by Kelly Bowen
Eli pulled Rose across the drive to a sturdy cart hitched to a dozing gelding. Two men built like pugilists jumped from their perches and greeted the earl. One pulled the back board of the cart down and pushed aside a battered piece of burlap from a bed of straw, revealing a long, flat piece of cut stone. It was buff colored and polished smooth, and EMANUEL HOUSE had been expertly carved across the surface.
“I thought my father would be proud to have his name on something that mattered,” Eli said gruffly. “It’s to go at the entrance.”
“Oh, Eli.” Rose reached forward and ran her hand over the cool stone. She stared at it a moment longer before turning away and slipping her arms around Eli. “What you’ve accomplished here is extraordinary.”
“I had help. Lots of it.”
Rose smiled. “Even so. Your father would be just as proud of you as I am.” She went up on her tiptoes and brushed a soft kiss across his cheek. “The name is perfect.”
“Your brother thought so as well.”
She looked up at him. “When did Harland see this?” she asked.
“I ran into him in town. Caught him just before he left.”
“Left for where?” she asked, confused.
“Dover.” Now it was Eli who looked confused.
“Again?”
“You didn’t know he was leaving?”
Rose shook her head. “No.” Harland had done this with increasing regularity—left abruptly with no warning. And he had been evasive when questioned afterward, mumbling something about doctoring. But Rose wasn’t sure she believed him any longer. “When is he coming back?”
Eli shrugged. “Didn’t say, though he seemed to be in a dashed hurry. He mentioned that Miss Swift would be available to cover any medical needs that we may have here while he’s away.” Eli gathered her hands in his. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “If I’ve learned anything about your brother, it’s that he can take care of himself.”
“I know he can.” Rose sighed. There was nothing she could do about Harland’s absence now.
“Come,” Eli said. “We should go. We don’t want to be late to the theater. Linfield and Lady Ophelia promise me it will be a good one, if only because Byron has his trousers in a twist over something about the play. The staging, I think.”
“The play doesn’t start for at least five hours, Dawes.”
“Exactly.” Eli tugged on her hands. “Just enough time for us to get home and get changed.”
“It doesn’t take me five hours to take a dress off and put another on.”
“Who said anything about putting another one on?” Eli lowered his head to her ear, his lips grazing the side of her neck. “Unlike here, dear wife, the rooms in our house have doors,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “With locks.”
“Then by all means, dear husband,” Rose whispered back. “Take me home.”
A PREVIEW OF A ROGUE BY NIGHT
Baron. Physician. Smuggler. Sir Harland Hayward is living a double life as an aristocrat by day and a criminal by night. As a doctor, Harland has the perfect cover to appear in odd places in the dead of night, a cover he uses to his advantage to bring in all sorts of illicit cargo from across the English Channel. He’s chosen this life to save his family from financial ruin but he draws the line at taking advantage of the honest and trustworthy Katherine Wright.
Katherine has returned to Dover to find that her family is working for a mysterious new crime boss. Growing up in a family of smugglers, she knows it's only a matter of time before they are caught-and killed. So after her brother is shot, she convinces her family to move away and start over. After they honor their last contract, of course. With her injured brother and elderly father unable to work, Katherine reluctantly steps back into the life she had left behind. And straight into the path of the merciless Harland Hayward.
Coming Soon May 2019.
About the Author
RITA Award–winning author Kelly Bowen grew up in Manitoba, Canada. She attended the University of Manitoba and earned a Master of Science degree in veterinary physiology and endocrinology.
But it was Kelly’s infatuation with history and a weakness for a good love story that led her down the path of historical romance. When she is not writing, she seizes every opportunity to explore ruins and battlefields.
Currently Kelly lives in Winnipeg with her husband and two boys, all of whom are wonderfully patient with the writing process. Except, that is, when they need a goalie for street hockey.
Learn more at:
http://www.kellybowen.net
@kellybowen09
http://facebook.com/Kelly Bowen
Also by Kelly Bowen
A Season for Scandal
Duke of My Heart
A Duke to Remember
Between the Devil and the Duke
The Lords of Worth
I’ve Got My Duke to Keep Me Warm
A Good Rogue Is Hard to Find
A Lady’s Guide to Skirting Scandal (short story)
You’re the Earl That I Want
The Devils of Dover
A Duke in the Night
ACCLAIM FOR KELLY BOWEN
A DUKE IN THE NIGHT
“If you read one historical romance this year, make sure it’s this one. I cannot wait to see what comes next in this series. Final Grade—A.”
—FictionVixen.com
“4½ Stars! Top Pick! What a way to start the Devils of Dover series! Bowen strikes all the right chords with readers: touching emotional highs with powerful storytelling. This is a book not only to savor, but a keeper that will stay in your heart.”
—RTBookReviews.com
BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DUKE
“The fun, intrigue, and romance crescendo in a whopping plot twist. Bowen’s Regency romances are always delightful, and this is one of her best yet.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Bowen again delivers the goods with this exquisitely written historical romance, whose richly nuanced characters, unexpected flashes of dry wit, and superbly sensual love story will have readers sighing happily in satisfaction.”
—Booklist (starred review)
A DUKE TO REMEMBER
“This isn’t a Regency comedy of manners. It’s way better. This bright, surprising romance sets aside the intricate social rules and focuses on forging trust and love even when it seems like the whole world is against you.”
—The Amazon Book Review
(Best Romance of August selection)
“A Duke to Remember has everything you want in a romance.…A truly satisfying happily ever after that will leave you misty-eyed.”
—BookPage.com
DUKE OF MY HEART
“Bowen’s irresistible Regency is like the most popular debutante at the ball: pretty, witty, mysterious, and full of coquettish allure. From the first line to the happy dénouement, Bowen builds enough romantic heat to melt midwinter snow.”
—Publishers Weekly (Best Books of 2016 selection)
“In her latest, Kelly Bowen offers up a vibrant, clever heroine in Ivory Moore—think Olivia Pope in a corset. The romance here is deeply satisfying, and Bowen excels in writing secondary characters and scenes. What’s more, the nooks and crannies of this book are delightful, much like those in our real world, perfect to be discovered alongside true love.”
—Washington Post
YOU’RE THE EARL THAT I WANT
“This story has it all: romance, suspense, wit, and Bowen’s trademark smart and slightly quirky characters. Bowen’s thrilling plot, spot-on pacing, and savvy characterization will delight her current fans and seduce new ones.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“4 stars! Bowen is at the top of her game, and all readers could desire is more.”
―RT Book Reviews
A GOOD ROGUE IS HARD TO FIND
“Where have you been all my life, Kelly Bowen? If Julia Quinn, Sarah MacLean, and Lisa Kleypas were to extra
ct their writing DNA, mix it in a blender, and have a love child, Kelly Bowen would be it.”
—HeroesandHeartbreakers.com
“Bowen’s impish sense of humor is expressed by lively, entertaining characters in this wickedly witty Regency. This is pure romantic fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
I’VE GOT MY DUKE TO KEEP ME WARM
“With this unforgettable debut, Bowen proves she is a writer to watch as she spins a multilayered plot skillfully seasoned with danger and deception and involving wonderfully complex protagonists and a memorable cast of supporting characters…a truly remarkable romance well worth savoring.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“4 stars! In this delightful, poignant debut that sets Bowen on the path to become a beloved author, the innovative plotline and ending are only superseded by the likable, multidimensional characters: a strong-willed heroine and a heart-stealing hero. Get set to relish Bowen’s foray into the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
Henrietta Whitlow is leaving behind the life of a very successful courtesan in hopes of making peace with her family in the shires. Newly a baron, Michael Brenner is trying to settle a debt of honor involving Henrietta when he instead loses his heart and learns an important holiday lesson.
For a bonus story from another author that you may love, please turn the page to read
“Respect for Christmas” by Grace Burrowes.
Respect for Christmas
To those who spend the holidays with family members who will never get it. When it comes to family, the season of miracles is 365 days long, or sometimes 366.
Chapter One
My Dearest Brenner,
You will forgive a friend of long-standing for not using your newly acquired honorific. Old habits die hard, though I suppose even an Irish barony is due an occasional nod. In ten or twenty years, perhaps, I will acquire the habit of addressing you as my lord. Perhaps not. In any case, I hope this letter finds you well and anticipating the holidays—or the holiday wassail—with much joy.
The time has come for you to repay that small favor I did you several years ago—the favor that resulted in you eluding capture, torture, and death at the hands of our then-enemies. My request is laughably simple to accomplish for a man of your skills, which is fortunate, for the matter has become urgent. My solicitors tell me I’m in want of a wealthy wife. One must approach the matrimonial lists confident that no stain will mar one’s bachelor escutcheon in the eyes of prospective in-laws.
Did I ever tell you that I deserve sole credit for raising the celebrated Henrietta Whitlow from the status of bumbling housemaid to consort of dukes and nabobs? The tale impresses even me, who more or less wrote it…
Henrietta Whitlow—a bumpkin’s name, of a certainty—joined my domestic staff shortly after I came down from university. A more shy, unworldly, backward creature you never met. She took pride in blacking the andirons and in polishing the candlesticks. She took pride in shining the windows until every parlor reeked of vinegar. She took a painful degree of pride in every domestic chore imaginable, but no pride whatsoever in herself. I changed all of that, though it was a thankless and tedious chore…
I tell you, John Coachman, there is no room at this inn!” The innkeeper banged a palm on the counter, as if knocking down goods at auction.
The coachman, a substantial specimen of middle years, leaned forward so he was nose to nose with the innkeeper.
“Your stable is nearly empty,” he said, a Scots burr in every syllable. “Your common room boasts exactly one gentleman awaiting a meal, and you will find accommodations for my lady.”
Lord Michael Brenner, Baron Angelford, the gentleman in question, sat before the common’s largest window, which was close enough to the foyer that he heard every word of the argument between the coachman and the innkeeper. Beyond the window, an enormous traveling coach with spanking yellow wheels and four matched chestnuts stood in the yard. The horses’ breath blew white in the frigid air, and one of the wheelers stomped a hoof against frozen ground.
No crest on the coach door, but considerable fine luggage lashed to the roof. Why would an innkeeper with rooms aplenty turn away a wealthy customer?
“I’m expecting other parties,” the innkeeper said. “Decent folk who expect decent accommodations.”
A woman emerged from the coach. She was attired in a brown velvet cloak with a cream wool scarf about her neck and ears. She was tall and, based on her nimble descent, young. The second woman, a shorter, rounder specimen in a gray cloak, emerged more slowly and teetered to the ground on the arm of a footman.
What self-respecting innkeeper refused accommodations to two women, at least one of whom was quite well-to-do? Michael waited for a drunken lordling or two to stagger from the coach, or one of London’s more notorious gamblers—he knew them all—but the footman closed the coach door.
The taller woman removed her scarf and wrapped it about her companion. Michael caught a glimpse of flaming red hair before the awning over the inn’s front door obscured the women from view.
Ah, well then. The puzzle began to make sense.
“If you’re expecting other parties,” the coachman said, “they won’t be underfoot until sundown. My lady needs a room for only a few hours, while I find a blacksmith to reset a shoe on my off-side leader.”
“My guests might arrive at any moment,” the innkeeper shot back. “The sky promises snow, and I don’t give reserved rooms away.”
The front door opened, an eddy of cold air reaching even into the common room.
“He’s being difficult, ma’am,” the coachman said to the red-haired woman. “I’ll make the cheating blighter see reason.”
“Mr. Murphy’s difficult demeanor is one of the reliable institutions on this delightful route,” the lady said. “Rather like the potholes and not quite as inconvenient as the highwaymen. Fortunately, Mrs. Murphy’s excellent housekeeping is equally trustworthy. How much, Mr. Murphy?”
The woman’s tone was cultured and amused, but also just a shade too low, a touch too knowing. Had the common been full of men, every one of them would have eavesdropped on the conversation because her voice was that alluring.
“No amount of coin will produce an extra room,” Murphy retorted. “Your kind think everything can be bought, but I run a proper establishment.”
“My kind is simply a cold, tired traveler far from home and willing to pay for warmth and privacy. A room, please.”
Coin slid across the counter. Murphy watched the lady’s gloved hand and then studied the gold glinting up from the worn wood.
“I told you after your last visit, Henrietta Whitlow, you are not welcome here. Now be off with you.”
“And you call yourself an innkeeper,” the coachman sneered. “A woman willing to pay you good coin for a short respite from the elements, and you send her back out into the cold when anybody—”
“Excuse me,” Michael said, rising from his table and joining the group at the front desk. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Miss Whitlow is welcome to use my rooms.”
“But, sir!” Murphy expostulated. “You don’t know to whom you’re offering such a kindness. I have good, substantial reasons for not allowing just anybody to bide under this roof.”
Michael well knew to whom the innkeeper was being so rude.
He passed Miss Whitlow’s coins to the coachman. “The holidays are upon us, Mr. Murphy, which means the weather is unpredictable, and travel is both dangerous and trying. The lady and her companion are welcome to use the parlor connected to my bedchamber. The hospitality extended is not yours, but mine, and as my guests, you will please show them every courtesy. Miss Whitlow.”
He bowed to the redhead, who executed a graceful curtsey in response. Her companion had come inside and watched the goings-on in unsmiling silence.
“My thanks,” Miss Whitlow said. “Though to whom am I expressing my gratitude?”
“Michael Brenner, at your ser
vice. Mr. Murphy, the ladies will take a meal and a round of toddies in your private parlor once they’ve refreshed themselves above stairs. John Coachman and madam’s staff will similarly need sustenance and hospitality. Do I make myself clear?”
Murphy scowled at Miss Whitlow, who regarded him with the level stare of a cat deciding whether the menu would feature mouse, songbird, or fricassee of innkeeper.
The scandal sheets and tattlers didn’t do Henrietta Whitlow justice. Her features were just one degree off from cameo perfection—her nose a shade too aquiline, her mouth too full, her eyebrows a bit too dramatic, her height an inch too grand—and the result was unforgettable beauty. Michael had seen her from a distance at the theater many times, but up close, her impact was… more than physical.
Duels had been fought over Henrietta Whitlow, fortunes wagered, and her amatory skills had become the stuff of legend.
“Mr. Brenner, might I invite you to join us?” Miss Whitlow asked. “You are our host, after all, and good company always makes time pass more pleasantly.”
The invitation was bold but, at a coaching inn, not outlandishly improper.
