by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
“Is it time?” Ruth muttered impatiently for now a sixth time.
“It is time,” Patience whispered. It was time to enter Godrick’s world and make it theirs together.
“It’s about bloody time,” Ruth grumbled, knocking the wall of the carriage. A moment later, one of the Prince Regent’s finely liveried servants drew the door open and helped Ruth down. The bewigged man then held a hand back up to Patience. She made to take it when Sam stopped her.
She looked questioningly to him. “Thank you,” he said quietly, with more seriousness than she’d ever seen of him.
Patience furrowed her brow.
“You knew I needed instruction,” he clarified. “Knew what my weaknesses were.” Pain darkened his eyes. “Knew I needed more than Edwin’s guidance. I don’t know what once passed between you and Godrick, but I’m grateful to you for going to him and finding happiness with him again.” Leaning over, he bussed her on the cheek. He immediately flushed and then jumped down.
Patience hesitated once more and, before her courage deserted her, accepted Sam’s proffered hand. With Sam between the two of them, she and Ruth made their way through the grounds of Vauxhall. With every step, the din of the crowd grew, blending with the strains of the symphony. She battled back every fear that had ever come from existing outside this station. This was a foreign world. She had no place being here.
You’ve been running from the world...
They reached the entrance of the ball, and elegantly attired guests craned their heads back to glance at the latest entrants. Patience saw as their eyes tried to make out the identity of the Storm trio. We are interlopers in their world... Biting the inside of her cheek, Patience thrust aside those self-doubts and looked among the sea of guests. Searching. Searching. And finding. The tall gentleman, in all black, from the midnight sleeves of his jacket to the gleaming black of his Hessians, stood in command of the entire place. Godrick grinned, and just like that, all the tension went out of her.
Patience smiled. Ignoring the crowd about them, he started for her. “Miss Storm,” he greeted, capturing her hand and raising it to his lips for a lingering kiss. Little shivers radiated from that delicate caress. And then, Patience registered too late the couple who stood just beyond his shoulder.
She stiffened. By the green of Godrick’s eyes in the slender, silver-haired lady and the noble angle of the jaw belonging to the gentleman, the pair before her could be none other than the duke and duchess. Patience promptly sank into a curtsy. “Your Grace—”
The duke touched a finger to his lips, cutting across her greeting. Immediately silenced, she colored. In a moment of pure envy, she stared after her brother and sister as they dissolved into the crowd of merry revelers. “Makes a gentleman feel old to have a young lady such as you ‘Your Gracing’ me.” He followed that with a waggle of his eyebrows. “You’ll soon discover I’m not one of those stuffy lords.”
Startled into a laugh, Patience looked to Godrick. He winked once, and that slight, so-very-Godrick-like gesture immediately chased away all worries.
“Now, be off to dance with my son, Miss Storm,” the duchess chided. “He’s not danced a set in ten years.”
Ten years. Shock went through her, and she swung her gaze back to Godrick’s. All earlier teasing gone, he held out a hand. Automatically accepting that offering, she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, where they settled into position for the waltz.
“Ten years,” she said softly as he guided her through the slow, sweeping circles of the dance. The forbidden steps he’d taught her long ago came as easily as the last time they’d danced back then.
He caressed the lower curve of her back. “I’ve not danced in ten years, Patience,” he confessed. “I’ve not truly smiled.” He held her gaze. “And there has been no other woman in any way.”
Her heart started. The papers had marked him as a rogue. They’d—
“There has been no other,” he repeated quietly. “And there will never be another but you. I love you.”
His words washed over her, warming her from the inside out, chasing away a lifetime of loneliness and leaving in its place a gentle peace. “I love you, Godrick Gunnery,” she whispered.
So many years she’d resisted the idea of a future with him for the reason of the station divide between them, only to find their strength came not in any manner of fight, be it ring or over birthright, but rather in the one gift they’d found long ago—love.
The End
About Christi Caldwell
* * *
Christi Caldwell is the bestselling author of historical romance novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!
When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can be found in her Southern Connecticut home chasing around her eight-year-old son, and caring for twin princesses-in-training!
Visit www.christicaldwellauthor.com to learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at Christi Caldwell Author , and Twitter @ChristiCaldwell
For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to sign up for my monthly newsletter!
Books by Christi Caldwell
* * *
The Heart of a Scandal
In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella
Schooling the Duke
Heart of a Duke
In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella
For Love of the Duke
More than a Duke
The Love of a Rogue
Loved by a Duke
To Love a Lord
The Heart of a Scoundrel
To Wed His Christmas Lady
To Trust a Rogue
The Lure of a Rake
To Woo a Widow
To Redeem a Rake
One Winter with a Baron
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
Lords of Honor
Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
Scandalous Seasons
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love
Sinful Brides
The Rogue’s Wager
The Scoundrel’s Honor
The Theodosia Sword
Only for His Lady
Danby
A Season of Hope
Winning a Lady’s Heart
Brethren of the Lords
My Lady of Deception
Memoir: Non-Fiction
Uninterrupted Joy
* * *
THE PRODIGAL DUKE
* * *
THERESA ROMAIN
The Prodigal Duke
* * *
After the death of his older brother, Leo Billingsley returns to London to assume the duties of Duke of Westfair. He has spent years abroad, traveling the world and building a fortune in shipping—but to his uncle and only remaining relative, Leo is still the impulsive black sheep who doesn’t deserve a chance to make good.
Tied to England and the duties of an impoverished dukedom, there’s only one person Leo trusts: his old friend and first love, Poppy Hayworth. But Poppy’s life has taken surprising turns since Leo left, and now she carries a crushing secret. Desperate to save enough money to flee the country, she earns a temporary living as a Vauxhall Gardens tightrope walker.
In order to win over his uncle, Leo offers her a
fortune to pretend an engagement with him. It seems the ideal solution, especially when Leo and Poppy rediscover love and passion. The one flaw? If their ruse succeeds, they’re ensuring that they’ll be parted forever…
Chapter One
* * *
Sixty feet was a long way to fall.
But here on her wire sixty feet above the ground—here and nowhere else on earth—Poppy feared nothing. Here, she ruled a world of her own.
When she looked down, her eyes dazzled from the thick scatter of lamps brightening the twilight-dark sky. But Poppy didn’t need sharp sight to keep her footing. Though the rope was little more than a shadow before her, she knew it by feel. Her white and gold balance pole served as an extra set of arms, fully eight yards long, and flexible and strong as sinew. It drooped gently, grounding her to earth, even as she walked high above. Above the owners of Vauxhall, who tinkered with her show almost on a weekly basis. Make the rope longer. Make the mast taller. Shorten your skirts. Run as quickly as you can. Pause at the middle of the rope to dance.
Sixty feet in the air, she could forget all of that—except for the payment. A week on the wire paid the same wages a housemaid received in a year. And one season at Vauxhall? Why, it would pay almost enough for a new beginning. Because the war had ended in June, she could escape to the south of France and live in a cottage among lavender and olive trees.
The orchestra played at a distance, the lilting beat of a comic song floating through the air. Poppy let it carry her forward, one step, another and another, in time with the faint music. Beneath her knee-length skirts, long pantalettes protected her modesty and left her legs wonderfully unencumbered. Letting her balance pole hold her steady, she stepped back, a quick dancing beat, then took a hop forward that made the people far below her gasp. A crowd loved nothing so much as thinking she was about to fall.
But Penelope Hayworth—known here as Madame Haut and everywhere else as Poppy—never set a foot wrong anymore. Not in her daily life, and certainly not on a tightrope.
She stepped forward again, a quick shift of her weight, then darted forward—racing, as she’d so often done along the fences and rails of the Duke of Westfair’s lands. Applause followed her, a ripple of sound that swelled until she reached the end of the long rope. Here a pair of posts tilted together to clasp the rope tight, leaving a vee at the top and a rope end that trailed to the ground below.
She notched her balancing pole into the vee. Lord Bexley—the run-ragged viscount overseeing the coming celebrations in honor of Waterloo and the Prince Regent’s birthday—would see it hooked safely down and stored for her next performance. For tonight, she was done. She slid down the trailing rope to the small cordoned-off area at its base, gritting her teeth against the familiar collision of feet with earth.
It didn’t come. Instead, hands caught her about the waist from behind, gentling her landing.
Her panicked reflex was instant: Poppy flung out an elbow and stomped backward, seeking the arch of the assailant’s foot. “Do not touch me! My contract states quite clearly that I am not to be touched.”
The hands lifted. “My apologies. I haven’t read your contract.”
That voice. Nothing else could have stilled her attack at once. She knew that voice, though she had not heard it for six years. She would have recognized it if sixty years had passed.
Her voice quavered as she spoke through shallow breaths. “You are not the guard who is supposed to keep the crowd away.”
“I am not, no.” A flicker of laughter brightened the words.
Tottering, she put a steadying hand on the rope she’d just slid down, then ventured a slow, cautious turn. “Leo.”
It was him. It was really him.
“Hullo, Poppy.” He lifted his hands, that sweet, saucy grin on his face. “Thank the Lord you’re on solid ground again. I was all in knots watching you.”
“You never did like climbing anything higher than the staircase in your family’s town house.” She hardly knew what she was saying. Here was Leonidas Billingsley, tall and handsome as ever. Her old friend Leo, who’d had her heart in his pocket along with half the Westfair money when he left England six years before. Now, with the death of his older brother Richard, he had become the Duke of Westfair.
And now he was home.
And he was laughing. “Do you have to remember that about me? Couldn’t you remember something more heroic?”
“Who says I don’t?”
Wait. That wasn’t right, was it? Ought she to be pleased to see him or not? At some point in the last six years she had retrieved her heart from his keeping. She knew, because it was pounding heartily in her chest.
She shook her head. Tried again. “What are you doing here, Leo?”
“I came to see you, obviously. I arrived in London yesterday and am staying at the Westfair town house. My uncle told me you were performing at Vauxhall tonight. As a ropedancer! It was truly impressive, at least what I could bear to watch of it.”
Poppy smiled. “I called on Ubie last week. I suppose he couldn’t help but share all my gossip.” Uncle Bernard, Leo’s mother’s brother, had lived in the Westfair household since the death of the old duke. When Leo and Poppy had run tame across their families’ adjoining lands, Poppy had grown fond of Ubie and had given him the nickname he grudgingly tolerated.
Poppy’s call on Ubie at the Westfair town house had been an ordinary visit, with ordinary tea and biscuits and chat. They hadn’t spoken of Leo. What would have been the point? Though he had been summoned from abroad after his elder brother’s death months before, no one knew when—or whether—he would return.
She eyed him closely. No, he wasn’t the same Leo who had left, after all. At twenty-one, he’d been wiry and quicksilver. Now twenty-seven, he seemed more solid. His shoulders were broader, with a confident set to them.
“So you came to see me,” Poppy said. “That’s all you wanted? To avert your eyes and greet me?” She sank to the worn grass to unlace her slippers.
“By no means. I’m not averting my eyes now. What are you doing?” Leo was instantly crouching before her, curious as ever.
“I always change my shoes after a performance.” Might as well cling to this shred of normalcy. She wiggled one foot free, her bare toes chilled despite the sultriness of the evening, then held up the slipper. “See? I can’t go walking around in these.”
Her laced performance shoes fitted to her feet, tight as second skins. Their thin leather soles were waxy with the same resin that heavily coated the high wire.
As she removed the second shoe, Leo regarded the first with fascination. “Special shoes for walking on a rope. I’d never have thought of it. Didn’t you used to walk every rail barefoot?”
“I did.” She turned away to retrieve the small case she kept at the end of the rope, then exchanged her slippers for a pair of half boots she stored in there. “But the owners of Vauxhall, the Barrett brothers, informed me that my bare feet were too provocative. So I had to fashion something else.”
Leo’s eyes fastened on her feet, pale against the dark earth and worn grass. Her toes curled shyly, as if trying to hide their nakedness.
“Very provocative,” he agreed with mock graveness. “As opposed to the skirts that show off your knees, which are sedate as a nun’s.”
“Ah, well, those are just good business sense,” she replied. “Or so the Barretts explained to me. If I wore a long dress and tripped over the train, the performance would be over far too quickly.”
“I imagine ropedancers toppling to earth would lead to poor ticket sales.”
“Indeed. Which is why I shall probably have to have a net next time I perform.” She eased on one half-boot, then the next, acutely aware of the crowd around them. Not that a woman changing her shoes was the most scandalous sight at Vauxhall by far—but still, Poppy was used to the shield of her guard.
Whom, she now saw, was holding a tankard in one hand and a plump woman’s derriere in the other. Leo must ha
ve given the guard a coin to leave his post. Nice to know he was so easily bribed.
“Why a net?” Leo rose to his feet, then extended a hand to her.
She placed hers in his, glad for his gloves that kept her bare hands from touching his skin. “The Prince Regent,” she explained, hopping to her feet, “has arranged for a series of celebrations in his own honor. Oh, and also in the honor of the victory at Waterloo this past June. Lord Bexley is trying to make sense of the budget and keep dramatics to a minimum. Which means if I am so foolish as to fall from the wire, it must be into a net. Once a net can be procured, that is.”
She released his hand, brushing dry blades of grass off her skirts. “Are you planning to stay at the gardens for a while? Or do you want to accompany me home?”
Leo smirked. “Why, Poppy, we've only just got reacquainted.”
Her cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean like that,” she blurted. “I just wondered if you wanted to walk with me. Since you came here to see me. I live in a very proper room, not far from here. I rent from a widow who defines respectability, so you couldn’t try…anything. Even if you wanted to.”
