Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  “I’m certain it was one look at your pretty face. Oops!” She fell against his chest. “I accidentally looked directly into your eyes. Help!” She arched back so he was forced to catch her. “I shall faint.” Her hand brushed her forehead.

  He lifted her off her feet and swept her into his arms. “In that case, perhaps we’d better retire to the bedchamber Stoke Teversault thoughtfully supplied. You’d better lie down, wife.”

  “Take me to bed, husband.”

  “With pleasure.”

  About Shana Galen

  Shana Galen is the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, “The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun,” and RT Bookreviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching.” She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.

  Books by Shana Galen

  If you enjoyed this story, read more from Shana, Carolyn, Grace, and Miranda in their upcoming anthology, Christmas in Duke Street.

  Pre-order Shana’s upcoming release, The Rogue You Know.

  Covent Garden Cubs series begins with Earls Just Want to Have Fun.

  The Lord and Lady Spy series begins with Lord and Lady Spy.

  The Jewels of the Ton series begins with When You Give a Duke a Diamond.

  The Sons of the Revolution series begins with The Making of a Duchess.

  The Misadventures in Matrimony series begins with No Man’s Bride.

  The Regency Spies Series begins with While You Were Spying.

  Duchess of Scandal

  by

  Miranda Neville

  About Duchess of Scandal

  After months of marriage, the Duke of Linton agreed to live apart from his wife. Thrown together due to a scheduling error, Linton finds Althea still has the power to make his heart race. Linton seems different from the critical, indifferent man Althea married. But though she burns for him as a lover, can she trust him to be the husband she needs?

  Contents – Duchess of Scandal

  About Duchess of Scandal

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About Miranda Neville

  Books by Miranda

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Caroline Linden and Megan Mulry for their support and advice; to Daniel James Brown for writing The Boys in the Boat and inspiring the Dukeries Cup; and to Grace, Shana, and Carolyn.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  He was a fool to come back to The Chimneys. As he neared the entrance to the estate, the Duke of Linton almost told his coachman to turn around. Last time he made this journey, Althea had been with him, the sweet young bride whose beauty and bright spirits had captivated him and led him to select her against common sense and the advice of his family. Last time he drove along this road, he’d thought of little else but the approach of night and his new wife’s bed.

  Which was an object lesson in the danger of quick decisions and allowing desire to overcome reason.

  He did not change his order to the coachman, and he did not dwell on the three weeks of his honeymoon when he thought he would be happy. He tucked his disappointment into a hidden chamber of his heart and looked forward to a few quiet days.

  When the coach stopped before the wrought-iron gates to the park, Linton opened the window and glanced out. A couple of small boys tore through the thick laurels adjacent to the gate. The larger of the two tackled his junior to the ground, and they rolled around together, squealing like a pair of piglets.

  Linton had been a child here, many eons ago, though he had played next to the main house and usually alone, having only a trio of older sisters, the plague of his life. He’d have liked a brother to wrestle with. He dismissed a pang of regret that no sons of his own would ever romp on the lawns of this or any other of his twelve mansions.

  A woman, followed by a couple of little girls, emerged from the neat brick lodge and opened the gates. The last thing Linton noticed, as the coach rolled forward, was a washing line pegged with numerous garments flapping in the breeze. What was the world coming to when the small clothes of his servants’ families disfigured the pristine entrance to a duke’s estate?

  It was a small annoyance and quickly forgotten in anticipation of seeing The Chimneys. When they turned the corner into the avenue, the graceful Queen Anne house came into sight, all mellow brick and golden stone, perfect in its proportions and dominated by the four giant chimneys that gave it its name.

  Nine days he had, with almost no business to conduct and no one to bother him. No callers, no secretary, and certainly no wife. Nothing to do but walk, read, or anything else that took his fancy. Maybe a spot of fishing.

  Descending the carriage in what were, for him, high spirits, he greeted the elderly butler. “Good afternoon, Binney. I trust I find you well this fine day.”

  “Your Grace.” Binney seemed shocked. “We weren’t expecting you. Will you be staying…”

  Linton silenced him with a twitch of the ducal eyebrows. Each one of his residences was kept in a state of readiness for his arrival, even this one that he never visited. Why were his servants questioning him? His secretary had tried to argue when he’d announced his decision to make a detour to Nottinghamshire on his journey to Longworth, his principal estate in Berkshire. Although the duchess had made The Chimneys her domain, he had every right to come here whenever and for whatever reason he wished and stay for as long or short a time as suited him. None of them could complain he neglected his duty—not that it was any of their damn business. “I’ll settle this boundary issue with Sedgemere myself,” he’d told Newton firmly. Tomorrow he’d ride over to Sedgemere House and talk duke to duke about a pair of tenants fighting over a fence. Or maybe he’d wait a few days, until after he’d done some fishing. He could do with a little peace and quiet after a long parliamentary session.

  Entering the hall, he found he could not after all forget his last visit to The Chimneys. He’d chosen this house for his honeymoon because it was his favorite, smaller and more intimate than the vast Longworth. He expected to hear Althea’s laughter and see her leaning over the banister, beckoning him with her smile, when he came in from riding. But of course she was not here. The three weeks, during which he’d hoped his conventional marriage would flower into something sweeter, had been followed by disillusionment and fiery quarrels. Six months later, the Duke and Duchess of Linton were in a state of almost complete estrangement that had, over almost five years, slipped into armed neutrality. Now they lived in separate houses when they could, and when they couldn’t, for a couple of months during the Season, they nodded with bared teeth should they happen to cross paths at Linton House in Grosvenor Square. They had different interests, moved in different circles, and led separate lives.

  A pall fell over his spirits and, to cap his lost holiday mood, the light through the great window over the staircase turned gray. He needed to stretch his legs after hours in the carriage, but a walk or ride didn’t appeal when it was likely to rain. Like all his houses, The Chimneys was equipped with a room where he could build up a sweat and exorcise his frustrations.

  After an hour of hard work punching the leather bag of sand, he was pleasantly exhausted. He ordered hot water brought to his rooms and planned a quiet dinner with a book for company. Perhaps, daring thought, he wouldn’t even bother to change into evening dress.

  He opened the tall ca
sement windows of his bedchamber and breathed in country air, rested his eyes on the white dots of sheep grazing in the park. At first he barely registered the murmur of female humming in the adjoining room—there were always servants going about their business—until the timbre of the voice penetrated his consciousness. He strode over and flung open the communicating door.

  “Linton!” Althea, Duchess of Linton’s voice was musical as ever but far from pleased. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, madam. You are not supposed to be at The Chimneys until the fourteenth of the month. You will have to leave.”

  “You are mistaken. I’ve been here since yesterday, and I’m not going anywhere. This is my house.”

  “The Chimneys belongs to me.”

  “Of course it’s yours. I am well aware that I have nothing of my own. Yet, by our agreement I spend the summer here, and the last time I checked July was summer. You are supposed to be in Berkshire, and you will have to leave.”

  “You told Newton you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I told him nothing of the kind. You’re saying that because you have come to torment me.”

  “Are you accusing me of prevarication? I assure you, madam, that the Dukes of Linton do not lie.”

  They were squabbling like a pair of children, and unless he stopped it, the exchange would mushroom into the kind of bitter argument that had plagued the early months of their marriage. He leaned back on his heels and reassembled his shattered temper, because, as always, it was up to him to behave with dignity. “There has been a misunderstanding, Althea. I trust we can spend one night under the same roof without a quarrel.”

  But for her expression, she might have been the girl he’d married. In a white muslin gown with her red-gold hair tied in a careless knot, she was lovely, more so than ever, and her beauty caught at his throat. The beauty had always been there. It was why he’d foolishly chosen a very young girl of small fortune and from a tainted family for his bride. He’d made the mistake of assuming he could possess this beauty and charm and that she would be a proper wife for a Duke of Linton.

  Daggers darted from her eyes, contrasting with the simplicity of her attire. Then she gave a swift, sharp nod, and her mouth relaxed from its defiant pout. They stared at each other in a skeptical truce.

  “Will you dine with me, Linton?”

  His pleasure at this surely grudging invitation surprised him. Was he such a fool that a few yards of white cloth made him forget the past? The true Althea was the one tricked out in extravagant silks and satins, adorned and bejeweled, her hair braided and curled into the rococo absurdities of the London hairdresser, her eyelashes blackened. His moment of weakness was only a false recollection of happier times.

  “Country hours?” he asked.

  “Of course. I don’t like to keep the servants up late.”

  She didn’t mind it in London when he’d return from dining out to find a crowd of fashionable ne’er-do-wells and fribbles lolling around his dining room table, draining the contents of his wine cellar. “As you wish,” he said. “Speaking of servants, do we have a woman in the lodge now? Or was her husband absent this afternoon?”

  “Mrs. Trumbull is the widow of your tenant John Trumbull.”

  “I remember he caught a fever last year.”

  “Her children were too young to take over the farm, and she couldn’t manage alone. I gave her the lodge. She seems just about capable of opening and closing the gate without the help of a man.”

  It was the right thing to offer the widow a house and employment, and he might have thought of it himself had he been consulted. Instead, she made him feel obscurely guilty. “She hangs washing in front of her house,” he said.

  “And where else, pray, would she hang it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s unsightly and spoils the approach to the park.”

  The light of combat brightened her green eyes. “So to avoid offending your sensibilities, you would have her children go dirty?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You change your linens at least once a day, don’t you, Linton?” He felt his cheeks darken at the indelicate question. “Where do you suppose your shirts and stockings and drawers are dried?”

  “Somewhere I can’t see them.”

  “Indeed. Every one of your twelve houses is furnished with a kitchen courtyard where the mundane operations that keep you fed and clothed are conducted away from your fastidious gaze. Perhaps you’d like to build such a facility at the lodge so that the Trumbull children’s small clothes will no longer offend you.”

  “That would be absurd.”

  “Precisely.” Walking around him, she opened the door wide in a clear gesture of dismissal. “I shall see you at dinner, and despite our rustic ways we do change for the evening.” With an exaggerated sniff, she wrinkled her nose. “Lucky you have a good supply of clean shirts.”

  She was close enough for him to catch the subtle rose perfume she favored and the scent of her freshly laundered garments. Mortified, he realized he was in his shirt-sleeves, the garment hanging loose to his knees. Worse, it was still damp from his exercise, and he probably stank like a ferret. A little laugh of derision followed him as he stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

  *

  Althea watched her husband retreat under her scornful onslaught, but as soon as the door closed, her throat closed over her mirth. Shoulders slumped, she gasped as though she’d been running. So much for the quiet restraint she had fought for, and largely attained, when dealing with Linton in recent years. Not that she regretted what she’d said about the lodge keeper and her laundry. Bentinck Travers, Duke of Linton, was much too hoity-toity, without a notion of the daily challenges faced by mortals who had not been a duke since the age of ten. Not to mention that he was entirely in the wrong. As usual, she had provided Linton’s secretary with a list of her movements and engagements for the summer, complete with dates. She’d told him she’d be at The Chimneys on the fourth of July, and that was precisely when she’d arrived. Linton had no business bothering her here when he had his choice of eleven other mansions to honor with his glorious presence.

  Fidgeting at her dressing table, she picked up a hairbrush here, a rouge pot there, and slammed them down again. Seeing him here, where they’d spent the only happy three weeks of their five-year marriage, had shocked her into the kind of childish taunting she should have long outgrown. And now she’d cracked her crystal pin tray.

  Coming to The Chimneys for the first time felt like yesterday: the thrill of arriving at a house (one of many) where she would be mistress, the anticipation of long hours alone with the husband she hardly knew. Dazzled by the attentions of the handsome, reserved duke who improbably had courted her, she’d looked forward to falling in love with him. He must love her, she’d reasoned. There was absolutely no other reason why he’d chosen a young lady as insignificant as she was.

  She flung herself onto her bed and buried her head in the pillow, the bed he’d once shared with her and the pillow on which he’d laid his head after their couplings. She’d been so young and anxious and eager to please her grand new husband, twelve years her senior, and she’d thought she had—poor little simpleton. Entirely ignorant of marital relations, after the initial shock she’d found it… pleasant. She’d liked feeling close to him and enjoyed his obvious satisfaction.

  She’d wanted to make him happy and thought he felt the same. He’d seemed pleased with her, both in bed and out. During the day they’d walked and ridden and conversed. She’d begun to detect tiny fissures in his well-fortified reserve.

  The day they returned to London everything began to change and it had become clear that he didn’t love her and never had. He’d been cold, critical, and neglectful.

  Working herself into a rage was not the best idea when she had to sit through a meal with him, surrounded by servants. Neither did she want to weep and present herself with reddened eyes. Sniffing hard, Althea go
t down from the bed and rang for her maid. She hadn’t planned to change when she expected to dine alone, but now she had to.

  “Which gown, Your Grace?” the maid asked.

  Her first thought was a pale yellow silk with a lace overdress, but she settled on her plainest evening gown, a fine white cambric figured with a whisper of lavender thread. When first married, she’d been thrilled to patronize the most fashionable modistes with what seemed to her a limitless budget. Tonight she had looked forward to a couple of months in the country without constant attention to her toilette.

  Throughout her girlhood, she had yearned for London. She believed that if she could live there away from her oppressive family, she would be perfectly happy. Balls, excursions, people, were the sum of her ambitions. Lately those entertainments had palled. Perhaps all pleasures did after a time, a melancholy thought.

  She fastened a chaste string of pearls about her neck, and at the last minute, lest her husband think she’d turned puritan, she dabbed rouge on her pale cheeks and touched up the kohl on her lashes and brows. Linton, she had no doubt, would be immaculately turned out in one of his soberly correct ensembles.

  Her lips twitched. He hadn’t been so correct this afternoon with thick brown hair all over the place and his damp shirt sticking to his chest. As a matter of fact, he’d looked rather fine. She knew he boxed and fenced regularly and could guess at the musculature beneath the well-tailored garments. But she’d never seen it. He used to come to her bed wearing a dressing gown, and their relations were conducted under covers, in the dark, and in silence. His state of undress confirmed what she knew from the tentative touches she’d essayed between the sheets. The Duke of Linton was a splendid figure of a man, and he was as well-formed at thirty-five as he had been at thirty.