My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  Theo had longed to hear those words, had not thought them possible, but now…

  “Don’t give up your dreams for me, Jonathan. If I cost you the one thing that gives you joy, the cornerstone of your financial stability, then resentment can only grow in its place. Others rely on you, and I did not take that into account.”

  Did not take many things into account, such as the need to fashion a life that was more than a defense against past hurts.

  “I could not back out of the deal with Dorning now if I wanted to, Theo, and I don’t want to. I’m told that gaming establishments are illegal, and I’m to be a duke someday. I no longer wish to cling to the diversions of my youth like some stubborn tot with a favorite stuffed rabbit.

  “God willing,” he went on more softly, “I’ll become a father someday too. I refuse to allow my children to conclude that I stay out until all hours, bribe the authorities, and break the law because that is more important than reading them their bedtime stories.”

  Theo tried to make her mind work, but unburdening herself regarding the past had left her spent and muddled.

  “You negotiated with Mr. Dorning before you came here?”

  “I did not negotiate. I told Mr. Dorning how it would be, and he had the sense to seize the opportunity I presented.”

  Thank you, Sycamore Dorning. “You’re certain, Jonathan? What of the dukedom?”

  “I will do my best by the dukedom, Theo, and I hope that’s enough for you, because I cannot contemplate marriage unless I’m married to you. I’ll have some income from The Coventry for the next few years. I have investments. I’ll make economies—I was hoping you could help me with that—and I’ll raise my children to be prudent with their coin. I was hoping you could help with that too—the children part—unless you’d rather rusticate in Hampshire?”

  He’d put The Coventry aside, and he wanted to have children with her. The great sadness Theo had carried for years broke into dust, and a breeze of joy blew it to the heavens. The sadness might come around again from time to time, but the joy would never leave her for long.

  She leaned her forehead against Jonathan’s shoulder. “Please do not consign me to Hampshire. I don’t know anybody in Hampshire. I don’t love anybody in Hampshire.”

  “Theo?”

  She gazed up at the little dwelling where she’d struggled so, year after year. Just a house, worth some coin. Not a home.

  “This place holds sad memories, Jonathan. That’s what was driving me to Hampshire. The time has come to let go of what happened here, to move on, and to risk a bit of change. I cannot change the past. I cannot even fight it anymore.”

  Jonathan shifted, sinking to one knee before her and taking her hand. “Then I have a new dream that I’d like to discuss with you every morning, noon, and night for the rest of our lives. Theodosia, I’d like to discuss this dream with you in my bed, in the library, in the billiards room, and in about six different linen closets.”

  “And the music room,” Theo said. “Do you still have the special license?”

  He kissed her soundly. “Let’s discuss the special license first.”

  * * *

  “Tresham, why the hell didn’t you warn me?” Anselm asked, over the lilt of the string quartet in the minstrel’s gallery.

  Jonathan smiled at Miss Threadlebaum, who was being led to the dance floor by no less worthy than an earl’s heir. Dora Louise Compton’s engagement to a young baron had been announced the previous week—Theodosia had had a hand in that—and Clytemnestra Islington had been walked home from services the previous Sunday by a widowed viscount.

  Jonathan’s pleasure in these developments was mostly on Theo’s behalf, but also for the young ladies.

  “You ignore me,” Anselm muttered. “I put a direct question to you, and you are too busy watching that damned staircase—there they are.”

  “What could I possibly have to warn you about?” Jonathan asked, as Theodosia and the Duchess of Anselm paused at the top of the steps. The Duchess descended first, leaving Theo to shine before the whole ballroom in a gown of deep blue velvet. She wore a pearl choker that Jonathan had presented to her as an engagement gift, but other than the single strand of pearls in her hair, her only other ornament was a blazing smile.

  For him. He lifted his glass, because the entire gathering, even the spectators gawking at the windows, should see the regard in which he held his wife.

  “You might have warned me,” Anselm muttered, “that some fool, some wretch with no sense at all, has made it fashionable for dukes and their heirs to dance with wallflowers, debutantes, widows…” His Grace trailed off as the duchess began a left-handed circuit of the ballroom.

  “If you go that way, and I go the other,” Anselm said, gesturing with his glass of punch, “we’re bound to collect our ladies in the next ten minutes.”

  “Anselm, one does not collect ladies. Theo and I are meeting in the card room. You and your duchess are welcome to make up our foursome, or you can continue to fret and pout because your station obligates you to lend consequence to the unmarried women among us.”

  Anselm set down his drink. “You already sound like a duke—more like a duke than I do, and I do not pout.”

  Jonathan sauntered in the direction of the cardroom, Anselm stalking at his side.

  “I pout, occasionally,” Jonathan said. “When the wives are off having one of their gatherings from which we’re excluded, and I’m consigned to pouring brandy for various lonely husbands, bachelor earls, and the endless procession of Dorning brothers. I pout like a toddler deprived of her favorite bunny.”

  “Ye heavenly intercessors,” Anselm replied, nodding to Lady Antonia Mainwaring. “You should be having no dealings with stuffed rabbits. You’ve only been married a few weeks. The bunnies and horses and storybooks aren’t supposed to figure into the equation for quite some time.”

  Jonathan fervently hoped Anselm was wrong. This time next year would do nicely for the bunnies to start showing up, but no amount of skill with numbers could predict such outcomes.

  He reached Theo’s side near the door to the cardroom. “Madam.” He bowed over her hand, she curtseyed.

  Anselm made a noise reminiscent of a crotchety bear.

  “Your Grace,” Theo said, offering her hand. “I believe your duchess mentioned a thirst for some lemonade. You might find her at the punch bowl.”

  Anselm spun on his heel and stalked off.

  “You look delectable,” Jonathan said. “All dignified and beautiful, with a hint of mischief in your eyes. Are you feeling lucky tonight, Mrs. Tresham?”

  They’d shared a bit of luck as they’d prepared to go out for the evening. The bed had required making for the third time that day as a result, and Theo had sent Jonathan ahead to do his bit with the debutantes, while she put the finishing touches on her appearance.

  “You look delectable too,” Theo said, giving him a look that made him long for the privacy of their coach, or their bedroom, or his dressing closet, or the Quimbey conservatory, or…

  “Shall we start your evening with a hand of cards, dearest wife? Lady Canmore is partnering the Earl of Casriel, and their conversation is always interesting.”

  “We should give them a nudge,” Theo said, taking Jonathan’s arm. “They need a nudge.”

  Whom Theo nudged usually ended up engaged, though in the case of Casriel and Lady Canmore, Jonathan suspected more than nudging was needed.

  “We’ll monitor the situation and compare our observations.” They did that, regarding the ducal finances, Jonathan’s charities, Diana’s studies, what to purchase for Frannie’s lying in gift. They conferred, exchanged honest opinions, and sometimes even grew heated in their debates, but—Jonathan would never admit this to Anselm—they also patched up their differences and apologized for words spoken too emphatically.

  “Do you miss The Coventry?” Theo asked as Jonathan escorted her to the tables.

  “Yes and no. I will always enjoy numbers
, but I did not enjoy the moral conundrum that games of chance present, and I like the idea that Casriel’s brothers are building on what I started.”

  He liked better—much, much better—that he and Theo were building a future together, one standing on far firmer ground than money, chance, appearances, and diversion.

  “Prepare for defeat, Mr. Tresham,” Theo said, taking a seat at Lady Canmore’s table. “I’m feeling exceedingly lucky.”

  The earl and countess offered greetings, though clearly, they were barely aware that their table had become a foursome. After several hands, Casriel invited the lady to stroll on the terrace, and Jonathan once again had Theo to himself.

  “They need a shove, not a nudge,” Theo said, collecting the cards.

  She’d revealed herself to be a ruthless and shrewd player, much to Jonathan’s delight, though by agreement, any sums either of them won at cards or dice went toward their various charities.

  Not that they gambled often or for high stakes.

  “You have plundered all my reserves,” Jonathan said, twenty minutes later. “Could I interest you in a stroll on the terrace?”

  Theo set the deck aside. “Unfashionable of us, to socialize together, but if five pence is your limit for the evening, then to the terrace, sir.”

  Jonathan came around the table and bent low under the guise of holding her chair. “I will always prefer a moonlit garden with you to the feeble charms of the cards, Theo.” He reassured her of that point frequently, and the lingering insecurities caused by her first marriage seemed to be fading, one moonlit stroll at a time.

  “I can see why Archie became so enamored of games of chance,” Theo said, slipping an arm around Jonathan’s waist. “The cards promised him the possibility of financial independence, standing among his peers, and if nothing else, they alleviated the great sense of boredom and purposelessness an aristocratic son can be prone to. If we have children, we’ll teach them to play well, but carefully.”

  She was offering Jonathan a reassurance of her own, one he needed to hear. He dropped in occasionally at The Coventry, and saw the Dorning brothers experimenting with this or that change to the establishment. That was hard, but then, Jonathan had his hands full with his own ventures.

  And with Theo.

  “I will sell The Coventry, Theo. The Dornings are off to a sound start, and they have ideas and insights I lacked. They’ll make a go of it, and we’ll get the dukedom set to rights that much faster for their efforts.”

  “I leave that choice to you,” she said, pausing at a fork in the gravel path. “Are you in the mood for shadows and privacy or the well-lit path and its blooming roses?”

  “You decide,” Jonathan said, “and I will gladly accompany you either way.”

  Theo chose the private path—choice rhymes with rejoice—and Jonathan made a leisurely and loving tour of the garden’s nocturnal splendors with her.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  Henry VIII tried to make it illegal for his army to gamble. Charles II appointed Sir Thomas Neale to shut down every illegal gambling den in London, and yet, by the late Georgian period, at least two aristocratic ladies were supplementing their incomes by running faro banks from their homes.

  The history of British gambling is long and colorful, running between a nearly universal love of games of chance on the one hand, and an uneasy understanding of how a turn of a card could upset class expectations on the other.

  As a young officer, the young Duke of Wellington came very close to gambling away his commission, and only the intervention of a friend prevented that disaster. Beau Brummel had to flee England due to unpaid gambling debts. Charles Fox and his brother in the space of just a few days lost the sum of 32,000 pounds (in Regency currency, which would be many times that amount now), and yet, every gentleman’s club, Mayfair ball, and even Almack’s assembly room offered card playing on the premises.

  If aristocrats wanted to trade fortunes or parcels of land among themselves, that was one thing, but gambling also resulted in the ruin of many a titled family, and the overnight rise of men without blue blood. Hence the somewhat ambivalent regard for games of chance, which in the Victorian period, would blossom into crusades against “vice.”

  Those of you who read a lot of historical romances have doubtless come across that venerable gaming institution called Crockford’s. William Crockford was born a fishmonger’s son and began life in that trade himself. He had an aptitude for numbers though, and in particular for calculating odds and recalling anything he’d seen firsthand. He was also shrewd, patient, and in the right culture at the right time to end up as one of the wealthiest private individuals in Britain of the 1830s.

  Crockford worked his way up, from casual games and working class establishments, to partnership in Watier’s which eventually folded due to—it was whispered behind many a fan—employee graft. From there he opened his own club in 1828, and instituted many of the policies I appropriated for The Coventry: Free food and champagne after midnight, fabulous French cuisine, an elegant Mayfair-mansion ambience, and an invitation to membership extended to any prospective peer.

  It’s also the case that even as society’s mood became less tolerant toward intemperate behavior, Crockford’s was never raided by the authorities. Perhaps that’s because “Crocky” paid enormous bribes, or knew enough to stay away from the game trade, or perhaps that’s because he catered to such an exclusive clientele.

  Crocky himself was the victim of swindling, when he bet heavily on The Derby horse race in 1832, and found himself involved in a notoriously crooked situation.

  Too bad for him. He should have done as Jonathan and Theodosia did, and bet everything he had on true love!

  To my Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed Jonathan and Cleo’s story, because I had great fun writing it. I’m sure we’ll hear more about the exploits of the Dorning brothers in future books, and particularly about the Earl of Casriel. What is up with that guy and his harps? I’d like to write a story for him in the next few months, but he’s being coy about his happily ever after. So is Mr. Ash Dorning, about whom I would dearly like to know more. Stay tuned to the website (see what I did there?) for updates.

  I do know, as in the probability converges with absolute certainty, that My One and Only Duke will be published in November. You doubtless noticed that Theo’s banker was a little too cool for his cravat, and sure enough, Quinn Wentworth’s tale is the first story in my new Rogues to Riches series. He is going to wish he’d sampled a few more biscuits before it’s all over. Fortunately, Jane Winston comes along wielding all the sweetness one grouchy hero with a well hidden tender heart could ever need.

  You’ll find a vignette from My One and Only Duke below. I also got my paws on an exclusive excerpt from writin’ buddy Kelly Bowen’s upcoming September release, Last Night With the Earl, so you’ll find a sneak peek at that tale too.

  We just went through The Great Mailing List Botheration last month, wherein most of you confirmed that you’d like to continue to receive the occasional newsletter from me. If the dragnet missed you, you can sign up again here. Another way to stay in touch is to follow me on Bookbub. You’ll get alerts about deals, pre-orders, and new releases without a lot of blah-blah or tub-thumping (as if I would ever…)

  Happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  My One and Only Duke

  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 cl
othing 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.”