by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
The name of this little boy had been a cause for much debate. Uncle Bernard had been in favor of naming him Richard, and Leo had almost come around to the idea.
Then Poppy had weighed in. “Can we not give him his own name? Being a duke is enough to live up to without settling a weight of tradition onto his tiny shoulders.”
“Pleistarchus?” suggested Leo. “In Greek history, he was the son of Leonidas.”
“Never mind. Name him Richard,” said Poppy.
Ultimately, they named him Simon. And his second name was Bernard, which had pleased the old man mightily.
As Poppy poured out tea, Leo said, “I was just reviewing my letters, my love. Apparently, the Marquess of Nithsdale was considering a return from Italy. But his creditors—chief among them the cruel Duke of Westfair—will demand payment on his debts if he sets foot on English soil, and so he vows to stay abroad permanently.”
“But his poor tenants!” Poppy shook her head. “What am I saying? His tenants are fortunate not to have him around. I ought rather to pity the people of Italy.”
“I am told,” Leo said, “that he lives in a rural area. Almost a cottage, one might say.”
“Very good,” Poppy decided. “I was once set upon that sort of life. But now that I’m living this one, I’m quite sure life in a cottage would not have suited me.”
Indeed, Leo could not now imagine Westfair without Poppy’s calm intelligence, her fierce bravery. The dukedom’s head was in London, its heart was in Sussex, and its various limbs were flung about smaller holdings in England and Scotland. Overseeing a dukedom was not a task for a man alone; Leo could never have found success or happiness without his wife.
Bernard added another spoonful of sugar to his tea. “Neither one of you is the slightest bit like the old duke.” He took a sip, letting the tea sit on his tongue—and then smiled. “But as long as something is done well, I don’t suppose it matters if it follows tradition.”
“Speaking of which,” Poppy murmured into Leo’s ear, “I’ve moved all the furniture in my study into a line. A bit of my own tradition. Would you care to try your balance? I could…guide you.” The warmth of her voice held an unmistakable invitation.
Leo set his teacup down with a rattle of china. “Why, Madame Haut, have you kept your performing outfit all this time?”
His dear, darling duchess winked. “Why don’t you come find out?”
The End
About Theresa Romain
* * *
Theresa Romain is the bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf trilogy. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received a starred review from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. Her highly acclaimed novels have been chosen for the Smart Bitches Trashy Books Sizzling Book Club, featured in the DABWAHA tournament, and deemed “Desert Isle Keepers” by All About Romance. A member of Romance Writers of America and its Regency specialty chapter The Beau Monde, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.
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Visit Theresa on the web at http://theresaromain.com *Facebook *Twitter * Pinterest
Books by Theresa Romain
* * *
Stand-Alone Works
Those Autumn Nights (novella) in A Gentleman for All Seasons
My Scandalous Duke (novella)
Romance of the Turf
The Sport of Baronets (novella)
A Gentleman’s Game
Scandalous Ever After
Royal Rewards
Fortune Favors the Wicked
Passion Favors the Bold
The Matchmaker Trilogy
It Takes Two to Tangle
To Charm a Naughty Countess
Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress
Holiday Pleasures
Season for Temptation
Season for Surrender
Season for Scandal
Season for Desire
* * *
THE BUCCANEER DUKE
* * *
A Renegade Royals Novella
VANESSA KELLY
The Buccaneer Duke
* * *
Captain Roman Cantrell, illegitimate son of a royal duke, served his country as a ruthless privateer on the high seas. But the war is over and his father orders him home to London to find a respectable wife, one who will help restore his reputation amongst the ton.
But the only woman Roman finds remotely attractive is the opposite of respectable. Antonia Barnett is decidedly unconventional, positively scandalous—and entirely enchanting. Unfortunately, she’s also the daughter of his greatest rival, a man who believes that Roman’s dangerous past will come back to haunt him.
But troublesome fathers and ruthless enemies are no match for Antonia—as Roman is about to find out…
Dedication
* * *
Dedicated to my readers who loved Antonia Barnett in HIS WICKED REVENGE, and wanted to see what happened to her.
Chapter One
* * *
“I don’t suppose you would consider marrying me, would you?” Antonia Barnett asked in a hopeful voice.
“I’d rather throw myself in the Serpentine,” said Richard Keane. “You know I’d die a thousand deaths for you, old girl. Getting leg-shackled, however, is out of the question.”
She tried to work up a grumpy response, but Richard was her dearest chum, and she’d known him for so long that it was difficult to see anything but friendship between them. Besides, she was no great beauty, small and skinny to the point of angularity. Those characteristics served her well in certain circumstances, yet were decidedly detrimental when casting lures for a mate.
“You could do worse,” she said, “especially since I’m rich.”
“Confound it, Tony, keep your voice down,” Richard hissed, glancing toward the front of the supper box. “My mother would love for us to get riveted. She’s like a dog with a bone on the subject. I’ll never hear the end of it if you start up again.”
Rebecca Keane was sitting nearby with Antonia’s mother, eating Vauxhall’s paltry excuse for a supper and engaging in animated conversation. Antonia’s father, as usual, stood and kept a watchful eye on the occupants of the other boxes and the crowds strolling along the colonnaded walks of the Grove. Papa had never been a fan of Vauxhall Gardens. He was convinced that it was a den of thieves, drunks, rakes, and prostitutes, all scheming to take advantage of respectable women like his wife and daughter.
He wasn’t entirely wrong, as Antonia had personally witnessed. But unlike her father, she loved Vauxhall, with its wide avenues and groves of trees glittering in the light of thousands of colorful glass lanterns. If Papa ever found out that she and Richard occasionally snuck off to spend evenings strolling those groves and peeking into secluded grottos, he would have an apoplectic fit.
As far as Antonia was concerned, parents were best kept in the dark about potential areas of conflict. It made life easier for all concerned.
“Our mothers can’t hear us,” she replied. “Not over the din of the orchestra. Why they must play an endless stream of military marches is beyond me. I can barely hear myself think.”
“They’re practicing for next week’s celebrations to commemorate our great victory at Waterloo.”
Antonia scoffed. “The Prince Regent is no doubt more concerned with celebrating his birthday than the end of the war. If there’s anything Prinny loves it’s a good party.”
The next few weeks would see a veritable orgy of balls, concerts, and fireworks to honor both the defeat of Napoleon and the Regent’s birthday. Many of the events would be held at Vauxhall Gardens. Like Prinny himself, the festivities were bound to be overblown, gaudy, and ridiculously extravagant.
The fact that they would undoubtedly be a great deal
of fun too meant Antonia had every intention of attending as many as she could, even if it meant telling a few white lies to her parents. Top on her list was the prizefight rumored to take place a few days after the masked ball. While such fights were thoroughly illegal and no place for a lady, that simply made her all the more determined to attend—although certainly not as a lady.
“Maybe you’ll meet some new suitors during the celebrations,” Richard said. “Bound to be some fellow who will take a shine to you.”
“Richard, I’ve been on the Marriage Mart for three years, and we all know I’m an abject failure. It would take a miracle of monumental proportions to change that.”
Her friend’s gaze warmed with sympathy. “Is that why you came up with that cracked brain idea to marry me?”
“You must admit it would solve more than a few problems. Papa would stop worrying about me, and your mother would be deliriously happy. We could eventually run Nightingale Trading together, and we’d be as rich as King Solomon.”
“You mean you’d be rich as Solomon. My father is a minority partner, remember?”
“No matter. As my husband, you’d control my fortune. One day you’d be the head of everything.”
Everything would include one of the most influential trading companies in England. Under normal circumstances, Antonia should be a considerable prize as a result. Her circumstances, however, were anything but normal.
“Sorry, old gal, it’s still not enough to tempt me,” Richard said. “Besides, you’d bully me unmercifully. We both know you have a better head for business than I do.”
“Nonsense, you’re very good with numbers, just like your father. You’d be splendid running Nightingale Trading.”
“Not as splendid as you. And your father would make me walk the plank before he allowed us to marry. Only a rich aristocrat will do for his darling daughter, as he’s made abundantly clear.”
“Yes, and look how well it’s worked out,” she said gloomily. “It’ll be a miracle if anyone wants to marry me after last week’s incident.”
“Were you talking about marriage, my dear?” interjected Mrs. Keane, who’d obviously been eavesdropping. She smiled archly at Antonia’s mother. “I have said a thousand times that my son and your daughter would make the perfect match. After all, they are such good friends.”
“Yes, so good they are like brother and sister,” Mamma replied with a twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes.
“True enough, Mrs. Barnett,” Richard said with a grateful smile. “And we’d probably kill each other after a week, anyway, so there’s that.”
“Nonsense,” huffed Mrs. Keane. “Everyone knows friendship is the best foundation for marriage. Antonia and you are well-suited in all respects.”
Antonia’s father had been lounging against a railing at the front of the box, but Mrs. Keane’s brassy voice caught his attention. “We’ve discussed this more than once, Rebecca. As estimable as Richard is, he and Antonia are not suited for each other.”
Richard gave a dramatic shudder. “Can’t think of anything more dismal, actually.”
“Richard Keane!” his mother exclaimed. “What a terrible thing to say about your dearest friend.”
“He’s probably right, Mrs. Keane,” Antonia said, wrinkling her nose. “And his opinion is generally shared by everyone on the Marriage Mart. I suspect I’m doomed for spinsterhood.”
“Nonsense, darling,” Mamma said. “Everyone thinks you’re lovely.”
“And if they don’t, they’ll have me to answer to,” Papa said in a stern tone.
Antonia’s father was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early forties. Rugged and imposing, his over-protective manner towards his only child—while endearing—was yet another impediment to her quest to find a suitable husband.
“I believe Lord Totten discovered that when you tossed him into the pond at Green Park,” she said.
“I didn’t toss him,” Papa said in a defensive tone. “I just gave him a little push. He insulted you, and I won’t have that.”
The viscount had simply made a veiled reference to Antonia’s eye color, an unusual golden-amber and the exact match of her father’s. Normally, one might take such a remark as a compliment. And given that she was rather ordinary looking, they counted as her best feature.
But though she’d inherited Papa’s eyes, he was technically her stepfather. Antonia’s parents had been childhood sweethearts and then young lovers until tragically separated by unfeeling relatives. Papa had been thrown out on his ear without a shilling, while Mamma had been hastily pushed into marriage with a wealthy baronet. Convinced the love of his life had abandoned him, Papa had set sail for the Americas, where he’d made his fortune in shipping.
Mamma had been forced to pretend she’d become pregnant by her new husband, not Anthony Barnett. Eventually, Sir Richard Paget had deduced Antonia was another man’s child. While he’d been decent enough to go along with the charade until he died, Sir Richard had never shown a scrap of affection to either his wife or Antonia.
When she was a little girl, she had always wondered why her father didn’t like her, and she’d never been able to shake the sensation that the fault rested with her.
A few short weeks after her twelfth birthday, Captain Anthony Barnett returned to London, seeking revenge against the woman he was convinced had betrayed him. To say he’d been stunned when he first set eyes on Antonia was an understatement. It had been a shock for her, too. All the questions of her life had been answered in the moment when she gazed into the eyes of the man who was obviously her real father.
Matters had been fraught for a day or two, but eventually Papa accepted that Mamma had been trying to protect everyone by her deception. They had married almost immediately, and Papa had adopted Antonia. To avoid scandal, they still pretended he was only her stepfather, and the polite world mostly went along with the fiction.
After all, Papa was very rich.
But only a particularly credulous person could fail to notice that they shared the same unusual eye color, not to mention, for all intents and purposes, a first name. It had the unfortunate effect of making Antonia less than respectable, and sometimes even the object of unfeeling gossip. She only gave a fig when Papa did something like tossing a would-be suitor into a pond.
“Lord Totten was just making an observation,” she said.
“One that has been made numerous times over the years,” Mamma reminded him. “I would think you’d be used to it by now, Anthony.”
“I will never grow used to anyone insulting my daughter. Or you, for that matter,” he said, taking his wife’s hand. “Anyone who does will regret it.”
When he gallantly kissed the inside of her wrist, Mamma blushed. Mrs. Keane giggled and fluttered her handkerchief like a debutante. Although Antonia rolled her eyes, it was hard not to admire her parents. They were like characters out of a novel—larger than life, with a love to match.
“Lord Totten certainly came to regret it,” she said.
“He caught a dreadful cold,” Mamma said ruefully. “His poor mother told me it was quite a violent taking.”
Antonia sighed. She’d rather liked Lord Totten, despite his occasionally smirking attitude. At least he made an effort to speak with her.
“That’s ridiculous,” her father protested. “He barely got wet.”
“He got soaked. The point is, Papa, if you keep threatening the few suitors I have, I’ll be an old maid in no time.”
She had yet to receive a decent offer in three years. There’d been a few young men who’d proposed, but it was clear they simply wanted her fortune. Antonia would never be so desperate as to accept an offer from a man whose only interest was in the state of her purse, not the state of her heart.
“I only threaten the ones who don’t respect you,” Papa said. “Nor am I responsible for the fact that most men are buffoons. You are exceedingly smart and nice, and you’re the prettiest girl in London. You take after your mother, so it’s no wo
nder.”
Antonia wasn’t a patch on her gorgeous mother. Still, Papa believed every word he said. It was terribly sweet of him, of course, but also painful because she was letting him down.
Richard poked her in the arm. “He’s right, Tony. After all, you’re lots of fun, and you never nag a fellow. You’ll make a splendid wife.”
“Just not for you,” she joked. “Or did I get that wrong?”
Mrs. Keane leapt in like an acrobat. “Of course my son would love to marry you. Just name the day, my dear.”
“Confound it,” Richard muttered.
“I repeat, Antonia and Richard do not suit,” Papa said to Mrs. Keane. “And your husband agrees with me.”
The older woman snorted. “As if Simon would ever disagree with anything you said. You quite dominate him.”
“I do nothing of the sort. I simply explain things in a rational manner, and then Simon agrees with me.”
They all rolled their eyes. Papa and Mr. Keane were partners and great friends, but no one doubted who ruled the roost at Nightingale Trading. Antonia’s father was a force of nature, always convinced he knew best. The fact that he was usually correct didn’t make the characteristic any less annoying.
