A Duke of Her Own

by Eloisa James

Then he was on his feet again and holding her tightly, and kissing her with that sort of passionate force that made Leopold…Leopold.

  “I have a ring in honor of our betrothal,” he said some time later.

  Eleanor was nestled against his chest, his arm around her.

  “You may not feel it is fit for a duchess,” he said, just a touch of doubt in his voice.

  She opened her eyes to find that he had pulled the glove from her left hand and was sliding a ring over her finger. It was made of pale gold, shaped into the petals of a lily, with a beautiful diamond in the center. It was neither ostentatious nor lavishly ornamental. It was the kind of ring that delicately heralded true love. It was elegant; it was subtle. It was everything the Duke of Villiers wasn’t, and Mr. Ormston was.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Leo,” she said, “it’s absolutely perfect.”

  Had she ever thought his eyes were cold? “I could get you a marquise-cut diamond as big as—as a mouse,” he said. “If you would prefer?”

  “So I could impress everyone with my glittering rodent?” She managed to smile even though tears were slipping down her cheeks. “This is utterly perfect.”

  “May I speak to your father?”

  She couldn’t help laughing a little. “He returns on the Saint Esprit, due to dock tomorrow, if it’s on course.”

  He wiped away her tears and replaced her glove. Then they stepped out from behind the hedge and decorously made their way back to the carriage.

  When Eleanor walked through her front door, she almost felt as if the past hour had not happened. Her hair was unmussed. Apparently Mr. Ormston did not believe in twisting his hands into a lady’s coiffure when he kissed her. He had kissed her…but only on the lips.

  Anne looked up. “Why—Why—”

  Eleanor smiled and took off her glove.

  “But you’ve seen him only twice!” Anne shrieked. “Oh, what an utterly darling ring!” She froze. “Eleanor, I’ve seen this ring.” Her voice was hushed. “Your Mr. Ormston is—is quite extravagant.”

  “What do you mean?” Eleanor said, looking lovingly down at the ring. “I have certainly seen bigger diamonds.”

  “It has been on display at Stedman and Vardan, the jewelers on New Bond Street for over a month—because it belonged to Queen Elizabeth, until she threw it to Sir Walter Raleigh after a jousting tournament. The diamond in the middle is one of the finest examples of a European cut that Mr. Stedman has ever seen…” Her eyes grew round. “Eleanor, what sort of fortune could Mr. Ormston have inherited?”

  She couldn’t stop laughing. It was so like her own, darling Leopold. He had found the one ring in England that would suit both of them. “Would you say that this ring cost more than a marquise-cut diamond?” she asked Anne.

  “Why…why this ring probably cost more than ten such rings, Eleanor! He must love you so much.” She peered at the ring, awed. “He must have thought of nothing but you for the last three years.”

  “Not exactly,” Eleanor said, beaming. “Not exactly.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  London residence of the Duke of Montague

  September 14, 1784

  “Your Grace,” the Duchess of Montague said, bestowing a measured smile on the man who, in a matter of two days, would become her son-in-law. “I suppose you would like to see Eleanor. She is in the morning room, and I shall allow you to go there on your own.”

  The duchess’s visitors, Lady Festle and Mrs. Quinkhardt, smiled at the duke and then sighed at the look in his eye.

  He was almost out the door when the duchess called after him. “My daughter tells me that you plan to bring her yet another betrothal gift.”

  The Duke of Villiers bowed, with a great deal of address. “I did promise. And I have it with me this morning, Your Grace.”

  The duchess must be forgiven if her smile was a trifle gloating. For, as she explained to her bosom companions, the Duke of Villiers was courting her daughter in a manner that was truly above reproach. “He never engages in the slightest indiscretion,” she told them. “They say there’s nothing as prudish as a reformed rake, and though I wouldn’t have believed it myself, I believe it now! He doesn’t even dance with her more than twice or at most three times.” She lowered her voice. “One can sense if a young couple engages in inappropriate behavior, and I can assure you…they never do!”

  All of London was discussing the ring, naturally, and the duchess’s chest swelled with pride as she confirmed to Lady Festle that her dearest daughter Eleanor was indeed wearing a diamond ring that had previously been worn by Queen Elizabeth. “I am most curious about that betrothal gift,” she told them. “I’ll give them ten minutes…more than enough. Perhaps there is a diadem to match the ring!”

  Eleanor looked up from a note she was writing to Lisette, commiserating over the fact the orphanage was being moved to Hampshire, when Villiers entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  Since their betrothal, he had settled on a style somewhere between himself and Mr. Ormston. “You needn’t,” she had said, laughing, when he first appeared without a wig—but still clad in subdued black velvet. Magnificent black velvet, but without even a touch of embroidery, and certainly no gold buttons.

  “I don’t do it for you,” he had said, imperturbable as ever. “It’s the children. They are so wildly disrespectful when I appear in full court dress that I have adopted the path of least resistance.”

  Now he walked forward with that little secret smile of his.

  “Leopold,” she said, dancing into his arms and then, because he was so very well-behaved, pulling his head down and demanding a kiss. One of his kisses. One of those that sent them both into a spin of heat and pleasure and desire.

  “I have brought you a betrothal present,” he said, catching his breath and starting to unbutton his very proper coat.

  “You mustn’t! My—” But her voice broke off.

  For Leopold had pulled back his coat and there…there…

  Eleanor reached out her hands. “How beautiful!”

  With the kind of smile that she never saw on his face—let alone in his eyes—before their betrothal, he pulled a very small, sleeping puppy from his inside pocket. It was a pug…probably. It didn’t even open its eyes, just gave a little sleeping snore.

  Eleanor took the puppy in her arms, whispering so she didn’t wake it. “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful! Look at its little round tummy.” She lifted the tiny dog up to her cheek. “Its fur feels like black velvet. And it smells just like milky puppy…Oh Leopold, you couldn’t have given me a present that I would love more.”

  “Her name is Lettuce,” her betrothed observed. “A number of different names were bandied about, but Lucinda’s choice won. Of course you may prefer a more elegant name.”

  “Lettuce,” Eleanor breathed. “It’s perfect for her.”

  “You see, Lucinda said that her little ears are as soft as pieces of lettuce,” Leopold said, holding up the tiniest scrap of velvet Eleanor had ever seen.

  “One can hardly call that an ear,” she said, giggling. “She’s such a darling.”

  “I’m afraid her nap will give you a false impression of that puppy,” Leo said, curling his hand around Eleanor’s cheek. Lettuce yawned, showing needle-sharp little teeth, and opened her eyes. “My personal name of choice was Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra?” Eleanor held a suddenly wiggling bundle of fur up to her face so she could look into Lettuce’s bright eyes. “Why such a long name for a tiny dog? You don’t have bad news to tell us, do you, Lettuce?”

  “Yap!” Lettuce said, struggling to lick Eleanor’s chin. “Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

  “Oh my goodness,” Eleanor said. “You do have a lot to say.”

  “Yap!” Lettuce repeated.

  Many times.

  Eleanor put her down and discovered that Lettuce had mastered the art of running in circles and barking at the same time, something Oys
ter never managed. “She’s so intelligent,” she said, turning in Leo’s arms so she could see his face.

  “She certainly is expressive,” Leo murmured, looking down at her. She knew the expression burning in his eyes. And if she hadn’t known what it meant, she could feel it thrumming throughout her body. “I can’t last another two days,” he said conversationally. “These have been the longest weeks of my life.”

  Eleanor put a kiss on his chin and another on the very edge of his mouth. “You want to make love to me in my mother’s sitting room?”

  He groaned.

  He really had been very, very good.

  “Now that I have a new puppy, I shall have to take her for walks in the back gardens, even during the night,” she informed him. “Thank goodness, the nights are so unseasonably warm.”

  Leopold froze.

  “I shall walk her at two o’clock in the morning. All the way out to the little summerhouse at the end of the gardens…and back.”

  “Ah,” he said, and for just one moment pulled her hard against his body. Then he backed up and bowed. When her mother entered, he was kissing the very tips of her fingers.

  “Why, Duke,” the duchess called gaily. “May I see your betrothal gift? I confess I am all agog.”

  “Certainly, Duchess,” he said, bowing to her as well. “Here it is.”

  Truly, his manners are beyond reproach, the duchess thought happily—until she turned her eyes in the direction of the duke’s pointing finger.

  At the little dog, squatting on the Aubusson rug.

  It was fortunate for the duchess’s heart that she didn’t happen to glance out of her bedchamber window in the middle of the night. If she had added to the horror of seeing her beloved rug serving, once again, as an impromptu chamber pot, the anguish of seeing her eldest daughter dash stark naked out of the summerhouse, chased by her oh-so-proper fiancé (in a similar state of undress), well…it might have been too much for her.

  But as it was, the household slumbered peacefully, while the two happiest people in it danced in the rain until Leo managed to catch his wife-to-be and hold her still long enough to kiss her…and kiss her…and kiss her again.

  Epilogue

  Seven years later

  It was the Duchess of Villiers’s birthday.

  When Eleanor was growing up, her mother had, by all indications, no birthday. When one makes the decision not to age, birthdays are a necessary sacrifice. When Leopold was growing up, for all he knew his mother might well have celebrated all night long, but she had certainly never invited her children to participate.

  Eleanor’s thirtieth birthday was of a different sort. The South Parlor of the Duke of Villiers’s country house in Essex—as opposed to his houses in Norfolk, Wiltshire, and Devon, not to mention Castle Cary, which had presumably tumbled into an elegant heap—was exploding with excitement. Tobias was in one corner, doing last minute work on the parts for their game of charades, an annual tradition since 1785.

  A knot of dogs was frolicking in another corner. A naughty puppy named Muffin was being watched over by his mother. “Yap!” she warned him as he tugged on the curtains. “Yap, Yap!” Muffin shook his head back and forth, pretending he couldn’t hear her. “Woof,” his father added, waking up, and Muffin let go of the curtain altogether. His father went back to sleep while his mother launched into a loving, high-pitched diatribe that covered everything from curtains to grooming. Not that Muffin paid much attention.

  In a third corner, the duchess was sitting on a snug sofa, nursing a baby. In her delightfully full, chaotic, and joyful seven years of marriage, no babies had joined the household until Theodore came along.

  Which explained why Phoebe (who used to be called Phyllinda) and Lucinda (who liked her name just fine) were sitting closely on either side of their mother. Not that the girls had generally been far from their mother’s vicinity in the last year. At age twelve, they could sense the slight chill wind that signaled the end of childhood. This last month in particular they had hardly stirred from Eleanor’s side, so fascinated by gummy smiles and plump toes that the twins, who never fought, found themselves squabbling over the privilege of holding their brother.

  “May I hold Theodore now?” Lucinda asked. “Please? It looks like he’s finally done eating. I never thought anyone could drink milk for so long! I don’t even like milk.”

  “It’s different for babies,” Eleanor said, lifting roly-poly Theo over her shoulder. He let out a satisfied burp.

  “But it’s my turn,” Phoebe said, intervening in her quiet way.

  “No, it’s my turn,” her father said, scooping the baby off his wife’s shoulder and swinging him into the air.

  Theodore burst into a storm of giggles. He was adorable in the way that deeply loved babies are: bald, fat, and altogether scrumptious.

  “You girls need to start planning for charades,” the duke said, looking down at his daughters. “Tobias has finished writing all of the parts and he’s handing them out.”

  “Last year he made me be Lucifer, from Paradise Lost,” Lucinda said resentfully.

  “Your fault,” Phoebe said, laughing. “You shouldn’t have played that trick on him when he came home from Oxford for the summer. You know he’s particular about his clothing.”

  “I just wish he’d let me pick out parts some time,” Lucinda said. “I’d make him play an old beggar woman. Or Puss in Boots! He would have to put on paper ears and a tail, or he would never win. Can you imagine? Tobias would rather die than be so undignified!”

  “Come on,” Phoebe said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s go, because if we get a wish from Mama for winning, we can say that we want Theo all tomorrow afternoon.”

  Lucinda’s eyes brightened and they trotted off.

  The duke slipped into the place next to his wife, holding Theo’s hands so the bowlegged babe could practice sitting upright in his lap.

  “He’s the best birthday present you ever gave me,” Eleanor said, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “It’s true that he’s three months old,” Leopold said, grinning at Theodore. “But I think of him more as your present to me.”

  “Oh no,” Eleanor said. “I have very, very clear memories of my birthday last year. And naturally, I expect that you plan to top your performance. Practice,” she said demurely, “makes perfect.”

  Her husband shot her a wicked glance, full of laughter—and desire. “After the charades or before?”

  “Before,” she whispered, leaning over and brushing a kiss on his jaw.

  “Tobias!” Leo shouted, leaping to his feet.

  His eldest son, a sleek, brilliant version of himself, strolled over.

  “Take this scrap,” Leo said, dumping Theo unceremoniously into Tobias’s arms. “Whatever you do, don’t let Phoebe and Lucinda start fighting over him.”

  Theodore reached up and grabbed at his big brother’s chin, giving him his best toothless smile.

  “Did he burp?” Tobias asked sternly. He had quickly learned that sartorial standards can be severely threatened by leaky babies.

  “Yes,” Eleanor said, taking her husband’s hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “The charades begin in one hour,” Tobias said, not letting on with even the tiniest smile that he might have some idea what his beautiful stepmother and adoring father meant to do in the interim.

  “We should be fine with that,” Leo said, grinning down at Eleanor. Unlike his son, he’d lost his ability to appear emotionless.

  But he did wait until he was out of the parlor to pick up the duchess in his arms and carry her up the stairs.

  Historical Note

  My literary debts in this book are numerous. Shakespeare makes several appearances, with particular reference to Sonnet 116. But the unnamed hero of A Duke of Her Own is Lord Byron, who lent the English version of his French play, Salomé, to Sir Roland. I feel quite certain that he would have resented my gift of his sensual lines to such a young and foolish man. In my
defense, Byron himself was not yet forty when Salomé was written.

  The inspiration for—and some of the invective in—the scene featuring Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy sprang from a play written by Shakespeare’s contemporary, Ben Jonson. Bartholomew Fair puts Zeal-of-the-Land Busy in the stocks; I gave him both a funeral and a wife, and in this case I would venture to say that Ben Jonson would not disapprove.

  And finally, Lisette sings a version of an old lullaby, “Hush-a-bye Baby,” that has mixed ancestry. When my son Luca was born, fourteen years ago, he liked to be sung to sleep. One night I was singing that lullaby when my stepmother peeked in. I confessed to her that I didn’t really like the song because it ends with the baby plummeting from the treetop.

  She sang two lines of a second verse for me, but couldn’t remember any more. So during those long evenings of singing to a fretful baby, I wrote another two lines. I’m including the whole lullaby below, in the hopes that perhaps some of you are still lucky enough to be singing small, delicious-smelling scraps to sleep.

  Hush-a-bye Baby, on the treetop,

  When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

  When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

  Down will come Baby, cradle and all.

  Mama will catch you, give you a squeeze.

  Send you back up, to play in the trees.

  When twilight falls, and birds seek their nests,

  Come home to the one who loves you the best.

  Acknowledgments

  My books are like small children; they take a whole village to get them to a literate state. I want to offer my heartfelt thanks to my personal village: my editor, Carrie Feron; my agent, Kim Witherspoon; my website designers, Wax Creative; and last, but not least, my personal team: Kim Castillo, Franzeca Drouin, and Anne Connell. A particular thanks for this book goes to Sylvie Clemot for her French translations. I am so grateful to each of you!

  About the Author