by Lenora Bell
“I didn’t leave you, you crackbrain,” she laughed. “You left me.”
“Did I? Now why would I ever do anything as stupid as that?” His eyes turned serious. The bed sank as he lowered his huge frame beside her. “Will you . . . can you forgive me?”
Her heart beat so swiftly she thought it might sprint away and leave a gaping hole in her chest.
He wrapped her hands in his fists. “I was so focused on revenge I couldn’t imagine any other future. The possibility of a long, contented life with someone to love by my side.”
Bringing her hands flat against his chest, he stared into her eyes. “I love you, Thea. I think I fell in love with you the moment you climbed atop me, stomped on my shoulder, and left an imprint across my heart.”
She smiled through sudden tears. “Someone had to teach you a lesson.”
Dalton wiped her tears away with his thumbs, stroking her cheek, eyes darker than a rookery alleyway.
“That’s not all you’ve taught me. I’ve been running away from the fact that I needed love my entire life. Like a bloody fool. Having Patrick and Van here is so very wonderful. But nothing’s complete without you. I’ve missed you, Thea. Desperately.”
He brushed a rough thumb across her lower lip and she shivered. “I’m nothing without you. Please say you’ll stay here with me. Say you love me.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Oh, Dalton, yes. I love you. Quite irrevocably.”
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her with firm, strong lips, setting her blood on fire and her body melting.
And that, Thea thought as he kissed her until she was half-mad with pleasure, was exactly how to topple a monumental duke.
Epilogue
Two months later
The Duchess of Osborne’s Painting Exhibition & Art Auction
Grand Gallery, Osborne Court
“She’s quite remarkable, isn’t she?” Lord Haselby, the learned gentleman from the British Institution for Promoting the Fine Arts in the United Kingdom, remarked to his equally erudite companion, Lord Kingsford.
Thea stood behind them, watching as they peered at Artemisia’s self-portrait, stroking their learned, barbed beards.
“See here, Haselby.” Lord Kingsford hoisted a magnifying glass at the painting. “To follow Ripa’s Iconologia, the mask on the chain around her neck should have the word imitation inscribed upon it.”
“By George, you’re right, Kingsford. What do you make of that?”
Thea drew closer. “The mask has no inscription because Artemisia was imitating no man. She was a true original.”
Lord Haselby turned his magnifying glass on Thea. “Not much is known about her, Your Grace.”
“No.” Thea smiled. “But this portrait allows us to fill in some gaps. Do you know, gentlemen, that I have a theory? After studying this painting, I believe it was she, and not her father, who painted the allegory of Peace Reigning over the Arts on the ceiling of the Queen’s House in Greenwich.”
“You don’t say,” Lord Kingsford exclaimed. “Would you care to attend one of our meetings to elucidate on your theories, Your Grace?”
Thea inclined her head. “I would be honored.”
“Now that ceiling, if I recall, was painted in 1636 and features Peace with olive branch and staff presiding over the twelve muses, who are each . . .” Lord Haselby launched into a long and dry description of the entire ceiling.
A possessive touch on Thea’s elbow. Dalton beside her, a lock of burnished hair curved stubbornly over his brow, above midnight eyes.
“You must excuse Her Grace, gentlemen. She’s wanted,” Dalton said.
“Of course, Your Grace.” The gentlemen made their bows.
“You looked as though you might need rescuing,” Dalton whispered in her ear.
“I did, rather,” Thea laughed. “I’m wanted, am I?” she whispered as they made their way through the milling crowd, who attempted to appear to be studying paintings but were mostly searching for gossip.
“Desperately,” he growled.
“Not yet, my wolf.” She smoothed her hands over the heavy satin of a new gown that shimmered with gold and green like the wings of a scarab beetle. Familiar red leather glowed merrily beneath the green. She’d had to wear the half boots tonight. Because the path through polite society was probably going to be muddy.
This was her first public appearance as the Duchess of Osborne.
In the gathering of humanity mingled every person who’d ever laughed at her. Who’d gleefully recounted her transgressions, crowned her Disastrous Dorothea, and borne witness to her humiliations.
But the whispers of the crowd no longer held the power to wound her.
She had too many people here tonight whom she loved. And trusted. And who loved and trusted her.
Dalton, of course. She squeezed his strong arm.
Her mother. She glanced around, finding the countess, regal as ever in a cool silver silk gown that mirrored the shining streaks of gray in her hair, talking to Dalton’s mother, the dowager duchess, who was frail and thin, but still lovely with silver-streaked auburn hair and leaf-green eyes.
“Your mother looks well tonight,” Thea said to Dalton.
“Doesn’t she?” His eyes shone with love.
And then there was Thea’s half sister Charlene, the Duchess of Harland. They’d become the best of friends in the past months.
Where was Charlene? Thea scanned the crowded room but didn’t find her.
Charlene’s younger sister Lulu had a piece in the exhibition: Self-portrait with Ruined Castle. A delightful work, full of promise.
As they approached the grand staircase, Patrick’s young son, Van, and Charlene’s stepdaughter Flor, came whooping down the grand staircase.
Laughing, Dalton caught both of them in his arms before they could tumble into the crowd. “And just what do you two think you’re doing?” he growled.
“Fighting a duel.” Flor narrowed her green eyes at Donovan. “And I’m winning!”
“No, you’re not.” Van jutted out his jaw. “You’re a girl. You can’t win a duel.”
Flor placed her hands on her hips. “Ha! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Dalton ruffled Van’s red-tinged brown hair and set both the children down on the stairs.
“Up you go,” Thea said. “Back upstairs. And try not to set the drapes on fire like last time.”
They were always getting into trouble, those two.
Thea and Dalton reentered the crowd, stopping to nod and chat with their guests.
Thea overheard two matrons discussing their somewhat hasty union.
“They say the duke swept her off her feet at the conclusion of the ceremony and kissed her so thoroughly one of her aunts actually fainted dead away,” one of the women said, her ostrich plumes quivering.
That rumor was entirely true.
A shiver chased down her spine as she remembered that epic kiss.
Which led to thoughts of the wedding night that followed.
And then her knees were too weak to support her.
“Ready for more?” Dalton whispered, propping her against him with a solid arm at her waist.
More what? Kisses?
Thea blushed.
“What are you thinking about, wicked wife of mine?” Dalton whispered, low and hot in her ear. “You’re turning the most delectable shade of pink. I thought I’d cured you of that. I think you want more scandalizing.”
“Later,” Thea remonstrated. “Look,” she said, to distract him. “. . . Isn’t that your friend Lord Hatherly talking to Miss Alice Tombs by the Vigée Le Brun portrait? You don’t see him venture from his den often.”
“Why, so it is, poor Nick. Shall we rescue him?”
“I like Miss Tombs. She’s terribly clever.” Alice Tombs was one of Charlene’s best friends, and the three ladies had spent many enjoyable afternoons together discussing new plans for Charlene’s charitable ventures. The sale of se
veral art works tonight would benefit her women’s refuge.
Dalton raised his eyebrows. “And terribly odd.”
Thea smiled. “She has her reasons.”
As they passed, Thea caught a snatch of Lord Hatherly and Alice’s conversation.
“But the lady’s only wearing a thin drapery. She looks awfully chilly,” Alice said, pursing her lips so her dimples deepened.
“It displays her . . . attributes . . . to the best advantage.” That from the always-scandalous Lord Hatherly.
“But she’s apt to catch the grippe and die of a bilious fever.”
“It’s only a painting,” Thea heard Lord Hatherly say, with a dazed expression in his gray eyes.
As Dalton steered her toward the balcony, Thea noted with pleasure that the Duke and Duchess of Harland stood just beyond the glass balcony doors, leaning over the railing, their shoulders touching.
The air was warm outside, and scented with the jasmine that twined over the balcony railing.
“There you are,” Thea said when she and Dalton joined them. “Are you hiding?”
“We were kissing,” Harland announced, his green eyes sparking.
Charlene swatted his arm. “James.”
“Well, it’s true, my love.”
Thea surveyed the crowded gallery through the glass doors. “Really, one medium-sized scandal would have been enough to lure them here. And we’ve provided at least four large ones.”
“Four?” Dalton asked. “That many?”
“Exhibits A and B,” Thea said. “The Scandalous Duchesses.”
Charlene smiled, her blue-gray eyes, so similar to Thea’s own, sparking with laughter. “The courtesan’s daughter and her runaway half sister.”
“Exhibit C.” Thea swept a hand toward the glass doors. “The Dowager Recluse making her first appearance in society in over a decade.”
“Exhibit D,” James proclaimed. “The Prodigal Spare, returned from the dead.”
Thea found Patrick in the crowd. He stood, tall and commanding and nearly as sinfully handsome as his brother, talking to a pretty girl in a pale pink gown.
“You see?” Thea crowed. “Four large-sized scandals. They hardly know which one to gawk at first.”
“Speaking of scandal, there’s Alice and Hatherly,” Charlene said. “We’ll go and fetch them. James has a flask in his pocket.”
She and James reentered the room, leaving Thea and Dalton alone.
“I think you forgot one of the scandals, little lamb,” Dalton said.
“Did I?”
He backed her against the French glass doors.
“You forgot this one.” He laced his arms around her and claimed her mouth with his strong, sensual lips.
She sighed, leaning in to the kiss, thrilling to the danger. She didn’t even care that the ton might see her green satin-covered arse pressed against the glass panes.
Because every single time they kissed, she tumbled deeper in love with her husband.
The green hills of Ireland would always wait for her.
And London had become far more welcoming.
But Dalton’s arms around her?
That was home.
How the Duke Was Won
And don’t miss the first sparkling romance in Lenora Bell’s Disgraceful Dukes series,
HOW THE DUKE WAS WON
The pleasure of your company is requested at Warbury Park. Four lovely ladies will arrive . . . but only one can become a duchess.
James, the scandalously uncivilized Duke of Harland, requires a bride with a spotless reputation for a strictly business arrangement. Lust is prohibited and love is out of the question.
Four ladies. Three days. What could go wrong?
She is not like the others . . .
Charlene Beckett, the unacknowledged daughter of an earl and a courtesan, has just been offered a life-altering fortune to pose as her half sister Lady Dorothea and win the duke’s proposal. All she must do is:
Be the perfect English rose [Ha!]
Breathe, smile, and curtsy in impossibly tight gowns [blast Lady Dorothea’s sylphlike figure]
Charm and seduce a wild duke [without appearing to try]
Keep said duke far, far from her heart [no matter how tempting]
When secrets are revealed and passion overwhelms, James must decide if the last lady he should want is really everything he needs. And Charlene must decide if the promise of a new life is worth risking everything . . . including her heart.
Click here to buy!
About the Author
LENORA BELL grew up in a tiny town in Alaska with no traffic lights or movie theater, but a very big library. A graduate of Portland State University’s MFA in Creative Writing program, she has lived and taught English on five continents. Lenora currently shares a cabin in Switzerland with her husband and two naughty tiger-striped kitties.
www.lenorabell.com
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Acknowledgments
Everlasting thanks to Amanda Bergeron, Alexandra Machinist, Elle Keck, Pam Jaffee, Jessie Edwards, Angela Craft, and Tom Egner for their expert guidance and assistance. Huge love to my husband, family, and friends for riding the roller coaster and holding my hand.
I’m so grateful for the generous support and mentorship from so many of my writing idols, especially: Sarah MacLean, Eloisa James, Lorraine Heath, Kerrelyn Sparks, Sophie Jordan, Meredith Duran, Courtney Milan, Tessa Dare, Meljean Brook, and Eva Devon. The 2014 GH Dreamweaver community of writers inspires and uplifts me every day.
To the booksellers, librarians, reviewers, bloggers, critique groups, and, most of all, the readers . . . thank you for being passionate about romance!
By Lenora Bell
If I Only Had a Duke
How the Duke Was Won
Coming Soon
Blame It on the Duke
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
if i only had a duke. Copyright © 2016 by Lenora Bell. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062397751
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062397744
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Lenora Bell, If I Only Had a Duke
