by Sophia Nash
Roman noticed a very pretty lady, just a half step away from Kress. She was clutching a very odd and very ugly bouquet of half-dead flowers. And on her hand the most enormous diamond and sapphire ring resided.
Kress’s jaded brown eyes filled with pride. “You’re a bit late to the celebration, Norwich. May I present the lady I married one half hour ago? My wife, Roxanne Newton Barclay, the Duchess of Kress. Roxanne, cherie?” Kress addressed the lady beside him with more tenderness than Roman had ever beheld in his oldest friend. It almost eased the shock Roman felt upon learning the news that the one man aside from himself who had been determined to avoid leg-shackling had fallen as hard and as fast as he had.
Kress’s eyes did not stray from his bride. “May I present Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich, cherie? As well as his mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich, and—”
“Actually,” Roman’s mother interrupted. “I’m delighted to inform that I am now quite officially the Dowager Duchess. Roman?”
He gently squeezed Esme’s waist in a highly improper and intimate fashion. She looked so very happy beside him and his heart swelled. “I’m honored beyond measure to introduce my wife, Esme Montagu, the new Duchess of Norwich, to you all.” It was his turn to endure the shocked expression of his friend. Roman continued smoothly. “March? My good friend, Alexander Barclay, the Duke of Kress, and Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March, who—”
The petite duchess was examining Esme and interrupted him. “Oh, Esme and I know each other very well, Norwich. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have captured this lady’s interest? She has a talent unparalleled. Oh, Esme, I am so pleased to see you! It has been an age. Have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy?”
Esme embraced her friend before Isabelle turned to Norwich again. “But why do you address Esme as ‘March’? This is all going to be highly confusing—sort of like the ridiculous number of alias names that have been floating around the Mount the last month. You should have been here, Norwich.” She then paused for a moment and backtracked. “But the name ‘March’? That’s my title. Although, James?”
“Yes?” Candover looked at the pretty duchess with the same casual indifference that he always employed. It spoke of anything but disinterest.
“Perhaps, you should address me as such. I mean, I’ve always thought it highly unfair. Why is it that all of the rest of the entourage address each other by their titles and I must forever be Her Grace, or Isabelle?”
Candover emitted a pained sigh.
Esme dropped a curtsy as Kress bowed to her, and then accepted a warm welcome from Kress’s wife, Roxanne, and finally straightened for Candover’s chaste, cousinly kiss on her cheek. Everyone did their duty to Roman’s mother, who appeared overjoyed by events.
Kress and Roman glanced at each with raised brows.
Kress spoke first. “I want an afternoon—no, an entire day with the lady who managed to tame the wild beast. March, is it? May I have the pleasure of your company tomorrow, or rather, today, now that the sun has come up?”
“Not on your life,” Roman replied before his wife could utter a sound. “Unless, of course, I am permitted the honor of an afternoon with that lovely creature next to you. Your Grace? What say you?”
Roxanne Barclay smiled hugely. “Why, I would be deligh—”
“Absolutely not,” roared Kress. “He is not to be trusted. He is not—”
Roxanne interrupted Kress. “You say that about everyone in the entourage. Abshire, Candover, Barry, and especially . . . Sussex.”
Kress was quite obviously not pleased by the mention of the most charming, handsome duke in their exclusive circle and it amused Roman to no end. He had thought Kress and Sussex got on well enough together. Apparently, not where Kress’s bride was concerned.
“If you had seen them the night of Candover’s wedding debacle, cherie, you would know why,” Kress replied, more embarrassed than usual.
“But I thought none of you could remember a thing,” Isabelle inserted.
“We don’t need to remember,” Candover ground out.
“I like your friends very much,” Esme said, turning to Roman.
“I had hoped you would, March,” he replied, his heart expanding as he looked at her. He still couldn’t believe she was next to him. He doubted he would be able to let her out of his sight for at least a fortnight. It was a good thing they would be boarding that yacht again within a day or so.
“Norwich?” Isabelle repeated. “Are you ever going to tell me why the name ‘March’? She was Lady Derby and now she’s your duchess.”
“It was my first husband’s family name,” Esme answered for him.
“But now you are a Montagu,” Roxanne said gently.
“Yes, well, it will not do for me to address her thusly as that is how she addresses me,” Roman replied.
Esme tilted her head to look at him. “Well, you could use Morgan or Mannon,” she said shyly.
Fate, indeed, was nothing but a very odd duck. He smiled to himself.
All at once, he felt Esme’s hand reach for his. “Or whatever name you like.”
Kress grinned. “I would advise a name with a number. Seventeen never pays attention to anything unless it involves numbers.”
“Perhaps you should do the same, mon vieux,” ground out Roman. “I was not the sodding idiot who lost an entire fortune not a week after it had been entrusted.”
Kress’s wife Roxanne diplomatically interrupted. “The name Esme or Esmeralda signifies great beauty, does it not? Mannon is also lovely. Why cannot you use either?”
Candover, who had been as silent as he always was, replied. “Esmeralda Mannon was the infamous lady who cursed the first Duke of Norwich. She didn’t care for his engagement gift of a dozen bloody ducks. Esme is her direct descendant.”
Roman started. “You knew?” For the first time in their acquaintance, Norwich would have liked to bloody Candover’s nose. In fact, he might very well do it this—
“Of course, I knew. But I didn’t want to spoil the enjoyment of the day you would finally figure it out on your own.” He looked at Esme and winked. “Was it as ghastly as I can imagine, cousin?”
All the fight went out of Roman as he looked down to see the great humor flooding his wife’s face. He stroked her jaw with one finger. “Well, was it?”
She darted a look toward Candover. “Ghastly isn’t the word I would choose, cousin. But then, I am surprised by the audacity of such a private query. Curiosity is not usually a word I would choose to describe you.”
“She is definitely one of us,” Roxanne announced to Kress. “I shall arrange for the front chambers to be made up for our new guests, darling. And I shall wake all our other guests, as a grand double wedding celebration is in order. Will that suit you, March? Pardon me, is it Esmeralda, or is it to be Mannon?”
All eyes focused on Roman.
Mannon . . . It was perfect for her. She was, after all, in his scientific mind—100 percent completely undecipherable, impossibly talented, complicated, and bewitching sensual woman, with her quiet, ordered mind and immense depth of character and heart.
“Esmeralda Mannon Morgan March Montagu?”
“Yes, my love?” Her eyes were shining.
“Mannon?”
“Yes,” she agreed, her smile soft. She was lovelier than she had ever appeared to him.
“I have three things to say in front of all these people, who I would have liked to have been with us on the day we wed—apart from your cousin who was our witness.”
Kress sent Candover another black glare for not telling him he knew Roman was alive all these past impossible weeks.
“What things?” she asked.
“First, I promise never to go hunting or to give you a dead duck.” He paused. “Second, I promise to take great care of your heart and your talent. And lastly? You may depend upon me always. For anything and everything. I will not let you down.”
“I know you won’
t, my love,” she replied with great love radiating from her expression.
And with that, the members of the royal entourage cheered. They also all secretly wondered . . .
Who was next?
Acknowledgments
Warmest thanks as always to Helen Breitwieser/Cornerstone Literary and Lyssa Keusch, Executive Editor at HarperCollins, for expertly shepherding to publication this second book in the Royal Entourage series. No one does it better than the two of you! And to the entire HarperCollins family, especially Liate Stehlik, Carrie Feron, Pamela Spengler-Jaffee, the sales force, and the art department, thank you for your outstanding support.
And to my family, and to my circle of friends, especially Amy, Kathy, Jean, Laurie, Jeanne, Kathy A., and Cathy M.: The love goes round and round.
Now you know what happened to Roman Montagu,the Duke of Norwich, the morning after the most extravagant royal bachelor party of all time. But what about his friend Alexander Barclay, the Duke of Kress?
Alexander Barclay, the Duke of Kress, cannot for the life of him remember anything after the party. Only one thing is certain, his fortune is missing, and the Prince Regent and his royal entourage are facing humiliation and worse in the press. The prince commands all the dukes to mend their ways, and Kress is forced southward to reform and rebuild a castle fortress.
The first time Kress lays eyes on Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven, she is hanging on to the side of a cliff with waves crashing far below. After saving her, he reluctantly agrees to hide her in his ancient, crumbling castle on St. Michael’s Mount until she can figure out why her husband, the Earl of Paxton, abandoned her on the cliff. And along the way, sparks fly. . . .
Read on for an excerpt from
Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea,
the first book in the Royal Entourage series by Sophia Nash.
Now available from Avon Books!
A new duke always had hell to pay.
Oh, it had been all well and good when Alexander Barclay, now the newly minted ninth Duke of Kress, had walked into White’s Club in Mayfair and been pounded on the back by a blossoming number of friends a fortnight ago.
And it had been very good last week when he had met his new solicitors and removed from his cramped and moldy rooms off St. James’s Street to palatial Kress House, Number Ten, St. James’s Square.
However, it had gone from the first bloom of bonhomie with the crème de la crème of the most privileged societal tier in the world to near pariah status overnight. Alex’s avalanche from grace had all started last eve at the Prince Regent’s Carleton House, where he provided the spirits to toast His Grace, the Duke of Candover’s last evening as a bachelor.
His own induction into the circle that same night, he could not remember.
Alex should have known better. Had not the sages throughout history warned to be careful of what one wished? Barons, viscounts, marquises, and earls would have given up their last monogram-encrusted silver spoon for entrée into the prince’s exclusive circle, and all for naught as one had to be a duke of England to be included. For two centuries, the dukes in the peerage of Scotland had pushed for inclusion in the royal entourage to no avail. And one did not speak of the Irish dukes’ efforts at all.
Yes, well. Being a duke was anything but entertaining right now. More asleep than not, Alex shivered—only to realize his clothes were wet, and even his toes were paddling circles in his boots. Christ above, he would give over a large portion of his newfound fortune if only someone would lend him a pistol to take a poorly aimed shot at the birds singing outside like it was the last morning the world would ever see.
Sod it . . . What on earth had happened last night? And where in bloody hell was he?
The fast clacking of heels somewhere beyond the door reverberated like a herd of African elephants. A sharp knock brought stars to the insides of Alex’s eyelids before the door opened.
“Hmmm . . . finally. Thought we’d lost you,” shouted a familiar feminine voice.
Footsteps trampled closer and Alex pried open his eyes to find a blurry pair of oddly golden peepers and coils of brown hair floating above him. Ah, the young Duchess of March, the only female in the prince’s entourage. Alex wished he could make his voice box work to beg her to stop making so much noise.
“Although, you,” she continued, looking at Alex’s valet stretched out on a trundle bed nearby, “are not Norwich. Come along, then. The both of you. Prinny is not in a mood to wait this morning—not that he ever is.” Isabelle displayed the annoying habit of tapping her foot as she stared at Alex.
When he did not move, Isabelle had the audacity to start pulling his arm. Dislocation being the worse of two evils, Alex struggled to regain full consciousness and his feet as his man did the same with much greater ease.
Ah, at least he had one question answered. They were still in the prince’s Carleton House. Thank the Lord. Any debauchery that might have occurred had at least remained within the confines of these gilded walls. There had been far too much gossip lately of the immoderation of their high-flying circle.
“Look, if we’re not in His Majesty’s chambers within the next two minutes, I cannot answer as to what might happen,” the duchess urged. “Honestly, what were you and the rest thinking last night? There must have been quite a bit of devilish spirits to cause . . .”
He held up his hand for her to stop. Just the thought of distilled brews made him wince.
“Must have been the absinthe,” his valet, Jack Farquhar, said knowingly. “Englishmen never have the stomach for it.”
“You’re English,” Alex ground out, his head splitting.
“Precisely why I never imbibe. But you . . . you should be half immune to that French spirit of the devil incarnate.”
Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March, had a lovely warm laugh, but right now it sounded like all the bells of St. George’s at full peel.
“We must go. You too.” She nodded to Jack Farquhar, before she continued. “Kress, do you have the faintest idea where Norwich is? Were you not with him during the ridiculous bachelor fete? You two are usually inseparable.”
Alex made the mistake of trying to shake his head with disastrous results. “Can’t remember . . .” As the duchess pulled them both forward, Alex’s toes squished like sponges inside his now not so spanking white tasseled Hessian boots.
The effort to cross the halls to the Prince Regent’s bedchamber felt like a long winter march across Europe to St. Petersburg. Alex looked sidelong toward his soon-to-be dismissed valet. “Absinthe, mon vieux?”
“ ’Twas the only thing in your new cellar . . . eighteen bottles. Either the last duke had a partiality for the vile stuff or his servants drank everything but that—in celebration of his death.”
To describe the pasty-faced, hollowed-eyed jumble of gentlemen strewn around the royal bedchamber as alive was a gross kindness. Four other dukes—Candover, Sussex, Wright, and Middlesex—as well as the Archbishop of Canterbury formed a disheveled half-circle before Prinny’s opulent, curtained bed where the future king of England reclined in full shadow.
“Your Majesty would have me recommence reading, then?” The pert voice of the duchess caused a round of moans. “I’m sorry, but Norwich and Barry cannot be found, and Abshire is, umm, indisposed but will arrive shortly.” She blushed and studied the plush carpet. “As His Majesty said, there should be no delay in a response to these outrageous accusations.” She waved a newspaper in the air.
Alex swiveled his head and met the glassy-eyed stare of the bridegroom, the Duke of Candover, who turned away immediately in the fashion of a cut direct.
“Uh . . . shouldn’t you be at St. George’s?” Alex would have given his eyeteeth for a chair.
“Brilliant observation,” Candover said under his breath.
“Late to the party, Kress.” The Prince Regent’s voice was raspy with contempt. “Haven’t you heard? Candover has been stood up by his bride on this wedding morning. Or was it the other way around
, my dear?”
“It appears both, Your Majesty,” the duchess replied, scanning the newspaper with what almost appeared to be a hint of . . . of delight? No, Alex was imagining it.
“Lady Margaret Spencer was tucked in an alcove of the church, but her family whisked her away unseen when Candover did not appear after a ninety-minute delay,” Isabelle read from the column.
“Why wasn’t I woken?” Candover grasped his wrenched head in obvious pain.
“James Fitzroy,” the duchess replied, disapprobation emanating from every inch of her arched back, “you should know. Your sisters and I woke to find every servant here on tiptoe. You, and the rest of you”—her eyes fluttered past the prince in her embarrassment—“commanded upon threat of dismissal or, ahem, dismemberment that you were not to be disturbed.”
“I remember that part very well,” inserted Jack Farquhar.
In the long pause that followed, Alex imagined half a dozen ways to dismember his valet. He was certain that every duke in the room was considering the same thing.
“Continue reading, Isabelle.” The royal hand made a halfhearted movement.
“Let’s see,” the duchess murmured, her eyes flickering over the words of the article. “Uh, well, the columnist made many unfortunate assumptions and . . .”
“Isabelle Tremont, I order you to read it,” ground out the prince.
“Majesty,” she breathed. “I—I just can’t.”
John Spence, the Duke of Wright, who at seven and twenty was the youngest of all the dukes, chose that moment—a most opportune one—to sway ominously and pitch forward onto the future king’s bed. Without a word, the Duke of Sussex hauled Wright off the royal bedclothes and laid the poor fellow, who was out stone cold, on the floor.
Alex strode forward and grasped the edges of the paper from the pretty duchess’s nervous fingers.
“Ah, yes, much better,” the Prince Regent said sourly. “Might as well have the man”—his Majesty’s hand pointed to him—“who is to blame for the ruin of us all, read it.”
