by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
“Speck,” Sedgemere said. “A number of gentlemen are anxious to speak to you. I trust you have come to make good on your debts of honor.”
“As soon as Maxfield pays me an old debt, I shall do so, assuming he is a man of honor himself. I don’t see him here.”
Linton placed a warning arm on Althea’s shoulder, but she would not remain silent when her twin was impugned after he had worked so hard to make a fresh start. “Unlike you, he is. You’ll get your money. This worm,” she informed the listeners, “tried to persuade Nick to lose the race. That’s how Nick’s hand was injured.”
The minute she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Speck was beyond self-restraint. “Shall we tell them why your brother hit me, Duchess? How he was defending your so-called honor? Shall we tell them about our delightful tryst in the dark at Vauxhall?”
This was her worst nightmare. She must make her confession to Linton in the presence of his peers. Some things were definitely not better done in public. She opened her mouth, searching for the right words to describe that night before Speck produced his venomous version, when she saw that her adversary was sprawled on the floor, out cold. Linton had moved so fast she didn’t see the punch. He stood with hands hanging at his sides, breathing hard and glaring at her unconscious tormenter.
“Splendid hit,” someone said.
“Excuse me,” Sedgemere said. “I must call my servants to remove this piece of vermin from my duchess’s ballroom.” Before he left, he took Althea’s hand and bowed. “I deeply regret, madam, that you have been subjected to such unpleasantness under my roof.”
The other ladies gathered around, offering sympathy and refreshments, but Althea only wanted her husband. She had known he would defend her, but would he forgive her? She turned to him with her arms outstretched in a kind of plea.
“Althea,” he began, and winced when she took his hand. “Don’t do that. It’s as well I don’t have to row tomorrow. I injured my hand on Speck’s jaw.”
*
The Duchess of Sedgemere led them to a withdrawing room and sent in a servant with hot water and towels. While Linton soaked his hand, Althea began to tell her story.
He tried to stop her. “There’s no need. I don’t believe there was anything between you and that maggot—you wouldn’t have the poor taste—and if there was, I don’t want to know.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes brimming. “And thank you for standing up for me, but I want to explain. I don’t want any secrets between us.” She described the events of a night at Vauxhall Gardens a year ago. “I never mentioned it to anyone, not even Nick.” The sadness in her voice wrenched his heart. “No one would believe I hadn’t asked for his advances, and he knew it.”
“You should have told me. I would have sent the bastard to the right about.”
“Would you? When we had scarcely spoken in years? Perhaps. But you would have blamed me too.”
He searched his conscience and had to agree. He’d have been furious at the carelessness that resulted in such a compromising position. At best, he’d have scolded her for indiscretion. “I would have been wrong.”
“I brought my reputation on myself, Linton. Everyone was very kind tonight, but they know something took place. Even the truth doesn’t put me in a good light.”
“It was my fault,” he said savagely. “If I’d been a real husband, you would never have been put in such a situation, because Speck wouldn’t have dared, regardless of whether I was there that night. And I would have been.”
He reached for her, injury be damned, but she fended him off and took his right hand in hers with infinite gentleness, applying a towel with soft dabs, then bringing it to her lips and kissing each knuckle. “I was so frightened. At the time, and later in case anyone found out. I was a fool.”
“Come over here,” he said, leading her to a sofa and drawing her onto his lap. He tucked her head into the crook of his neck and stroked her hair with his good hand. “Let me tell you something. It doesn’t matter if you were a fool. A gentleman does not take advantage of a woman. A gentleman always takes no for an answer, however much it may pain him.”
Angling her head, the look she gave him reduced his heart to warm treacle. “You must be the most wonderful man in the world, Ben. I have felt so horrible about that night, and having to entertain Speck was dreadful, but you’ve made me feel light inside again. I wasn’t wrong, and as long as I have your support and love, I don’t care what anyone else says.”
God, he loved her. And, by Jupiter, he’d never actually told her in so many words. “I…”
She started kissing him, and he gave a mental shrug. He had all night and a lifetime to say those three words, and for now, he was otherwise occupied.
About Miranda Neville
Miranda Neville grew up in England, loving the books of Georgette Heyer and other Regency romances. Her historical romances include the Burgundy Club series, about Regency book collectors, and The Wild Quartet. She lives in Vermont with her daughter, her cat, and a ridiculously large collection of Christmas tree ornaments. She is thrilled to collaborate with Grace, Carolyn and Shana for a second time and looks forward to their next anthology, Christmas in Duke Street coming in October 2015.
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Books by Miranda
The Wild Quartet
The Second Seduction of a Lady (novella)
The Importance of Being Wicked
The Ruin of a Rogue
Lady Windermere’s Lover
The Duke of Dark Desires
The Burgundy Club
The Wild Marquis
The Dangerous Viscount
The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton
Confessions From an Arranged Marriage
Also
Never Resist Temptation
Christmas In the Duke’s Arms
At the Duke’s Wedding
At the Billionaire’s Wedding
An Unsuitable Duchess
by
Carolyn Jewel
About An Unsuitable Duchess
The Duke of Stoke Teversault has well earned his reputation for bloodless calculation. Indeed, recently widowed Georgina Lark has no idea he’s loved her since before her late husband swept her off her feet. Stoke Teversault means to keep it that way. The cold and forbidding duke and the blithe and open Georgina could not be less suited in any capacity. And yet, when Georgina and her sister arrive at his home, his ice-bound heart may melt away.
Georgina Lark has never thought of the duke of Stoke Teversault as a man capable of inducing passion in anyone. He’s long disapproved of her, but she will be forever grateful to him for his assistance after her husband died. It’s been a year since she’s realized he’s not the man she thought. Can she convince him to open his heart to her?
Contents – An Unsuitable Duchess
About An Unsuitable Duchess
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About Carolyn Jewel
Books by Carolyn Jewel
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the people who make me a better writer, especially these awesome people; critique partner Carolyn Crane, editor Robin Harders, and copy-editor Joyce Lamb. Thanks must also go out to the authors in this anthology who are so wonderful to work with, Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, and Miranda Neville. There’s the usual crew of private thanks too. Marguerite, for being my fan and sister, to my son
Nathaniel, my nephew Dylan, and my nieces Lexie and Hannah.
Chapter One
‡
Teversault, The Dukeries, Nottinghamshire, England
July, 1819
Stoke’s ability to strike terror into the hearts of mere mortals was a talent too useful not to keep in good order. Five steps into the Grand Falcon saloon, so named because of the eponymous birds carved into the molding, and a pocket of silence had formed around him. He stood motionless, searching for his brother because she would surely be with William. Though a hair over six feet tall, Stoke did not think of himself as tall on account of his brother being six feet three-and-a-half inches of lion-hearted masculinity. A credit to the Besett line.
None of the strangers here, and there were many, had so far guessed he was a Besett. The Besett. In respect of looks, Stoke was at the edge of unattractive, a fact of which he was acutely aware. Besetts, male or female, were either dark-eyed and hawkish or blue-eyed and leonine. He was of the hawkish Besett. William was of the leonine. William was beloved for his wit and humor and easy manners. Stoke was feared on all accounts.
There. At the other side of the room. As he headed for his brother, all but the least observant among his guests moved out of his way. This reaction had been the case for so long he no longer realized it was unusual. Nevertheless, the saloon was crowded enough that walking a straight line was not possible.
He walked forcefully, propelling his lean-muscled body through space as if a current of air carried him and no one else, a Besett hawk making his way past peacocks toward one Besett lion. He reached them in due course but halted some feet short of where William held court. The Hunter sisters stood on either side of his brother. The women were the younger siblings of a protégée of Stoke’s, presently in Paris and attached to the British Embassy there. He willed away the unwelcome thud of his pulse at the sight of Mrs. Lark. There was no point allowing it.
She had never been much in terror of him, but he’d been unable to close the distance between them, either. By habit, he was a man who observed from afar, who must see the eagle’s-eye view of a problem before plunging to grasp in metaphorical talons the required solution. He did not act until he was certain. William saw his quarry and pounced. Half a minute later, his prey would be a bosom friend.
Mrs. Lark was quick-witted, generous, and always believed the best of everyone. Like William, she threw herself into friendships with no hesitation. He’d spent too long observing her, understanding her. His caution and prudence, in the matter of the former Miss Hunter, had proved fatal to his hopes, for she’d blithely danced out of his view and into the arms of another man.
This was her first visit to Teversault in all the time since her family and his had become connected. He’d last seen her a year ago at one of the assemblies in Hopewell-on-Lyft, though he’d not danced with her despite her being out of mourning. They’d barely spoken, and why should they have? He had no ability to make himself into the sort of man who would suit her.
Grief no longer shadowed her eyes, and she’d regained some, though not enough in his opinion, of the weight she’d lost. She had always been a tidy woman who much resembled her elder brother, and so she remained. She was not tall enough for a man his height and certainly not for someone William’s size. There was no disguising the generous curve of her bosom, all the more apparent because she was quite small and slender everywhere else. Her hair was irredeemably orange, far too pale to be called red. Her alabaster skin made her freckles all the more obvious. The cleft in her chin was charming, but had the effect of making her mouth appear decadent. Though he could not see from where he stood, he knew her eyes were the color of cognac held to candlelight.
She was a decade younger than he, twenty-three. Married at twenty-one, widowed less than a year later. William, resplendent and too handsome for his own good—he was of the lion line, after all—rested a familiar and possessive hand on her shoulder.
“Revers,” William had just said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “These are the young ladies I’ve been telling you about.” Lord Revers bowed. “George, this is the Viscount Revers.”
She curtseyed. “My lord.”
The saloon was filled with guests, more than in any previous year for these series of summer parties across the estates that made up the Dukeries. This circumstance was the weight of tradition, alas. Balls, fêtes, routs, picnics, the Dukeries Cup race on the serpentine, all to culminate in a grand ball which the Prince Regent himself was to attend. One was no one without possession of the right to say he, or she, had been a guest at one of the Dukeries parties.
“Revers, this is George.” William grinned. “Mrs. Lark.”
Revers looked bored but took her hand and bowed over it. As he did, his attention slid to the other sister. Just as well, as far as Stoke was concerned. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Lark.”
“George.” William thumped her shoulder. “Everyone calls her George.”
George. As if she were a man. As if it were proper for anyone to call her that except her most intimate friends. She’d only just met Revers. The man had no business addressing her as anything but Mrs. Lark.
“Lord William.” She tapped his arm with her closed fan. “Not everyone.” Then she smiled. “Likewise, my lord.”
She had no idea what transformation took place when she smiled. No idea at all. Revers did not release her hand. Instead, he cocked his head. When he spoke, his words and manners were smooth and liquid. “Lord William’s been talking for years about the delightful women of Uplyft Hall.” He put his free hand over his heart. “At last we meet.”
She drew her hand from his, by smile alone transformed from unexceptional to ravishing. A woman a man wanted under him in bed. God knew Revers was rogue enough to be thinking how to get her there. “At last, sir.”
“A pox on you for not introducing me sooner Lord William.” Revers had a reputation for liking the ladies too well. There had been indiscretions on his part. To George, Revers said, “I’ll make up for time lost, I promise you.”
Still with that smile, she laughed. Revers was fascinated. This was her gift, that when she smiled, one was convinced there was no finer, kinder, or more desirable woman than her.
“Miss Hunter.” William brought the young lady forward. He beamed as if he were introducing a beloved sister to a man he hoped would agree they’d be an excellent match. “Will you allow me to introduce Lord Revers?”
The young lady extended a hand with less poise than he would have expected from one of her beauty. Golden hair, blue eyes. An oval face without a single freckle. “Yes, please.”
“Kitty, this bold fellow here is Lord Revers.” The Lord only knew how long Revers would have stared had not William brought Miss Hunter closer yet. “Revers, this enchanting creature is Miss Kitty Hunter.”
Kitty blushed and put her hand on the palm Revers extended to her. The viscount bowed over her hand. “Delighted to meet you as well, Miss Hunter.” He looked her up and down. “Such beauty. I am enrapt. Enthralled by the perfection before me.”
George darted an assessing glance at Revers. He was handsome enough to present a danger to youthful virtue, which no doubt George well understood. He was also possessed of a title and a fortune, and one forgave too much in the face of that.
William kept his hand on George’s shoulder. “George, Kitty, you’ve met everyone who matters. You might as well retire for the day.” The remark was uttered in a breezy, thoughtless manner without consideration of there being anything forward about calling the women names that ought only be used by family and one’s most intimate friends. His brother glanced around the room but did not, for whatever reason, see him standing not five feet away. “Except for that dashed brother of mine, of course.”
“Are you sure he’s here?” George asked. Careless. Not particularly interested in the answer.
“Hiding in his room, I expect.” William glanced at the ceiling. “You know how he despises parties.”
> “Yes,” she said. “I do recall.”
Stoke wended his way closer. As well make himself known to them before someone spoke ill of him. He put a hand on William’s shoulder and did not smile. “Here you are. I have been searching for you these ten minutes at least.”
“Stoke!” William shook his head of tawny hair that had not one single curl. “You’ve been searching for me? Well, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Ten minutes, you say?” He drew George’s hand through his arm and placed his hand over hers. “You ought to have been here an hour ago.”
“Business detained me.”
George curtseyed with an elegance she had acquired during her marriage, for she’d not had that polish when he knew her before. Her eyes were as remarkable as in his memory. He’d not forgotten how clear they were. He could not help but admire them as if he had. She took a breath and held it for a moment—composing herself? Perhaps, for her smile faded. She extended her hand. “How lovely to see you again.”
He touched her fingers, nothing more. Orange hair. Freckles. That decadent mouth and lush bosom. “Mrs. Lark. Welcome to Teversault.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, more reserved with him than with William, whom she’d known for at least a decade. William and her brother were friends from their days at Eton and Oxford. William had been to Uplyft Hall a dozen times before the day Stoke had agreed, reluctantly, to drive William there on his way to Nottingham.
There was nothing extraordinary about her. Nothing at all. Yet the jolt of arousal at seeing her again was unwelcome and inappropriate.
