How to Ruin a Duke: A Novella Duet

by Grace Burrowes

  Jeremiah’s smile was the terrified parody offered by a boy who realizes his fate has been sealed.

  “Either leave this house within the hour or prepare to take up your commission.” Thaddeus had pondered how to set up the choice so it was a choice, but not a decision even Jeremiah could bungle. He let a silence build, though Jeremiah looked near to tears.

  “The infantry has some lovely uniforms.” Jeremiah’s hand shook as he picked up his drink. “Three days, you say? Don’t suppose a week—?”

  “Seventy-two hours, if I have to drag you to Horse Guards myself. You will also write a letter of apology to each of the ladies whom you insulted, starting with Lady Edith.”

  Jeremiah stared into his drink and nodded. “Not well done of me, I do see that.”

  Perhaps the remorse was real, perhaps it was for show. Thaddeus didn’t particularly care. His next priority was to find Lady Edith Charbonneau and pray she was in a forgiving mood. He was thwarted from pursuing that goal by the footman who informed him a guest was waiting in the blue parlor. The caller sought a brief audience with His Grace if the duke was at home.

  The footman held up a silver tray bearing a single card: J. Ventnor, Publisher.

  Bloody hell. “I’ll see him, but no damned tea tray, if you please. He won’t be staying long.”

  Edith donned her new bonnet, took up her blue parasol, left the top button of her new cloak unfastened, and gathered her reticule.

  “And His Grace had better be home to me,” she muttered. The walk to Emory’s doorstep took a quarter hour, and if anybody in his fine neighborhood thought a lady traveling alone on foot was unusual, Edith did not care. A woman who could write a first draft of a book—a good book, though not overly long—in less than two weeks need not quibble over niceties.

  She rapped the knocker against the door twice and it opened almost immediately.

  “Lady Edith! Do come in, my lady.” The butler stepped back, his characteristic reserve replaced with a smile. “What a pleasure to see you, ma’am, and on such a fine day. Shall I take your bonnet and cloak and see if Her Grace is at home?”

  Edith passed over her hat. “I’m actually here to see His Grace, and my call is not entirely social.”

  White brows drew up. “Between us, my lady, His Grace’s mood of late hasn’t been entirely social either. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the blue parlor? That was always your favorite as I recall.”

  The blue parlor was the everyday guest parlor, not as formal as the gilded wonder where Her Grace received company during her at homes, not as comfy as the family parlor.

  “The blue parlor will do. I can see myself down the corridor.”

  The butler hesitated. “Might I tell the staff you’re keeping well? We’ve missed you and wondered how you’re faring.”

  “I’ve missed you too. Please thank everybody for their concern. I have a new post, and my brother has become playwright-in-residence at the Maloney.”

  “Oh, that is excellent news, ma’am. Excellent news.” He bustled off, doubtless to spread that excellent news belowstairs.

  Edith had missed the staff here, but she would eventually make new friends in Manchester. She let herself into the blue parlor expecting to have a few moments of solitude to compose her thoughts.

  “Your Grace, Mr. Ventnor. Excuse me. I did not know the room was occupied.” Both men were on their feet, suggesting the discussion had been something less than cordial.

  Ventnor aimed a puzzled smile at the duke. “I thought you said her ladyship’s whereabouts were unknown, Your Grace?”

  Emory looked tired and a bit grim, but otherwise hale. “Had I known Lady Edith would do me the very great honor of calling upon me, I would have sent you packing ten minutes ago, Ventnor. My lady, do come in. Please come in, rather. Mr. Ventnor was just leaving.”

  Ventnor passed Edith a card. “I read your samples. You have quite a gift, my lady. Domestic advice doesn’t do justice to your voice, and I would very much like an opportunity to discuss other projects with you.”

  “On your way, Ventnor,” Emory said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the door. “Now.”

  Ventnor offered Edith an unhurried bow, came up smiling, nodded to the duke, and left.

  “The damned man tried to contact you at your previous address,” Emory said, closing the door behind the departed publisher. “He recalled that you’d been employed as Mama’s companion and stopped by to ask if I knew of your present direction.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Emory stood before her, his gaze troubled. “I’ve missed you. I didn’t tell him that. I’ve been an idiot. I didn’t mention that either. I’ve been dreaming of pink cloaks…. How are you?”

  What mood was this? “I am well, thank you. And you?”

  “Jeremiah wrote that blasted book. I’m buying him a commission and he will be gone from London directly. I owe you an apology.”

  An encouraging start. A very encouraging start. “Shall we be seated, Your Grace? Lord Jeremiah’s authorship of How to Ruin a Duke doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Figured it out, did you? Well, I hadn’t.” He took Edith by the hand, then let her go. “Apologies. I did not mean to presume. Jeremiah presumed, didn’t he?”

  “He tried to,” Edith said, taking a place on the sofa. “Just the once, but clearly, I made an enemy of him when I refused to oblige him. Quitting my post was the better part of discretion.”

  “I made an enemy of him when I expected him to manage on a merely generous allowance. Might I sit with you?”

  Where was the harm in that? “You may. I brought you something, a parting gift.”

  He came down beside her. “Parting, my lady?”

  Oh, the scent of him, the sound of his voice… Only a ninnyhammer let trivialities like that pluck at her heartstrings.

  “I’ve accepted a post in the north. My brother has a position with the Maloney Theater, and he doesn’t need me hovering about while he embarks on gainful employment.”

  “I see.” Emory studied the carpet for a moment. “I do not see, rather. Not at all. I have a confession.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear it.” Not if he was about to tell her he was engaged or nearly so to some heiress. That would explain his behavior, though Edith couldn’t believe he’d hop into bed with one woman while being in expectation of marriage to another.

  Other men would, not Emory.

  “This confession does not flatter me,” he said. “You had mentioned to me that you were working on another writing project. I happened to see the first few lines when I last called upon you.”

  “My book,” she said, assaying a smile. “I’ve finished the first draft, and I rather like it.”

  “Jeremiah had written a complete draft as well, another compendium of half-truths, exaggerations, and complete fictions.”

  Edith put a hand on Emory’s arm. “I’m sorry. That had to have been a blow.” Once a rotter, always a rotter. She ought to have suspected Lord Jeremiah much sooner.

  The duke took her hand in his. “I thought you were penning the sequel. I had convinced myself that you hadn’t written the first volume, but then I came across those pages, which promised more of the same drivel. I did not know what to think, and I left without giving you a chance to explain.”

  Edith had puzzled over the manuscript’s opening lines for hours. She’d puzzled over Emory’s abrupt departure for days, and she’d never connected the two.

  “The first few pages were to lead the reader astray,” she said, “to make them think more foolishness and slander would follow. That’s not what I did with the story. See what you think.”

  She withdrew a sheaf of papers from her reticule and untied the string that bound them. “This is my farewell gift. You may do with it as you please, and I will sign all the rights over to you or to the charity of your choice.”

  He took the papers and began reading, sparing her only one curious glance. Edith rose to pace, very unladylike
of her, but she could not sit still while he was so silent.

  A few moments later he made a snort-ish sound. “By God, you have Mama to the life.”

  “You’re at the part about the mouse?”

  “The dread, fiendish rodent as you term it. Poor little fellow was terrified.”

  Emory had caught the mouse in his bare hands and carried it to the garden, while Her Grace had stood on the piano bench bellowing for the footmen to bring her a brace of loaded pistols.

  “Mama does not care for mice, but you make me out to be some sort of paragon.” He set the papers down. “Is the rest of the book like that?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “No,” he said. “No, I do not like it. I adore it. I love it. I wish… I am enthralled, and you cannot possibly give this to me when Ventnor was willing to breach the ducal citadel in hopes of convincing you to work for him.”

  “I cannot work for Mr. Ventnor if I’m moving to Manchester. You truly think my prose is acceptable?”

  Emory rose but remained by the sofa. “My lady—Edith—did you hear what I said? I read the opening lines of this masterpiece and jumped to the worst possible conclusion. Then I took my leave of you, convinced you meant me ill. Had I not confronted my mother with my suspicions, I might have started untoward talk about you. Revenge should be beneath every sensible man, but I had a plan, you see. I am mortified to add that becoming inebriated figured prominently in this plan.”

  “I would have liked to have seen that.”

  His smile was crooked and dear. “Do you forgive me?”

  “For what? You entertained an erroneous theory, Your Grace, but you assembled all the relevant facts before taking action. I admit I was puzzled by your silence, but then, I did not—I do not, that is to say—have any expectations where you are concerned.” His explanation made sense and allowed Edith to part from him on friendly terms.

  So why was she blushing and all but stammering?

  “I have expectations of myself,” he said, coming near and possessing himself of her hand again. “When I leap into bed with a woman, and she with me, and we are compatible in every detail of our natures, right down to both of us being untrustworthy in the presence of Italian cream cake, then I expect myself to offer for that woman. I would not have risked intimacies with you otherwise, my lady. The consequences are too momentous. Not to put too fine a point on the matter, I will follow you to Manchester and sing maudlin ballads beneath your window—at midnight—if that will win your favor.”

  Edith forced herself to hold his hand lightly. “You erred in assuming I would write a slanderous book about you. I erred in allowing you to leave without establishing how things stood between us. I told myself I wanted only an interlude, a memory, but I was not honest.”

  He covered her hand with his. “Is that still all you want?”

  What did she want? A month ago, the answer was simple: A decent post for herself, a future for Foster.

  Now? She wanted much, much more. “I want to sit beside you in your curricle the next time you race to Brighton, I want God Save the King at midnight, I want,”—she kissed him—“more of that, and the pleasures that follow.”

  “And if I sing God Save the King at midnight only for the woman wearing the Emory tiara, are you still interested?”

  That question occasioned more kissing. When Edith recalled that the drapes were open, and the parlor was visible to anybody peering over the garden wall, she drew back enough to rest against Emory.

  “Yes, Your Grace, I am still interested.”

  “Yes, you will be my duchess? What about the blandishments of Manchester?”

  “Who will rescue me from dread, fiendish rodents in Manchester? Who will arm-wrestle me for the last piece of cream cake in Manchester? Who will help me polish my next book in Manchester?”

  Emory tucked an arm around her waist and walked her to the sofa. “Have you a title for that book, the one that paints me in such a flattering light?”

  “Not a flattering light, sir. An accurate light. I thought I might call it, How to Rescue a Duke.”

  Rather than assist Edith to take a seat, Emory settled in the corner and pulled her into his lap. “I think we should begin your research on the third volume in the trilogy.”

  Sitting in his lap was a novel and cozy experience. Edith scooted about until she found a pillow to wedge against the armrest. “A third volume? Have you more interesting incidents to regale me with, Your Grace? Whatever would the title of this third volume be?”

  Emory waited for her to settle. “The third volume will be for private reading only, and will outshine the other two for its wit, passion, and sheer cleverness. That tome will be titled, How to Ravish a Duke. Perhaps you’d like to explore the topic with me now?”

  “Such a topic will require much study, Your Grace.”

  “Then we’d best get started, my love.”

  And so they did.

  To my dear readers

  To my dear readers,

  What fun, to write a story about books and how they can get us into and out of trouble! Lady Caroline Lamb truly did wear her welcome thin in Polite Society with her literary efforts, but then, as we read, she wasn’t wildly popular before she took up her pen.

  Did you happen to notice Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore, in the role of Thaddeus’s sounding board? I noticed him too, back in My One and Only Duke, first in my Rogues to Riches series. He trotted onto the page, said a few interesting, charming things, and trotted right back off again. I was left to wonder, “Who was that guy and what’s he doing in this series?”

  The answers to that those questions lie in Forever and a Duke, the third book in the Rogues to Riches series, which hits the shelves in November. Seems Elsmore is also falling in love (what a surprise!), but with a lady who wants no parts of any titled gentlemen, least of all a duke. Eleanora Hatfield is great with numbers, and Elsmore desperately needs a competent auditor, but she has no patience with charming aristocrats. None, I tell you, so how she and Elsmore end up smoochin’ is truly a mystery.

  Excerpt below!

  If you’d like to stay up to date with my new releases, special deals, and pre-orders, you can do that by simply following me on Bookbub. The folks there sound out short emails relating to new titles or deep discounts—only. If you’d like more of the kitten pics and highlights from my illustrious doin’s, you can sign up for my newsletter. I will never EVER sell, lend, or trade your personal information for any reason.

  Keep an eye peeled for a new title on my Coming Soon website page. Emily Larkin and I are planning a novella duet for this fall that has both kitties and smoochin’ in it. If Emily is a new-to-you author, please take a peek at the excerpt below from Primrose and the Dreadful Duke. You will soon have it on your figurative keeper shelf.

  Happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  Excerpt from Forever and a Duke

  Read on for an excerpt from Forever and a Duke, book three in the Rogues to Riches series!

  * * *

  Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore, knows something is amiss with his accounts, and he’s turned to bank auditor Eleanora Hatfield to help him untangle the mess. Ellie has no patience with aristocratic men—for reasons—and yet, Elsmore has grown on her and made no secret of his regard for her. He’s devoted to family, kind-hearted, and unpretentious. If only he weren’t a duke…

  * * *

  “We have no pretenses between us,” Elsmore said. “You are honest with me. You don’t expect me to bring good cheer and ducal beneficence to every exchange. You skewer me if I toss out too much small talk and I adore you for that. You do me the very great honor of dealing with me as if I am capable of grasping a significant problem and perhaps even solving it. To you, I am more than a prize to be hauled onto the dancefloor.” He kissed her temple. “You scold me.”

  “Somebody should scold the pair of us.” Instead, Ellie’s arms which had been obediently at her sides, wound around his waist, inside his morning coat
where all was warmth and intimacy. He was lean, muscular, and tall enough that Ellie could rest her full weight against him, like a woman overcome with fatigue.

  Or loneliness.

  “If you scold me,” he said, “I will apologize sincerely, and assure you that I won’t presume again.” He rested his cheek against Ellie’s crown, and she stole another moment of forbidden pleasure.

  This mutual interest in one another had no future. Not because he was a duke—dukes took mistresses, they had liaisons, they seldom made the most faithful of husbands.

  Ellie had no future in any intimate capacity with Elsmore precisely because she was not honest with him and never could be.

  “If you apologize,” Ellie said, stepping back, “then I must do likewise. I am disinclined to apologize for harmless familiarities enjoyed when we are private. Those familiarities, though, are a distraction from my appointed task. We’d best eschew them going forward.”

  He cradled her jaw against the warmth of his palm. “Mightn’t you leaven that damned sensible pronouncement with a bit of reluctance, Eleanora?”

  Nobody, nobody ever, had spoken her name before with that combination of tenderness, desire, humor, regret.

  I am an idiot. But was she an idiot for declining what he offered or for craving it? She stepped closer, pressed her mouth to his, and took one kiss to save against all the damned sensible pronouncements by which she was doomed to live.

  Eleanora Hatfield’s kiss wasn’t sorting itself into any tidy column. She pressed her mouth to his and her body to his, desire leading the charge. Her hands—those marvelously competent, usually ink-stained hands—wandered his chest, ribs, and back as if she were wrapping arrows of desire around his entire person. Then she sank her fingers into his hair, angled her head, and gentled her kiss from plundering to wandering.