The Summer Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 3)

by Jillian Eaton

  She did not blame her mother and sisters for their apathy. They had not moved on out of cruelty, but rather from necessity. Her mother had remarried as soon as her grieving period had officially ended and her sisters, so eager for their debut they were all but bouncing off the walls of their modest townhouse in Berkley Square, had been too busy with dress fittings and dancing lessons to mourn the late Earl of Mallen.

  But not Regina.

  She missed him every day. Some days a little less than others, but there was always a heaviness in the back of her mind. A perpetual ache she couldn’t seem to rid herself of. While Emily and Evelyn – twins, born two minutes apart – had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into preparing for their first Season, Regina forever remained on the outskirts, her nose buried in a book, content to let the world and its miseries pass her by while she lost herself in the pages of a fairytale romance that was better than anything she could possibly hope to encounter in real life.

  Duke of Glenmoore or no Duke of Glenmoore.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said politely, “I would like my arms back now.”

  But instead of letting her go the duke tightened his grip, the smooth fabric of his gloves warming her skin as his fingers encircled her slender arms like a pair of iron manacles. “Do you know,” he began, staring down at her with no small amount of fascination, as if he were an ornithologist and she a rare type of sparrow, “I believe you are the first lady I’ve encountered who prefers the company of books to people.”

  “And why wouldn’t I?” Regina asked. “A book does not deceive. It cannot lie, gossip, betray, or hurt.” It cannot die and leave you. The words, unuttered, tasted bitter on the back of the tongue. She forced herself to swallow. “One might argue Society would be far better off if books were held in higher regard.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Glenmoore agreed. “I was a reader in my younger days, but I find I have no time for it now.”

  “No time for it?” He might as well have just said he had no time for bathing, or eating, or drinking. Flabbergasted, she could only shake her head. “I don’t understand. You’re a duke. Can you not schedule your day as you like it?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “One would think. Very well, Lady Regina, let’s retrieve your book. Mansfield Park, did you say it was called?” he asked as they began to navigate their way through the crush of bodies. The sixth dance of the evening was about to begin and it was a mad dash to find a partner before the music started. Those left with an empty dance card – the one tucked away in Regina’s reticule hadn’t a single name on it – would be relegated to the back wall, forced to watch their peers waltz without them while their chaperones glowered over their shoulders and wondered when, if ever, their charge might become someone else’s financial responsibility.

  Regina was pleased when she saw Kitty float by on the arm of a handsome gentleman. If her friend’s brilliant smile was any indication he was in possession of both a title and wealth, Kitty’s prerequisites for any suitor who might come sniffing after her obnoxiously large dowry.

  The only daughter of a marquess who would one day inherit a dukedom, Kitty could afford to be selective. Not that she minded dancing with any number of frogs in an effort to find her prince. While Regina preferred to stay out of the light, Kitty shone best when she was a basking within it. She adored attention, particularly of the masculine variety. Suffice it to say, the two friends were as different as night and day. But that hadn’t prevented them from becoming as close as sisters. In fact, they were closer than Regina was with her real sisters.

  It was no secret the twins preferred each other’s company to anyone else’s. It wasn’t even a great surprise, given Emily and Evelyn were as identical on the inside as they were on the outside. They both loved fashion, abhorred books of any sort, and played the pianoforte beautifully.

  Unfortunately, their natural bond had led to a childhood of loneliness and disappointment for Regina as she found herself constantly left out of whatever games or plans her sisters made. Loneliness that had been tempered by a doting father until he, too, had left her.

  “Yes,” she said, looking away from Kitty. They’d nearly reached the chair she’d been sitting in when the duke first approached. Biting the inside of her cheek she tried to see if her reticule was still there, but her vision was partially obscured by a trio of ladies wearing soft pastel gowns and matching expressions of dislike as they glared at Regina and Glenmoore. Regina had no idea who they were, or what she’d done to earn their obvious loathing, but then she had more pressing matters on her mind.

  “Oh no,” she gasped, fingers wringing together when she skirted the ladies and her gaze fell upon the chair. The empty chair. “It’s gone! Someone stole it!”

  “Or someone removed it so it wouldn’t be lost,” Glenmoore suggested mildly. “Was the book very valuable?”

  Blinking against the sudden stinging in the corners of her eyes, Regina turned from the chair and gazed at the duke in woeful dismay. “Sentimentally, it was nothing short of invaluable.”

  “Then we’ll find it,” he said with the calm confidence of a man who was accustomed to always getting what he wanted. “You have my word.”

  She had no reason to trust him. They’d only just met, after all. But as she found herself transfixed by those deep, dark eyes flecked with shards of amber, Regina discovered she believed every word he spoke. And she was glad that of all the women at the ball, he’d chosen her to take a turn about the room with. Even though she still hadn’t the faintest idea why.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I haven’t retrieved it yet, although I’m sure it hasn’t gone far. The last time I checked books do not have legs. Unless yours is a special sort.”

  “It is very special, at least to me. But no,” she said, a reluctant smile curving her lips when she imagined a row of books marching past with tiny little legs sticking out from beneath their bindings, “it could not have run away on its own.”

  “What are you looking for?” This from the lady standing in the middle of the pastel trio. She was clearly the leader, as her two counterparts automatically fell back when she stepped forward, boldly inserting herself between Regina and Glenmoore. Dismissing Regina with a cutting flick of her icy blue gaze, she focused all of her attention on the duke and gave a simpering smile that would have made Regina gag were she not paralyzed at the thought of losing her most beloved possession.

  “Lady Regina, may I introduce Lady Emmeline Clare.” The duke’s tone was neutral as he made the customary presentation, but Regina instinctively looked at his countenance instead of listening to his words and found a tightness in the edges of his mouth that hadn’t been there a moment ago. His grin was gone, replaced with a polite smile that fell far short of his eyes and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d gotten a rare glimpse at the real Duke of Glenmoore when he’d teased her.

  “I’ve saved a line on my card for you, Your Grace.” Ignoring Regina as if she weren’t even there, Emmeline batted her lashes at the duke and presented him with her ivory dance card. Embossed with gold lettering and hand-painted pink roses, it was far prettier than Regina’s plain card that tended to collect more dust than signatures. Yet for all its beauty, the duke hardly gave Emmeline’s card more than cursory glance.

  “I am afraid my time has been assigned to another task,” he said.

  “We’re looking for Mansfield Park,” Regina put in anxiously.

  “Mansfield Park?” Emmeline’s nose wrinkled. “What an odd name. It must be outside of Grosvenor Square as I’ve never heard of it.”

  The implication was clear. Anything outside of Grosvenor Square wasn’t fashionable, which meant Regina wasn’t fashionable. But then she already knew that, of course. Which was why she didn’t feel insulted in the slightest. Confused as to why Lady Emmeline considered her enough of a threat to cut down, yes.

  But not insulted.

  “It’s
a book,” she explained. “Given to me by my father. I brought it with me, you see, and–”

  Emmeline’s sharp laugh cut her off. A piercing glance at her two companions and they laughed as well, although they looked at the ground while doing so. “You brought a book to a ball? You poor thing. It’s no wonder His Grace took pity and gave you some much needed attention. How charitable of him.”

  Glenmoore’s expression darkened. “Do you know, a very intelligent young woman once told me Society would be better off if books were held in higher regard. Might I suggest a bit of reading, Lady Emmeline?”

  The trio collectively gasped.

  Stepping around Emmeline, the duke offered his arm and a smile to Regina. “Now,” he murmured, dipping his head close to her ear so only she could hear what he said. “Let’s find that book of yours.”

  Chapter Two

  Andrew Miles Grisham, Duke of Glenmoore and Rogue Extraordinaire (among lesser titles), despised three things in life.

  Ballrooms.

  Debutantes.

  And bad brandy.

  At the moment, the only one he was managing to avoid was the third. Although the brandy hidden in the silver flask inside his tailcoat couldn’t be considered very good, it did not technically qualify as bad. As to the other two items on his list…well, he’d been forced into the first out of sheer obligation and the second…the second was a bloody mystery.

  What was he doing, trailing after a young debutante in search of some damn book he’d never heard of? Point a pistol at his head and Andrew still wouldn’t have been able to give an answer. All he knew was that from the moment he’d seen Regina from across the crowded ballroom he had been drawn to her like a moth to flame. Butter to bread. Shoes to a horse. A drunk to a frothy pint.

  It was baffling. It was confounding. It was irritating as hell. Yet he continued to follow her, lapping at her heels like a bumbling spaniel eager for a stroke on the head...and other, more intimate areas.

  “Do you really think a servant brought my reticule to the library?” Silver moonlight shone through one of the large windows lining the hallway and pooled in Regina’s generous bosom as she paused to glance back at him, her beautiful face – he knew she thought her countenance only pretty, but he found it nothing less than absolutely breathtaking – taut with apprehension.

  It was darker here in the mainstay of the manor, mostly to discourage guests from wandering too far from the ballroom and a little bit because the price of wax had just risen again. An inconsequential expense for a man as rich as the Duke of Wakefield, whom was hosting the ball, but Andrew knew from personal experience how much of a frugal bastard Wakefield could be. They’d gone to school together where they’d become friends – of a sort. That tenuous friendship was the only reason he’d bothered to show his face tonight. That, and his mother’s never-ending pleas he begin to look for a wife.

  At eight and twenty Andrew had no bloody intention of curbing his philandering lifestyle anytime soon, but he knew by attending Wakefield’s ball his mother would resist the urge to needle him, at least for a little while. Besides, he was in need of a new mistress after the last one had made the regrettable mistake of fancying herself in love with him, and what better place to find a disillusioned widow than a ball?

  It didn’t escape his notice that the lady currently in his company was neither a widow or disillusioned. But then, not much about Regina had.

  Escaped his notice, that is.

  He found his instant attraction to her odd, if only because she did not at all resemble the usual sort he desired. If he filled his bedroom with portraits of the women he’d slept with they would all look vaguely the same. Tall, willowy, features that tended towards the exotic and dark, gleaming hair. Regina, on the other hand, was short (there was no other word for it), curvy, and her light brown hair, shot through with streaks of tawny gold, perfectly matched the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.

  Freckles he wanted to count, one by one.

  With his lips.

  No, Andrew thought with no small amount of bemusement as he cupped the back of his neck and squeezed the tight muscles, his attraction didn’t make any sense. But then his behavior had been most irregular ever since he approached Lady Regina in the first place. Maybe he was foxed and he just didn’t realize it. Except he would have had to down the entire flask of brandy for that to happen, and aside from a few sips here and there he’d left it mostly alone. Maybe – although the idea rankled – his mother’s pleas were finally beginning to penetrate his thick skull.

  Find yourself a nice young lady, she told him day in and day out. You need a wife, dear. Not a mistress. A mistress cannot give you heirs or tend your household. A mistress will not care for you when you fall ill. A mistress will not love you like a wife.

  He knew a mistress wouldn’t love him like a wife. Which was precisely why he kept one. When he finally married – at some point in the very, very distant future – it would be another obligation to be met. Nothing more. And certainly not because of something so tenuous as love.

  His parents hadn’t loved each other and they’d gotten along perfectly fine. Happy as clams in a shell, those two, with nary a fight between them over the course of their twenty-seven year marriage. Come to think of it, the only time he could remember them fighting was the day his father died. He’d come downstairs to find them arguing in the parlor, their raised voices so out of character it had stopped him in his tracks. Three hours later the duke had been discovered slumped over his desk in his study. Abrupt failure of the heart, the doctor said. He had only seen three other cases like it, but the men had all been the same: overly fond of their food and drink.

  Eight years had passed since that tragic day and Andrew still hadn’t asked his mother what she and his father had been arguing about. At this point he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to know. What if the answer ruined how he remembered his parent’s marriage? They may not have been in love – it was an arranged union from infancy – but they’d gotten along well enough. He could hope for nothing better for himself. A wife he tolerated who could give him sons, and a mistress he indulged who could give him passion.

  The best of both worlds, really.

  Which begged the question – what the devil was he doing prowling down a dark hallway with a virgin wallflower who loved reading? Regina was the epitome of everything he’d been doing his damndest to avoid. He knew what chits like her thought when they looked at him. Wedding bells started clanging the moment he even so much as glanced in their direction. God knew Lady Emmeline, spoiled brat that she was, had had their vows planned out for months, if not years. Which was why he usually stayed away from unmarried women under the age of five and fifty. Yet here he stood, mesmerized by a debutante who was more interested in a bloody book than one of London’s most sought after bachelors.

  If he weren’t so utterly captivated by her Andrew would have taken personal offense. But then, perhaps that was part of the reason why he was captivated. For the first time in his adult life he’d met someone who didn’t seem to give a fig if he were a duke or not. It was like turning over a rock expecting to find worms and discovering a diamond instead.

  A diamond with freckles and an adorable grin and eyes that glinted green in the candlelight.

  “The library’s that blue door on the left. If a servant did pick up your reticule, they would have brought it here. They might have even put the book away.”

  “Do you really think that’s what happened?” Regina asked as she turned the brass doorknob and slipped into the room, her yellow skirts rustling in her wake. Stepping in behind her Andrew quietly closed the door, his gaze performing a rapid sweep of the library and its towering shelves before settling on Regina.

  “Most likely. Why don’t you start over in that corner, and I’ll begin here?” His mouth hitched up on the side. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

  Her hands fluttering above her ear, Regina pinned a curl that had come undone from her coiffure
before she briskly set off in search of her missing book. His stare lingering on her trim backside and plump derriere far longer than it had any right to, Andrew shook his head to clear the lascivious thoughts fogging his mind (not to mention other parts of his anatomy) before he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

  He knew he was courting danger by being in a room alone with Regina. Any lord worth his salt understood it was nothing short of folly to be caught with a woman of marriageable age without a chaperone present. But it was a risk he was willing to take, if only to enjoy her company for just a little longer – and to avoid the horde of Emmeline’s waiting to sink their claws into him.

  The bitter irony, of course, was that when he did decide to marry it would be to someone exactly like Emmeline. Sweet, book-loving wallflowers were all well and good, but they didn’t possess the temerity necessary to be the sort of wife he desired. In short, they tended to believe in love and happily-ever-after’s. Ridiculous, outdated notions that ought to remain strictly between the pages of the romantic tomes that gave them such whimsical ideas in the first place.

  Andrew didn’t want a wife who loved him. He wanted a wife who understood, in no uncertain terms, that their marriage was strictly a business contract. The same as his parents had been, and their parents, and their parents before them dating all the way back to the very first Duke of Glenmoore. It was an arrangement that had worked for centuries, and one he had absolutely no intention of changing now.

  In exchange for the title of duchess and more wealth than she could spend in twenty lifetimes, his bride – whoever she ended up being, although the books at White’s were heavily weighing towards Lady Emmeline – would leave him to his private affairs, both out of bed…and in it.