The Dukes of Vauxhall

by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen

  The gentleness of that offer was contradicted by the fierce glint in his eyes. He offered her stability, security, and yet, she’d sooner carve out her heart with a dull blade than betray Graham. “Oh, Jack,” she said softly, giving his hands a squeeze. “I love Graham. You know I could never—”

  “You’ve given him everything,” he whispered. “Your body, your heart. I’ve offered you my name and security, and you’d reject my offer?”

  Her heart twisted. He’d been a good friend, and she hated to see him hurt… and hated even more that she’d caused it. “I am grate—” Her words ended on a sharp gasp as he slammed his mouth down hard on hers. Jack swallowed the sound of her protest, thrusting his tongue inside. Reaching between them, he grabbed her breast, squeezing that flesh. Shock and fear made her motionless.

  As he dragged her closer, terror threatened to choke off her airflow. Gagging, Rowena shoved at him but he was immovable. She whimpered and caught him hard between the legs with her knee. A hiss slipped past his lips and he jerked away. Writhing in pain, he glowered at her. “You would be lucky to have me as your husband, whore,” he spat. Then he froze, blinking wildly.

  Legs shaking, Rowena touched her fingers to her bruised lips.

  “R-Rowena.” He stretched his hand out and she recoiled.

  Then shaking her head, she raced from the room. He called after her, his voice wreathed in agony. “Forgive me. I don’t know… forgive me,” he implored.

  Ignoring his pleading, she sprinted from the room… wanting to run and hide forever from the pain of this day—a day of nothing but betrayals.

  * * *

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  * * *

  SCANDALOUS EVER AFTER

  * * *

  coming this July 4 from Theresa Romain!

  September 29, 1818

  Cambridge, England

  In a single moment, a person’s world could alter forever. For Evan Rhys, it had done so twice: thirteen years before, when he found everything he wanted in life, then again two years ago when he at last admitted it could never be his. With that, he had lost his taste for world-altering moments—unless, of course, they promised to be the good sort.

  He was not expecting such a moment on this day. And certainly not the good sort.

  No, he had decided long ago that an ordinary day was pleasant enough. That is, ordinary for Evan. Since his days encompassed everything from researching in dusty libraries to unearthing the remains of an ancient castle, ordinary didn’t narrow the scope much.

  Today’s ordinary fell somewhere between the two extremes. As with every other lecture he’d given in recent weeks, the windows were uncovered once the final magic lantern slide was shown. From the lectern at the front of the hall, Evan faced the rows of high- backed wooden benches, filled shoulder to shoulder with the curious public.

  “Doubtless you are all devastated to know that was the last slide.” A chuckle eddied through the crowd. Evan continued, “I hope you enjoyed seeing these examples of the fraudulent Roman antiquities plaguing today’s dealers and collectors—not to mention His Majesty’s Customs and Excise. If any of you have questions, I will take those now.”

  This was his favorite part of a lecture, always, when other curious minds inquired of his.

  The first comment came from a plump don in a towering neckcloth. “You discussed the use of these items in smuggling. But surely there is no harm in creating reproductions of antique stone carvings, as long as nothing is smuggled within them?”

  “If the carvings are marked as false, no. But if collected or placed into a museum as genuine, then history is forever undermined.” Evan’s years at Cambridge hadn’t given him half the appreciation for history that digging about in the dirt of his native Wales had. “Good news, though: anyone in this audience will now be able to spot the stone common to these carvings. Go forth and lecture. Share your newfound knowledge. But you’ll all have to paint your own magic lantern slides. I’m no artist, and creating this set took me far longer than I ought to admit. So I’m not admitting anything.”

  Another chuckle from the crowd. Good! This was a lively audience. Evan hoped that by keeping their attention, they’d remember his words better. Not that his joking manner could save a bit of history, but…

  Well, maybe it could. Who knew what would make the difference between catching a fraud and letting it pass? Misrepresenting the truth of the past was wrong.

  Nothing had given him a sense of purpose like holding fast to that idea. And by God, he had needed a sense of purpose since that day two years ago, when he left Ireland without a backward glance.

  A reedy scholar in academic blacks had the next question. “How can you be sure the stone comes from Ireland, as you insist?”

  “The shade and fine grain are unmistakable. I saw it often when I lived there and dug about for artifacts.” With more force than necessary, he began replacing the painted glass slides in their padded case.

  A female voice then spoke up. “What keeps you from Ireland, if you believe answers are to be found there?” And the world tipped and altered for the third time in Evan’s life, because that was a familiar female voice. The voice of the woman he had loved since their first meeting, and whom he’d hoped never to see again.

  Never, he had told himself. Yet his head snapped up, gaze roving the assembled crowd until he spotted her. “Kate…Ka—Ka…” Kate. Otherwise known as Abigail Catherine Durham, the Irish Countess of Whelan. Widow of his closest friend; unwitting keeper of Evan’s heart.

  He was babbling. He was stiff with shock. It was impossible that she should be here in this lecture hall—yet here she was.

  He hadn’t seen her for two years, but if it had been two decades he would recognize her at once. The stubborn curl of her pinned-up hair, the impish arch of her brow. Her straight nose, her firm chin softened by a cleft like the kiss of a fairy. Her mobile mouth was bent in a got-you sort of smile, wry and friendly.

  Always friendly, and no more.

  He was staring, wasn’t he? God.

  The wooden benches of the lecture hall were arrayed in tight, dizzying rows ever upward. Their occupants were beginning to whisper, a storm of quiet sound that reminded Evan of wind through a grassy slough.

  “Um…catastrophe,” he fumbled. Kate’s twist of a smile grew. “It was a…personal sort of catastrophe. Which has kept me from Ireland.”

  He cleared his throat, trying to banish the tightness that clutched at it. Bollocks. He wanted to speak to her. He had to. Time to bring this lecture to an end.

  “Since there are no more questions,” he said loudly over a scatter of called-out queries, “then I’ll leave you with a piece of advice. The best clue that you’ve found one of these false antiquities is that the head pops off to reveal a hollow inside, where the pieces were joined. But I’d advise you not to yank at the head of every supposedly Roman statue you see, lest you damage a true antique. Use your judgment before you use your hands.”

  “What should one do if one finds such a carving?” asked a quavering, elderly voice.

  “Open it up, if you safely can. If you find smuggled brandy inside, drink it. Then take it to an exciseman, as there might be a reward in it for you.” He paused. “If you drank smuggled brandy, probably best not to mention that to the exciseman.”

  “But we’re inland,” protested another voice. “They’re nowhere close by.”

  Evan slotted the last magic lantern slide into place. “Write to me, then, in care of Ardent House in Anglesey. I shall be collecting post from there until March, after which time I will reside in Greece.”

  Not a bit too far away, if Kate could appear in an unassuming lecture hall in Cambridge.

  He closed the padded case for his slides, then thanked the audience for their time. For once, he didn’t want anyone to linger; didn’t want to talk with the lagging curious about painted slides or excavation or the ton’s fasc
ination with collecting the past, false or not. He wanted them to leave, and despite his long- held determination never to see Kate again…damn, he hoped she would stay.

  And she did. Though he did not look in her direction as the hall emptied, he felt her presence like a hollow place filled.

  Usually when a lecture was done, he relished the silent room. The honeyed wood, the slanting autumn light…the faint drift of lemon polish wafting through the air. It ought to offer a sliver of peace—yet now, his heart thumped as if he’d run past the point of exhaustion.

  Two years was a long time to be separated from one’s heart.

  Thirteen years was a long time to deny it existed.

  Into the blanketing quiet came a rustle of fabric. Footfalls, light and heavy. Evan fumbled the latch on his slide case. Summoning his most devil-may-care grin, he looked at the row where Kate remained, a man standing at her side.

  “Kate. How good to see you.” He bowed a greeting, then mounted a few steps to meet her and her companion at their bench.

  Kate, her hair a riot of red-gold, was dressed in autumn shades as though she had never been widowed. Evan shot a curious glance at the hulking fellow who stood beside Kate. A new swain? Suddenly, it was difficult to think what to say next.

  “Evan.” The curve of her mouth was a sliver of sunlight. “You are a master of understatement. I shall follow your example and merely say that it is good to see you too.”

  For a moment they simply looked at one another. Evan wanted to whoop and jig and pull her into an embrace all at once—and something of this eagerness must have shown in his expression, for a blush painted her cheeks as she replied.

  “Ah, I do not believe you have ever met my twin brother, Mr. Jonah Chandler.”

  “He knows he hasn’t. I never went to Ireland.” The brother—thank God, a brother and not a suitor—leaned forward, hand extended. “Interesting lecture, Mr. Rhys.”

  “Evan, please.” He shook Jonah Chandler’s hand, then cut his gaze toward Kate. She was smiling again, the blush faded as if it had never been.

  Friendly as ever.

  “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” Evan said to her brother. “Especially since you’ve known Kate since her young and awkward years. You must tell me all about them.”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” Kate replied, “for I can match any embarrassing story he tells about me with two about him.”

  “Only two?” Jonah frowned. “Your memory is failing.”

  Evan cleared his throat. “Yes, well. A good memory can be a curse, so no harm done. Tell me, do you share your sister’s interest in antiquities?”

  “I’ve been forced to more than once,” said the taller man drily. “Not only today. For our birthday a few years ago, she sent me flint.”

  “Indeed I did,” Kate said proudly. “Ancient flint. Napped over a thousand years ago.”

  “That’s a good gift,” Evan replied. “At least, it is for people who like that sort of gift.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Jonah said. “It fit into my tinderbox well enough.”

  Kate huffed, humor touching the corner of her mouth. “I sincerely hope you are teasing.”

  “Hope all you like,” said her twin mildly. “Since I sent you a bolt of silk for our birthday, and you sent me rocks.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Brothers. So ungrateful.”

  “They are,” Evan agreed. “My own brother is extremely so.”

  Light words had allowed him to regain his composure—and now, he wondered at the heavier question of her presence in Cambridge. “Kate.” He hesitated, considering how best to word his question. “I didn’t expect to see you this side of the Irish Sea.”

  She held his gaze with sea-colored eyes. “Did you ever plan to see me on the other side of it, then?”

  No. Hell no. For the sake of his heart and his conscience, never again.

  * * *

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  * * *

  THREE WEEKS WITH A PRINCESS

  * * *

  coming June 27th from Vanessa Kelly!

  In Vanessa Kelly’s captivating series, three young women are descended from royalty—in the most improper way. But that doesn’t stop them from pursuing lives rich in adventure…

  Lia Kincaid, illegitimate daughter of the Duke of York, comes from a long line of notorious women. Raised by her grandmother, formerly mistress to the late Marquess of Lendale, she has little hope of a respectable marriage. But the new marquess, her childhood friend, Jack Easton, would make a very desirable protector…if he weren’t too honorable to take her to bed.

  It’s bad enough being saddled with a title he never desired. Now Jack must resist the beautiful woman he desires far too much. Duty calls, and he is duty-bound to choose a wealthy bride. But then Lia makes another outrageous suggestion: asking Jack to devise some tests to find her the perfect paramour. Tests that involve flirting, kissing, and other pleasurable pursuits. Tests that, in a matter of weeks, could transform friendship into the ton’s greatest scandal, igniting a passion even duty can’t deny…

  * * *

  “Close your mouth, Lord Lendale,” Lia said dryly. “You look like the village half-wit.”

  Jack’s lips curved up in a heart-stopping, wry smile that was typical of him. He’d never once spoken to her in anger, even though she’d given him cause more than once over the years. He was the kindest man she’d ever met.

  “Lia Beatrice Kincaid,” her grandmother exclaimed in a horrified voice, “you will apologize to his lordship this instant. We are here by his grace and generosity, or have you forgotten that?”

  Lia sighed. “Oh, very well. I’m sorry, Jack. I was an utter beast to say that. Please accept my sincere apology.”

  His smile faded as he shook his head. He looked so weary and frustrated. Lia knew better than anyone that Stonefell had fallen on hard times, but his manner suggested it was even worse than she’d thought.

  “No, it’s I who should apologize to both of you,” he said. “Lia is not far off the mark.”

  Her heart couldn’t seem to decide whether to leap into her throat or plummet to her feet. She had to swallow a few times before she could formulate an answer. “We’ll need a few weeks to pack up and make arrangements to store our things. Then again, because most of the furniture belongs to you, a week or so should do it, I imagine.”

  Both Jack and her grandmother were now staring at her with stunned expressions.

  “What?” she said. “Your mother obviously wants to transform Bluebell Cottage back into the dower house, which means we’d best be out of here as soon as possible.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Jack replied through clenched teeth. “Bluebell Cottage is your home for as long as you want it.”

  She noticed he didn’t deny that his mother wanted Bluebell. Not that Lady John would ever think to live here while Jack was still a bachelor. No, she would reside at Stonefell as lady of the manor for as long as she could. Evicting them from the cottage was about ridding the estate of their noxious presence, as Lia had once inadvertently overheard her say. Lady John loathed Granny and would see this as her chance to finally get rid of her.

  Her ladyship didn’t exactly approve of Lia either. In fact, Lady John had always deplored her son’s friendship with both the first and third generations of the Notorious Kincaids and probably even saw Lia as a threat to Jack’s moral rectitude.

  It was a ridiculous notion. First, Jack would never besmirch any woman’s good name—not that Lia’s family name covered her in glory. Second, and perhaps more germane, Jack would be more likely to succumb to gales of hilarity at the idea of any sort of intimate relationship with her. In fact, she’d wager the thought had never crossed his mind.

  She was the one who was hopelessly infatuated, not Jack. And she didn’t expect that to change any time soon.

  “Thank you, dear boy,” Granny said in a grateful t
one. “I know we shall always be able to depend on your generosity.”

  “Just as we know we can’t take advantage of it forever,” Lia interjected with a warning glance at her grandmother. She and Granny had talked about this, trying to plan for the worst. And it seemed as if the worst was finally upon them.

  “You are not taking advantage,” Jack said firmly. “I count you both as family and always will.”

  Lia managed a smile. “That’s kind of you Jack, but—”

  “But what does it actually mean?” The hard, clean angles of his face took on a cynical cast. “You might well ask.”

  “Then I am asking,” she said. Granny was clearly too disturbed to handle the tricky negotiations that seemed about to occur. That was up to Lia. “Naturally, my grandmother had been hoping for some kind of annuity from your uncle, or an inheritance that would give us a measure of independence. It’s been weeks now and we’ve heard nothing about it from the estate’s lawyer, or from you.”

  “Not that we wished to press you,” Granny hastily added. “We both know you’ve been so busy trying to settle things. It’s completely understandable that you haven’t had a chance to speak with us.”

  Lia crossed her arms over her chest. “Not that we’ve actually had the chance to speak with you about it because this is the first time you’ve been back to Stonefell since Lord Lendale’s funeral.”

  Jack’s dark brows snapped together in a bit of a glower, but Lia didn’t care. She and Granny had more or less been confined to the cottage during that awful week when the family descended for the funeral. Even though they’d spent more time with the marquess than anyone, and even though she and Granny had truly been his family, they’d been exiled from all official activities. Jack had stopped by a few times but was too harassed to pay them much attention. Then he’d disappeared for over two months, although at least he’d written them during his absence.