by Eva Devon
Not Quite
A
Duke
A Dukes’ Club Novel
By
Eva Devon
Bard Productions
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Not Quite A Duke
Copyright © 2016 by Máire Creegan
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information: [email protected]
Noelle and Lindsey
You make every journey a dream!
Thank you for holding my hand.
And for my beautiful sons and husband
who as always have taught me the true meaning of love.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Other Books by Eva Devon
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Teresa and Scott for their hard work and contributions to this tale. And a huge thank you to Patricia, Melissa, Jessica, Maria, and Samantha.
Chapter 1
Being a second son, in Lord Charles Eversleigh’s opinion, had always been a bit of a brilliant thing. He had the money and privilege without the responsibility that was foisted on the heir. However, being the second son of a duke did have significant drawbacks. After all, one always had to hear about his elder brother, his brother’s exploits, and one was constantly badgered with petitions to seek said elder brother’s acquaintance. Furthermore, when one was the twin of the heir to a duke? Well, that was downright loathsome.
When his father had died and Charles’ elder (by a mere five minutes) brother had become the Duke of Hunt? Well, suffice it to say, being the twin of a duke was bloody annoying. . . When it wasn’t more fun than should be allowed.
After all, one was always being called Your Grace and then with some serious confusion on the bower and scrapers’ part, said bower and scraper would say a hesitant my lord, when the person realized they were in error.
Charles had, on occasion, impersonated his brother. It was easy. It was fun. And well, he really couldn’t help the urge to be exceptionally naughty.
After all, his elder brother had never been a paragon of virtue, though now that he was married he’d gone ridiculously pious given his youthful exploits.
Charles barely knew what to think.
On occasion, his brother’s wife, Cordelia, had confused the two.
While that had been most amusing, Charles had quickly put an end to any such masking with his sister-in-law. Cordelia was a good sport, but even she mightn’t forgive him if he crossed that particular Rubicon. He mightn’t always act the gentleman but he wasn’t an unforgivable arse, either. In the end, certain inexcusable paths were to be avoided.
Still, he was exceedingly fond of rather questionable pathways. Which, of course, was why he was standing outside Barring House, a massive red brick Tudor establishment built in the time of Elizabeth I.
Being an exceptionally good gambler, he did have a tendency to add to his extensive list (especially for a second son) of property. It seemed that lords often couldn’t help themselves. They would be absolute ponces and insist on gambling their estates away. Charles did not attempt to dissuade such fools from their foolishness. After all, years of interactions with such persons had only convinced him such attempts at dissuasion were a waste of time. And Charles quite valued his own time which he largely employed in amusement.
So, as he strode beneath the arms of massive oak trees, their branches newly green with leaves, he felt certain that he would sell the large pile of old bricks as soon as he might.
Renting it wouldn’t likely prove profitable.
And if the estate was as badly mismanaged as the former owner’s gambling habits, then the fields were no doubt nothing but weeds.
“I do beg your pardon, but who are you?”
Charles stopped.
A slow smile pulled at his mouth.
The question, while terse, was framed by the most delicious female voice. It was low and soft and it hummed like a warm wind on a summer night.
He hadn’t intended to mix business with pleasure, but since the opportunity was arising?
Charles turned, ready to charm the owner of that sumptuous voice.
When he spotted her, his jaw dropped. Not from being awestruck by her epic beauty. Oh no. No one would ever claim that she was a face to launch a thousand ships. Of course, she wouldn’t sink them, either.
This particular young lady? Her form didn’t match her voice at all.
From the top of her mousy hair, pinned back in an austerely simple style, to the edge of her plain black skirts, she was. . . There was no other way to say it. . . Astonishingly forgettable.
Given her dress and coiffure, it was impossible to tell her age.
What with her hair that was neither brown nor blonde so scraped back from her face and a pair of unadorned spectacles perched on her pert nose, she could have been nineteen or nearing thirty.
It might have also been the formidably fierce hazel gaze, staring out from behind her plain ocular instrument, which also gave him pause.
If a man could be skewered by a gaze, this was how it would be done.
He cleared his throat and doffed his black silk hat. “I am the owner of Barring House. Who are you?”
Her pale brow furrowed. The spectacles slid down her nose in her displeasure. “Impossible.”
“You are Miss Impossible?”
She blinked without humor. “What?”
“I asked who you are.” He was teasing her, of course, but she seemed absolutely resistant to his verbal turn of phrase upon her words. “You said you were impossible.”
“I didn’t,” she retorted simply.
“You did,” he replied.
Her furrowed brow only grew more furrowed, like a governess with a wayward boy. “You are quite perverse.”
“I am,” he declared passionately. “You see, I’m quite proud of it, if you must know. Do you confess to some other name or is it, indeed, Miss Impossible?”
For the briefest of moments, he could have sworn her lips twitched with amusement and a spark of laughter flashed in her eyes but then it was gone. “I am not Miss Impossible at all, nor am I impossible by nature. I think that is more your line, Mister. . .”
“My lord.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m a Lord. Lord Charles.”
“Ah. I see. But to the point, you can’t own Barring House. My uncle owned it, but he has died and I am his heir.�
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“Your uncle,” Charles echoed.
“I say, do you have difficulty with your hearing?”
“I do not.” A decidedly bad taste formed in his mouth. How the devil was he going to tell her the awful news? And her uncle was dead? Good God. When had that occurred?
“Because you keep repeating what I say. . .”
He raised his brows. “You keep astonishing me.”
“I am no less astonished but I do not repeat your inane utterances.”
Inane utterances? My. He’d never been treated to such tart fare! At least, not by a lady. Still, even as he was amused by her, he felt his heart grow heavy. Her uncle had lost the house to him and, clearly, the young woman had been uninformed of her loss of fortune.
Good God. Was she out on her ear? He’d never been responsible for something quite so terrible.
“I’ve told you my name,” he finally said. “Might I know yours?”
“Lady Patience.”
Patience. It seemed an odd name for such a crisp young lady. So, he couldn’t refrain from asking, “And are you?”
Her hazel eyes narrowed, heating to the stinging color of amber hit by sunlight. “Am I what?”
“Patient,” he asked, realizing that his less than better nature was taking charge of his mouth. . . Then again, he hadn’t really had a better nature since his youth.
Her lips pursed before she replied, “I endeavor to be so, my lord.”
He gave her an apologetic grin. “I only ask because, in general, I am trying to avoid proper young ladies.”
Proper ladies were something he avoided like the plague.
His comment didn’t elicit a smile but rather a steely stare. “I imagine.”
Levity didn’t seem to be something that would assist him with this young woman so he decided to go straight to the unpleasant point. “And I also have some rather unfortunate news which might require your patience.”
“Then let us go in,” she said matter-of-factly, “and not air our information upon the lawn like gypsies.”
“The gypsies have many good qualities, you know,” he pointed out, desperate to lighten the growing doom of the encounter.
“Indeed, they do, my lord.”
It was another simple statement which really revealed almost nothing about her. For instance, Charles had no idea if her statement was meant as a compliment or insult towards those nomadic Romany.
He felt as though he were handling Lady Patience terribly. His family was an eccentric one and, for years, he’d managed to avoid young ladies of her ilk. In general, they were boring, ill-educated, and had little to say of interest.
It was possible that Lady Patience was the same. . . But something seemed odd about her. Under her candid and spinster demeanor, he was certain there was more.
As if she were hiding something. And he was a master at hiding things, so if anyone should recognize such a thing, it would be him. However, it was possible that he was mistaken and she was naught more than a bland young lady with no wit or humor to separate her from the hordes of young ladies peopling the houses of England.
Without waiting for any more chatter, Lady Patience pointed her parasol to the house and started off.
In what could only be called a march.
Clearly, she’d had no graceful governess, or if she had, that poor woman had had no effect on her pupil. Lady Patience would give the Marquess of Wellington’s men good competition in the manner with which she covered ground.
Still, there was something quite fascinating about Lady Patience’s ambitious and unaffected stride.
Her serviceable frock, a frock which bore not a single bow, bit of lace, or embroidered flower, skimmed her long limbs, emphasizing the fact that the young woman appeared to be a devotee of long constitutionals.
Which frankly, he admired. Women who took constitutionals didn’t faint or cast themselves dramatically onto gilded furniture. He abhorred fainting women and their smelling salts.
Which was why the only women he generally spent time with were his family. . . Or ladies of the night. Ladies of the night didn’t faint and his mother and sister were as strong and stubborn as Mephistopheles in female form.
She charged across the groomed lawn, past mermen-infested ponds, girdled by fish puffing fountains of water from their fleshy lips.
He charged along behind her, wondering how he might break the dire news to her that she was no longer an heiress. At least not of the house.
As he followed her up the wide steps and through the double doors of the house, a feeling he was unfamiliar with seized him.
Guilt.
Perhaps. . . Perhaps he should say nothing. Perhaps he should just turn on his heel, climb aboard his stallion that was, at present, resting at the inn and head back to London. He could deed the house over to her and never let her know that her philandering uncle had left her sans hearth and home.
It would be the honorable thing to do, he supposed.
Honorable. He frowned as they entered a parlor overlooking the fish-decorated fountain. A fountain designed in rather poor taste, in his opinion.
Should he do the right thing?
To consider it was so unlike him he felt momentarily adrift. In his experience, the right thing was a sop for the masses. It didn’t mean a deuced thing. The right thing kept people in line and unquestioning of society at large.
This sudden urge felt damned close to sentiment.
Sentiment was not something to which he was accustomed. Or if he did encounter it, he quickly extracted it from his being like a surgeon cutting out a cancer.
Why the devil should he care if he was to cause this young stranger pain?
But as she turned, placed her serviceable parasol by the massive, carved, stone fireplace, and pulled the embroidered bell pull, he found he did care.
With a surprisingly graceful hand, she indicated he should sit opposite her on one of the high backed, wooden chairs reminiscent of a less frivolous era.
He waited for her to take a seat herself, before lowering himself onto the seat which reminded him of a school bench for all its comfort.
Sitting, he contemplated Lady Patience.
Aside from the grace of her hand, she was everything that was considered undesirable in a female, he realized.
Plain, forceful, direct, and athletic in her body.
And for some reason inexplicable to him, he liked her for it.
He liked her for presenting herself so honestly to the world.
And so. . . He would honor her with a bit of honesty from himself. . . A rarity if ever there was one.
Before he could begin, a butler entered.
The middle aged, ginger-haired man dressed in simple blacks, bowed slightly.
She didn’t smile but rather said, “Tea for two.”
Charles was tempted to suggest it was unnecessary to provide refreshment but he’d already put his foot in it and didn’t need to be blatantly rude. After all, he was supposed to be somewhat charming, even if it didn’t seem to affect Lady Patience.
The butler left them and she folded her hands, her beautiful hands, before her.
“Please, Lord Charles,” she said calmly, “do impart whatever bad news you have.”
“No tea first?” he queried, leaning back.
“I shall drink it to fortify my battered self if the need arises.”
He nearly laughed. Her reply was so impressive but, unsure if she was as serious as she seemed or making fun as he hoped, he managed to cough. “Very wise.”
She blinked. “In truth, I am not as patient as my name and would prefer if you came out with it.”
There it was again.
She had a seriousness, not to mention directness, to her that belied the youth of her appearance. “Lady Patience, your uncle, was he a prudent man?”
“No.”
He found himself grasping for words. She’d replied too quickly and tersely. He was stunned. Again.
She let out a tired but
resigned sigh. “Oh dear. Uncle Reginald must have done something quite foolish for a man of your nature to be so stymied.”
Charles arched a brow “My nature?”
Lady Patience gave a simple nod and said factually, “Notorious and untrustworthy.”
It wasn’t often his nature was so casually laid out before him, especially by a young woman who had known him less than the course of half an hour, and so he found himself feeling a trifle indignant.
“Indeed?” he replied ineloquently.
Those magnificent eyes traveled up and down his form as if he were a bit of bread which, having molded ever so slightly, should be chucked to the ducks. “Oh, yes. It’s written all over your beautiful face.”
“My beautiful face,” he echoed. He was aware that his face was appealing to ladies. He and his brother had been the toast of London. He didn’t spend much time thinking on it, but his looks had usually proved advantageous.
“I say, you’re doing it again.” She cocked her head to the side, assessing him further. Said assessment sent her spectacles to the tip of her nose. She pushed them back up. “Are you certain there’s nothing—
“My hearing is exceptional,” he cut in, feeling completely off foot. In general, it was he who sent people reeling. After all, he lived beyond the bounds of society and he did have a notorious reputation. She’d gotten that right. However, proper young ladies usually fluttered and babbled in his presence.
What the devil was happening?
“You’ve merely surprised me,” he explained.
She gave the barest shrug.
And how had they gotten so far afield from her uncle’s lack of rectitude? Surely, he should direct the conversation back and yet, instead, he heard himself ask, “How do you draw such a conclusion?”
She sighed, a long suffering sigh. “My lord, do you truly wish me to detail your shortcomings?”
As he stared at her, he didn’t know if he should be amused or horrified. In all his life, as the son of a duke and then the brother of one, no one had ever dared speak thusly to his face.
Oh he’d been insulted. When one slummed in riverside taverns, one was likely to be called a host of colorful things. Or if one was in and out of married ladies’ boudoirs, scenes with husbands yelling were prone to occur.
