“Now all we need is a granddaughter.”
Drew laughed. “Do not tell our sons—or, more importantly, their wives—that, my dear duchess.”
Will had heard his grandfather laugh. He looked up and his little face broke into a heart-melting smile. “Gamma! Gampa!”
The Duchess of Love could not resist such seductive words. She hurried into the room to gather her precious grandbabies close.
Author’s Note
If you’re a reader who studies book covers, you might be puzzled by the dog on the front of Loving Lord Ash. He’s very cute, but you’re right—he’s not Fluff. Fluff is a LARGE dog, so large he apparently wouldn’t fit in the picture!
I knew I wanted Fluff to be big—Jess didn’t strike me as a small dog person—and he had to be a breed that was around in the Regency. Initially I was waffling between an Irish Wolfhound and a Newfoundland. I finally decided on a Newfie, though I suspect Fluff is a bit of a mutt.
All of the Duchess of Love books include pets. I find animals a great source of humor, and they help reveal who the hero and heroine are. But I also try to make my animals characters in their own right with their own distinctive personalities.
I didn’t grow up with pets. Before I was born—or at least before I was old enough to remember—my family had a dog that chased cars and ate blankets. I did have a dime store turtle for a little while. It was quite the escape artist, climbing out of its plastic terrarium in the kitchen at night to be found in the morning two rooms over in the living room. And then when I had my own family . . . well, four sons seemed like enough living creatures to keep track of!
So I’ll confess I take special delight when a story animal comes to life for me, and I can “see” him moving through the pages. I hope Fluff has come to life for you.
If you enjoyed LOVING LORD ASH,
don’t miss Sally MacKenzie’s delightful
SURPRISING LORD JACK.
Available as a Kensington eBook
and mass-market paperback, on sale now!
Appearances can be deceiving.
—Venus’s Love Notes
Miss Frances Hadley staggered up to the Crowing Cock’s weather-beaten door, her legs, backside, and feet throbbing with each step.
Blast it, men rode astride all the time. How could she have guessed the experience would be so painful? And having to walk the last half mile in Frederick’s old boots hadn’t helped. Damn icy roads.
She took a deep breath of the sharp, winter air. And if Daisy was lame—
She scowled at the door. If her horse was lame, she’d figure out another way to get to London. Hell, she’d walk if she had to. She was not going home to Landsford. To think Aunt Viola had been going to help Mr. Littleton with his nefarious scheme—
Oh! Every time she thought about it, she wanted to hit something—or someone.
She put her hand on the door. The drunken male laughter was so loud she could hear it out here. Pot-valiant oafs! At least drunkards were even less likely than sober men to see through her disguise. She almost hoped one of them would approach her. She’d take great delight in bloodying his nose.
She shoved open the door and was hit by a cacophony of voices and the stench of spilled ale, smoke, and too many sweaty male bodies. A barmaid, burdened with six or seven mugs of ale, rushed out of a room to her left.
“Where can I see about a bed for the night?” Frances had to shout to make herself heard. She had a deep voice for a woman, but was it deep enough? Apparently. The girl barely glanced at her.
“See Mr. Findley,” she said without breaking stride, jerking her head back at the room she’d just left, “but we’re full up.”
Oh, damn. Frances’s stomach plummeted.
She would not despair. If worse came to worst, she’d find a corner of the common room and sleep there. Or perhaps the innkeeper would let her stay in the stables. Even if Daisy were able to carry her, she could not go any farther. Night was coming on.
She went through the narrow doorway. A stout man with a bald head and an equally stout, gray-haired woman were sitting at a scarred wooden table, eating their dinner. Frances inhaled. Mutton and potatoes. Not her favorite dishes, but she was so hungry, the food smelled like ambrosia.
“Tonight’s the duchess’s ball, Archie,” the woman was saying. She waved a bite of mutton at him. “Do you think Her Grace found a match for Lord Ned or Lord Jack this year?”
Archie snorted. “Don’t know why this year should be any different than last year or the year before, Madge.”
“I suppose you’re right. I just—”
Frances cleared her throat. “Pardon me, but might you have a room for the night?”
The man looked over and frowned. “’Fraid every bed is full.”
“I see.” She bit her lip. Damn it.
“Oh, Archie,” his wife said, getting up. “I’m sure we can find something for the poor lad. He looks exhausted.”
“I am very tired, madam, and my horse is lame.” Frances was suddenly a hairsbreadth from groveling. Lying in a real bed would be heaven, especially compared to sleeping on the hard floor with the tosspots in the common room or on straw in the stable.
Mrs. Findley clucked her tongue. “You’re likely hungry as well.”
Frances’s stomach spoke for her, growling loudly. She flushed. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, eight hours earlier. She should have packed something, but she hadn’t expected to be so delayed, and to be frank, she’d been too angry to think clearly.
And if she’d had a knife in her hand, Aunt Viola would not have been safe.
Mrs. Findley laughed. “Come, sit with us.” She took Frances’s arm and towed her over to the table.
“I-I don’t wish to intrude. If you could just spare a slice of mutton and a potato, I’m sure I would do very well.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The woman pushed her into a chair and started filling a plate with food. “You must be starving.”
Frances’s stomach growled again, and Mrs. Findley laughed. “Poor boy.” She put the plate down in front of her. “Now eat before you fall over from hunger. I’m sure we can find you someplace to sleep.”
Mr. Findley was less inclined to charity. “Madge, the only room we have free is the one I save for the Valentines.”
“Well, none of them will be here tonight, will they? It’s the birthday ball, remember? They won’t miss it, no matter how much they hate attending. They’re good boys.”
Ha! Frances speared a bit of potato with her fork. Jack, the youngest of the Duke of Greycliffe’s sons, was far from a “good boy.” Aunt Viola was forever holding him up as an example of the evils of Town. A rake of the first order and likely a procurer as well, he was rumored to know—intimately—every brothel owner in London.
“I suppose you’re right.” Mr. Findley turned his attention to Frances. “What’s your name, lad, and where are you headed?”
“Frances Had—” Frances coughed. She could use her Christian name—spelled with an i instead of an e it was a male name anyway—but perhaps she should be cautious about using her family name. “Francis Haddon. I’m on my way to London.”
“London?” Mr. Findley’s brows shot up and then down into a scowl. “How old are you? You haven’t escaped from school, have you?”
“No, sir.” She focused on cutting her meat so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “I’m, er, older than I look.”
Mrs. Findley laughed. “What? Thirteen instead of twelve? Don’t try to cozen us, young sir. We’ve raised three sons. Here it is the end of the day, and you don’t have the faintest shadow of a beard.”
This pretending to be a man was more complicated than she’d thought. Frances smiled and stuffed a large piece of mutton in her mouth.
“What can your mother be thinking to let you travel alone like this?” Mrs. Findley made a clucking sound with her tongue again.
Frances swallowed. “My mother died a number of years ago, madam. I live with my elde
rly aunt.” Aunt Viola would not be happy with that description, but she had passed her sixtieth birthday.
“Well, I can’t fathom even an aunt, elderly or not, letting a young’un such as yourself travel up to Town alone.” There was more than a hint of suspicion in Mr. Findley’s voice.
“My aunt wasn’t happy about it, sir,”—Viola had been shouting so loudly it was surprising they hadn’t heard her at the Crowing Cock—“but I was desperate to go.” She wasn’t about to spend one more second under the same roof as that treacherous woman. “I’m to visit my brother. I would have got to London hours ago if the roads hadn’t been so bad.” She’d meant to stay the night with Frederick, see their man of business in the morning, and then go back to Landsford and wave the bank draft for the amount of her dowry in Viola’s face before taking it, packing up, and moving out.
She frowned at her plate. She hadn’t yet figured out where she’d go, but she bloody well wasn’t going to stay one more night at Landsford. To think Viola had planned to drug her with laudanum, let Littleton into her bedroom, and then raise an alarm so he’d be discovered there by the gossiping servants.
She stabbed a bit of potato so hard, her fork screeched across the plate.
Mrs. Findley wagged her finger at her husband. “Don’t glower at the boy, Archie. You’re frightening him.” Then she turned to wag it at Frances. “And a boy your age should not be traveling by himself. There are bad men—and women—at every turn, eager to take terrible advantage of a young cub like yourself, still wet behind the ears. I’ll wager your brother hasn’t the least idea how to take charge of you. How old is he?”
Frances blinked. She would like to see Frederick try to take charge of her. If there was any taking charge to be done, she’d be the one doing it. “Twenty-four.” They were twins, but she was the elder by ten minutes.
“I don’t know, Madge.” Mr. Findley was still frowning. “It seems a bit fishy to me. I—”
“Mr. Findley,” the barmaid said from the door, “there’s a fight starting.”
“Damnation.” He glanced at his watch. “Right on time, the drunken louts.” He looked at his wife as he got to his feet. “I suppose you’re right, Madge. None of the Valentines will be needing the room, and I can see you don’t want the lad sleeping with the men out there.”
They heard a shout and what sounded like a table tipping over followed by glass shattering.
Mr. Findley sighed. “Get the boy settled while I go knock some heads together.” He picked up a wooden cudgel leaning against the wall and left to do battle with the drunks.
“Are you ready to go, Francis?”
“Yes, madam.” She didn’t want to give the innkeeper’s wife an opportunity to change her mind. She swallowed her last bite and stood. “Thank you.”
“I still don’t see how your aunt could have let you travel alone, especially after that dreadful blizzard. The roads were barely passable—well, not passable at all once it clouded up and everything refroze.” Mrs. Findley led her out of the room and up the stairs. She looked back, frowning. “You didn’t sneak away while she was busy elsewhere, did you?”
“Oh no, madam. My aunt saw me off.” With a string of curses.
She looked down so Mrs. Findley wouldn’t see the fury in her eyes. Thank God she’d overheard that louse Felix Littleton this morning. If she hadn’t stopped in Mr. Turner’s store to read Mr. Puddington’s letter—if she hadn’t dropped the damn man of business’s note and had to crawl behind a case of candles to retrieve it—she’d never have learned how Viola had been colluding with the bloody little worm.
Mrs. Findley turned left at the top of the stairs, and Frances followed her down the corridor.
Littleton—she’d recognized his whiny little voice—and his friend, a Mr. Pettigrew, whom she hadn’t been able to see but had heard all too clearly, had been laughing about the plot. Littleton had been home these last few weeks, apparently fleeing his creditors, and had been paying her court. He and Pettigrew had sniggered at how easy it was to get silly, old, desperate spinsters to lose their hearts.
She felt a hot flush climb from her breast to her cheeks. Mr. Lousy Littleton was flattering himself if he thought she’d fallen in love with him. Love. Ha! She was not susceptible to that malady. Yes, she might have begun to fancy herself attracted to the snake—he was very handsome and had been extremely attentive—but her heart had been quite safe.
But why Viola, who’d always told her that men were not to be trusted—and certainly the behavior of her absent brother and father supported that theory—would consent to help Littleton was beyond her. Frankly, she couldn’t believe it at first, but when she’d come home and confronted her aunt, Viola’s guilt had been written all over her face.
“Here you are, then.” Mrs. Findley stopped at the last room and opened the door. “It’s—”
They both jumped at the sound of another crash from downstairs.
“Oh dear, I’d better go help Archie. The men can get so obstreperous when they’re in their cups, but they’ll quiet down in just a bit.” She smiled and patted Frances on the arm. “Do sleep well.” She almost ran back down the passageway.
Frances stepped into the room, and her feet sank into thick carpet. Oh! She couldn’t track mud and slush in here. She put her hat and candle on a nearby table, closed the door, and leaned against it to tug off Frederick’s boots.
Ah. She wiggled her toes in the deep pile and looked around. Red-and-tan wallpaper covered the walls, heavy red curtains hung on the windows to keep out light and drafts, and a red upholstered chair sat by the fire. But the best thing of all was the big mahogany four-poster bed.
Which had likely been used by Lord Jack to entertain countless women. She wrinkled her nose as she jerked off her overcoat and hung it on a hook. As distasteful as the notion was, she was so tired, she couldn’t muster much moral outrage. Perhaps in the morning she’d be suitably incensed, but now she just wanted to lie down.
She slipped out of her coat and started unbuttoning her waistcoat . . .
No, better leave that on, as well as her shirt and breeches and socks—all Frederick’s castoffs. It seemed unlikely another traveler would arrive so late, but she couldn’t take any chances.
She pulled back the coverlet and climbed onto the bed, stretching her aching body over the soft, yielding, wonderful feather mattress.
She was asleep even before her head hit the pillow.
About the Author
A native of Washington, DC, Sally MacKenzie still lives in suburban Maryland with her transplanted upstate–New Yorker husband. She’s written federal regulations, school newsletters, auction programs, class plays, and swim league guidance, but it wasn’t until the first of her four sons headed off to college that she tried her hand at romance. She can be reached by e-mail at [email protected] or by snail mail at PO Box 2453, Kensington, MD 20891.
Please visit her home in cyberspace at
www.sallymackenzie.net.
BEDDING LORD NED
Pleasure Is On Her Dance Card
Determined to find a husband, Miss Eleanor “Ellie” Bowman attends a ball put on by the Duchess of Greycliffe, fondly referred to as the Duchess of Love. But she roundly dismisses the suitors the matchmaking hostess has invited on her behalf. For it’s the duchess’s dashing son Ned, Lord Edward, who long ago captured Ellie’s heart—and roused her desire. All it takes is a pair of conveniently misplaced silky red bloomers to set the handsome widower’s gaze on this unusual girl who is clearly more than meets the eye . . .
After four years of mourning, Ned must find a wife. At first glance, the birthday ball his mother has thrown in his honor is decidedly lacking in suitable mistresses. But he senses something unexpectedly alluring beneath the veil of Ellie’s plain exterior—and suddenly she’s invading his dreams in a decidedly scandalous manner.
SURPRISING LORD JACK
Unladylike Behavior
Frances Hadley has managed her family’s est
ate for years. So why can’t she request her own dowry? She’ll have to go to London herself and knock some sense into the men interfering in her life. With the nonsense she’s dealt with lately, though, there’s no way she’s going as a woman. A pair of breeches and a quick chop of her red curls, and she’ll have much less to worry about . . .
Jack Valentine, third son of the famous Duchess of Love, is through being pursued by pushy young ladies. One particularly determined miss has run him out of his own house party. Luckily the inn has one bed left—Jack just has to share with a rather entertaining red-headed youth. Perhaps the two of them should ride to London together. It will make a pleasant escape from his mother’s matchmaking melodrama!
THE NAKED LAIRD
Lords and Ladies Can Make Strange Bedfellows . . .
The viscount’s house party promises to be one of the season’s highlights, and Lord and Lady Kilgorn are delighted to attend. If only the long-estranged couple had realized they were both invited—and assigned to the same bedchamber . . .
Lady Kilgorn did not travel miles from her comfortable home to share a too-small room with the handsome Scottish scoundrel she’d married far too young—and far too eagerly! And the last thing Lord Kilgorn needs is to be teased by the sight of his ever more beautiful wife! But as the weekend progresses, the pair will discover there are some fires even time cannot put out . . .
THE NAKED DUKE
The Surprise of Her Life
Sophisticated. Scandalous. In fact, Miss Sarah Hamilton, a proper Philadelphian, finds London society altogether shocking. How can it be that she has awakened from her innocent slumber to find herself in bed next to a handsome—and exceedingly naked—man? The laughing onlookers standing in the doorway are no help whatsoever and surely this amorous lunatic cannot be a duke, as he claims. She is compromised—though she most certainly will not marry him!
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