The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “What did you just say?”

  “It was my only option. I couldn’t waste time sending an emissary on a passenger liner, so I found a pirate for hire. A mercenary with a swift ship of his own and not too many questions about the nature of—”

  “I know what a privateer is!” she exploded, glaring at him in a mix of awe and fury. “What I cannot believe is that you sold your prized family heirloom in order to hire a pirate to sail to America and kidnap my mother.”

  Then she laughed. Of course he had done. It was exactly the sort of rescue he would rush out to do.

  Unrepentant, Oliver grinned out the window at the front lawn and then back at her. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  She covered her head with her hands. “You might’ve told me!”

  “I didn’t know it would work.” His expression sobered. “I didn’t want to foster hopes if I failed to succeed.”

  “I was going after her, you ninnyhammer!” She punched his shoulder, then sank back in his arms. He twirled her in laughing, giddy circles. “You did it, Oliver! You saved my mother.”

  He showered her with kisses. “Now you don’t have to go anywhere at all. Except to greet your mother.”

  He dropped her gown over her head and gave her one last kiss. She shoved her hands through the sleeves and barely waited for him to lace her back up before slipping into her shoes and racing out of his bedchamber and down to the main entrance.

  Ferguson held the front door open as she flew outside. The last of her doubts fled from her body. It really was her mother. Mama was here!

  Grace threw her arms about her mother and held on tight.

  “I was afraid for so long,” she whispered into her mother’s hair.

  Mama held on just as tight. “So was I. When Blackheart showed up—”

  Grace stepped back to stare at her mother. “Who?”

  “The ship’s captain. That isn’t his given name, of course, but it’s difficult to think of a rogue like that as a ‘Mister’ anything. He’s just so…”

  Grace’s lips quirked. “Piratey, I imagine.”

  “You wouldn’t be wrong. It was quite the adventure. But I was so weak, I slept through most of it.”

  Grace raised a brow at her husband.

  “No, don’t blame him. He sent plenty of coin and explicit instructions that I not be moved if I were not able. But of course I came. There isn’t much difference between convalescing in my home, and convalescing in a cabin.”

  “On a pirate ship. In the middle of the ocean. With a man named Blackheart.” Grace couldn’t believe her ears. “No difference at all.”

  “I’m just sorry I missed your wedding. My fever had just broken, and I was unsteady on my feet—”

  “Mama!” Grace’s hands reached out to her mother. To be ill, and to make that voyage…

  “—so we went to my parents’ house.” Her brow creased. “Mother got rid of the privateer without so much as a fare-thee-well—”

  “As was only right,” Grandmother Mayer interrupted with a sniff. “I’ve never seen such a disreputable blackguard in my life.”

  “—but then she and Father tucked me abed in front of a warm fire. When next I awoke, we hurried to the church, but we had missed you and the ceremony was over. My baby! Married. I cannot credit it.”

  Grace put her hand in Oliver’s. He kissed the top of her head.

  “Mama, it is my deepest pleasure to present to you my husband. Oliver York, Earl of Carlisle.” Gooseflesh shivered down Grace’s spine as she spoke the words aloud for the first time. Lord Carlisle. Her husband. “Oliver, this is my mother, Mrs. Clara Halton.”

  He let go of Grace’s hand in order to sketch an extremely elegant bow.

  Grandmother Mayer rapped Grace’s mother in the foot with her walking stick. “See that? That is how a gentleman is supposed to greet a lady. Not growling and waving about pistols like a wild animal.”

  “I collect the pirate made an impression on Grandmother,” Grace murmured.

  Her mother shook her head, eyes twinkling. “Best we don’t talk about that.”

  “Please. Come inside.” Oliver motioned them all toward the house. “I haven’t much, but I can at least offer fire to warm you from the cold, and a nice hot cup of tea with milk and honey.”

  Grandmother nodded and strode toward the manor.

  “Just a moment,” said Grace’s grandfather, nodding his head toward the carriage. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”

  Mama clasped her hands together. “Oh! Do you mind, Father?”

  Before he could so much as open the carriage door, the tiger jumped down from his perch and helped wrest an enormous, paper-wrapped rectangle from inside the coach. An enormous, princely sized rectangle.

  “I’ve a different wedding gift for you,” Mama said to Grace with a secretive smile. “This one is for your husband.”

  Oliver’s hand shook as he reached out to touch the edge of the brown paper, as if he feared the entirety to be a mirage. At the contact, the paper wrinkled in such a way as to indicate—if it weren’t obvious already—that he’d touched the frame of a very large painting.

  He stared at Grace’s mother in joy and disbelief. “You purchased the Black Prince? For me?”

  “She didn’t.” Grandmother jabbed her walking stick in the direction of her husband. “That was Mr. Mayer’s doing. Try as I might, he’s always been a soft heart. Clara was still asleep. She didn’t even know she was rich yet.”

  Grace blinked at her mother. “You’re…rich?”

  Mama grinned back at her. “I knew I’d be disowned when I ran away to America. But unbeknownst to me—”

  “Or to me,” Grandmother interrupted with a harrumph.

  “—your grandfather invested my dowry in a trust for me. It’s been collecting an exorbitant amount of interest for twenty-three years. You should see the bank statement. I couldn’t possibly spend that much in a lifetime.” She grasped Grace’s hands. “So I’m giving most of it to you. Happy wedding day, daughter.”

  “To me?” Grace’s head swam. More money than could be spent in a lifetime?

  “It’s mine to give, and I want you to have it. Both of you.” Mama arched a brow at Oliver, but her eyes crinkled with humor. “It’s my understanding you lovebirds have a bit of refurbishing to do.”

  Oliver looked as thunderstruck as Grace felt, but he grinned back at her mother. “I believe the first improvement to be made is proper dowager quarters. Do say you’ll be living with us as part of our family. We dreamed of it even when we hadn’t a farthing.”

  “Well, now you’ll have plenty of farthings.” Grace’s grandmother put in. “Clara is finally home where she belongs, and I credit that miracle wholly to Lord Carlisle. I should have believed you sooner, Grace. If I had, Clara might’ve arrived weeks ago. Therefore, as our own wedding present to the two of you, Mr. Mayer and I will be matching the sum your mother gives.” She narrowed her steely eyes at Oliver. “But don’t go offering me dowager quarters. I still prefer my own home, thank you very much.”

  “Matching…” Grace could barely even choke out the words. “But Grandmother, you don’t even like Oliver!”

  “Perhaps not at first. But he helped me get Clara back. That alone is worth any price.” She cast Oliver a speculative glance. “Although, I’ll admit I knew there was more to him than met the eye when I saw his bare hands. Your grandfather had calluses just like that for many, many years. They may not be the hands of an earl, but they’re the hands of a man.”

  Grace’s mouth fell open, but not a single sound came out.

  “Now then.” Grandmother rapped Oliver on the shoulder with her walking stick and turned toward the manor. “How about that cup of tea?”

  Epilogue

  Grace awoke in the arms of her still-sleeping husband. She closed her eyes as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. Contentment washed through her.

  Oliver was hers forever. And she was his. Riches might come and go, but
she would greet every morning for the rest of her life with the man that she loved. She could not possibly be more fortunate. A sleepy smile curved her lips.

  She had been wed for less than twenty-four hours, and married life already constituted the best days of her life. She couldn’t be happier. Her mother was safe and healthy. The Black Prince was back home with his family. And Oliver would finally be able to rescue his earldom from ruin.

  She snuggled against his warm chest and smiled with contentment. It had been hard to leave Pennsylvania, but now that she once again had everything she loved under one roof, the King’s army couldn’t drag her away from London.

  Oliver’s friends were doing their best to be her friends, too. The Duke of Ravenwood was even loaning them his private box at the Royal Theatre for the rest of the Season! She could hardly credit it.

  Last week, she’d been a penniless pariah without hope for the future. This week, she was the Countess of Carlisle with more family and fortune than she’d ever dreamed.

  She curled into Oliver’s warm embrace and held him close. He was more than she’d ever dreamed. Grace had come to England hoping for a miracle.

  Here, in her husband’s arms, she had finally found one.

  THE END

  * * *

  Keep turning for The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress!

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  Acknowledgments

  As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Emma Locke, Janice Goodfellow, Darcy Burke and Erica Monroe for their advice and encouragement. You are the best!

  I also want to thank my incredible street team (the Light-Skirts Brigade rocks!!) and all the readers in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

  Thank you so much!

  The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

  A Dukes of War romance

  An Irresistible Bargain…

  Captain Xavier Grey’s body is back amongst the beau monde, but his mind cannot break free from the horrors of war. His friends try to help him find peace. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. Just like he doesn't deserve the attentions of the sultry bluestocking intent on seducing him into bed...

  Spinster Jane Downing wants off the shelf and into the arms of a hot-blooded man. Specifically, the dark and dangerous Captain Grey. She may not be destined to be his wife, but nothing will stop her from being his mistress. She could quote classical Greek by the age of four. How hard can it be to learn the language of love?

  Copyright © 2015 Erica Ridley

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1939713308

  ISBN-13: 978-1939713308

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design © Erica Ridley

  Photograph on cover © VictoriaAndrea, DepositPhotos

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Four left for war…

  Only three made it home.

  Chapter 1

  March 1816

  London, England

  Under normal circumstances, Miss Jane Downing would have been eager to alight from a chilly carriage and rush indoors for a welcome respite from the brutal winter. The exquisite building in front of the long line of coaches was none other than the Theatre Royal. The Duke of Ravenwood himself had loaned them his magnificent box for the occasion.

  Most debutantes—most anyone, for that matter—would have been in raptures at such an opportunity.

  Jane was not.

  She was old enough to be more properly labeled a spinster than a debutante, if anyone chanced to glance her way long enough to label her anything at all. She sighed. Unlikely. After all, the princely theatre box hadn’t been loaned to her. She was no one.

  But because even invisible old maids couldn’t gallivant about unchaperoned, her best friend Grace and her husband the Earl of Carlisle (to whom the box had been gifted) had driven in the opposite direction of the opera house in order to collect Jane and return to Covent Garden in time for the performance. All she could do was keep a smile on her face and do her best to be charming.

  The ignominy of her inconvenienced friends wasn’t why Jane wished she were elsewhere, however. Those were everyday trials. And these were her friends.

  Grace reached across the small interior to squeeze Jane’s hands as the wheels of the coach inched forward in the queue to the theatre. “Thank you ever so much for joining us. This is my first opera, and I am delighted to be sharing the night with all of my favorite people.”

  Jane gave Grace’s hands an answering squeeze. In situations like these, the best thing to do was to lie through one’s teeth. “I’m thrilled to be here. Thank you for inviting me.”

  She folded her hands back into her lap and wished for something else to say to break the renewed silence. She was adept at conversation when she was speaking privately with someone she was comfortable with. But she and Grace weren’t alone in the coach. Grace’s mother, Mrs. Clara Halton, sat to Jane’s left, gazing lovingly across the carriage toward her daughter. Lord Carlisle, of course, sat next to his wife, watching her as if the moon and stars paled next to her beauty.

  Jane would kill to have a man look at her like that. Just. Once.

  Lord Carlisle hadn’t stopped looking at Grace like that. Not since the moment he’d first caught sight of her. Jane should know. She’d seen it happen. From her eternal vantage point among the spinsters and the shadows, she observed everything. Other people laughing, dancing. Falling in love.

  Yet spending the entire evening with a newly wed, obviously besotted couple wasn’t what had her biting her lip and cursing her jittery leg. Jane was delighted for her friends. She loved spending time with them.

  She hated being out in Society. No—she hated being invisible in Society.

  Her friends wouldn’t understand. Before Grace had ensnared an earl and become his countess, back when she’d been penniless, gauche, and persona non grata for being an upstart American, she’d still caught everyone’s eye. After all, Grace was beautiful. With her white skin, black hair, and sparkling emerald eyes, she easily attracted the attention of men and women alike.

  Jane couldn’t even attract mosquitoes.

  It wasn’t because she was plain. Many plain women managed to be popular and find husbands. Not Jane. In four-and-twenty years, she’d only twice been invited to dance.

  Her dreams of finding someone were just that. Dreams. She smoothed out her skirts. It wasn’t the few extra pounds on her frame, or that she was an unrepentant bluestocking. Her lifelong curse was the unfortunate fact of being utterly, absolutely, one hundred percent… forgettable.

  Her head began to ache as the carriage wheels inched her ever closer to a long night of being ignored and misremembered.

  Even with all this snow and the serpentine trail of coaches, she and her companions would have plenty of time to mingle by the refreshments before taking
their seats.

  Jane slumped against the squab. Mingling was horrid. Mingling was standing still in a sea of faces that never once turned in her direction.

  She turned her gaze toward the street and sat up straighter. A cluster of well-dressed gentlemen flocked toward a row of women strolling toward the theatre in stunning, bright-colored gowns. Courtesans. She stared out the window, fascinated. These men were hunting their next mistresses.

  Her nostrils flared as the men danced attendance upon the demimondaines. Some of the Cyprians were gorgeous and some were ghastly, but each of them would receive more male attention in one night than Jane would in her entire life.

  How ironic that the same gentlemen who had never thought to ask Jane to dance would gladly spend exorbitant sums of money in exchange for an hour in the company of a woman with less education and a worse reputation than she had.

  What must it be like to be one of them? These weren’t desperate, gin-addicted whores in some bawdy house, forced to accept every brute with a penny. These women were elegant and expensive. They could select their lovers as they pleased.

  Jane tilted her head. If she could have any man she wished, who would it be?

  A dark, hard-as-granite officer with haunted blue eyes sprang instantly to mind. Captain Xavier Grey.

  Heat pricked her cheeks. Of course he sprang to mind. He was all the ton spoke about, and one of the earl’s dearest friends. He had always caught Jane’s eye. Years before, when he was merely Mr. Grey, he had still been handsome and confident and the last person on earth who might notice the mooning gaze of a soon-to-be spinster. And then he’d left for war.