In June, they had donated his army of wooden carvings to Daphne, so she could auction them for charity. A fortnight ago, he and Clara had explored Gibraltar—and spotted dozens of wild monkeys. Today, they would catch the Corsair and bring him to justice. A few months from now, the dread pirate Captain Blackheart would become a grandfather.
He grinned at Clara between kisses. The greatest treasure of all was the one right here in his arms.
THE END
* * *
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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, Morgan Edens 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 on my VIP newsletter list and in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
The Duke’s Accidental Wife
A Dukes of War Romance
An Irresistible Kiss…
Miss Katherine Ross is a wealthy, eccentric socialite who knows precisely what she wants: No husband. No children. No candlelit tête-à-tête with the insufferably emotionless Duke of Ravenwood. She's convinced his heart is ice — until she touches that chiseled chest for herself. One lapse in judgment is all it takes to turn both their lives topsy-turvy...
The Duke of Ravenwood isn't cold and haughty, but a secret romantic who has always dreamt of marrying for love. Instead, he gets Miss Katherine Ross — a headstrong hoyden intent on unraveling his carefully ordered world. He doesn't know whether to kiss her or throttle her. Can they survive each other's company long enough to turn a compromise into love?
Copyright © 2016 Erica Ridley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1939713439
ISBN-13: 978-1939713438
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 © kirill_grekov, 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.
Four left for war.
One stayed home.
The battle is just beginning…
Chapter 1
June 1816
London, England
Lawrence Pembroke, Duke of Ravenwood, could not wait to escape the Palace of Westminster. As usual, the “short” meeting of the House of Lords had not begun until four in the afternoon, because most of the lords present could not be expected to rise from their beds until at least two of the clock.
Ravenwood, however, had been up since dawn. He favored neither drunkards nor dancing, and was not at all pleased that what had been meant to be an intelligent, practical debate on the efficacy of recoinage for greater post-war stabilization of currency had deteriorated once again into speculation about Princess Charlotte’s recent marriage and gleeful gossip about the appearance of a maskless Miss Katherine Ross at one of the Duke of Lambley’s masquerade parties.
Lambley got away with such chicanery because he was a duke. He was not only the very reason why Parliament could not possibly be called to order at a more reasonable hour, but the blasted man was garrulously and delightedly recounting tale’s of Miss Ross’s exploits. Miss Katherine Ross was Lambley’s hoyden cousin, who had apparently staged her stunt to entice other frivolous aristocrats to attend some equally frivolous upcoming crush.
Ravenwood would not be attending. Ever. Besides a visceral dislike of both crowds and parties, he disdained any behavior that cheapened one’s title or one’s integrity.
He wouldn’t even be at the Palace of Westminster at a quarter ’til midnight if he didn’t hold his responsibilities as a duke and a member of Parliament in the utmost respect. He, at least, would uphold his duty to England despite certain capricious lordlings wasting valuable time with idle gossip.
And he would leave here before midnight if humanly possible. His sister had begged him to stop by for a late supper after the meeting, and Ravenwood had given his word.
He rose to his feet. “I propose we form a Coinage Committee to investigate options and propose not only a course of action, but also a schedule in which to achieve it.”
Conversation halted as dozens of faces swung in his direction.
Ravenwood kept his tone imperious, his face a blank mask despite his pounding heart. He disliked being stared at even more than he disliked crowded rooms, but duty came first. The House of Lords needed a nanny, but tonight it must make do with Ravenwood. Experience had taught him that the most expedient way to achieve a goal was to undertake it oneself.
Very well.
“Anyone interested in joining the fiduciary committee should arrive two hours prior to our next meeting. Until a chair can be formally named, I shall head the effort in the interim.” He sent his cool, imperious gaze about the chamber. “Unless one of you would like to volunteer for the position?”
Of course they would not. The handful of lords with enough intelligence and conviction to join such a committee was bright enough not to volunteer to manage it. The more foolish, indolent lords could be trusted to still be abed at the appointed hour, sleeping off another night of revelry.
So be it.
As soon as the meeting was adjourned, Ravenwood stalked from the Court of Requests and out into the chill night air. Only once he was seated inside his stately coach-and-four did he allow himself a small sigh of relief at finally achieving a moment’s peace.
Six more weeks. That was all. Parliament would disperse in July and would not resume until the following November.
Thank God. He sagged against the squab. Nothing sapped his energy and his spirits as efficiently as being forced to interact with crowds of people whom he could neither comprehend nor corral.
Which was perhaps ironic, given he was currently en route to his sister Amelia’s town house.
Lady Amelia was the epitome of a woman unable to be corralled, but he did at least comprehend her. He not only valued her sharp mind and managing ways, but also quite missed her presence in his household, now that she was married to Lord Sheffield.
Ravenwood hadn’t even realized how much he had missed her until he’d received her invitation to dinner.
He had always maintained a silent, retiring nature, but without his sister about to put her nose where it didn’t belong, the only words spoken to him at home these days were Yes, Your Grace or Perhaps the blue waistcoat today?
Ravenwood straightened his cravat. He was very much looking forward to an hour or two in the company of someone who didn’t want or expect anything of him. Amelia was one of the few people in the world who thought of him as her brother, the person, rather than His Grace, the duke.
When his coach-and-four pulled in front of the Sheffield town house, Ravenwood alighted from the carriage in haste.
His sister would n
ot be surprised by his extremely late arrival—nothing surprised Lady Amelia—but Ravenwood’s stomach had been growling since half eight, and it was now past midnight.
The butler opened the front door before Ravenwood was halfway up the walk, and ushered him from the foyer to the dining room with no delay.
Lady Amelia all but clapped her hands with glee at his arrival. “Lovely to see you, brother. Your salmon will be served momentarily.” She shot a pointed look over her shoulder. “I told you he’d arrive, if you would suffer the least bit of patience.”
Given that her husband, Lord Sheffield, had never once displayed an ounce of impatience, Ravenwood could only surmise that Lady Amelia had invited other guests to her table.
Guests whose presence would once again force him to resume the role of His Grace, the duke. Delightful. He turned to greet them.
A surprised smile tugged at his lips.
Major Blackpool and his wife Daphne leapt to their feet. Or rose awkwardly, in Daphne’s case. She was partway through her first pregnancy, and still getting used to navigating her new dimensions.
“Good to see you,” Ravenwood said gruffly. And so it was.
With them, there was no need to put on airs. Their company was a pleasure. Bartholomew Blackpool had been one of his bosom friends since they were children.
Much had happened since then. Ravenwood’s parents had died while he was a schoolboy at Eton. The French Revolution had been raging for years, and had taken a turn for the worse right around the time they’d all left Cambridge.
When Blackpool and a few others had joined the Army to fight Napoleon, Ravenwood had not been able to join them. Indeed, he had initially been jealous.
From the moment he’d inherited his title, every breath, every moment, had been dedicated to the dukedom. To being the sort of man his parents would have wanted him to be. To being a duke that would have made them proud.
And that meant rigid adherence to gentlemanly conduct. Protecting the title and the estate. Staying home. Leaving battles and regimentals to freer men.
But the reality of war had soon become clear.
Major Blackpool had returned home not in glory, but delirious with pain. He’d lost his leg and his brother on the battlefield. He wouldn’t be alive at all if another friend hadn’t risked his own life to drag the injured man to safety.
Ravenwood swallowed. If he had been present that day, might he have been able to save his friends from tragedy? Or might he have been the one never to return, leaving his lifeblood and his father’s cherished title to trickle into nothing upon the battlefield?
Now was not the time to dwell on dark thoughts. It was a happy surprise indeed to be able to spend the evening with close friends.
Before he could ask Daphne how she was faring or what plans they had for the baby, Ravenwood’s sister forcibly tugged him toward a third party, whom he hadn’t initially noticed due to his excitement to see the others.
His posture tightened at the sight of a pretty young lady with glossy blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a quick smile.
Miss Katherine Ross. Cousin to the infamous Duke of Lambley. Hoyden extraordinaire.
Ravenwood narrowed his eyes at his sister.
It was a truth universally acknowledged that Lady Amelia loved her brother dearly. And that she was an unrepentant busybody of the first order.
He would not put any scheme past his sister. Including a misguided attempt to matchmake her brother with a long-legged, laughing-eyed woman that he could not possibly abide. Ravenwood frowned at Miss Ross in distaste.
Lady Amelia barreled on, as if the sudden return of Ravenwood’s icy public demeanor was of no consequence. “Katherine, it is my absolute pleasure to present His Grace, the Duke of Ravenwood. Ravenwood, please allow me to present Miss Katherine Ross. She is cousin to the Duke of Lambley.”
“We’ve met,” Ravenwood answered coldly. He detested being forced to converse with anyone who flouted propriety.
Miss Ross gazed back, unperturbed.
Ignoring society’s conventions no doubt had led directly to her still unwed state, despite her high ranked connections and sparkling blue eyes. Ravenwood frowned. It would take far more than a pretty face to turn his head.
He had nothing but respect for the other individuals at the table. Every one of them consistently put duty above all other concerns.
The beautiful and brazen Miss Ross, on the other hand, had apparently spent the prior evening courting the edge of impropriety at one of her cousin’s masquerade ball.
A few months ago, she had provided shelter during Daphne’s courtship with Blackpool, however, which was no doubt how she had earned everyone else’s blessing. Humph. Tolerable enough manners on that occasion, Ravenwood supposed, but hardly refined enough to tempt him. He preferred the company of people who could be expected to conform to society’s rules.
Indeed, he would have chosen to sit at the opposite end of the table from Miss Ross, except the only vacant seat belonged to Lord Sheffield. All other chairs were taken. He stiffened his spine. There was nothing to do but accept the only empty place.
With his habitual mask of formal hauteur firmly in place, Ravenwood took the seat beside Miss Ross. His long-practiced indifference to those beneath a duke’s notice allowed him to sip a much-needed glass of wine whilst cataloguing what could be made of the situation.
Familiar sweetness coated his tongue. He froze. Not just any wine—his favorite port. No doubt, then. His sister was absolutely up to her usual tricks.
He arched a brow at her.
She gave him a bland smile and blinked in wide-eyed innocence.
Dread soured Ravenwood’s wine.
He and Miss Ross were opposites in every way. Ravenwood took pride in his lineage, his title, his comportment. In being an exemplary peer of honor and good breeding.
Miss Ross, on the other hand, had no such compunctions about…anything at all. If the recent scandal sheets were any indication, she had no respect for her time, her reputation, or her standing in society. She delighted in disrupting the status quo.
Which was no doubt why his obvious disapproval of her antics had no effect on her sunny smile. She was perfectly happy living her life precisely how she pleased.
Ravenwood’s shoulders relaxed. He suspected that even Lady Amelia would have difficulty influencing a woman as infamously headstrong as Miss Ross.
Which, along with the Blackpools’ presence at the table, suggested this was perhaps not a matchmaking ambush after all.
Knowing his sister, however, it was still an ambush. The question was why.
“How may I be of service?” he asked without preamble. He addressed the question to Major Blackpool, as he was the least likely to prevaricate in his reply.
Blackpool gestured toward his wife.
Daphne immediately blushed. “I wish you wouldn’t assume even friends don’t dine with you unless they desire a favor. It makes it even worse on the occasions when you’re right.”
Ravenwood granted her a smile that he did not feel.
He liked Daphne. They were friends. But the truth of the matter was, since the moment he’d inherited the dukedom, virtually no one sought an audience with him unless they wished him to use his title for their benefit.
On most occasions, he was happy to use his influence to help others.
On other occasions, he simply wanted to enjoy a moment as a human being, not as someone else’s stepping-stone.
Footmen rushed forward bearing steaming trays of fragrant delicacies, as if Lady Amelia’s kitchen had synchronized their clocks with the timing of the parliamentary meeting.
From Amelia, he would expect nothing less. However, he had also expected her to uphold their childhood bargain of never forcing him into awkward social situations unawares.
Hours spent arguing with and wrangling the House of Lords were bad enough. He did not need a relaxing evening turned into more of the same.
“I have had a long day and a
long night,” he said to Daphne. “I am hungry and out of sorts. I am aware my sister has been helping support your charities. If you require a financial donation for one of your causes, the answer is yes. May we eat now?”
Daphne’s gaze darted toward Miss Ross. Not Lady Amelia.
Ravenwood turned to Miss Ross in dismay. “Is this gathering your doing, Miss Ross?”
“Not this one,” she answered cheerfully as she picked up her spoon. “I try not to organize anything with less than a hundred attendees. But you’re right on the mark. While your financial contribution is always welcome, this time Daphne is aiming even bigger. She would like to auction art for charity. My antiquities museum is the perfect venue, both for displaying the objects as well as for hosting a large number of attendees. The date is Saturday next, at eight in the evening. It has the makings of a perfect crush.”
Ravenwood held back a grimace. It did sound like a perfect crush. Horrid. “Presumably Daphne will handle distributing the funds to the appropriate parties, and Lady Amelia will handle the invitations and the auction itself. I fail to see my role in the scheme.”
Miss Ross licked her rosy lips. “You are the bait.”
He recoiled. His tone was of the same frigid disdain that could silence the House of Lords in the space of a breath. “Explain.”
Miss Ross’s blue eyes twinkled at him from over her glass of wine. “You needn’t scowl so. I promise you’ll survive with your reputation intact. In fact, we’re counting on it.”
We. He turned his glare toward his sister.
Lady Amelia nodded enthusiastically. “Your presence at the soirée—”
“I thought it was an auction.”
“It must be both, if we’re to attract everyone. Most of the upper classes don’t care a button about auctions—and they care even less about donating their largess to charitable causes. They do, however, care very much about keeping up appearances, and would be loath to miss a gala with the reclusive Duke of Ravenwood himself in attendance.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 78
