had confessed some wariness about Miss Grey or the marriage in general. He couldn’t very well just send her home, but it would have been gravely alarming had James found her wanting.
There was a rustle of silk behind him. “I hope I’m not late,” said his mother as she stepped up beside him.
“Your timing is perfect,” he said. “I presume Bridget had something to do with it.”
“As ever,” she replied under her breath.
Gareth shot his mother a quick glance. All three of his sisters were beside themselves with excitement over the impending celebrations and desperately eager to meet Miss Grey, the reigning toast of London. But while Serena and Alexandra were capable of proper, dignified behavior, the youngest had a true genius for trouble. If anything were to break, go missing, or inexplicably wind up on the roof, Bridget was sure to be found nearby, protesting—with a perfectly straight face—that the most incredible circumstances had caused it. Normally he took Bridget’s mishaps in stride, but he would be eternally grateful if she managed to behave properly for the next fortnight. Perhaps he ought to tell Withers, the butler, to post footmen outside the guest rooms to make certain Bridget didn’t accidentally inflict a broken leg or a black eye on the bride.
“She’ll be on her best behavior, won’t she?” he asked, praying that would be good enough.
“Yes.” The duchess gave him a confident smile. “I’ve told her she will be excluded from all the wedding festivities if she is not. For now, I’ve sent her to help Henrietta entertain Sophronia.”
