The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “What on earth is happening?” she demanded.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Your gala was cut short when you didn’t return after intermission. The performers and the patrons never received their promised opportunity to meet as equals, nor to discuss the arts or potential sponsorship.”

  “You invited them here?” Giddiness made her lightheaded. “To the Ravenwood ballroom?”

  “Our ballroom,” he corrected. “It should be large enough to serve as a monthly gathering point until you are ready to organize a supplementary gala for the second half of the performance. If the post is any indication, it will be an even worse crush than the opening night.”

  “You’re helping with the gala?” She stared at him in befuddlement.

  He shook his head. “Not just the gala. I am offering my services in any capacity you might need. There’s no reason to give up your dream. We can work on it together. You’ll just have to show me how.” He narrowed his eyes. “But please don’t make me memorize any journals.”

  “Done.” Laughing, she pressed her lips to his.

  The Society for Creative and Performing Arts wouldn’t just be a success for others—it would ensure she and her husband had even more reasons to spend time together. A mutual passion. They would be a team.

  She laced her arms about his neck. “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

  “How fortuitous.” He swung her into his arms. “After the meeting, you can show me.”

  She laughed and smacked his shoulder. “I intend to show you how much I love you every single day.”

  He kissed her back. “As do I, my love. As do I.”

  Epilogue

  Ravenwood set his pen back in the standish and looked up from his poetry. The family parlor looked much the same as it had during his childhood—with a few notable exceptions.

  The vase at the window no longer held traditional English roses, but rather a single exotic dahlia, plucked fresh from his garden.

  Ravenwood’s new writing desk near the fireplace was a gift from his wife, and had been hand-carved in the same style as his father’s favorite chair.

  A chair which, at this moment, was occupied by Katherine’s Aunt Havens, whose attempts at embroidering a blanket for the new baby kept being interrupted by the much larger but equally rambunctious Jasper knocking over the embroidery basket.

  “Dreadful beast,” Aunt Havens scolded with an indulgent smile.

  Jasper was too busy gnawing on balls of thread to notice.

  Katherine reclined on the chaise longue with their son snuggled up against the protruding bulge of her belly, as they leafed through a sketchbook of flowers, commenting on which ones they’d seen in the parks or on one of their many family picnics in Papa’s special garden.

  In a few weeks, Parliament would come back into session and the London Season would once again be well underway.

  Ravenwood would not be joining any committees this year. Not only did he and his wife have the fourth annual Society of Creative and Performing Arts opening gala to plan, he’d much rather be home with his family than cooped up in the Palace of Westminster.

  Contentment coursing through him, he scooped Jasper out of Aunt Havens’ embroidery basket and nestled on the chaise next to his wife and child. The old parlor was finally a family room again. For the first time in decades, he no longer needed to yearn for what the future might hold.

  He had everything he could ever want right here.

  THE END

  * * *

  Keep turning for All I Want!

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  Acknowledgments

  Enormous thanks go to Emma Locke and Morgan Edens, without whom this book would never have come to life.

  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!

  All I Want

  A Dukes of War Short Story

  All I Want

  He taught her to trust. He taught her to love. And then he left her behind without a word. Tonight he's back. Whether for a moment or forever depends on the turn of a card. Twenty-one to win—or to lose it all. Their future hinges on her dealing him the right card...

  ISBN: 1939713579

  ISBN-13: 978-1939713575

  Copyright © 2016 Erica Ridley

  Photograph on cover © DepositPhotos

  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.

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Enormous thanks go to Janice Goodfellow, without whom this book would never have come to life, and to Sylvia Day and Romance Writers of America for selecting this story for the Premiere anthology.

  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!

  Chapter 1

  Another elegant soirée, another flesh-crawling proposal from a money-hungry suitor old enough to be Matilda’s father.

  Despite her heeled slippers, Lady Matilda Kingsley fairly sprinted to the gaming parlor. She wanted nothing more than to run home and forget her troubles in the comfort of a good book. But to get there, she needed Cousin Egbert. She’d been his ward for most of her life.

  He’d been a wastrel for all of his. He was a fixture at every gaming table and gambling hell across the city. Worst of all, he had the devil’s own luck. He wouldn’t leave a table until everyone else’s coin clinked inside his pockets, which sometimes took well past dawn.

  Matilda’s footsteps slowed. Was that Cousin Egbert, swathed in cigar smoke and wrinkled linen, standing with one foot inside the gaming parlor and one foot out? Was he motioning her forward?

  She stopped walking. Usually she was the one found hovering at a doorway, vainly trying to signal him she was ready to leave, without letting her toes cross the thin threshold from proper ballroom to scandalous gaming parlor. To do so would be to court scandal. And yet, here he was—beckoning her to join him. Something was very peculiar. Her neck tingled. All her senses were on high alert.

  She ventured only as far as the doorjamb, and laid her hand on her cousin’s arm.

  “I want to go home,” she murmured. “Please, cousin. It’s been a long night.”

  Their unspoken arrangement was that if she managed to catch his attention, he was obliged to take her back to the townhouse. But this time, he shook his head. His eyes were cold and hard, his easy smile distorted and mean. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen that expression on his face in years, but she well knew what it meant: there’d be no talking him out of whatever trouble he was brewing. And he meant to involve her in the thick of it.

  “Please,” she repeated, though she knew it was useless. His eyes were too glassy. But she had to try. “The music is over. Can we not go ho
me?”

  “Of course,” he said, but his harsh smile only widened. “I’m just finishing a game of chance. If you’ll play my last hand, we can be on our way.”

  Her heartbeat stuttered, then sped to new heights. What could he mean? If crossing the threshold was scandalous, gambling would be ruinous. It could only be a trick. But why? And on whom?

  “You…wish for me to wager?” Her throat was too dry to swallow properly.

  He smiled. “Just play one hand. Then I’ll take you home. I promise.” He gripped her by the wrist and pulled her into the candlelit parlor.

  Her muscles locked up. She shouldn’t be anywhere near this room. Or these men.

  Smoke rose from the fingers and mouths of every gentleman present, making the air thick and sickly sweet from the fumes of their cigars. A gaggle of dandies encircled what she assumed to be a gaming table. Two dozen sotted spectators in linen superfine and buckskin breeches surrounded the whole.

  They parted to let her through.

  The table was small, round, and empty, save for a folded slip of paper and a set of playing cards stacked to one side. A soldier sat at one of the two wooden chairs, his back to Matilda. His broad shoulders and defined muscles filled out his pristine red coat. Golden epaulets and matching stars marked him as an officer. She jerked her gaze toward her cousin. His vicious smile etched deeper into his face as he hauled her in plain sight of the soldier’s face.

  Owen Turner.

  The roiling in her stomach bubbled over into nausea. She reached out to steady herself. Someone shoved her into the empty chair. She tried not to look, not to stare, but her eyes had hungered for the merest glimpse of him for so, so long…

  He was beautiful. The first friend she’d ever made. The only boy she’d ever loved. A good four years older since last she saw him, his heartrendingly familiar face now belonged to a man she no longer knew.

  The dark brown curls that had once fluttered in the morning wind and stuck to his forehead when caught in a sudden shower was now neatly clipped at the ears and nape, as befitting an officer. No. Not an officer. A major.

  Clear blue eyes that had once sparkled merrily as they raced across moors or jumped into the river—those beloved blue eyes were now stormy and shadowed, no trace of merriment in their depths or etched at the corners. And why would there be? He’d fought Napoleon’s army for four long years only to find himself battling her cousin Egbert in a gilded parlor.

  Her throat tightened. It had been Owen who taught her to skip rocks and climb trees, but for all his comparative worldliness, neither one of them had ever expected him to step foot outside North Yorkshire’s borders. Above all, she’d never thought he’d leave her. To see him here, a grown man, a celebrated soldier, even more dashing in the flesh than the stories upon everyone’s tongues…

  Ah, the gossip.

  She wasn’t the only one he’d dazzled. If half the rumors were true, those hard, beautiful lips had kissed every willing mouth between here and Paris. If it didn’t make her violently ill just thinking about it, she might appreciate the irony that the boy Society had once considered beneath them was now the primary reason smelling salts were in higher demand than breakfast tea.

  He was known for giving pleasure to everyone and his heart to no one, vie as women might to catch the uncatchable. But there was no hope of corralling a force of nature. Owen was a tempest, not a summer rain. He was passion and power, a storm in the soul… and just as quickly gone.

  She should know.

  Other than keeping his piercing eyes focused on hers, he hadn’t moved since she’d sat down. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t offered his hand. Hadn’t even spoken her name. By all appearances, he neither recognized her nor cared for an introduction.

  She knew better.

  His very stillness was as telltale as other men’s nervous tics. Whenever he was on edge, a life in the shadows had taught him to go silent and still. Not like a deer or a rabbit. Like a lion. Eyeing his prey. Preparing to strike.

  Whatever was going on here, she wanted no part of it. She pushed to her feet.

  Egbert stopped her with one hand atop her shoulder. A cold sweat broke out beneath her stays.

  “What’s this about?” Her voice trembled as she eased back into the seat.

  “A gentleman’s wager.” Egbert waved his hand toward the table. “Except this gentleman dared question my integrity. Rather than meet him at dawn and sully a bullet with his blood, I have chosen to let an impartial stand-in play the final hand. You.”

  Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth hurt. “I am scarcely impartial.”

  Owen’s voice was smooth velvet, smothering as it caressed. “Whose side might you be on?”

  “My own,” she snapped. Or meant to snap. She had loved him for so long and he had broken her heart so carelessly that his mere presence was enough to twist her into a knot of hate and desire.

  “I see.” His shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I trust you.”

  That slight movement twisted her heart. He did trust her, damn him. If only she could say the same. “What is the game?”

  His eyes softened. “Vingt-et-un.”

  Twenty-one. She took a deep breath.

  One of the dandies elbowed his way forward. “That’s French for—”

  “She speaks French, you ninny.” A different blackguard raised his voice. “I’d be a richer man if Lady Matilda would cease translating Parisian fashion plates to my sister. Now, if one of you gents would like to explain the game instead of translating the—”

  “She already knows.” Owen’s voice was quiet, but laced with a thread of danger that silenced the entire room.

  Matilda’s breathing slowed. He’d taught her to play as a jest, and regretted the decision when she took an immediate fancy. He hated games of chance. Which meant an exceptional turn of events must have driven him to this table.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. “What are the stakes?”

  Owen’s voice was even, his face impassive. “Addington bet five thousand pounds.”

  She pinched her lips together. A pittance for Cousin Egbert, but unspeakable riches to Owen. “And you? What did you wager?”

  “His cottage,” spat one of the onlooking Corinthians with disdain. “He hasn’t anything else.”

  His companions rolled their eyes in agreement. “I can’t fathom why Addington would even want it.”

  Matilda could.

  The little cottage would mean nothing to a wealthy peer, but it was everything to Owen. A gift from his father to his mother. It was all he owned. His sole link to his heritage. The only place he could call home.

  Her nails bit into her palms. This had nothing to do with money, then. At least not for her cousin. This was a continuation of a four-year-old brawl, in an arena where Egbert held the upper hand. She could not stop them. But since she was at the root of their animosity, she would not contribute to Egbert’s cruel games.

  She made her decision. “I’m in. But if I play, I play for keeps. Any spoils I win belong to me.”

  The crowd roared with delight. “Already counting how many gowns she can purchase with five thousand pounds, is she? Her modiste is going to be richer than I am.”

  “Gowns?” Egbert scoffed. “More like novels. While the lot of you are queuing up for a spot on her dance card, I’m dragging her out of the library by her bluestockinged feet. This chit would rather spend her nights with gothic melodrama than be twirled about by you pups.”

  More laughter erupted. “You’re the marquess. Sell off the library so she has more time for her lovesick swains.”

  “Sorry, lads. You’ll have to win her on your own.” Egbert grinned down at her. “Of course, cousin. Anything you win is yours.”

  Matilda’s shoulders tightened. Her cousin’s teasing comments had been delivered with obvious affection, but she could not forgive him. Not for this farce he’d dragged her into unawares. And not for the devastation he’d wrought four long years ago.

  She tu
rned to face Owen, whose body was perfectly still.

  Cousin Egbert reached for the cards. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter 2

  “Stop.” The quiet steel in Major Owen Turner’s voice belied the torment churning within him.

  Addington’s ungloved hand paused above the set of cards. Silence engulfed the room. The only movement came from plumes of smoke fleeing expensive cigars and the fluttering pulse point upon the neck of the only woman who had ever cracked Owen’s armor.

  “I have to deal the cards for you to play, Major.” Addington spat the word as if it left ash upon his tongue. “My cousin wishes to retire. We cannot stay here all night.”

  Owen didn’t bother to acknowledge this last. Addington was in no hurry to escort his cousin anywhere. He was too eager to deny Owen something he wanted.

  Again.

  “I don’t trust you to deal honestly.” Owen’s words ricocheted through the hushed room. For Addington, they would hold a double meaning.

  Shock and a touch of eagerness widened the onlookers’ eyes, but no one stepped backward to make room for a mill. Not here. These were “gentlemen.” Peers didn’t solve problems person-to-person, a flurry of fists followed by a handshake. They preferred dueling pistols at twenty paces. One shot, straight to the heart.

  Addington’s fingers curled, but he crossed his arms beneath the frosty white of his cravat before his hands could become fists. “You certainly won’t be touching the cards, Major.”