Dukes By the Dozen

It was all so confusing. The only thing he knew for certain was that the more time he spent with her, the more he needed to know.

He wanted to know everything about her—which was deuced difficult when they conversationally danced upon the surface of their lives.

Lovely dance though it was, he wanted more.

More than knowing whether she preferred cats or dogs (“Cats, though Duke here may change my mind yet.”), tea or coffee, (“Coffee. I know! You’re asking yourself now if I’m even English.”), or Milton or Shakespeare (“Milton, of course. While Shakespeare was arguably the keenest observer of humanity we’ll ever see, Milton wrote about free will, and liberty and the threats to everything that makes us human.”).

With every word from her delectable, intelligent, spirited lips, he’d fallen deeper under her spell.

Yes, he definitely wanted more.

Today, he was determined to discover if she wanted more, too.

He rounded the corner near the bridge, his heart picking up in anticipation of seeing her, of laughing with her, of simply being together.

His eyes sought her out on the bank where they’d rescued Duke—their spot.

She wasn’t there.

Max frowned, scanning about. Perhaps Duke had led her on a merry chase around the lake?

But no. No sign of her, the pup, or the young maid who always trailed after them.

Three quarters of an hour later, he still stood at the shoreline, alone. Anticipation had turned to disappointment, a sharp ache that hollowed his chest and left him feeling…empty.

Unsettled.

Unhappy.

He didn’t like the sensation one bit. When had his daily dose of her become so vital to his well-being, damn it all?

It couldn’t be possible for one person’s absence to affect his spirits so. And yet, the prospect of facing his day unbolstered by her smiles was unthinkable.

As unthinkable as the reasons why she mightn’t have come.

Potential excuses plagued Max, each one worse than the last: A distracted jarvey had crashed into her carriage on her way to the park. She’d fallen ill and lay in a feverish delirium in her sickbed. Or…or she’d grown bored of toying with the commoner and had gone back to the business of landing a duke.

No. Not her. She wasn’t unkind. After thirteen magnificent mornings together, she wouldn’t disappear without a word of farewell.

He tunneled a hand through his hair and blew out a breath that puffed white in the chilly November air. He couldn’t stand here all day. He’d come back tomorrow, and hope that she greeted him with a sheepish grin and a good explanation. If not tomorrow…well, he did like the park. Perhaps he’d come the day after, too.

And if she never returned?

Then if he didn’t inherit the dukedom, he’d never see her again.

And if he did, it would make for an awkward reunion when she was paraded before him as a potential bride next season.

He could never choose her then, as he would always wonder if it was him or ‘the duke’ she wanted.

On that awful thought, he turned away from the lake and started off toward Knightsbridge.

THE COLD AIR burned in her lungs as Emmaline burst onto the main footpath from the tributary she’d taken at the Grosvenor Gate.

He was still here! Thank the Lord…

But he was walking away, and she was on the wrong side of the lake. She ground her teeth in frustration. The footpath she was now on went entirely the opposite direction, and she could hardly jump in and swim across.

She had to get his attention. If she didn’t, she might never see him again.

Panic squeezed her chest.

“Duke,” she cried to the pup who trotted along beside her. She pointed at the man, who’d almost reached Rotten Row. The pup could skirt the lake through the grass faster than she could. “There he is. See him? Now, fetch!”

Duke cocked his head at her. All right, so she’d not taught him to fetch yet, and he likely didn’t understand any other word she’d said. But desperate times… She made a shooing motion toward the man, hoping the dog understood that. “Go get him, boy! Go get our knight!”

But he just danced at her feet, his tail wagging in happy confusion.

Drat it all! Emmaline looked back toward the man. A few more steps and he’d be on the far side of the King’s Private Road, and beyond her reach…perhaps forever.

There was nothing for it.

She hooked her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and blew the shrill whistle her male cousins had taught her years ago, much to the chagrin of her mother. The sharp sound set Duke to barking. His yips echoed off the surface of the water, too. Emmaline prayed the sounds carried.

The man stopped.

Her heart kicked in triumph.

He turned and she barely restrained herself from throwing her arms up in the air and waving madly so that he saw her.

Duke, bless him, must have finally picked up his friend’s scent, as the little dog bounded off toward him.

Emmaline exhaled a long sigh of relief, then began picking her way around the far side of the lake.

The whole while she watched him. He bent low to greet Duke, then rose more gracefully than a man ought to be able to. The morning sun limned his long frame, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. Then he crossed Rotten Row and took the footpath that would eventually meet up with hers.

As he advanced, Emmaline’s relief gave way to nervous excitement, and a strange angst settled in her chest. It felt vaguely like the anxiety she’d experienced this morning when she’d realized she’d never make it to the park in time—a scare that only now opened her eyes to how very much she looked forward to seeing him every day.

And yet, it was different, too. Warmer and…and more achy. A desire to be with him that was unsettling and stirring and…imperative.

His long legged strides were twice her own, so she’d barely made halfway to the bridge when he and Duke reached her.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—” she began.

“Is everything all right?” he asked at the same moment.

His handsome face creased with concern as his eyes searched her face and form.

She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks, only now imagining how she must look. A fright, she’d wager, having practically run across half of Mayfair. Her hair had likely slipped her coiffure and she’d be shocked if her skin hadn’t gone blotchy.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He gave her a doubtful look, and she tried to decide if he questioned her answer or her sanity. Then he glanced behind her. “Are you all alone? Where is your maid?”

She flushed deeper. She was breaking the cardinal rule of marriageable young ladies: Thou shalt never find oneself unchaperoned with a gentleman—much less an unsuitable one.

Should anyone come across them, particularly with her pink cheeks and her hair all askew, she’d be ruined.

A thought she’d never considered before struck her: If she were to be compromised by a gentleman not of the aristocracy, would he still be honor-bound to marry her?

She didn’t know.

But she needn’t worry. While she still didn’t know her knight’s name, she knew him to be honorable. They’d talked of everything and nothing in their short time together. Yet every word he’d spoken, every story he’d told of his youth or the lessons he’d learned in his life or the literature that had touched his heart, made her admire him more.

Still, she imagined her father’s rage at the daughter he’d intended for a duke marrying a mere mister instead. The thought brought a bitter smile. If her father cared about what truly mattered, he’d be proud to have such a man as a son-in-law.

If only.

“I ran out of the house so quickly, I didn’t have time to wait for her,” she said, breathless now at the intensity of his hazel gaze. “I was afraid…”

“Afraid?” he asked, his voice delving into a low rumble.

She understood what he was asking. Understood, too, what his waiting in the cold for her for nearly an hour signified.

Emmaline swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat. All she had to do was have the nerve to say it aloud, and it would be out there. Between them.

I find you quite brave, he’d said that first morning they’d met.

His words gave her courage now.

“That I would be too late and you would think I no longer cared. I was afraid you would leave and never come back,” she rushed out. “I wouldn’t know where to look for you and—” She licked her lips, bracing herself to say the rest. “I couldn’t bear not seeing you again. You are the best part of my day.”

She wasn’t sure what response she’d expected, but this charged silence wasn’t it. Gradually, she became aware of the morning sounds of the park—of birds chirping, water lapping gently against the mud bank, even a goose honk in the distance. But not a word from him.

His face, which she’d once likened to a master’s painting, now reminded her of sculpted marble instead—still a work of art, but less approachable.

Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Had she misread him? Had she made a fool of herself?

“Please,” she whispered. “Say something.”

He reached for her hand instead, grasping it in both of his and bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his mouth gloriously warm and firm on her skin. His eyelids fluttered closed, as if he were savoring her, yet Emmaline couldn’t take her gaze from him. All of the tension of the morning, all her worries, fled as joy burst through her.

A long moment later, he lifted his head, but didn’t relinquish his grasp. “Your hands are cold,” he said roughly.

She laughed. “Yes, I was in such a rush to get to you, I didn’t think to grab my gloves.”

He reached for her other hand then, and brought them together palm to palm, pressing hers between his own as if in dual supplication. Lending her his warmth. But she didn’t need it. Just knowing he might feel something of what she did for him heated her from within.

“We should get you home, then,” he said.

She shook her head. “No.”

Emmaline didn’t care if she froze to death. This opportunity wouldn’t come again, to spend time with him alone—no one trailing along behind them, listening to every word.

She wasn’t naive enough to believe that her father would ever let her marry as she wished. The Duchess of Albemarle was nearing the end of her confinement, and her father insisted that his influence—and Emmaline’s blasted beauty—would win her a coronet. This time next week, she was as likely to find herself engaged to a duke as not.

This might be her only chance to be just a young lady, enjoying time with a gentleman of her choosing. Her only chance to be with him, her knight.

“No,” she repeated, and pulled her hands free of his. “Duke and I are spending our morning in the park.”

And if she was going to flout convention anyway…

“In fact, we’re planning to walk along one of the forested footpaths today. Much more picturesque,” she said, turning that direction and patting her thigh to call the pup to her.

When the dog reached her side, she turned her back on the man before tossing what she hoped was a mysterious smile over her shoulder. “And more private.”

Then she walked off, willing him to follow.

And thrilling when he did.

CHAPTER 5

PART OF MAXWELL’S question had been answered decisively. She certainly did wish to be pursued.

Into the forest, at least.

The ‘innocent, yet not’ nature of their mornings was heading more toward ‘not’ with every step they took.

But what kind of man would he be if he didn’t follow? For her protection, of course.

Neither spoke as they made their way around the lake. She set a brisk pace, and they quickly left the Serpentine behind, turning onto a path that disappeared into the tree line at the center of the park.

Alone.

Being November, there was less canopy to shield them from prying eyes than there might be in summer. However, a light fog rose up to lend a cloak of intimacy that set his nerves on edge.

Damn, but he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. That brief touch of lips to hand had only served to ignite his already simmering desire for her.

You are the best part of my day.

Had she truly said that? Max’s heart thumped in his chest, hard. Another question answered. She knew nothing of his possible dukedom, thought him no more than himself, and yet she’d all but said she wanted him.

And oh, how he wanted her.

He had to distract himself. Conversation. Conversation was safe.

He asked the first question that came to him. “What did keep you today?”

She glanced over at him, wariness flashing in the green depths of her eyes.

Well, hell. Not so safe after all. His question came close to violating the unspoken barriers they’d been so careful to hide behind. But something had shifted between them this morning. Perhaps they would both divulge truths in these woods.

He kept his gaze steady on her, encouraging.

Just when he thought she wouldn’t answer, she gave a sharp nod and said, “My father. We had an awful row.”

Her lips firmed, and she clasped her hands together across her middle as if she had to brace herself for this conversation.

“My father is an—is a peer of the realm.”

He nodded. “I’d gathered that.”

She sent him a weak smile. “I’m sure you also gathered—from what I said the day I named Duke—that he has plans for me to marry one. A duke, that is.”

Again, Max nodded, aiming for casual interest. He had no wish to spook her when they were finally speaking of something real, something personal.

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asked, curious to know her true thoughts.

Her lips twisted with chagrin. “You must think me terribly spoiled to oppose such a match.”

He huffed. “Not at all.” That would smack of the pot calling the kettle black, though she couldn’t know that. Still, while he knew his own objections to becoming a duke, what were hers to becoming a duchess? Was it simply because she didn’t wish to bow to the dictates of her family? Or did she have deeper reasons?

“I only wondered why.”

T’was her turn to huff. “For one, I should like to marry for more than just social position.”

“You would like to marry for love,” he said, his voice raspy even to his own ears.

Her eyes flew back to him. “Yes,” she said simply.

Their gazes held as they walked side by side.

“Me, as well,” he admitted, and realized he meant it. He hadn’t given much thought to marriage or family, so consumed was he with his fight to win representation for those who needed it most. But whether he became a duke or remained a barrister, love was something he wanted in his life.

He could love her.

Perhaps. Should he become the duke, and thus a suitable husband for her, perhaps he could.

Who was he kidding? It would be easy to love her, whether he became a duke or not.

But they weren’t discussing him. Or were they?

“Perhaps you could come to love this duke,” he ventured.

She looked away from him then, and one delicate shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Perhaps I already have feelings for another.”

Another hard thump of his heart. She meant him.

He should confess all. It was clear her feelings were for him, not a title. He could tell her now, and then if he were to inherit, they could—

“But that’s not the only reason I have no wish to marry this duke,” she said, and the words died on his lips.

“No?”

He noticed she’d started wringing her hands now. He walked along beside her in the tense silence, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. He used the time to think as well. Surely whatever concerns she had could be overcome. Were he to become duke, he’d do anything in his power to make her happy.

Finally, she released a long breath, as if unburdening herself of things she’d long wished to say.

“I imagine most girls dream of being a duchess,” she said. “We’re taught from the cradle that it is the pinnacle of womanhood.” She rolled her eyes then, and her lips pursed. “But for me, it’s not a dream. It’s expected.”

She released her hands, bringing them to her sides in fists.

“I live my life allowed only to do that which increases my marital prospects. And because of my—” She darted a glance at him, her cheeks pinking before she looked away again. “Because of how I look, I am often treated with snideness from other women. I am over-scrutinized and talked about wherever I go—just loudly enough that I can hear them even though I must pretend that I don’t.”

While she no longer wrung her hands, the thumb on her left one worked furiously against another of her fingers. An expression of nerves, he’d wager. Then her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know, poor little rich girl.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said. “I was thinking how of awful that must be.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I no longer wish to be an object of society,” she said. “As a duchess, it will be even worse. Perhaps I’d have more liberty as a married woman—if my husband allows it. But I’d be even more in the stage lights. Expected to be perfect all of the time.”

He didn’t think she could ever not be perfect, but this didn’t seem the time tell her so.

And he understood her fears. Hadn’t he been looking at the dukedom as a prison of sorts? But maybe it didn’t have to be. Maybe, together, they could create their own freedom.

“That’s not the worst of it, though,” she all but whispered, making this quiet, foggy footpath feel even more like a place of confession. His ears pricked at the seriousness of her tone. Here, they would come to to crux of it.

“I have a sister,” she said. “An older sister. She is my favorite person in the world. She is kind and funny and…well, she is all that is good.”

She went silent again. And again, that thumb slid over and over its neighboring knuckle.

“She sounds delightful,” he offered, hoping she’d continue her thought.

“She is, though you’ll never convince her of it. You see…” She looked over at him and the pain that strained the lines of her face hurt to look upon.

“My sister is what most call plain. I think her beautiful in every way, but our parents…well, they value only what others see, only what they deem the loftiest lord will wish to marry. Our entire lives, they have compared the two of us and…found her wanting.”

Her voice warbled and bright red splotched her cheeks now—from anger, or embarrassment, or chafing from the wind, he couldn’t be certain.

“And now they have forced her into an engagement with someone entirely unworthy of her, simply to clear the way for me to land their duke,” she spat.

Definitely anger at the injustice, then. He expected nothing less from his Boadicea.

But he also saw shame shining bright and wet in her eyes.

She was stunningly beautiful. She’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first seen her. But he’d been equally taken by her bravery, her protectiveness and her spirit.

He couldn’t imagine what it must have done to that spirit, growing up watching someone she loved being put down and made to feel inferior to her. The way she’d said “compared” conveyed a wealth of emotion, and anger boiled inside him at these unknown parents. They had undoubtedly hurt her sister, but they’d also hurt her.

He reached for her hand, stilling her agitated movement, enfolding it in his own. He brought them to a stop in the middle of the path and gave a gentle tug. She turned toward him willingly enough, but she wouldn’t look up at him.

Maxwell reached for her other hand, too, and squeezed lightly. “It’s not your fault.”

She did look up then, another half-shrug lifting one shoulder. That vulnerable, disbelieving gesture nearly undid him.

Her left hand flexed in his, unconsciously he thought. She likely wished to wring her hands once more, but he had no intention of letting her go. Max ran his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles instead, wishing he knew what to say.

As he passed over one of her fingers, he felt a raised knot. He glanced down and saw that her pinky was permanently bent at an odd angle.

When she noticed where he was looking, she tugged her hands from his and tightened the left one into a fist, as if to hide her imperfection from him.

And his heart broke for her.

Just like her sister, it seemed, she had no idea that it wasn’t how she looked on the outside that made her so beautiful to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s done is done. No matter how hard I fight it, in the end, my sister shan’t have the love match she deserves, and neither shall I. She shall marry the despot they found for her, and I shall be forced to marry their duke.”

Their duke, she’d said again. As if she were already building a wall around her heart where he—where the duke?—was concerned, if only because she associated him with her cruel parents.

“Perhaps this duke won’t be so bad,” he said gently. Christ, was he speaking of himself in the third person now? “Perhaps he will be your love match after all.”

One single tear slid from the corner of her eye, trailing over the apple of her cheek and brushing the corner of her mouth. Then another.

“But that would be awful. Don’t you see? How could I live with always knowing that my happiness came at the expense of my sister’s?”

Her words pierced like a dagger. What could he possibly do about that? He wanted to fix this for her—he had to fix this for her.

Maxwell wasn’t positive how aristocratic marriages worked, per se, so the barrister in him asked clarifying questions. “So, your parents are insistent that you marry this duke?”

She nodded miserably.

“And I’m to understand that a younger sister cannot become engaged until the older sister is spoken for?”

She blinked up at him, a bemused crease forming between her brows as she considered his questions. At least there were no more tears.

“Well, it’s not a law or anything, but yes, that is the custom. And my parents are nothing if not traditional.”

“I see. How, if at all, can an engagement be broken?”

She winced. “Breach of promise is a serious offense. If a man breaks off the engagement, the woman is all but ruined. He, too, can face harsh repercussions if her family is not amenable.”

“And if a woman instigates it?”

“A woman can cry off more easily, if the gentleman goes along with it. However, if you’re thinking of my sister, my father would disown her even if her lout of an affianced would let her go. She could end up without a home or any means of support.”

Maxwell nodded, his resolve growing. He hadn’t wished to become a duke, but in the past weeks, his eyes had been opened to the possibilities it would afford. While he would no longer be able to help individuals as a barrister, he would have the power to help more people by working for their interests in Parliament.

And only he could help this woman—and her sister. In doing so, he might even win her love. If that wasn’t worth embracing a dukedom for…

“Then your duke shall simply have to take your sister in. Or insist that she be given the time to find a proper husband, if she desires, and wait for you until she does so.”

His Boadicea no longer looked bemused—her black brows had lifted and her mouth had dropped open in pure incredulity. Then she made a sound that was part huff, part snort of disbelief. “No man would do that.”

Maxwell reached for her then. He cradled her face in his palm, wiping away the last vestige of her tears with his thumb.

“I would,” he murmured, “were I your duke.”

And he kissed her.

T’was a sweet kiss, at first. A promise, even if she couldn’t know it.

He tasted the salt on her lips and something roared within him. Max pulled her to him and wrapped her in his arms—instinctively wishing to protect her from anything, everything, that would make her cry.

He should stop this kiss now, tell her who he was, reassure her that all would be well.

But then her tongue touched his in a tentative foray. A hesitant invitation.

One he could not resist.

He rewarded her courage with a bold, sensual stroke of his own. A groan tore from his throat as he fought for restraint. If her parents had guarded her so closely, this could very well be her first kiss. Just the idea that he might be the first to taste her lips sent fire blazing through his veins. Thinking of all the other firsts to come practically turned him to cinder.

But he reined himself in…he had to go slowly.

She wouldn’t let him hold back. His fierce warrior queen threw her arms over his shoulders and pulled herself more tightly against him. His nerves singed at the feel of her sliding over him, of her curves settling into the plains and valleys of his body, fitting herself to him.

She matched his kisses and caresses with abandon, at first mimicking his movements, but then experimenting with moves of her own.

He barely even noticed when Duke, who’d run up ahead of them, came barreling back past them as if he were the one on fire. Max’s entire world had narrowed to this one place, this one moment, this one woman.

The only thing he cared about was making her burn as he did.

Until a shockingly familiar voice doused everything.

“Unhand my daughter.”

CHAPTER 6

EMMALINE JERKED at the sound of her father’s angry command.

Her father!

Every bit of exhilaration that had been coursing through her body turned sharp and stinging, driving fear through her instead. She tried to pull away from her knight but he refused, using his body to shield her from her sire.

He gentled their embrace, however, and tried to soothe her with long strokes down her back and arms. She looked up at him then, her heart rabbiting in her chest, but his hazel eyes remained steady on her—as if trying to convey that everything would be all right.

He was wrong, of course. Her father would kill him! Might even get away with it, given his power and influence. What a fool she’d been to come here, to think she could have this moment out of time for herself before she was married off.

But she would not allow her knight to pay for her sins.

Emmaline ducked out of his arms and neatly side-stepped him, putting herself firmly between the two men as she faced her father squarely.

Her throat went dry.

It wasn’t rage she saw on her father’s face, but cold fury, the awful tic in his jaw a dead giveaway to his thoughts.

He was definitely plotting her knight’s demise.

“Father,” she began. She had to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. She willed her knight to stay out of it, to let her handle this.

But he turned to face her father as well.

“Montgomery,” he said.

Emmaline started, certain she’d misheard. How did he—?

But her father’s widening eyes confirmed that the two men knew each other already.

“Granville?”

Granville. Granville. Where had she heard that name?

A snippet of gossip flitted through her memory. “Granville, I think. Some distant second cousin or some such. Imagine, one of the oldest dukedoms in England going to a country barrister.”

Which meant—

Emmaline’s skin turned to ice.

Her knight was also her father’s duke?

The maybe-duke.

Your duke, he’d said.

Oh, my Lord! Had he known all along who she was?

She flushed hot with humiliation, remembering all the things she’d said. With shame, as well, for making assumptions about him. But drat it all, he shouldn’t have let her labor under such misapprehensions! She turned to demand answers from him, but he appeared as shocked to see her father as the other man was to see him.

Emmaline shifted her gaze between the two of them, reeling. For a long moment, silence reigned. It seemed they were all trying to find their equilibrium.

Her father recovered first, his brows dipping as his lips turned up in a satisfied grimace, which was as close as her father came to a smile.

“So it is Granville you’ve been meeting all these mornings,” he said. “Not quite how I intended for you to bring the man up to scratch, but I applaud your ingenuity, daughter. Well done.”

She went cold once again. Ignoring her father, she whirled to face her—Granville. Surely he wouldn’t believe she’d be so dishonorable.

But his face had turned inscrutable, a marble bust once again—cold, beautiful, unapproachable.

“I would never,” she whispered, but he gave no indication he’d heard.

“I expect you will do the honorable thing,” her father demanded.

Granville didn’t look at her, only dipped his chin in a sharp nod. “Of course.”

“I shall expect you in my study at one of the clock, then.”

“Just so,” Granville agreed.

And he turned and walked away.

Half past four

Montgomery House, Mayfair

THEY’D BEEN CLOSETED in her father’s study for an age.

Emmaline had been pacing outside for just as long.

“You’ll make yourself ill,” her sister warned.

No more than she already was. She stopped in front of the door once more and plastered her ear against the wood, even as she knew the futility of it. That door was a least an inch and a half of solid English oak, as she could attest. When she’d been a young girl, she’d nearly lost her pinky finger when the heavy door closed on it during a game of hide-and-seek with Amelia. The bone hadn’t healed properly, and it still ached sometimes.

As was her habit when she was nervous, she ran her thumb up and down the inside of that finger, caressing the misshapen knuckle. A small, barely noticeable imperfection, but her mother had acted like it was the end of the world. “Who will marry a girl with a mangled hand?” she’d cried dramatically, and poor Amelia had been punished for allowing it to happen.

Joke’s on you, Mother, Emmaline thought. Apparently, a duke would be marrying her, mangled hand and all. Perhaps against his will.

Lord, she still couldn’t get her mind around it all. Her knight was the duke’s heir presumptive.

And he may very well believe that she’d set out to trap him from the first.

“Come, sit with me,” Amelia cajoled, patting the blue-and-cream-striped settee next to her. “That door is not going to open any sooner, no matter how many times you try to eavesdrop or how many holes you wear in the rug.”

Emmaline turned to her sister, who smiled reassuringly in that calm way she had about her. She sighed and joined Amelia, and just as she’d done when they were children, Emmaline leaned against her sister and rested her head upon her shoulder.

Of course, given that Emmaline was nearly a head taller than her diminutive sibling now, it wasn’t quite as easy as it once was. She’d likely end up with a crick in her neck. But it still soothed her soul as it always had.

“Now,” Amelia said, “tell me what’s happened.”

And she did, from the day she and Granville had rescued Duke, all the days in between, and ending with Father catching her in Granville’s arms. She left out the most personal moments, and the majority of what she’d shared with him about Amelia. Her sister had her pride, after all, and while she wasn’t sensitive about much, Amelia had flatly refused to discuss her engagement with anyone, even Emmaline.

“How did Father find you?”

Emmaline sat up and faced Amelia. “He came looking for me after our argument this morning, wanting to get in the last word.”

Amelia only nodded, understanding that well enough having been on the receiving end of many of his lectures.

“But I’d fled to the park, desperate to get to my—to Granville.”

The corner of Amelia’s mouth lifted. “Your Granville, eh?”

The tips of Emmaline’s ears burned at her sister’s teasing. Her Granville…her knight…her duke. One and the same. But she didn’t give Amelia the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Well, Father found Molly instead. It didn’t take him long to get the story out of her.” Guilt flashed through Emmaline as she thought of how scared the poor maid must have been. And for what had happened to her.

“He’s sacked her for not properly chaperoning me—without references. I’ll ask Granville to find her straightaway, and take her into Albemarle House.”

Amelia’s smile had vanished, her lips thinning into a line. “Don’t worry about Molly. I’ll see she’s taken care of.”

“But how—?”

“Never you mind,” Amelia said. “Go on with your story.”

Emmaline frowned. Ever since her engagement, Amelia had changed. Become more tight-lipped, more mysterious. And from the stubborn tilt of her chin, Emmaline knew she’d get nothing more out of her sister on that score.

“She told Father I’d been meeting with a man in Hyde Park,” she continued, “and he rushed there to fetch me posthaste. I think he intended to cover up any impropriety so that I’d still be eligible to marry his duke.”

No, not his duke.

Your duke, Granville had called himself.

My duke, she repeated to herself.

“When he didn’t find us near the Serpentine, he nearly left,” she said. “But then he saw Duke chasing something near the copse of trees where we’d gone, and followed the pup into the forest.”

“Unlucky, that,” Amelia said.

“Mmm.” But was it? Emmaline wasn’t so sure. Horrific as being caught in a compromising position had been, there was a sort of peace having it all out of her hands now. No more fighting it. No more unknowns.

And as for her future husband?

She would choose him over any man she’d known.

While she couldn’t say how he felt about marrying her, Emmaline no longer dreaded her future. Indeed, she looked forward to discovering more about the man she already knew so well, and yet didn’t know at all.

And she certainly looked forward to more of his kisses.

She lay her head back on Amelia’s shoulder. Her sister deserved the same—to look forward to her marriage, not to fear it.

Granville had intimated that were he her duke, he would support Amelia, should she wish to change her mind. Had he meant that? If so, Emmaline should probably prepare Amelia for the possibility—which meant she would have to be honest about what she’d told Granville today.

She only hoped her sister didn’t get too upset with her.

“Amelia?”

“Yes?”

But just then, the door opened.

Both ladies rose to their feet as the men stepped through the threshold. Well, Amelia rose. Emmaline practically surged.

Upon noticing Amelia, their father made hasty introductions.

Emmaline had eyes only for Granville. His face was still stony, giving away nothing of what he was thinking. Flutters set off in her stomach anew. Was he displeased, finding himself shackled to her before he’d even seen the other young ladies the ton had to offer?

When Amelia and Granville had exchanged polite greetings, Father shooed her sister out of room before turning to Emmaline.

“You may have a few moments with your intended,” he said. “Leave the door open.”

Her cheeks warmed at his directive, but then she was alone with her knight for the first time as themselves, and she was warm for an entirely different reason.

Everything had changed between them.

Yet it felt as if nothing had.

What should she say to him?

She decided on the first thing on her heart. “I had no idea who you were.”

A ginger brow winged high on his forehead.

“What I mean to say is that I didn’t set out to trap you. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” he said. “I wondered, when your father discovered us so shortly after you lured me into your arms…”

His slow half-smile told her he teased and when his gaze dropped to her mouth, she knew that he, too, was remembering those fevered kisses—the sensuous slide of lips and tongue, the pleasure.

She unconsciously wet her lips with her tongue and he snapped his gaze back to hers.

He cleared his throat once…twice. “But it didn’t take me long to realize that you would never do such a thing, even if he would have wished you to.”

Emmaline released a tight breath. “I’m glad.”

“I had no idea who you were, either,” he offered. “I’d worked out you were nobility from the first, but I never guessed I spent my mornings with the daughter of the man who’d usurped my afternoons.”

“Better yours than mine,” she muttered, and Granville huffed a laugh.

“I had been warned Montgomery had a daughter he wished to see me wed to. I refused his every offer of a quiet family dinner, or trip to the theater, or any other number of sly invitations designed to introduce us. I’d resolved to stay well clear of her.”

Emmaline’s lips lifted at the irony of it all. “Well, that plan didn’t work out too well for you.”

His voice dropped low. “Oh, but I think it did.”

And just like that, all the heat that had flared between them in the forest this morning came rushing back in an inferno. Curse that open door. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and pick up where they’d left off. Discover what came next…

“I—I suppose we should introduce ourselves,” she said instead, realizing she’d yet to learn his given name. “I’m Emmaline.”

Another smile. “Yes, I know. I’ve read it many times this afternoon in the marriage contracts.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“And before you ask,” he went on, “your father conceded to allow your sister to break her engagement, should she wish.”

Emmaline’s brows shot up. “Just like that?”

He grimaced. “Not exactly. But I am a barrister by trade, and thus accustomed to a good fight. You’d given me plenty of leverage, knowing how desperately he wished for a ducal alliance, and the lengths he’d go it get it. And I had little empathy for him, given how he’s treated you and your sister. It made it easy to stand firm. Once he accepted that I wouldn’t budge in Amelia’s case, he caved.”

Something melted inside of Emmaline. This man would always be a knight, be he a duke or a barrister or a candlestick maker. Her heart would be safe with him.

And so would her sister’s future. Emmaline’s guilt and worry started to melt away, too, leaving room for…hope. Hope for their future happiness.

“Thank you,” she said around the lump in her throat. “You didn’t have to do that, I know.”

“Of course, I did, dearest Emmaline.” His voice rang with tenderness and even more heat unfurled in her tummy. “I promised I would, were I your duke.”

“And now you are,” she whispered.

“And now I am,” he agreed.

He pinned her with a hot look, one that made her feel alive and desired and so very fortunate that she’d chosen Hyde Park as her refuge that fateful morning. And that he had, too.

But then his gaze clouded over, and his features slid into marble once again. “Almost.”

She frowned, not liking the sound of that.

He straightened his shoulders and took a long breath. “I must tell you, should the duchess bear a son and I do not become the duke, I won’t hold you to this engagement. I will allow you to cry off to find a more suitable match…if that is your wish.”

Emmaline simply stared at him. He would give her a choice?

“Nor will I withdraw my support of your sister, regardless of whether we marry,” he said. “Without the ducal income, I couldn’t keep her in the manner in which she is accustomed, but she will always have a home and means of her own, I swear it.”

His features softened ever so slightly, and his voice followed suit. “I know how important her future is to your happiness. Just as your happiness is to mine.”

Tears pricked Emmaline’s eyes, and as her vision blurred, she would have sworn that for a moment there, her knight’s plain wool suit actually shone like armor.

He was who she wanted. She would never wish to break from him. A tiny seed of love had already taken root in her heart and she knew, with all that she was, that it would bloom into the lushest of gardens as time passed—one that would sustain them for the rest of their lives.

“It is not the duke I wish to marry,” she said softly, “but my knight. Nothing will change that.”

A tender smile graced his lips. “And it is not a perfect duchess I want, only my fierce warrior queen. Nothing,” he reached out and lifted her left hand, caressing her ruined finger with his thumb, “will ever change that, my dear, dear Emmaline.”

And Emmaline saw the truth in his eyes. He did want her—just her. Not how she looked, but who she was. Her heart swelled in her chest, so much that she thought she might burst with happiness.

“My knight,” she whispered. “My duke. My—”

Her sweet declaration stalled when she realized, “I still don’t know your name.”

“Max,” he said, his smile turning decidedly wicked. He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, as if they’d just met in a ballroom somewhere—though it lingered much longer than would be proper. She was quite certain the tongue that darted out to taste her skin would be frowned upon as well. By some. Not her.

Emmaline’s heart sped at his touch. Soon, very soon, he’d be able to touch her anytime, anywhere. And she, him.

“Max,” she repeated, then she gave a wicked smile of her own. “I like that better than Haddie.”

He laughed then, a rich, booming sound that brought Duke into the library to investigate. The dog headed straightaway for Emmaline—to protect his mistress, no doubt—before making a double-hop of surprise when he realized that his park friend now stood in his house. The pup’s tail wagged happily as he looked between the two of them.

Emmaline scooped the little dog into her arms and hugged her to him. “Without you, my sweet Duke, I might never have found my happily ever after.”

Max reached over and ruffled Duke’s ears. “I’m only glad you’ve found room for more than one Duke in your life.”

Her eyes met his over the pup’s fluffy head and she smiled, so very content.

“And in my heart, as well.”

FROM HEATHER

I hope you enjoyed Emmaline, Max and Duke as much as I did. It was such a challenge keeping their story contained to this short novelette! I so wanted to delve deeper into their characters and go on and on and on.

I shall leave it up to you whether the Duchess of Albemarle delivered a son or a daughter, and whether Max and Emmaline became Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle or Mr. and Mrs. Granville.

However, don’t be surprised if you see them again, as I’m kicking around a story for Lady Amelia, tentatively titled Must Love Scoundrels. Then you can find out if your guess was correct!

In the meantime, should you like to read more of my books, you can find them here:

Novelettes:

Must Love Duke

Novellas:

Loving Lady Dervish

The Very Debonair Lady Claire

Full Length Novels:

Sweet Enemy

Sweet Deception

Sweet Madness

Or save by buying the full-length novels in this collection…over 950 pages, one low price!

The Veiled Seduction Collection

Sweet Enemy: Beakers and ball gowns don't mix, so when lady chemist, Miss Liliana Claremont, goes undercover as a husband-hunter to investigate Lord Geoffrey Wentworth, the earl whose family she suspects murdered her father, romance isn't part of the formula. But it only takes on kiss to start a reaction she can't control...

Sweet Deception: Lady criminologist, Miss Emma Wallingford, gets tangled up in the final mission of Lord Derick Aveline, the spy she once loved. Though she suspects he’s only back in her life until the killer is found, Emma is determined to convince Derick to stay this time. Will their re-found love prove true? Or is it all just a Sweet Deception?

Sweet Madness: In the final book of this acclaimed historical romance series, Lady Penelope Bridgeman must face her past and her own demons in a fight to save a traumatized soldier, Lord Gabriel Devereaux, from a descent into madness. She never expects that he might be the one to save her, too...

If you’d like to know when I have a new book out, you can:

Sign up for my e-mail newsletter list at www.HeatherSnowBooks.com

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Heather Snow is an award winning historical romance author with a degree in Chemistry who discovered she much preferred creating chemistry on the page, rather than in the lab.

Her books have been published in seven languages around the world, and have won numerous awards including: The Golden Quill, the National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award, The Write Touch Readers Award and the Book Buyers Best Top Pick.

She lives in the Midwest with her husband, two rambunctious boys, three insanely huge dogs and a pair of very put upon cats.

THE MISTLETOE DUKE

DECEMBER

SABRINA YORK

PREFACE

Widowed Jonathan Pembroke, the esteemed Duke of Devon, has been dodging marital bliss for far too long. At least, according to his mother. It’s time for her son to marry again and settle down, preferably with a woman who can manage his hellion daughters. So she plans a Christmas party, replete with mistletoe, to vet the eligible partis. She enlists her companion—and Jonathan’s childhood friend—to help in this quest. Which is awkward. Because down-on-her-luck and decidedly un-duchess like Meg Chalmers might want to capture the duke under the mistletoe herself.

Editor: Fedora Chen

For Meg

CHAPTER 1

December 1813

En route from Devon to Sutton

NOTHING WAS MORE unpleasant than a long coach ride, unless it was in the midst of winter. Fortunately Meg was in the dowager’s coach and there was a brazier by her feet. She pulled her cloak closer and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

Or, if truth be told, trying not to be flustered.

There was no need to be flustered. In point of fact, it was the height of foolishness to even imagine there was anything to be flustered about.

She was going to see Jonathan again.

That was all.

They were friends. They’d grown up together in the wilds of Devon. They’d known each other their whole lives, though she’d only seen him in bits and spots since he married Tessa.

Not that she’d been avoiding him.

Once he married her best friend and all.

It wasn’t that Meg had been jealous that Tessa had landed the son of a duke. She’d been happy for them. After all, she loved them both.

She’d just loved one of them more than she should have.

When Tessa had died giving birth to their third child—who also passed—Meg had been brokenhearted. Everyone had been.

Jonathan had taken it hard, blaming himself for some godforsaken reason. He’d sent his daughters to live with his mother in Devon and sequestered himself in his London house, making only intermittent visits home.

This was the first time Meg would see him in two years.

Of course, her life had changed immeasurably since Tessa’s death as well. And not in a good way.

“Are you listening to me?” the dowager’s sharp tone captured Meg’s attention. Anne Pembroke, the Dowager Duchess of Pembroke, was rarely sharp. Fortunately, her question was not directed at Meg, but at Mawbry, her long-suffering secretary, who sat at Meg’s side.

“Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace.”

He hadn’t been listening—clearly he’d been snoozing—but he made a good show of attentiveness.

“I said, take out your pen and inkpot. We need to make plans.”

“Plans, Your Grace?” Mawbry had the unfortunate habit of repeating everything the dowager said, which was annoying, even to Meg.

“Yes. We are going to throw a house party.

“A house party?” Meg had heard Mawbry screech before, but not in this particular timbre.

Anne glared him down and nodded. “Of course. It’s the perfect time for it, what with the holiday and all.”

“But mum…” His eyes bulged in that way they had, making him resemble a bulldog. The muttonchops didn’t help. “No one will come to Sutton in the dead of winter.”

Regal nostrils flared. Indeed, how dare he contradict the dowager? “Nonsense. Sutton is only a few miles from London. And everyone is in London. Now take out your pen.”

As Mawbry complied, with a resigned sigh, Anne turned to Meg. “What do you think? A Christmas theme?”

“I think that would be lovely.”

“Yes. Of course it will be.”

Meg cleared her throat and attempted a blasé tone. “Do you think the duke will come?”

Anne’s brow wrinkled, as though she might have suffered the same worry. “Probably not. If we were having the party in Devon. But we’re not.” She winked. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammed, and all that.”

Jonathan was a large man, but far from a mountain.

The dowager frowned and shook her head. “Of course he will come,” she said, to herself, perhaps. “His entire family will be there. He cannot deny his girls a Christmas with their father.” That, of course, was true. If there was one soft spot in the Duke of Pembroke’s heart, it was his five-year-old twin daughters, whom he adored.

Of course, he hadn’t seen them lately…

“We must invite all the best families,” Anne said, waving her hand in the general direction of Mawbry’s poised pen. “Particularly the most eligible debutantes.”

For some reason, Meg’s heart lurched at that. Which was ridiculous. Of course Jonathan needed to marry again. He had not yet produced the all-important male heir. And of course, he would choose a young girl. It was what men did.

“The Pickerings, Mountbattens, and Pecks for certain.” Anne tapped her lip. “Perhaps the Evertons?” She rattled off a plethora of other names, all the best families with the best breeding, all of whom Meg knew, if vaguely, from her own season. With each name, her mood darkened, though it had no cause to. She knew what Jonathan thought of her. He respected her, certainly, and remembered her fondly as the barefoot shadow who had wanted to be a boy and who had followed Jonathan, his friend Arthur, and her brother George on countless romps.

In retrospect, the boys had been rather decent, making her feel a part of the crowd at every turn when she had been, she imagined, a monumental annoyance.

The coach lurched and Meg realized the dowager had moved on from the guest list and was discussing decorations. “We need greens throughout the house,” she told Mawbry. “Oh. And I want mistletoe. Everywhere.”

“Mistletoe, mum?”

“Yes, Mawbry. Everywhere. He cannot know if they are compatible without a kiss, now can he?”

Mawbry’s face puckered even more, but he scratched that onto the list.

“Oh, and a tree.”

The secretary blinked. “A…tree, mum?”

“Queen Charlotte has them. And so shall we.”

“But that is a German tradition,” Mawbry said with a quiver at the end of his pointy nose.

“And now it’s a Royal tradition.”

Mawbry glanced at Meg, then cleared his throat. “What does one do with a tree?”

The dowager pinned him with a sharp glare. “One decorates it, I presume. A tree in the ballroom would be rather absurd otherwise. Wouldn’t it?”

Meg felt the need to step in before this became an altercation. Altercations with the dowager were unpleasant enough when one wasn’t crammed in a coach. “I believe the Germans decorate them with dolls and ribbons. And candles, of course.”

“We must have the largest tree in Sutton, Mawbry. Make no mistake.”

“Yes, mum. Anything else?”

The dowager was precluded from answering when the coach made a sudden stop. She lifted the curtain and peered out the window. Meg peeped over her shoulder to see a smallish inn bathed in moonlight. “Whatever are we doing here?” Anne asked in a stentorian tone.

In response, the coach door flew open, revealing the governess, Miss Friss, who had been riding in the lead coach with the girls. Her hair was askew, her face a’flush and her eyes wild. “They are monsters,” she howled. “Monsters, I tell you.”

Anne reared back. “I beg your pardon?”

“Those girls are monsters. I refuse to continue this journey with them.”

“I say.” The dowager affected her most regal expression. “They are children.”

Miss Friss attempted to say a word or two, which came out as gibberish. Then she cleared her throat, threw back her shoulders, and said, in no uncertain terms, “I quit.”

“You cannot quit,” Anne sputtered, for the first time allowing her consternation to show. “We are in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t care,” snapped the redoubtable Miss Friss, who had come with all the best references. “I will not be subjected to such…horrors.” And then, without another word, she turned tail, and stormed toward the inn.

Anne glanced at Meg. “Well, I say.”

“Indeed,” Mawbry added.

The dowager snorted. “I hope she knows she’s not getting a good reference from me.”

“Of course not.” Meg patted her hand. “Shall I go talk to her?”

“Oh, ballocks,” she snorted. “Let her be. Mawbry. You go ride with the girls to Sutton.”

It was clear from the way his eyes bulged, he was mortified at the proposition, which Meg found irritating. Vicca and Lizzie were somewhat unruly, but they were not beasts from the bowels of hell. Most days.

“I’ll ride with them, dear,” she said patting Anne’s hand again. “The two of you have a party to plan and no time to spare.”

Mawbry nearly collapsed with relief.

“Are you sure, darling?” Anne asked.

“Of course.” Meg gathered her coat and book and eased out of the coach. Though the sharp wind cut through her immediately, she turned back and shot the dowager a broad smile. “I’ll see you in Sutton.”

“Bless you, dear,” Anne said.

Mawbry nodded effusively. “Bless you.”

Meg had to smile as she made her way to the Coach from Hell waiting patiently just ahead. Poor Mawbry had had quite a scare. She came alongside the window and saw two adorable, perfectly identical faces peering out and she arranged her features into a glower so they would know she was cross. The faces disappeared.

“We didn’t do it,” the two chorused as she opened the door and stepped inside.

Meg surveyed them dourly. “Miss Friss was the best governess in the country, you know.”

“Miss Priss, you mean,” one of them said. Meg suspected it was Lizzie, but in the shadows of the cab, it was hard to tell.

“And you’ve run her off.” The coach lurched into motion, barely covering their hurrahs. She tugged on her gloves and gave each of them a sharp glance. “Whatever will your papa say?”

That sobered them. Their eyes widened and they shared a speaking glance, the type that twins often had. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“How do you propose I avoid telling him? When the first thing he will have to do when he arrives in Sutton is hire a new governess?”

“Why can’t you be our governess?” Vicca asked, crawling into Meg’s lap. She knew it was Vicca; Vicca was the one who got her way by being charming. So like her father.

“Because I am your grandmother’s companion.” That was a job in itself. Meg didn’t mind, though. She was grateful to Anne for taking her in when George died and Cyril inherited. God alone knew where she would have ended up otherwise.

“But we like you.”

“Is it not possible to find a governess you do like?” And one who could manage their high spirits?

Lizzie put out a lip. “We like you.”

“And I like you.” Untrue. She loved them. They were a charming mix of Tessa and Jonathan. There was no way she could not love them. “But you have to understand, proper young ladies do not terrorize their governesses.”

“We didn’t terrorize her,” Vicca said.

Lizzie nodded. “Not really.”

But then, they both grinned, and they were alarming grins indeed.

Meg blew out a breath. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Ballocks.”

They both loved that she cursed, and laughed. “All right,” Lizzie said. “We might have waited until she was asleep…”

“And?”

Vicca smiled up at her. Her little face was so sweet. It was almost unthinkable that she might say, “And then we set her shoe on fire.”

Meg gaped. “You what?”

Lizzie crossed her arms and huffed. “It was only a little fire.”

“A tiny little coal.” Vicca held her fingers up, showing the smallest space.

“You cannot set your governess on fire! Honestly. What are we going to do with you two?”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Vicca said.

“She smelled funny.”

“We didn’t like the way she smelled.”

“It wasn’t our fault.”

They stared at her then, two identical, beautiful, familiar faces, wide-eyed and innocent.

She wasn’t taken in for a moment.

“Lie down, both of you, and try to sleep. We’ll be in Sutton in a few hours and I don’t want any trouble.” They both did as she bade them and repentantly so, but she felt the need to say, in her sternest tone, “And do not set me on fire.”

To which they giggled.

JONATHAN PEMBROKE ARRIVED at the Sutton house long after dark. To his relief, the house was quiet. Given the letter from his mother, and its companion from Mawbry, he’d been expecting something akin to a circus. Sanders took his coat and pointed him toward the parlor when he asked after his mother’s whereabouts.

Indeed, he found her there, snoozing by the fire with a glass of ratafia in her hand. He removed it and set it on the table, which woke her.

“Mother.” He kissed her papery cheek.

“Darling. You came.”

He huffed as he sat in the chair beside her. “Did you imagine I wouldn’t? Once I got your note?”

“I wasn’t sure.” She took a sip of her drink to hide her smile. Of course she knew he would come. If only to divine what she was up to.

“What’s this I hear about a house party?”

His mother shrugged. She had that expression on her face, the one that made little hairs prickle on his nape.

“Mother?”

“Why not have a party? This is the season, after all.”

“Yes. It is the season. In London.”

She waved her hand. “Sutton is practically London.”

“Not hardly.” It was practically the back of beyond. Ten miles away. “No one will come to a party in Sutton during the season.”

“Of course they will, with a duke inviting them.”

“No one has house parties in winter.”

“Exactly. It’s a brilliant idea. People will be clamoring to attend. Besides, clearly, you are not adept at meeting people on your own.”

“People?” He frowned at her. “I meet lots of people.”

“In gaming hells? What kind of quality people are those?”

Ah… “Dukes and earls, mostly.”

Her face scrunched up. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” He inspected his fingernails. Indeed, he knew where this was going. It always went there. With her. “The last thing I want, after a brutal session in Parliament, is a hunting party.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Mother, you are so transparent. You’re having a party to trot out all the young fillies for my delectation. Their mamas must be slathering.”

“Honestly, Jonathan.” She sighed. “You are so full of yourself.”

He blinked.

“Whatever makes you think the party’s for you?”

“I’m the duke?”

“Precisely. Dukes can find their own mates.” She gave him a quick up and down. “When they are so inclined.”

“So who is this party for?”

“Whom.”

“Whom.” Honestly, she was so irritating at times.

“Meg Chalmers, of course.”

“Meg?” He didn’t boggle, but just barely. “She’s on the shelf.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt a hot tide creep up his cheeks. He was genuinely fond of Meg, and she was younger than him. It was a shame that society marked her as too old for marriage.

His mother pinned him with a reproving glare he was certain he deserved. “She’s not yet four and twenty. I was older than that when I gave birth to you.”

“You’re throwing a party to find a husband for your companion?”

His mother batted her lashes. “I feel bad about what happened to her.”

So did he, in point of fact.

“Promise you will help.”

Dear God. “Help? How can I help?”

Her eyes lit up and she leaned closer. “You must invite your friends of course.” Her forehead wrinkled. “The decent ones.”

“That is quite a presumption.”

“Pardon?”

“That I have decent friends.”

“Oh.” She laughed, and then she sobered. “What about Bentley?”

“Bentley?” He gaped at her. “Bentley is an inveterate gambler.”

“Well, that’s no good. How about Exeter?”

“He’s a sot.”

“Lud, Jonathan. What kind of friends do you have?” She tapped her chin. “How about Moncrieff?”

Moncrieff had a serious proclivity for trollops. Hardly the marrying kind, but he couldn’t tell his mother that, or he might be in danger of proving her point. “Let me think on it.”

“You do that. And remember, it’s Meg. She’s practically family. She deserves someone nice. It was beastly what Cyril did to her.”

Jonathan murmured something and nodded, but he didn’t mention the fact that this was the way of the world. Though he would never have done so, many men ousted the families of the previous lord when they claimed the title. It was not looked highly upon by the ton, but that didn’t stop it happening. “I’m just glad she had you to take her in, Mother,” he said.

She grunted and stared at the fire. “Cyril should be flogged.”

“Perhaps you can arrange a party for that.”

“Perhaps I shall.” The gleam in her eye was a trifle alarming, so he decided to change the topic.

“Where are the girls?”

His mother took another sip. “Upstairs in bed, of course. It’s the middle of the night.”

Not hardly. It was just past eleven.

“They might be in Meg’s room, though.”

“Meg’s room? Why would my daughters be sleeping in Meg’s room?”

“Oh dear.” She sent him a rueful glance. “They might have frightened off another nanny.”

Another nanny? Jonathan raked back his hair. “Might have?”

“There was some talk of setting her boot on fire.”

“That would do it.” He had no idea why he had to fight back a smile. “How many nannies is that?”

“I’ve lost count. But, Jonathan, it’s not their fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Those girls need a mother. Nannies just won’t do for such high-spirited creatures.”

“They have a father.”

“Hmm.” She finished off her glass and re-poured. “A father who prefers to flitter about in London.”

“I hardly flitter. For the past two months, I’ve been working straight through.” The parliamentary session had been endless.

“My point exactly. They need a mother.”

Blast. She had won that point after all.

“Even though this party is for Meg, it wouldn’t hurt for you to assess some of the young ladies who are coming. Say you will.”

Blast.

But her expression was so compelling, he had to say yes. If only to get her to stop talking about it.

After that major concession, he decided it would be wise to escape before she managed to pry any more from him. It was a skill at which she excelled. “I think I shall pop in on the girls, and then retire.”

“You do that.” She nodded. “I will see you in the morning. Have a list for me then.”

His brow wrinkled. “A list?”

His mother sighed heavily. “Were you even listening to me?”

“Of course I was listening. You didn’t mention a list.”

“I hate when people don’t listen.”

“Which list, Mother?”

“The list of suitors for Meg, of course.”

Ah. That. “I will work on it.”

“You do that. Have it for me first thing.”

He rose, bent to kiss her cheek once more, and then headed up the stairs. It took a moment at the landing to remember the way to the nursery. That was the trouble with having a house one rarely used. After a false start or two, he found the correct hallway and strolled through the dim corridor toward his daughters’ room.

The door was open, so he heard the soft strains of a Brahm’s lullaby as he approached and a grin picked up the corners of his lips. He’d always loved Meg’s singing. Because he didn’t want her to stop, he lingered at the door, taking in the serene scene. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire with her hair down, holding a bundle of his progeny. It was impossible to tell which one in the shadows, but it hardly mattered. After the day he’d had, such peace was a balm. His heart swelled.

He must have made a noise, because Meg stopped singing and turned to him. Even in the darkness, he saw her eyes widen and glow. Her lips quirked and she whispered, “You’re here.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. As though he’d stood here before, a thousand times, watching her hold his sleeping child.

He had no idea why it caused his heart to swell.

CHAPTER 2

MEG HELD Vicca closer as she stared at Jonathan. It was wrong for her heart to launch into such a mad patter at the sight of him. She’d known he was coming—eventually. This was hardly a surprise. But she couldn’t help her reaction to him. She never could.

The best she could do was feign nonchalance.

For her, it had become an art form.

When he stepped into the room and tiptoed to the hearth, she had to look away. Had there ever been a man so perfectly formed? His shoulders were broad, his hips slender, his face pure perfection.

He knelt on the carpet beside her and twined a finger around one of Vicca’s curls, but all Meg could think of was the heat that surrounded him, the scent of his rising cologne. Her mouth watered and she swallowed. It took a moment for her to regain her senses. It took an effort to send him a casual glance.

“How was your journey?” she asked softly.

He grinned, and the sight nearly blinded her. And good heavens. The stubble of his day beard made her weak at the knees. She tightened her hold on Vicca, to keep herself from petting him, so strong was his allure. It captured her on a visceral level.

“Cold.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “It’s quite cold this year.”

“Isn’t it?”

Weather having been dispensed with, the conversation eased into silence. For wont of a sane subject, Meg stared at the fire, but eventually, she had to speak. “Well, I should get Vicca back in bed.”

Jonathan stood. “Let me.” And then, to her horror, he bent down and took his daughter from her arms. Everywhere he touched her, it burned.

Her face burned as well. Thank heaven for the shadows.

She watched as he carried Vicca to her bed and tucked her under the covers. Then he turned, took her arm, and guided her from the room.

Though the hall was lit only by the occasional lamp, it seemed as bright as daylight as they emerged. So when Jonathan pulled the door closed and turned to smile at her, she saw everything. The crinkle of his eyes, the raft of dimples on his cheek, the slight twitch of his nostrils.

Fortunately, he seemed oblivious to her rapt attention, which gave her time to look elsewhere before he noticed her drooling. Her wrinkled skirt was a perfect foil for her fascination.

His voice, when he spoke, rumbled through her being. “I understand they ran another one off.”

Thank God for the humor in his tone. It shattered any silly thoughts she might have been harboring in this oddly intimate scenario. She leaned against the wall and looked up at him and affected a starchy tone. “They set her on fire.”

He chuckled. “So I heard. Whatever will we do with them?”

We? She loved that he’d said we. But still, “They are your problem, Your Grace.” She never called him that when they were private, though he’d been a duke since he was a boy, so he knew she was jesting.

Indeed, he laughed. “I know you better than that, Meg. You adore those girls as much as I do.”

“True.” She forced a gamine grin. “But they are not my problem, and we both know it. Perhaps, while you are here, you can be their governess.” She batted her lashes, because it was a cheeky thing to do to a duke, and the situation called for cheeky.

He paled. “Surely Mother has sent for another?”

“I believe she directed Mawbry to do so. But there is always the possibility that…”

“What?” He always hated when she trailed off.

“Well, the help does talk. There is always the possibility that no one will take the post.” Again with the lashes. It was a ridiculous prospect, because who wouldn’t want to work for a duke? But it was amusing to watch the dismay cross his features. She patted him on his fine coat. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. You’ll make a wonderful governess. And I daresay they will not set you on fire.” And with that, she turned to head down the hall to her room.

“Meg!” The tenor of his voice stopped her. That and the fact he’d said her name. She loved when he called her Meg.

She turned and shot him a curious glance. “Yes?”

“You will help. Won’t you? Until someone comes?”

“You’re their father.”

He sighed and raked his hair. “I cannot parent. Not like Tessa. Tessa was…wonderful”

“It’s so easy. All you need to do is two things. First, be there, and second, love them. They are so lovable.”

“They are but…”

Something in his voice caught her attention. Tugged at her heart. “What is it?”

He raked back his hair. “Sometimes I can’t help feeling… guilty when I am with them. It’s my fault their mother died.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Tessa is gone.”

“She’s not, Jonathan.” Meg put her hand on his. “She’s alive in those little girls. And they need you. They need their father.”

“Please say you’ll help.”

He seemed so distraught, she had to relent. “Of course, Jonathan.” She waggled a finger so he would remember she was hardly a pushover. “But it would do you a world of good to spend more time with them. And it would be good for them as well. They miss their father.”

“I miss them too.”

Because the mood had shifted, she felt she could add, “And they need a mother.”

He stared at her with those dark brown eyes, enrobed in thick lashes. Though she knew him well, she could not discern his thoughts and curiosity raged.

“That’s what Mother says.”

Meg chuckled. “I know. She says it to me daily.”

He looked down and dug his boot into the poor unfortunate carpet. “That’s what this party is all about, you know.”

She had to laugh. “Are you divining this just now? For someone like your mother, having an unmarried son—much less a duke—is akin to heresy.”

He scrubbed his face with a palm. “I know.”

“And a house party is an excellent opportunity to see how any young lady you might be considering will get on with Lizzie and Vicca. That is very important, you know.”

“Most important.”

“Of course.”

His expression firmed, though she could see the humor glinting in his eye. “Because we’re friends, I feel I must warn you, though.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Warn me? About what?”

“This party isn’t to find a wife for me. Well, it is, probably. But Mother intends to find a husband for you as well.”

Oh. Good heavens. Meg’s stomach clenched into a tight fist. “What?”

Jonathan’s laugh rang along the hall. “You should see your face.”

“I’d rather not. Oh my. What a disconcerting prospect. I’d been hoping to avoid the party altogether.”

“I’m certain that will not happen. She’s even asked me to come up with a list of prospects.”

“For me?” Oh horrors. Imagine marrying one of Jonathan’s friends… Seeing him—and his young new bride—socially. It would be hell on earth. “Why ever would she do that?”

He sobered and fixed her with an intense look. “She loves you, Meg. She wants the best for you. We all do. You’re far too competent to waste your life as a companion. Or a governess.” He winked, to signal a jest, but it was lost on her, because his words had crushed her so completely.

She nodded and whispered good night, let herself into the governess’s room adjacent to the nursery, and then closed the door on him.

The man she loved, with every fiber of her being, thought her competent.

Competent.

Ah, lud.

BLOODY HELL.

This was exactly why Jonathan hated making promises to his mother. She fully expected him to follow through. It was highly annoying.

This he thought as he sat at the table in his suite the next morning, laboring over the list of potential suitors for Meg that Mother had demanded. He didn’t dare emerge without something.

The trouble was, though he had a lot of fine friends, as he thought of them, not a single one was right for Meg.

Fortnum was a nice enough chap, but he had no sense of humor and wouldn’t appreciate Meg’s wit. Giles was far too stern. And Rockingham was a smug son of a bitch who would never appreciate her. Walters was a good man, but he’d been severely wounded on the Continent and there was talk he could no longer procreate.

Jonathan couldn’t, in good conscience, match her with a man who couldn’t give her children.

Meg was wonderful with children.

She deserved to have children.

His frustration mounted as he ran through the prospects. Surely there was someone.

And then it hit him.

Manning.

Richard Manning was tall, strong, and virile. Some would call him handsome, Jonathan supposed. He was well bred, wealthy, charming, and intelligent. He wasn’t a gambler and he didn’t drink overmuch. And he had mentioned to Jonathan that he was thinking of taking a wife.

He would be perfect for Meg.

So why, when he scratched that name onto the parchment, did his stomach sink? Why did Meg’s piquant smile flash before his eyes?

He thrust these thoughts away and focused, and then added Aiden St. Clare, who was also handsome and clever, although not as wealthy. Meg wouldn’t mind that, would she? No. She’d never been overly concerned with luxury. And St. Clare could keep her in comfort.

And then, there was Richard Hisdick. Hisdick was something of an intellectual—at least in his own mind. He wasn’t as good looking as Manning or St. Clare—he had an odd-shaped head, wiry hair, and had a tendency to lean a little to the left, but he was a pleasant enough chap when he wasn’t spouting off about one thing or another in a one-eyed pedantic rant. Jonathan quite enjoyed jousting with him and it was possible Meg might as well. She did have blue-stocking sensibilities after all.

Once he had those three, other like fellows came to mind and he added them to the list. When he had seven, he determined his work was done, and a wash of relief rushed through him. He hadn’t expected finding a mate for Meg would be such a chore.

But he was happy to do it. He was. He owed it to her. And to her brother George, who had been his friend.

He had no idea why the task had made him slightly ill.

Probably because of her reaction. When he’d told her of his mother’s plans, she’d been downright horrified. Her face had gone pallid, she’d turned round with barely a word and plodded to her room. Could it be that Meg had accepted spinsterhood? That she was happy being alone? That thought made him slightly ill as well. He couldn’t countenance it. Not someone like her, so full of life and joy. She deserved love. Deserved to be cossetted and cared for. She deserved to have someone.

It was just the someones he had in mind that irked him.

He had no idea why.

With a sigh, he sanded and folded the list and stood, calling for Rodgers to come dress him for the day.

As he made his way down the curving staircase, he heard cries from the library and, recognizing those voices, changed course. He pushed open the door to see his girls nestled at Meg’s feet, staring in rapt attention as she read to them in whispered tones. Her voice rose as she came to some climax in the book and the girls squealed.

He couldn’t help but laugh.

The second they heard the sound, they sprang to their feet, shrieked in delight, and charged him like Huns on the battlefield. He barely braced himself before they hit.

“Papa! Papa!”

He picked them up, one by one, and swung them around, and then called them by each other’s names, because he knew it delighted them to think he couldn’t tell them apart in their mischief. Although he knew which was which. He could see it in their eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with a smile at Meg.

“We’re reading,” she said primly, holding up a copy of The Swiss Family Robinson by Wyss.

“Ah,” he said. “Adventure.”

“On a tropical island!” Lizzie cried.

“I should like to go to a tropical island,” Vicca said. She’d always been the more daring of the two.

“They wanted to read this.” Meg gestured to a translation of Grimm’s Fairy Tales on the table. “But I decided it was far too ghastly for such tender minds.”

He took the book and thumbed through. “Excellent judgement,” he said with a laugh. How like his girls to prefer horror.

“Papa,” Vicca said, clutching his hand and staring up at him pleadingly. “Can we go outside and play in the snow? Meg said we had to wait until it was warmer.”

“Did she?” He glanced at Meg who nodded.

“You can take them, though,” she said, oh-so-helpfully. And then, when he grimaced, she chuckled. “You did say you wanted to spend more time with them.” She stood, brushed out her skirts, and patted down her hair. It annoyed him that she’d done it up in a tight, governess-like bun. Last night it had been down.

“You can come with us,” Lizzie told her earnestly.

Meg sniffed. “And get snowballs down my nape? I think not. Besides, now that your father is here, I need to go help your grandmother plan the party. She’s becoming annoyed with Mawbry for some reason.”

Jonathan knew damn well why his mother was annoyed with Mawbry—she so often was—but he also knew damn well that Meg was escaping. “Are you deserting me?” he asked in a petulant tone.

Her smile was broad and bright. “That I am,” she said, and before he could protest further, she whisked from the room, leaving him alone with two avaricious fiends who very badly wanted to pelt him with snowballs.

That was how they spent the rest of the morning, out in the snow, freezing and laughing and engaging in a very lopsided war. It occurred to him, several times, that what this family needed was another male. Or, at the very least, someone to fight on his side.

They were all tired and wet and happy when a carriage rolled up the lane, interrupting the battle. Jonathan, for one, was relieved to see his sister, Susana, poke her head out the window and wave.

Thank God.

Susana had two boys of her own who would, no doubt, help wear the girls out.

Susana also had the good sense to bring a governess, so as they all trooped into the house, this angel herded all the children upstairs for lunch and a much-needed nap time. Jonathan stripped off his wet outer clothing, and followed his sister and her husband, Christian, to the parlor, where Mother and Meg were having tea. He dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh, looking on dotingly as Meg and Susana greeted each other with warm hugs and kisses.

They’d all grown up together, in Devon, but Meg and Susana hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas.

As they sipped warm tea and feasted on cucumber sandwiches and cakes, the two young women chattered on, catching up. Susana did most of the talking, he noticed, sharing the adventures she’d had in London and in Inverness, where they had gone to visit her twin sister, Sara, and her Scottish husband. And wasn’t it a shame that Sara couldn’t come for Christmas? But what a blessing that she was increasing again.

Yes, Susana went on and on. But then, what did Meg have to share, really? She’d spent the last two years immured in the country at Pembroke running errands for his mother.

The thought bothered him, but he didn’t know why. It wasn’t his fault her brother had died and her cousin had evicted her, forcing her to find work wherever she could.

It was Cyril’s fault. The bastard.

Jonathan had never liked him.

Susana’s big news, which she shared, eyes shining, was that she and Christian were expecting again.

He happened to be watching Meg at the time, so he saw her expression, which, to her credit, only lasted the flash of a moment, before she arranged her features into absolute delight. But he saw it. It burned through his soul.

Her expression made it clear. Meg wanted children. She wanted them desperately.

Jonathan vowed, at that very moment, to do whatever he could to help Meg get what she wanted.

It was the least he could do.

Truly. It was.

CHAPTER 3

AFTER SUSANA, Christian, and the boys arrived, time seemed to fly by for Meg. Granted, the dowager kept her busy, now that a true governess was on site and she had Meg back exclusively in her service. In addition to her usual duties, she was in a flurry helping the household staff prepare for the house party. She wrote out invitations, planned menus, and arranged entertainments for the three-day event. And then there were the decorations. The dowager was determined to have the most talked-about event of the season. That meant outdoing all of the London hostesses, which was a daunting proposition.

The tree was the largest challenge, because it had to be cut and set and decorated just before everyone arrived. Beyond that, the dowager wanted mistletoe on every door jamb, fresh boughs wound around every bannister, and a parade of characters representing the Twelve Days of Christmas. Thankfully, Susana had friends in London who knew a troupe of actors who were more than happy to have the opportunity to perform before the cream of the ton.

With so much to attend to, Meg was busy from dawn to dusk and exhausted by supper, so she chose to have a tray in her room, rather than eat with the family. Aside from which, she hadn’t been invited. Therefore, she didn’t see Jonathan at all. Which was a blessing. Truly it was. It was far too difficult to be in his presence and pretend that everything was fine when all she wanted to do was cry. Once the party began, he would find a young, fresh-faced bride, and she would have to watch him marry someone else all over again.

Being busy during the day helped distract her, though. It was the long nights that were difficult. One would think, with all her tasks, that sleep would come easily, but it didn’t.

One night, just a few days before the guests were to arrive, she tossed and turned for hours before padding down to the library in her nightgown to find a book. She was surprised to find a lamp lit, and even more surprised to see Jonathan seated by the hearth staring into the fire.

He noticed her before she could slip away and waved her in.

Dear heavens. Perhaps she should have taken a moment to dress.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked in an amused tone.

She had no idea why he was amused, so she sniffed. “I came for a book.”

“Of course.” He waved at the decanter on the table at his elbow. “A whisky may help.” Before she could demur, he poured her one. “Sit. Please. I would like to talk to you.”

She should go. Really, she should. But for some reason, she didn’t want to. With a sigh, she sat, as he asked, and lifted the tumbler to her lips. The liquor burned her throat and she coughed.

Jonathan grinned. “Good, isn’t it? It comes from Ian’s distillery.”

She forced a smile. Though she’d never met Sara’s husband, she’d heard wonderful things about him. “Helps, having a brother-in-law with his own distillery, does it?”

His grin widened. “I am never without friends.”

“I can imagine.”

He went back to staring at the fire, which prompted her to ask, “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Ah. Yes. But first, why haven’t you been at dinner?”

She blinked. Dinner? “Dinner is a family event.”

He frowned. “You’re family.”

Oh dear. “No, Jonathan,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not. I know my place.”

“Do you eat dinner with Mother at home?”

“Of course…but that’s different.”

“How is it different?”

She had no idea why this conversation seemed to be annoying him. This was the way of the world, after all. “For one thing, she hates to eat alone and she claims that Mawbry puts her off her food.”

He laughed at that, but it was more of a snort, and he tried to hide it. “So if we want you to come to dinner, it must be a command?”

“Something like that.” She proffered a smug smile, but it might have been a result of the whisky, which—now that she’d had another sip—was quite warm and pleasant.

“Well, I expect you at dinner tomorrow night then.”

Meg started and she frowned at him. “Ballocks,” she said.

It surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you speak that way to my daughters?”

“Only when the three of us are alone.” My, this whisky was something. She lifted the tumbler and observed the colors. “Does one always tell the truth when one drinks this?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

They sat in silence and sipped whisky and stared at the fire, until Meg recalled what he’d said earlier and asked, “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah yes.” He sighed heavily and scrubbed his face with his palm and she had a flash of worry.

“What is it?” What was so difficult to say?

“I just wanted to ask you…”

“Yes?” Now her curiosity was running wild.

“I… Just…” He turned to her, his expression sincere and unbearably adorable. “Are you happy?”

What?

“Am I happy?” She gaped at him. “Of course I’m happy. Whatever do you mean?”

“When I told you that Mother was planning to find you a husband, you seemed aghast. Do you not want a husband? Are you happy as a companion?”

Oh dear. How to answer this?

She stared down at her lap for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “There was a time when my fate was to marry.”

“Technically, that is not an answer, just a statement of fact.” Blast. She’d never been able to cousin him. “What do you want, Meg?”

“I…”

“Is it so hard a question to answer?”

Another sip was in order. It was going down much more smoothly.

“Meg?”

“No. Jonathan, it’s not a difficult question to answer. But no one’s ever asked it of me before. And for the past two years, since George died, it was a moot point. What I’ve wanted since then was to have food to eat and a roof over my head. Am I happy with those things? Yes.”

“But you want more?”

Oh, did she.

She tried to look away, but couldn’t. He’d captured her in his warm brown gaze. They shared a moment, one simple moment, where she didn’t hide anything, where she let him see exactly the truth.

“I want more, yes. I want a husband to love me. A home that is more than a mere house. I want to belong somewhere. I want choices. Options.” Annoying tears pricked at her lids. Oh, ballocks. She’d had too much whisky. She set the glass down on the table, a little too hard, as it happened.

“And children?”

Blast him for seeing her so clearly. His gentle query triggered the waterworks she was so sure she could hold back. It dredged up the deepest pain, her greatest loss in all this. She angrily swiped at her cheeks.

“Meg.” He sighed her name, which was painful in itself, but then he—the bastard—stood, took her hand, and pulled her into his arms. He was in shirtsleeves and his chest was firm against hers. He wrapped himself around her and held her. Just held her there, in that warm haven, bolstering her with his strength as she wept. “We’ll get you a husband,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll find someone.”

To which she had to rear back and wail, “I don’t want just any husband.”

Yes. That was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She didn’t want just any husband.

She wanted him.

And she could never tell him that, because it would thrust a wedge between them that would destroy their friendship. It would make things awkward.

Not that they weren’t awkward now.

Especially when, from the doorway, Susana clucked her tongue. “What is this?” she asked in a far too theatrical lilt.

Naturally, Jonathan and Meg leaped apart and whirled to face her.

“Nothing,” they both said at the same time, which only made her smirk.

“We were just talking about life,” Jonathan said in a defensive tone.

“And marriage,” Meg added.

Susana looked them up and down. “And Meg started crying? And you gave her a hug?”

“Exactly!” Jonathan crowed.

“Of course.” Susana smiled. “Just what I surmised. The two of you don’t look guilty in the least.”

Meg’s cheeks flared. “Guilty?” It had been terribly nice, being held by him. But they’d done nothing wrong. Not in the slightest. She glanced at Jonathan. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Of course not,” he averred.

Susana’s smile widened. “Well, you might want to get these late night meetings out of your system before the guests arrive. If you’re not careful, you may find yourselves thoroughly compromised.” She seemed gleeful when she said it, which was a trifle mortifying, but Meg ignored that.

Jonathan frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Meg is family.”

“She is.” Susana nodded. “And she isn’t, if you know what I mean.” The wink didn’t help.

“I, in fact, do not know what you mean.” He seemed disturbed.

Meg wondered idly if there was any whisky left in her glass.

“You and I know Meg is family. That we all grew up together in the wilds of Devon. But the mavens of high society don’t know or care. All they will see is that she is a single woman and you are a roguish duke.”

“I’m hardly roguish.”

“Not according to gossip.”

“That is entirely unfair.”

“Is it?” His sister fixed him with a too-knowing glance. “My point is, when the guests arrive, you will both have to behave.”

Well really! “We were behaving!” Meg sputtered.

Susana gave her the once over. “You’re in your nightgown.” Her gaze reached Meg’s feet. “And you’re barefoot.”

“She couldn’t sleep,” Jonathan said, which didn’t help at all.

Meg stepped forward. “I came down for a book.”

“And ended up in my brother’s arms?”

All right. Perhaps it didn’t look all that innocent—

“I didn’t kiss her.”

Oh dear. Granted, he was defending his honor, but did he have to shout it quite so stridently, with such…distaste? What was she, a hideous un-kissable hag? Apparently so. Fury, pain, and humiliation whipped through her. She couldn’t help it. She whirled on him and smacked his shoulder.

His nostrils flared. “Whatever was that for?”

But Meg couldn’t answer. Her throat was clogged and her vision slightly blurred.

Susana shook her head. “You, Jonathan Pembroke, are hopeless,” she said, wrapping her arm around Meg’s shoulder and guiding her from the room, leaving the duke sputtering in their wake.

THE NEXT MORNING, Jonathan still had no idea what had transpired in the library the night before. Most specifically, what had made Meg cry.

Not the first time. He totally understood that bit.

It was the second time.

Dear God, it had ripped at his heart to see her expression collapse, to see tears well in her eyes, to see her lips tremble.

He’d only insisted that he hadn’t done anything inappropriate. He hadn’t kissed her.

Granted, the thought had crossed his mind. She’d been so sweet and soft in his arms, and her scent, something lemony, had teased at his nostrils and made him…hungry.

But he’d batted the thought away like an annoying gnat, just like every time he had it about Meg.

Meg was different.

She was like a sister.

He’d always thought of her as such, from the first time he’d rescued her from the old elm in the meadow she liked to climb, even though she could never get herself down. She’d been five then. The same age his daughters were now. Was it any wonder he’d always thought of her as someone he needed to protect?

But she wasn’t five now. Now she was a grown woman, and a damned beautiful one. Yes, he’d had, ahem, thoughts about her, but they’d felt wrong. They’d felt like he was betraying George.

His mind flittered back to the way it had felt, holding her against his body in the library, and against his will, his passion stirred. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. It was wrong to think of her like that.

Wasn’t it?

It was a relief when Rodgers interrupted this mental torture with his morning tea. After that, he found his mother and told her the reason Meg never came down for dinner was because she required a command. Or at least, an invitation.

Blast it all. It had never occurred to him that she felt she didn’t belong. It broke his heart that she felt she didn’t belong.

She did. She belonged.

He hunted for her all day to tell her so, and to apologize for whatever he’d said or done that had made her cry that second time, but he couldn’t find her. She had always “just left” whatever room he checked.

By dinnertime, he was getting irritated.

To be honest, he was irritated with himself.

He’d spent the day thinking about Meg, and how hard it must be for her to be caught between two worlds. And how much he would like to change all that for her. How he could change all that for her.

Mostly, he thought about how much he regretted inviting Mattingly to the party.

He hadn’t really considered things when he added Mattingly to his list. He’d been too busy trying to please his mother with actual viable prospects.

He hadn’t thought about what that might mean.

Of course Mattingly would be taken with her. She was beautiful, talented, funny, and smart. How could Mattingly not want to woo her? They would dance and chat and—good God—laugh together.

And Jonathan would have to stand there and watch with a smile on his face.

What a miserable proposition.

By the time dinner came around, he was in a high dudgeon. Which was saying something. Usually it was only old ladies who got into high dudgeon.

That was probably why he frowned at Meg when she entered the sitting room in her companion’s weeds with her hair up in a spinsterly bun. It didn’t help that there was a mutinous expression on her pretty face.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he snapped.

“Like what?” she snapped back.

He waved his hand at her outfit. “Like that?”

“These are my clothes.” She tipped her chin and sniffed at him with a primness that only irritated him more.

“She looks fine,” Mother said. “Come have some ratafia, Meg.”

“She doesn’t look fine. She looks like…a companion.”

Meg sent him a look, one he couldn’t quite translate. “I am a companion.”

He pulled himself straighter and said haughtily, “We dress for dinner.”

Her smile was frigid. “I am dressed.”

“More dressed than she was last night,” Susana said sotto voce.

They both glared at her.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mother asked. Thankfully, everyone ignored her.

Jonathan simply plowed on. “You could at least wear something pretty.” It was a perfectly logical request.

There was no reason for Meg to burst into tears.

Again.

He turned to his sister and bellowed, “What is she crying about?”

Susana sniffed. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re a woman. You understand each other. Don’t you?”

Mother, who was sitting on the divan and taking all this in as though it were a play enacted for her private pleasure, suggested, “Why don’t you ask her?”

Jonathan glanced at Christian for some male support, but he merely shrugged.

So he turned to her. And he sighed. “Meg. Why are you crying?”

She glared at him, though the tears, and then said in an emotionless voice, “I don’t have anything pretty.”

That was all it took. His dudgeon deflated like a failed soufflé.

Of course she didn’t have anything pretty. Cyril, the bastard, had confiscated all her gowns and jewels and sold them after George died. His mother had told him as much and he’d tut-tutted and made some offhand comment about what a bastard Cyril was and then promptly forgot about it.

Well, hell. How could he fix this?

He had no idea, so he just did what he wanted to do.

He took her in his arms—again—and held her as she cried.

This was becoming a disturbing trend.

Although, if he were honest, he didn’t hate it.

“Don’t cry, Meg,” he whispered to her. “We’ll get you something pretty.”

She snorted wetly into his chest. “I don’t want anything pretty.” Which was clearly untrue, except that being contrary was apparently deeply imbedded in her nature.

“Oh dear,” Mother said with such horror, they both turned to look at her, though Jonathan kept his arms firmly around Meg.

“What?” Susana asked.

“I just realized that the party is in two days and Meg hasn’t a thing to wear.”

“I’ll take her to London tomorrow.” He didn’t know where the words came from. They just fell from his lips.

Suddenly, it seemed like an excellent idea.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mother said with a snort.

Susana shook her head. “You’ll never get a seamstress now.”

Mother shook her head as well. “Never.”

“Why not?” That seemed terribly ridiculous.

Susana stood and came to Meg’s side. “It’s high season, that’s why. But never mind. I have a solution.” His sister took Meg’s arm, dried her tears, and tugged her toward the door.

“Whatever are you doing?” Jonathan asked. “It’s time for dinner.”

“No time for dinner,” Susana crowed. “Meg, you and I are about the same size and I brought far more dresses than I will ever wear. You and I are going to pilfer my wardrobe! Have cook send two trays to my room at once!”

Jonathan watched them go—happy that Susana’s suggestion had seemed to delight Meg, and slightly annoyed that, once again, she wouldn’t be at family dinner, since this was the last one before the insanity began.

But his feelings hardly mattered, didn’t they?

He was only the duke.

CHAPTER 4

SUSANA’S WARDROBE was a treasure trove. Meg did her best to swallow the acrid fact that she’d once had one just like it and was now reduced to begging for scraps. She focused instead on the fact that she was lucky to have such a generous friend. And the opportunity to wear beautiful dresses as well. That was wonderful.

“Oh, this one!” Susana sighed, pulling out a beautiful sky blue frock with sequins stitched into the bodice. “It barely fits me now, since I’m increasing again, but it’s one of my favorites. I’m glad I brought it because it is perfect for your coloring.”

It was. And, in a flurry of crinoline, Meg eagerly tried it on. It was perfect. The blue brought out her eyes and made her shine. Or maybe that was simply her delight as she spun around and watched the skirt bell in the glass. It was a little tight in the bodice, but Susana insisted, with a wink, it was just right for someone on the hunt for a husband. There was another, a dark forest green, which would be perfect for the Christmas Eve supper and ball, and a lovely pink day dress.

“I love you in these jewel tones,” Susana said and Meg laughed.

“My last party frock was white.”

Susana grinned. “We’re hardly debutantes now.”

Yes. Hardly.

When they were finished, Meg returned to her dark weeds and sighed. “That was fun,” she told her friend, who grinned.

“Wasn’t it?”

“I’m so appreciative. You’ve been so generous.”

To her surprise, Susana stared at her, tears welling. Which caused Meg to tear up as well. “Meg, darling,” she said, opening her arms for a hug. “You deserve it. You’ve always been so generous with me. Even when we were children. Do you remember that time when you let me have the last cake at tea, after Jonathan and George swept in and tried to scarf them all up?”

Meg had to chuckle. “No. I don’t.”

Susana’s eyes sparkled. “Well, I do. And the time you gave me your doll, because I liked it. And— Oh, I could go on. You’re like a sister to me. A dear, dear sister. And I, for one, hate to see you moldering in Devon with Mama.”

“I’m hardly moldering. Besides, I love your mother.”

“I do too, but she doesn’t exactly live an exciting life.”

“She…throws parties…”

Susana snorted. “We both know, you throw those parties. She just tags along and makes speeches.”

“They are very good speeches.”

“That is a matter of opinion. And beside the point.”

“And the point is?”

“The point is, you deserve more in life. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And a husband who loves you. You deserve children. I’ve seen you with the boys. You are magnificent.”

Meg focused on a pleat in her bombazine skirt. “I would love to have children…someday.”

“Of course you would. And this party is a wonderful opportunity to scan the opportunities, as it were.”

Yes. It would be. “Thanks to you.” She gave her friend another hug, then pulled back. “Do you know any of the men who are coming?”

Susana’s brow furrowed. “I peeked at the guest list. Jonathan invited Richard Manning and Aiden St. Clare. They’re both very respectable.”

Respectable? Not what she’d been thinking. She’d been thinking tall, dark, and just a trifle grumpy with a dazzling array of dimples when he smiled…

“I’ve met Manning at the opera more than once,” Susana continued, unaware of Meg’s momentary mooning over an unreachable duke. “Do you like the opera?”

“I’ve only been once,” Meg said. “It seemed…tedious. But I was young.”

“Oh, it is tedious, but it’s fun to watch the crowd during the boring parts. If you and Manning go, Christian and I will go with you.”

“That would be fun.”

“Just think of it. If we both lived in London, we’d be in each other’s pockets again, just like when we were children.”

“Oh, how I’d like that.” She’d sorely missed Susana—any female friendship. Well, female friendship her own age. She and the dowager rarely had similar tastes.

“Me too. So here is the plan. This week, we will assess the possibilities and then go in for the kill. Yes?”

How could she say no? “Of course, yes!”

“Excellent!”

AFTER SHE LEFT Susana’s spacious quarters, Meg headed up to the nursery to tuck the girls in. Not because she had to—Susana’s governess was excellent—but because she wanted to. She loved Lizzie and Vicca and had missed their antics because she’d been so busy for the past few days.

They were in bed, but far from asleep, and they both leaped up with a hurrah! as she pushed into the room. She gave them each a hug and a kiss and asked what they’d been up to. What followed was a raucous recounting of their adventures with William and Christopher, Susana’s twins. As they shared the details, it occurred to Meg that she might want to have a chat with Susana’s governess. Surely she wasn’t aware of all of this. She certainly couldn’t have known that the four hooligans had built a fortress in the library. With books. Or that they’d figured out a way to snitch cakes and pies from cook’s pantry without being seen. Or the bit about the fire in the greenhouse.

Honestly, the girls were becoming a bit too fascinated with fire for her liking. Perhaps Jonathan should be informed as well…

And then, as though she’d conjured him with her thoughts, he was there in the doorway.

“Papa!” Lizzie cried. “Come help Meg tuck us in.”

He did. She watched, breathless, as he loped across the darkened room, as perfect in form as a man could be. She tried to still her thudding heart and reminded herself to breathe. Oh, and force a casual smile.

“I thought you were already tucked in,” he said in a deep raspy voice, lit with humor.

Vicca made a face. “Not by you.”

“It’s better if it’s you and Meg.”

“Miss Ainsley doesn’t do it right.”

“Doesn’t she?” The powerful duke went down on his knees between their beds and kissed them both, one after the other.

“Exactly right,” Vicca said somberly.

“Young girls need to be tucked in properly,” her twin added.

“Good to know. Now, both of you, under the covers. Close your eyes. Time to sleep.”

“We’re too excited to sleep,” Lizzie said.

Vicca nodded. “The party starts tomorrow!”

“That it does. So you both need your sleep. And…” He fixed them both with a dark scowl, which made them giggle. “I expect you both to be on your best behavior. All the mavens of society will be there.”

“I thought Grandmamma was the maven of society.”

Lizzie nodded. “That’s what she told us.”

Jonathan chuckled. “She is. But all her maven friends will be there. And you need to understand that your behavior reflects on the entire Pembroke family. That is a great weight to bear.”

The girls sobered and nodded, apparently listening to their father…for once.

“It’s possible that I might even find you a new mama.”

Oooh. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that, on account of the fact they were listening and all. They both made faces.

“What if we don’t want a new mama?” Vicca asked.

“Of course you do.”

Lizzie shrugged. “I like Meg. Why don’t you just marry Meg?”

A mortifying silence settled. Meg and Jonathan exchanged chagrined glances. Before Jonathan could answer, Meg forced a laugh. “Nonsense. Your papa needs a young wife.” She ignored his sharp glance. “She has to be able to keep up with you, after all.”

Vicca pursed her lips and then nodded. “You are awfully old,” she told Meg.

It was difficult to hold back a laugh. “Thank you.”

“All right. Enough of this.” Jonathan pulled up their covers and tucked each one in with another kiss. “Go to sleep.”

“Good night, my darlings,” Meg said as she stood to join Jonathan as he walked to the door. She hadn’t intended to, it just worked out that way.

“Wait!” One of the twins cried as they reached the doorway. In tandem, they turned and looked back at the shadowed beds. “Look!” The twins both pointed above their heads, and they, perforce, looked up.

Oh dear.

It was mistletoe. Blast the dowager and her insistence that the stuff be scattered everywhere.

“You have to kiss now,” one of the twins said. Meg suspected it was Vicca, the minx.

She and Jonathan shared another chagrined glance. His shoulder lifted. “I suppose she’s right.”

“Of course she’s right,” Meg said, struggling for a matter-of-fact expression, though her heart raced. “It is mistletoe.”

“That it is.”

“Do it!” their audience demanded.

With a sigh, that made clear this was an onerous task, Jonathan put his fingers to her cheek and tipped her face to his.

Meg held her breath, which was unwise, because she was already a little giddy due to his closeness, and the dizzying scent of his cologne. She watched, breathless, as his head descended. She saw it then—just before their lips touched—his quirk of a smile. It warmed her heart.

And then everything warmed, because his mouth was on hers, delicious and velvety smooth. It send a shard of hunger and delight through her. It made her want in a way she had never wanted before.

Cold, bitter disappointment scored her as he pulled away, far too soon, but it was only to look into her eyes with an indecipherable expression…before he lowered his head again.

This kiss was deeper. Sweeter. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, against his firm, perfect form as he explored her mouth.

She was barely away of the cheers from the peanut gallery, her mind was so utterly consumed with the delirious sensations flooding her. Thank God he was holding her, or she might have melted to an ignoble puddle right then and there.

When he lifted his head for the second time, it was to stare at her with a quizzical expression she had no hope of understanding. But when he smiled at her, it was one of his teasing grins. The one a friend would offer in a mutually uncomfortable situation.

And oh, uncomfortable she was.

“Happy Christmas, Meg,” he said as he let her go.

Her soul wailed as he did, but she steadied herself by leaning against the wall, and trying desperately not to look at him like a mooncalf. “H-happy Christmas, Jonathan,” she murmured.

And then, with another “Good night” to the girls, he made his way to his rooms, without so much as a single glance back.

Clearly the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him.

Meg, however, was devastated.

CHAPTER 5

JONATHAN TRIED to maintain an indifferent demeanor as he walked away from Meg, but damn. That had been the most amazing kiss of his life. It had been all he could do to not lay her down on the carpet and take her there, right in front of his daughters.

Granted, he hadn’t kissed a woman like that for a long while. Since Tessa, probably.

It had been a long time since he’d even wanted to.

Of course, he hadn’t wanted to, this evening. Not particularly. He’d been goaded into it by his children. But now that he had, now that he’d tasted Meg, experienced the soft delight of her mouth… Hell, now it was all he could think about.

She’d always been a friend—a little sister—to him. He hadn’t thought about her in that way, most probably out of respect for his friend George. How had he never noticed how seductive she was? How sweet she smelled? How had he never truly thought about her as a woman?

Well, he was thinking about her as a woman now, that was for certain.

And then, there was the comment she’d made, about being too old to marry him.

What kind of nonsense was that? She was four and twenty. Hardly an old biddy, though she did kind of look old, in that baggy black frock she always wore. And her hair, up like that in a tight bun. Other than that one night when he’d found her with his children, it had been years since he’d seen it down. His fingers itched to—

“Your Grace.”

He stopped short, stunned to find Rodgers standing right before him. If his valet hadn’t spoken, he might have just plowed right into him.

He adjusted his cuffs. “Yes, Rodgers?”

“Two of your guests have arrived.”

“Really?” So early? Jonathan lifted a brow.

“Yes, sir. A Lord Mattingly and Lord St. Clare. They’re waiting for you in the billiard room.”

Ah, excellent. Drinking partners. Just what he needed to smooth off the rough edges his unexpected encounter with Meg had engendered. “Put them in the west wing, please. Near my chambers. I will go and join them now.”

Rodgers bowed and scuttled off to wherever valets went and, with a smile, Jonathan headed for the back of the house where his friends awaited him.

JONATHAN GRINNED as he entered the billiard room to see his friends, and Christian, stripped down to their shirtsleeves, engaged in a game of billiards. They’d been friends since Eton, and he really liked them all. He’d been delighted when Susana and Christian met and hit it off straight away. Also, it was nice to have another man in the family—one closer than Inverness, at least—to back him up against all the females, as it were. Although he’d discovered, if pitted between Jonathan and Susana, Christian always chose Susana.

As it should be, he supposed.

St. Clare was tall and thin with sandy blond hair with a hint of red in the sunshine, and Mattingly was muscular and dark. They both had a wicked sense of humor and shared Jonathan’s political leanings, which was always helpful in a friendship.

When they saw him, they all crowed a greeting and lifted their glasses.

“There he is,” Mattingly said, pouring a glass for Jonathan as well.

“Where’ve you been?” Christian asked.

Jonathan took a sip of excellent brandy. “Tucking the girls into bed,” he said, nipping at his tongue to keep from babbling the other bit. About the surprisingly scorching kiss with Meg.

Now that he was there, the others laid down their cues, and the four of them sat by the fire and got caught up. It hadn’t been long since he’d seen Mattingly and St. Clare in London, but they always seemed to have scintillating stories to tell. Indeed, they had Christian holding his sides in no time as they told a tale of a brawl in Whites last week between Peter Scofield and Reginald Busk over the debatable virtue of a known Cyprian. Love-triangles were always juicy fodder in the ton, and this one, apparently, was delighting gossips all over town. There had even been a threat of a duel.

Sadly, there had not been a duel. At least, not the pistols at dawn variety. But there had been a battle involving a half-full bottle of champagne and a napoleon—the cake, not the emperor.

“It was a damned waste of Chantilly cream, if you ask me,” Mattingly muttered, refilling his glass.

St. Clare nodded. “And champagne.”

Christian chuckled. “An appalling waste.”

“But you should have seen it,” Mattingly said. “Scofield dripping wet.”

“And Busk, sputtering, all covered with cream,” St. Clare added with a snort.

And then the two of them were off again, laughing so uproariously that Jonathan and Christian had to join in, even though they hadn’t seen it.

There were other stories, not as funny, though. The four of them talked and drank—and smoked the occasional cheroot—for several hours. It was quite grand. And a welcome prelude to the party to come, though the party to come would never be so pleasant. Jonathan resolved to savor this moment with his friends, and remember it when he wanted to tear his hair out in the ensuing days.

But then Mattingly went and said something that completely ruined his mood.

“So tell us about this girl.”

A simple question. Surely not one that should cause such an uprising of bile from his gut.

Jonathan sipped his brandy. It tasted bitter. “Girl?”

“You know.” St. Clare slapped him on the shoulder. “The one you mentioned in the invitation.”

Mattingly fixed him with a somber gaze. “We’re both dying to know more about her. Especially if she comes recommended by you.”

“Indeed,” St. Clare said. “I’ve been looking for a wife for months now, and cannot bear any of those flibberty-gibbets the mamas are proffering this season.”

Mattingly grunted. “Mindless twits. Tell me she’s not mindless.”

“No. No, she’s not mindless,” he said, but it was through tight lips.

“Good.” Both of his friends grinned.

“Is she pretty?” St. Clare asked hopefully.

Jonathan shrugged. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like talking Meg up. Not to these two. “She’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Christian blurted. “She’s gorgeous. Beautiful, intelligent eyes, lovely brown hair, and a face like a cameo—”

“Surely not like a cameo,” Jonathan muttered, but no one was listening to him. His friends had turned all their attention to Christian, who continued on, for far too long, singing the praises of Meg Chalmers. Over and over and over again until Jonathan wanted to scream at him to be quiet.

He couldn’t though. Couldn’t say anything.

And the damned irony of the situation was that he was the one who had welcomed these wolves to his door.

Judging from their expressions, they were going to eat Meg alive.

In a good way, of course. In a matrimonial way.

But Jonathan couldn’t still the unease in his belly or silence the howling of his soul at the thought of Meg choosing one of them. Marrying one of them.

Because then he’d have to pretend to be happy for them.

And that was a terrible prospect.

SOMETHING STRANGE and wonderful happened the next day.

Meg fully expected to be awakened early by Beth, the chamber maid. She fully expected to spend the day helping the dowager with last-minute disasters and preparations for their guests.

But no one came to wake her up.

When she finally roused, the sun was high in the sky and Susana was sitting in the chair by the window sipping tea. She shot Meg a brilliant smile.

“Oh dear.” Meg swiped the hair from her eyes. “I’ve overslept.”

Susana laughed, a glorious tinkle. “You deserved it. Besides, Mother wants you to be fresh for tonight.”

“Tonight?” she parroted, though she knew the itinerary quite well. Tonight was the welcome party. For the guests. Of which she was now one, apparently.

“The guests have already started arriving,” Susana said. For some reason there was a frown on her beautiful face.

“Have they?”

“Yes.” A snort.

“Susana, darling, whatever is wrong?” Meg knew she should rise from the bed, but it was so warm and comfortable, she just nestled deeper into the down.

“It’s them.”

“Them?”

“The women Mother has invited. I can only assume they are for Jonathan, but seriously, Cicely Peck?”

Yes, Cicely Peck had been on the list of invitations Meg had written. “Do you not like Cicely Peck?”

“Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. But not the sort I want as a sister-in-law.”

“One cannot always choose one’s in-laws.”

“How true that is. But Cicely?”

“Tell me about her.” She hadn’t been around in Meg’s season. She’d probably still been in leading strings then.

“Well, she’s beautiful.”

Lovely. Meg set her hand to her stomach, which, for some reason, had begun to churn.

“And she’s from a good family.”

“Yes. The Pecks.”

“But she’s…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Reptilian?”

Meg burst out laughing and sat up to eye her friend. “Tell me how you really feel,” she jested.

Susana flushed. “I don’t mean to be petty. There’s just something cold and predatory about her.”

“Jonathan isn’t a fool. He will never choose a woman who isn’t warm and sincere.”

“I know.” Susan sighed. “But women often see things in other women that men miss.”

So true. “Who else is here?”

“The Pickerings arrived early. The Mountbattens and the Evertons right after.” Meg nodded. She remembered those families from her season. “And of course, Jonathan’s friends Mattingly and St. Clare arrived last night.”

“Last night?”

Susana huffed. “Christian was up with them ’til all hours and came to bed sotted with brandy and smelling of cheroots.” She put out a lip. “I made him sleep on the divan.”

“Never say you make your husband sleep on the divan!”

“When he smells of cheroots, I do. I made quite clear this nonsense is not to continue.”

“I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior, now that the party is underway.”

Susana smiled. “Yes. It is. And I cannot wait to get started on you.”

Meg boggled. “On me?”

“Oh yes, darling. Now get up. We have a lot of work to do before tonight!”

HAD she known what Susana had in mind, Meg might have run. Good lord. She’d forgotten how much work it took to prepare for a simple party. There was bathing and powdering and all manner of fiddling with her hair. Susana had brought her hairdresser, but she’d conscripted the dowager’s hairdresser as well because Meg needed to look absolutely perfect.

“Honestly,” she’d complained at one point when one hairdresser tugged her one way and the other another. “I think a simple bun will work.”

They were all—all three of them—horrified.

“A bun will not do,” Susana said. “Companions wear buns. You need an elaborate coif. Remember, you are angling for a high-ranking husband.”

Meg frowned at her. “Am I?”

“Yes. Now hush and let us work.”

Outnumbered, Meg let the possibility of a simple hairdo drop. When they swung her around to face the glass, she was stunned.

It was not Meg Chalmers, companion to the dowager, who looked back. It was some kind of fanciful swan with a long, elegant neck highlighted by an impossibly intricate creation of swirls and curls atop her head.

She stared. “Surely that is not me.”

Susana beamed. “Lovely, isn’t it?” And then, she corrected herself. “Aren’t you? The men will fall at your feet. Oh. Speaking of feet…” She rushed to her dressing room and returned with a pair of blue slippers. “These will match the dress perfectly.”

“Are they yours?”

A twinkle lit her eye. “No. I found them in the attic.”

“In the attic?”

She sobered and fingered the sequins on the shoes. “I think they may have been Tessa’s.”

An ache swelled in her chest. Meg took them reverently and studied them, barely acknowledging the tears in her eyes.

Susana misunderstood her hesitation. “Tessa would want you to wear them.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just… I miss her.”

“We all do. But remember, she’s still with us. In spirit. And Tessa would want you to wear these shoes, dance until your feet ache, and have fun tonight. Don’t you think?”

“Dancing until my feet hurt isn’t all that fun,” she teased with a smile. She could remember that, at least, from her long-ago season.

Susana shot her a grin. “It does depend upon with whom one is dancing.”

Meg chuckled. “I daresay.”

“Come along. Now that your hair is done, let’s get you dressed. I also have some sapphires for you to wear. They will make your eyes shine.”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” It was far too much borrowed finery.

But Susana wouldn’t hear of anything less than perfection.

CHAPTER 6

THE PROBLEM with being the host of a house party was that one had to attend it. Most specifically, one had to attend to the guests.

Normally, this wasn’t something Jonathan was loath to do, but at most of his parties, he invited only his friends.

This was his mother’s party.

She’d invited her friends.

And so, as the festivities began, he stood in the receiving line and greeted Lord and Lady Jersey, Buckingham, George Ponsonby, and Charles Sutton as well as many other faces from the 5th Parliament. It occurred to him that this was very much like being at work. He was surprised when Lord Castlereagh arrived with rival George Canning—he had no idea why Mother had invited them both—she was probably hoping for a sensation which would, at the very least, make for interesting conversation.

When the Pickerings stepped up, with their stunning daughter Glorianna, his mother gave him a nudge with her elbow.

Apparently, this guest had been invited for him.

He bowed over her gloved hand and murmured a welcome. She went pale, then red. Her lips moved but no sound came out.

Her mother nearly had apoplexy. “She’s very pleased to meet you,” she insisted, to which Glorianna nodded.

Pickering chuckled. “A shy one, our girl,” he said, slapping Jonathan on the shoulder. “But very accomplished.”

“Very accomplished,” Lady Pickering agreed. “Wait until you hear her play the pianoforte.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said to his mother. “Is there to be a musicale?” There was hardly any chagrin in his tone. He deplored musicales.

“But of course,” Mother said. “Tomorrow afternoon at two sharp.”

Jonathan nodded. Excellent warning.

Glorianna moved on to greet his mother, and Lady Pickering leaned in and told him how much her daughter loved children and didn’t the duke have two girls?

After the Pickerings came the Mountbattens, and their lovely Louisa. She was pretty and young and certainly not tongue-tied. She loved living in London, she said. Adored dancing and painting and shopping. She also informed him she had an infatuation with hats. Especially hats with ribbons. Weren’t ribbons the most delightful things?

Naturally, he agreed.

But, truth be told, he was happy to move on to the Pecks.

Cicely Peck was beautiful too. His mother certainly hadn’t failed on that account. She also didn’t natter on about ribbons and hats, which was a mercy. She merely smiled at him warmly and said how pleased she was to make his acquaintance. It was a relief to not be fawned over.

Hisdick appeared next, looking slightly uncomfortable in his suit. He’d slicked back his fly-away hair and gone so far as to wear a cravat, which was saying something. Hisdick was never fond of things tied around his neck.

“Hallo,” Jonathan greeted him. “I’m so glad you came.” Hisdick rarely went out—anywhere. He preferred to be closeted somewhere in a dark room with his books and a candle, which was probably why Jonathan had thought of him for Meg. She loved books too.

“Thank you for the invitation.” Hisdick wobbled slightly from side to side, as though the floor were moving. But then, he’d always been more at home on a frigate. Before his appointment to the House of Commons, he’d been a seaman. He’d never been completely comfortable on dry land. “I must say, your home is quite grand.”

“Thank you.”

Hisdick leaned in. “Which one is she?” he asked, eyeing the groupings in the salon.

Something lodged in Jonathan’s throat. “Ahem. She?”

“The woman you mentioned in the letter?”

“Ah. Meg. She’s not come down yet.” Jonathan forced a smile, but it cost him. He needed to remember why this party was being thrown. It was for Meg. To meet a man. Gads, how the thought irked him.

And now, seeing Hisdick here, in this company, a horrifying prospect occurred to him. Surely he hadn’t invited his friend because he wasn’t a handsome, charming, wealthy lord? Because he was a little quirky and something less than a romantic figure? Surely he hadn’t chosen him in the hopes that he would be one fewer man Meg might fancy?

A lowering thought. And one that posed more questions than he was capable of entertaining at the moment.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Hisdick’s gasp forestalled any ethical dilemma he might have been tempted to confront.

He turned and followed his friend’s gaze, and his lungs locked.

A woman stood at the top of the stairs. A vision in blue.

It took him a moment—longer than it should have—to realize it was Meg.

He hadn’t seen her like this, in a fancy dress with her hair done up, since her season. But even then, she hadn’t been so…magnificent. Her stance was regal, her expression serene. She looked like… Well hell, she looked like a duchess.

It poleaxed him.

He barely even noticed Christian and Susana—with a smug smile—on either side of her as she floated down the stairs. His heart thudded, his head went woozy. Something in his breeches tightened.

Good glory, she was exquisite.

Had he really invited men here for her?

What a fool.

Because it was only now that he realized the truth of it.

He wanted her for himself.

“Who is that?” Hisdick asked. “She’s stunning.”

“That is Miss Meg Chalmers,” Mother answered. Jonathan was incapable of speech.

But he was capable of glares. He offered one to Hisdick for asking and one to Mother for answering. They both ignored him. Both entranced by the sight of his Meg coming towards them.

She smiled when she saw him. A warm, bright greeting that made his cockles tingle. He wasn’t sure where cockles were, but he had his suspicions.

“Your Grace.” She gave a curtsey and put her gloved hand in his. He didn’t want to let go.

“Meg,” Mother said with a sigh. “Don’t you look lovely?”

“She does,” Christian said, earning a glare as well. “It was a Susana’s doing,” his friend said when he noticed the frown.

Susana laughed. “Hardly. All I did was loan her a dress.”

“And the sapphires, of course,” Meg said, touching the bluer than blue stones at her throat.

“You look…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Words failed him.

“Doesn’t she though?” Susana said with a smile. “Now come, darling.” She hooked her arm in Meg’s and towed her off into the room, presumably to make introductions. Jonathan didn’t want her to go. He wanted her to stay here by his side. Where she belonged.

But what could he do?

There was propriety to follow after all.

He hated bloody propriety.

Once Meg had arrived, the last thing Jonathan wanted to do was stand in the receiving line, but there was nothing for it. Mother wouldn’t let him leave. Not until all the guests were accounted for.

Was it wrong to be peeved that Mattingly and St. Clare were late?

By the time they came down the stairs, the party was in full swing. It was a small crowd, for a London soiree, but an absolute crush for a house party with over fifty guests. Mother had arranged for a string quartet to play in the niche, and a full buffet featuring her favorite holiday offerings. But Jonathan had no desire to eat.

Once his friends appeared, all he wanted to do was go find Meg. She’d disappeared into the throng.

He worried that she would be out of her depth with the mavens of the ton, and the mothers of the young girls Mother had invited. He hated the thought that she might be uncomfortable, or feel out of place. She hadn’t been to a real party in…

Well, he had no idea.

“So,” Mattingly said, rubbing his hands together. “Where is she?”

The question was beginning to annoy him. “Who?”

“Who?” St. Clare chuckled. “This woman we’ve come all this way to meet. You must introduce us so we can take her measure. Oh, I say, is that Hisdick?”

Mattingly whistled. “And who is that lovely creature with him?”

Jonathan scanned the crowd. His stomach tightened as he spotted Hisdick in a corner, where he was wont to be. But he was sitting with Meg. And she was laughing.

Laughing!

He set his teeth and headed in that direction, ignoring Mattingly and St. Clare as best he could.

As he approached, Meg smiled at him. “Hallo, Your Grace. Is the receiving line finished?”

“Quite finished.” He tried not to snap.

“This is a lovely party,” Hisdick said. Was he aware there was a crumb clinging to his moustache? Probably not. Hisdick never was aware of much.

“What are you two doing?” Surely this was not the accusation it sounded.

“We’re talking,” Meg said with an elated glint in her eye, “About Pride and Prejudice.”

Jonathan frowned at her. “Odd topic.”

She laughed. “It’s a book, silly.”

“By Jane Austen,” Hisdick felt required to add. “It’s a fiction.”

Meg nodded. “But a lovely fiction.”

“Well.” What could he say to that? “I don’t read fiction.”

Hisdick reared back. “Well, you should.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Perhaps when Parliament is out?” Meg suggested.

Unfortunately, Jonathan had no time to respond. Because his erstwhile friends, Mattingly and St. Clare, descended just then.

“I say, Devon. Aren’t you going to introduce us to this lovely vision?”

No.

But hell. Did he have any choice? Begrudgingly, he made the introductions and resolved to stay by her side all night.

What a pity his mother had other ideas. She found him and took his arm and skillfully led him away to a pocket of guests that included Glorianna Pickering. Miraculously, everyone else melted away, leaving the two of them together. Once the girl realized what had happened, she paled.

“I-I. Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Miss Pickering. How are you enjoying the party?”

One would think such a question would not be a stumper. Lovely Miss Pickering’s mouth came open and then didn’t close. But no words came out.

He leaned closer and whispered, “A nod will do.”

Of this, apparently, she was capable.

They stood there in silence and he tried to think of yes or no questions he could ask, but his mind wasn’t working properly. He kept glancing over to where Meg was holding court. Hisdick, Mattingly, and St. Clare had been joined by several other young men—none of whom Jonathan had invited. A prickle ran up his nape. Who were they? What were they saying? And why did she keep laughing, for pity’s sake?

“Your Grace?”

He started.

Lady Pickering had returned, ostensibly to rescue her little lamb from her own shyness. “Did I mention that Glorianna has seven brothers and sisters? All younger.”

“Why no.” He took a sip of his champagne. “You did not.”

“She’s wonderful with them. Aren’t you, dear?”

Miss Pickering nodded.

“She so loves children. I do hope we will meet your girls while we are here. Do you suppose that can be arranged?”

“Most certainly.” Apparently this was good enough for Lady Pickering. She trundled her mute daughter off to the buffet table. Unfortunately, Louisa Mountbatten was right there—courtesy of Mother—to take her place. What followed was a wholly different kind of conversation. One where the woman was not shy in the least and Jonathan found himself unable to get a word in edgewise.

But, with the exception of the occasional grunt or nod, nothing much was required of him, so he let her monologue—about kittens and ribbons and some other such nonsense—trickle over him as he watched the knot in the corner grow.

Was that William Everton?

Bloody hell. Who had invited him? The man was an out and out rake.

He shot a glare at his mother. Unfortunately, she took it as a cue to switch out the damsels, bringing him Cecily Peck and taking away Louisa Mountbatten.

Cecily was an excellent foil to the others. She neither talked too little nor too much, but there was something slightly knowing in her eye. Something the younger girls did not possess.

“What a lovely party,” she said in a dulcet tone, sending him a teasing glance.

“My mother will be thrilled to hear it.”

“I love throwing parties,” she said on a sigh. “Such excitement. Fascinating people.” She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you not enjoy…fascinating people?”

He was sure she was flirting with him, he just wasn’t sure if he cared. “Doesn’t everyone enjoy fascinating people?”

“I met Byron once at a party.”

“Really?” He’d met Byron at White’s, but he didn’t feel the need to mention it.

“You have the look of him.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin as she touched his arm. Stroked it. “Do I?”

“Mmm. Such beautiful brown eyes. And that curl on your forehead. I imagine the ladies swoon if you so much as smile at them.”

He smiled at her then. It wasn’t intended, it just happened. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had someone faint on me.”

She batted her lashes. “More’s the pity.”

“It seems to me it would be awkward,” he had to add. It would be, wouldn’t it?

“Perhaps. Depending on the company.” She laughed, a melodic tinkle. “I hear you have a lovely conservatory here in Sutton. Would you show it to me sometime?”

He nodded. “I would love to.”

“Excellent.” She glanced around the room and leaned in, whispering, “How about now?”

Egads.

He tried not to lurch back, but she was being way too forward for comfort. “Perhaps tomorrow? I do have other guests.” He bowed to her and then turned away, but not before he saw her serene expression curl into something of a snarl.

Glorianna Pickering? Louisa Mountbatten? Cecily Peck? Had Mother deliberately invited the flightiest, most irritating debutantes on the market? Clearly, she had.

He headed for his mother, thinking they needed to have a chat, but he caught a glimpse of Meg’s blue dress out of the corner of his eye. She was on Hisdick’s arm. They were leaving the room.

Alarms blared in his head, and he changed course to follow them.

Unfortunately, the party was a crush, so it took him a while to make it through the crowd and by then, the hallways was empty. With his pulse pounding, he rushed down the hall, madly opening doors.

Ah. He should have known they’d be in the library.

What he hadn’t expected, what he’d never imagined, was that he would find Meg in Hisdick’s arms.

“What on earth is going on here?” he bellowed, much louder than he’d intended.

They both whirled around, and to his ire, Meg laughed. “I wanted to show Richard Jane Austen’s first book and look.” She pointed up to where mistletoe dangled over their heads.

First of all—Richard? They’d just met. How were they already on a first-name basis?

Second of all, blast Mother and her mistletoe.

It was a struggle to batten down his rage. “Hisdick, I need to speak with Meg, if you don’t mind?”

For all his social flaws, Hisdick could take a hint. He nodded and exited the room, even closing the door in his wake.

Once he was gone, Jonathan needed a moment. A moment to control the raging beast within, perhaps.

“What is it, Jonathan?” Meg asked, coming closer and peering up at him like an innocent.

“What is it? What is it?” he sputtered.

“Yes.” He had no idea why she laughed. “Why did you send Hisdick away? We hadn’t even found the book yet.”

“Don’t you know?”

She stared at him. Blinked. “Know what?”

“How dangerous that is?”

“What?”

Honestly? Did she not know? He raked back his hair. “You can’t just leave a party with a man and go into a deserted room with him.”

“Why ever not?”

“You most certainly cannot kiss him.”

“But there was mistletoe.”

“That doesn’t change anything. You could have been compromised.”

“With Hisdick? What nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. Had Lady Jersey, hell, had anyone else come in and seen you kissing Hisdick, you would have been done for.”

Meg put her hands on her hips. Her eyes snapped fire. She was magnificent.

“I did not kiss Hisdick.”

“You were going to.”

“What nonsense.”

“There was mistletoe.” He pointed above his head.

She looked up, then shrugged. “It does not signify.”

“It most certainly does signify.” He had no idea why his anger was rising, but he did have a suspicion that it wasn’t anger at all. It was something more…feral. Something utterly mad.

Without thinking, he yanked her into his arms and took her mouth, covering her, smothering her, tasting that delicious nectar he’d been craving since last night. It was a wild kiss, a devouring kiss, one that shocked him to his core.

Because she kissed him back. Every sort of passion he felt, she gave back.

When it ended, there in the darkened room with no sounds but their ragged breathing, his world was changed.

He knew now, he could never let her go. Knew now that Meg was his.

He leaned back and gored her with a dark, dominant gaze. “I’ve thought about that all day. Wanted that all day,” he said.

She made a show of patting her hair to make sure it was all still in place.

“Well.” Surely his voice didn’t crack. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“What-what could I say?”

He growled at her. “That you wanted it too.”

To his dismay, she turned away. “It was nice—”

“Nice?” A roar. Fury burned through him, and without thinking, he pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again, making sure, this time, it was a damn sight more than nice.

They were deep in it. Mouths melded, souls entwined, when the bark of a laugh came from the door. Horror trickled through him. What had he been thinking, kissing Meg like that, here? Surrounded by the mavens of the ton? He could have ruined her utterly. He whirled around and nearly collapsed in relief when it was just his sister.

“This is becoming something of a habit,” Susana said with a smirk.

“Well, really,” Meg said, once again patting her hair. It was clear she was breathless and there was a rosy tinge on her cheeks. Also, she would not meet his eye.

“What on earth are you thinking, Jonathan?” His sister strode in and tipped up Meg’s chin, checking her face for any evidence of savagery, perhaps.

“I came in here to save her,” he said, not unlike a child caught stealing a cake.

Susana shot him a disbelieving look.

“She was kissing Hisdick,” he insisted.

Meg snorted. “I was not kissing Hisdick.”

Susana sighed. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kiss Hisdick.”

Neither could he, but that was entirely beside the point. “The point is, she was in here, alone with Hisdick. I came in to save her.”

“And somehow she ended up kissing you?” Susana tipped her head to the side.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he sputtered.

“It’s not?” Meg’s voice was wobbly, wan.

Dear God, were those tears in her eyes?

Blast. Women were confounding. “That’s not what I meant, darling—”

“Darling?” Susana tsked. She took Meg by the arm. “We are going back to the party. There are still several men who wanted to talk to you, dear. And you.” She speared Jonathan with a fierce glower. “Get yourself together. You’re supposed to be looking for a wife.”

He was. He’d found her.

But before he could say as much, both Meg and Susana were gone.

He knew he should follow them, knew he should go back to the party, but he just couldn’t. Instead he poured himself a whisky and dropped into the chair by the fire—though the hearth was cold—and glared at the logs.

CHAPTER 7

“WHERE ON EARTH IS JONATHAN?” the dowager asked as Meg and Susana came back into the salon.

“He’s pouting,” Susana said.

“What?” Her tone led one to believe a duke had no business pouting whatsoever. “He has a party to host.”

“Perhaps it’s too much for him.” Susana again.

Meg was glad her friend was on her side, because she wouldn’t want her as a rival.

“Perhaps,” the dowager said. “I’ll have a chat with him. Where is he?”

“The library.”

As the dowager stalked down the hall to find her errant son, Susana pulled Meg aside and checked her hair and dress for rumples. “What was that, dear?” she asked in an undertone, lest anyone else hear.

Meg shook her head. Her body was still quivering to the thrill of Jonathan’s touch, that feral kiss. It was too much to expect her to think. “I don’t know.”

Susana shot her a sideways look. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t know why he kissed me.”

In response, Susana turned her to the glass. “Don’t you? Can’t you see how lovely you are?”

She stared at her reflection. Oh, she looked fine. “I’ll never be as pretty as Tessa.”

“Oh dear. Is that it?” Susana sighed. “I do know how you feel, though. I was certain Christian would fall for her once he met her. She was so beautiful. But darling, Tessa is gone. Jonathan’s not even mourning anymore.”

“I know.” It hardly signified. Tessa has always been the pretty one. Meg had always been the one who tromped through the mud with the boys.

“But that is all beside the point. You are here and you shall have a wonderful time. Come now. Let’s go speak with Everton. Have you met him yet?”

Meg made a face. “He spits when he talks.”

“Oh dear. How about Mattingly?”

Mattingly was nice. Funny. Clever. He just wasn’t Jonathan.

Meg shrugged.

“Surely there is someone you would like to talk to.”

“I enjoyed conversing with Hisdick…” He was extraordinarily well-read and had an excellent grasp of subtext.

“All right.” Susana linked their arms once more and they made their way over to the corner, where Hisdick had once again positioned himself and they had a lovely conversation about authors such as Sarah Burnley, Elizabeth Thomas, and Jane West, though Susana didn’t contribute much. She simply stood guard.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?”

Jonathan winced as he heard his mother enter the room. For a second, he thought to hide his whisky, then reminded himself he was a duke and he could drink whenever he damned well pleased. So he lifted his glass. “I needed a break.”

She sniffed. “Susana suggested perhaps you weren’t up to hosting.”

Susana had the right of it. The last thing he wanted to do right now was host. He wanted to go into the salon, sweep Meg off her feet, and carry her bodily to his chambers.

But he couldn’t. Damn it all anyway.

“You must go back. The card games are about to start.”

He forbore rolling his eyes, but just barely. He might be seated with one of them. “I don’t like to play cards.”

Her snort echoed the room. “You like cards enough when you go to gaming hells.”

“Gaming hells aren’t dangerous.”

“Well, I never. This is a party in your own home. You are not in danger.”

“Ah, but I am.” He refilled his glass. “Did you know Miss Peck suggested I take her to the conservatory? Tonight?”

“I’m sure she didn’t.”

“I’m sure she did.” Also, his mother could not have noticed the deep gouges on his forearm from her talons. “Mother, I appreciate you inviting them all, but…”

“But what?” Her eyes went wide and all innocent-like.

He stared at her for a moment. “You have to know that none of them would suit.”

“None of them would suit?” The fact that she parroted him and batted her lashes while doing it made suspicion bubble within him. Oh, he knew her. He knew her well. He just hadn’t suspected she could be so manipulative.

“But you didn’t want me to settle on one of them, did you?”

Her innocent look intensified. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Jonathan, you are talking in riddles.”

“Am I? Who is the woman you really want me to consider. Just tell me. It will save some time.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She shifted her intense attention to the pleats in her skirt.

“Is it the Malbury girl? What’s her name? Portico?”

“Portia. And no. She’s spotty.”

“Drake’s daughter? Petunia?”

“Priscilla. And no. She’s mannish.”

“All right. Who then?”

The dowager sniffed. “I have no intention of choosing your wife for you, and frankly, I am insulted at the allusion that I do. You’re a grown man and you can choose your own wife. Now, come back to the party. You’re going to play cards and you’re going to like it.”

With a command like that, he could hardly disobey.

But he took his whisky with him.

TRUTH BE TOLD, once the card games started, the party was tolerable. Probably because a lot of the guests left at that time to go to bed. And probably because Jonathan managed to be seated with Mattingly, St. Clare, and Everton. And, as they all knew, Everton was an easy mark.

Pity they weren’t playing for money.

For her part, Meg sat with Susana and Christian and Hisdick. There was far too much laughter coming from that side of the room. It almost ruined his concentration.

But at least, from this vantage point, he could keep his eye on her, and he found, as long as he could keep his eye on her, he could remain calm.

It wasn’t until very late that Meg stood, Susana with her, and said their good nights.

Jonathan wanted, quite desperately, to follow. But he could hardly do that, so he stayed where he was and finished his hand. Christian and Hisdick wandered over to their table and co-opted some empty chairs, and the men—the only ones left in the room—gave up on cards and settled for a nice conversation. With whisky.

Oh, it was all so pleasant.

Until Mattingly said, “I say, Devon. Thank you for inviting me. I can’t tell you how taken I am with Miss Chalmers. Arsy yarsey, head over heels.”

And something bitter shifted in Jonathan’s gut.

“Oh, yes,” St. Clare said, with a glint in his eye. “She is lovely. Her brother was George Chalmers, yes? I remember him from Eton. Good sort.”

His glass was empty. He cast around for a fresh bottle.

“A shame what the new baron did to her,” Mattingly continued. “The least he could have done was see her settled.”

St. Clare grinned. “Not that I’m complaining. She’s here for us now.”

No. No, she wasn’t.

“I plan to ask her for a waltz tomorrow night.”

Mattingly was an annoying arse.

“I will too.” Lovely. Now Hisdick was in the mix.

Christian laughed. “It seems our Meg has some suitors,” he said, gouging Jonathan with an elbow. “No doubt she’ll be affianced by Christmas.”

Where was the whisky? “Stafford! More whisky!”

“I say, Devon, may I have your blessing?”

He stilled and gaped at Mattingly. “What?”

“Well, you’re her guardian, are you not?”

He most definitely was not.

“No, I want your blessing,” St. Clare insisted.

“I’m not giving anyone my blessing,” he snapped. For Christ’s sake, what were they babbling about?

“You have to. He has to, doesn’t he?” St. Clare asked plaintively.

Christian shrugged. “Meg’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

No, she couldn’t. Had they all gone stark raving mad? “Stafford!”

To his surprise, it was not Stafford with a fresh bottle of whisky who appeared at his side. It was Rodgers, with no whisky in evidence. “Your Grace,” his valet said in a dour tone. But then, Rodgers was always dour.

“Yes?”

“May I speak with you?” He shot a glance around the table. “Privately?”

“Of course.” And thank God. Jonathan had had about as much of this as he could take. If one more man asked him to proffer his blessings on a union with Meg, he might just snap.

He nodded to his friends and rose, following Rodgers into the foyer. “What is it?”

“There is, ahem, a problem with your chambers, sir.”

Jonathan frowned. “A problem?”

“Yes, Your Grace, inasmuch as they are not…empty, sir.”

A little flare of excitement rose in his chest. “Is it Meg Chalmers?” Had she somehow gotten the brilliant idea to meet him in his rooms?

Rodgers reared back. His eyes bugged out, making him look a touch like Mawbry. “Good God, no.”

He had no idea why he asked. Clearly he had not been thinking.

“It’s Miss Peck, sir.”

Miss Peck? Holy hell. “Well, what is she doing in there?”

His valet looked discomfited. “Sleeping, sir?”

“Sleeping? In my chambers?”

“Apparently you took too long to come to bed and she nodded off. I went to turn down the bed and it was…occupied. I came to find you at once.”

“Good man.” Jonathan clapped him on the shoulders and made a mental note to give his valet a raise. “But what do we do about this?” He had to ask. He had no earthly clue. One thing was for certain, he wasn’t going to that room tonight.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

“Please do.”

“Shall I inform the dowager?”

“Oh. An excellent suggestion.” Let Mother deal with this. “And can you make up a room next to Christian’s for me?” It wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection.

“At once, sir.”

Rodgers melted away and Jonathan took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose. What had he been thinking, coming to a house party filled to the gills with predators?

The answer was clear.

He had not been. Thinking. Not at all.

It seemed to be an ongoing condition of late.

And it continued when, after a few more drinks with his friends, he trudged up the stairs and had the wild notion of going to Meg’s room to finish their conversation. Before he had a moment to reconsider such insanity, he turned left instead of right at the landing and made for the governess’s chambers.

It was right next to his daughters’ room, poorly sited for a seduction, but they were just going to talk. Right?

He scratched at the door, pulse trilling as he waited for her to answer. It seemed to take forever. Finally, he heard a rustling and soft feminine footsteps nearing the door. His heart thudded in his chest and—

The door opened and a young woman peered out at him through the crack. She wore a mobcap and a lawn nightdress and her eyes widened at the sight of him. She was definitely not Meg.

His mood deflated.

“Your Grace?” she whispered. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah… no. Miss…?”

“Miss Ainsley.” Ah yes. Susana’s bloody governess. Why hadn’t he realized Meg would have changed rooms when a real nanny had arrived? But where would she have gone? Blast it all to hell that his house was so large. He could hardly go scratching at fifty doors looking for her.

Blast and drat.

But Miss Ainsley was staring at him. He had to say something. He certainly couldn’t ask where Meg was sleeping. That wouldn’t be proper in the slightest. “I…ah, was wondering how my daughters are doing.” All right. That would work.

The tension in her face melted away and she smiled. He realized she was quite pretty when she wasn’t horror struck to find a duke at her door in the middle of the night.

“Oh, Your Grace. They are fine. We had our own little party in the nursery tonight. They dressed up and wore tiaras and everything. They do love their tiaras. It’s so nice to have girls for a bit,” she added shyly. “Not that I don’t love the boys, but it’s a whole different thing with girls, you know?”

He nodded though he had no earthly clue. “Very good,” he said in his dukiest voice. “Please know we’d like the children to attend the musicale tomorrow at two.” A brilliant idea, because having his girls there would provide him the opportunity to shield himself from the predators.

Miss Ainsley nodded. “Would you like them to perform?”

A wicked smile curled on his lips. Subject his onerous guests to his daughters’ caterwauling? “Yes, please.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

He nodded to her and turned away, but then had another thought. “And Miss Ainsley?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Let’s have them wear those tiaras, shall we?”

CHAPTER 8

MEG AWOKE WELL RESTED the next morning, which was a minor miracle, because she and Susana had stayed up half the night talking. She was also excited for the day. The dowager had asked her perform at the musicale that afternoon, but she hadn’t decided yet what she might sing. So she was thrilled when Vicca and Lizzie burst into her room and jumped on her bed, announcing they were to sing as well and could they please do a trio?

The girls were followed by Susana, who had a wide smile on her face. “Good morning,” she said as she plopped down on the bed as well. “I suppose you’ve heard the news. The girls are to sing this afternoon.”

“And we’re to wear our tiaras!” Vicca crowed.

Lizzie bounced up and down, chanting, “Tiaras, tiaras, tiaras!”

“How lovely.” Meg sat up and settled against the pillows. “I would love to sing with you.” They did so many times in Devon, though usually not for an audience. “What would you like to sing?”

“Ave Maria,” Lizzie suggested, but Vicca made a face.

“That’s not Christmassy enough.”

“Does it need to be Christmassy?” Susana asked.

The girls stared at her as though she’d sprouted a second nose. Or a third.

“Of course it does,” Vicca said. “But Ave Maria isn’t in English, and the guests might not understand the words.” Meg nodded, though she knew the truth. Vicca simply didn’t care for all the high notes. The minx scrunched up her adorable face and said, “I think we should sing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’.” Yes. Both of them could hit all those notes.

“I like that idea,” Meg said. “Because you two are angels.”

“Mama is an angel,” Vicca corrected her. “We are girls.”

“But we could sing it for Mama,” Lizzie suggested.

Meg nodded, trying to ignore the tears prickling her eyes. “I think that is a wonderful sentiment.” Tessa would love it.

“There we go. It’s decided.” Susana was nothing if not all business. “Now, let’s go practice.”

“Aren’t the boys going to sing too?” Vicca asked, as Susana bundled them out so Meg could dress.

“No one thinks that’s a good idea,” Susan said starchily, and both Vicca and Lizzie chortled. Because everyone knew boys couldn’t sing.

JONATHAN SEARCHED for Meg all morning to no avail. He wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say to her—surely it wasn’t to ask where her room was—but he knew he needed to see her. His desperation was stoked by the fact that Mattingly, St. Clare, and Hisdick were apparently searching for her as well.

They found him in the salon at breakfast and hounded him about how beautiful and charming she was, and how she would make a perfect society wife, until his hair wanted to stand on end.

She was beautiful and charming and would make a perfect society wife. All that was true. What irked him was that he hadn’t been able to stake his claim and his soul howled to think one of them might get to her first and convince her he was the man for her.

He wasn’t. He never would be.

She was his.

If only he could claim her.

To his utter and complete consternation, he didn’t see her again until he wandered into the salon after lunch for the musicale. She stood at the piano, going over music with Susana, but the room was so crowded by then, it would be impossible to have a private conversation.

To make matters worse, Cicely Peck found him and grasped his arm and insisted on sitting with him. Louisa Mountbatten took the seat at his other side.

He felt somewhat like a reluctant kitten being petted by two overzealous girls.

When Meg met his gaze and smiled, he sent her a help me look, but it only made her smile more. Clearly there was no help from that quarter.

Nor was his mother willing to help, when he sent her the same look. Nor his sister.

He was a duke, for Christ’s sake. How was he not in control of the situation?

But he was not. He was forced to sit there in a wholly uncomfortable chair and listen to the musicale. And there was no whisky to be found.

Whose idea had it been to serve lemonade? They should be shot.

Also—he determined moments later when Charlotte Everton sat at the piano—whomever had selected the performers should be shot.

Or perhaps he should be shot. It might save time and misery.

There was one sure thing that could be said about Miss Everton’s playing. She definitely hit the keys. Pity she hit more than Bach had intended. Often, at the same time.

It was an effort not to wince as she butchered one of his favorites.

He clapped when she was done.

Because she was done.

But he shouldn’t have been so happy to see her exit the stage, because Glorianna Pickering was up next with a curious rendition of “When Daisies Pied”. For a girl who was not inclined to speak, she could certainly screech. Her cuckoos were excruciating.

Fortunately, it was a shortish song and over soon.

Which led to Louisa Mountbatten’s harp solo, some obscure baroque piece that, apparently, required an introduction longer than the actual song. When she returned to her seat, she gifted him with a beaming smile. “Quite lovely,” he assured her when she asked.

It probably had been.

At least she’d hit the notes.

Cicely Peck was not to be outdone. After Miss Mountbatten’s apparent triumph—hitting all the notes and all—she sprang to her feet and pushed her way to the piano, where Susana was preparing to play. There was a hushed discussion between them—Jonathan only caught a few words—but the jist of it was Cicely wasn’t on the program, but she insisted on performing anyway. Naturally, Susana being the gentlewoman that she was, only snarled a little bit before giving over.

After which, Miss Peck played the piano and sang a song about the joys of motherhood that Jonathan suspected she’d written herself.

It was a relief when Susana took over when Miss Peck finished, playing a Beethoven sonata—and playing it flawlessly. Though everyone had clapped for everyone, the applause for his sister was infinitely more sincere.

Thank God, it said. Someone who can actually play.

The next act was also the finale. Or, as it was called in the halls of Whites, the Finally.

Jonathan was surprised to see his daughters appear, in lovely dresses—and tiaras. He didn’t know why he was surprised. He’d asked for them to perform. But that had been hours ago. Weeks, if one accounted for the torment of the last few sets.

The crowd oohed and awed and clapped as they took their places, and then Susana began to play. Ah. A Christmas song. How lovely. His girls sang the first verse of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” in a charming soprano, which was delightful.

Granted, they were his daughters. He was supposed to find them delightful, but the audience seemed to agree.

What they didn’t expect—what no one expected—what that they would be joined for the second verse by Meg.

Jonathan had heard Meg sing before. She had a beautiful voice that was rich and full. She sang the second verse by herself and then, the three joined their voices for a three-part harmony that gave him chills.

When the last note faded away, he leaped to his feet and applauded madly, barely aware that everyone else did the same—of course, Cicely Peck waited to see what everyone was doing before she joined in.

“Encore! Encore” Someone shouted. Jonathan suspected it was Hisdick.

Vicca grinned as she and Lizzie bowed. “That’s the only song we practiced,” she said with a cheeky smile.

“But Meg knows more. Sing the Italian one, Meg,” she urged.

Naturally, Meg flushed and shook her head, but the crowd would not let her off the hook.

Silence settled in the crowd, save Cicely’s snort, as Meg prepared.

When she opened her mouth and began to sing—his favorite aria as it happened, “Voi che sapete” from Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, each perfect note wafted through the room like a heavenly air. He sat, spellbound, with the others, as she created magic with her voice in a stunning soprano. As she finished, the room was hushed, then rocked with hurrahs and bravissimos. Everyone rushed her to congratulate her, which was annoying, because he couldn’t reach her.

But his daughters, worming their way through the crowd, found him and hopped on his lap. Together. “Did you like our song, Papa?” Vicca asked.

“It was exquisite,” he said, kissing them both on the forehead. They beamed and his heart warmed.

“Oh,” Cicely said in a syrupy voice at his side. “Are these your daughters?”

“Yes. This is Victoria, and this little darling is Elizabeth.”

“We’re named for queens,” they informed her.

“Isn’t that sweet. How long did you have to practice?”

Lizzie made a face. “All morning.”

Ah. That must be where Meg had been. He should have known.

“Well, your song was lovely,” Louisa put in. “How old are you?”

The girls held up five fingers each.

“That was quite impressive for five.” She was something of a chatterbox, but Jonathan had to admit, Louisa had a more natural way about her with the girls than Cicely, whose demeanor made him wonder if his daughters were sticky. “Shall we go celebrate with lemonade and cakes?” she asked.

The girls looked to him and when he nodded, shouted hurrah!

“Aren’t they darling?” Cicely asked as Louisa led the way to the refreshment table in the corner.

He shrugged, keeping his eye on the trio. “I’m partial. But isn’t Louisa wonderful with them?” He wasn’t sure why he said this, but was glad he had when Cicely gasped, leapt to her feet, and practically ran to catch up.

Excellent.

Time to escape.

He could talk to Meg later, when she wasn’t surrounded by slavering dogs.

Before anyone could intercept him, he slipped out of the salon and made his way to the library, and the waiting decanter of whisky.

He’d definitely earned a drink.

THE LAST THING MEG EXPECTED, after her performance, was to be surrounded by all the guests and be gushed over as she was. It took quite some time to thank them all. Long enough for her to recover from her embarrassment at the fuss they made. When it was over, she was exceedingly warm, thirsty, and tired. Certainly ready to escape, although Hisdick, Mattingly, and St. Clare seemed inclined to follow her wherever she went.

Fortunately, there was one place they could not follow, so she headed to the water closet. She stayed there for a long time, until she was certain they were gone.

When she peeped out to find herself alone, she breathed a sigh of relief and vowed never to sing before a crowd again.

She knew that after the musicale, a tour of the conservatory was planned, so she didn’t head there. Rather she sneaked off to her favorite room in the house, the library.

It was quiet and dark and cool. Exactly what she needed.

Despite the business of the morning and the melee of the musicale, she’d been beset with one single thought.

That kiss from Jonathan.

It had dominated her mind since last night, but she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Jonathan wasn’t the kind of man to run around kissing girls all higgledy-piggledy. In fact, since Tessa, she doubted he’d even looked at another woman. Who would? Tessa had been a diamond of the first water.

But he had kissed her.

It had been the single most thrilling moment of her life.

And the most confusing.

She made her way through the darkened room to the window seat, where she loved to sit and read and, occasionally, look out at the drifts of snow covering the garden. She wondered what the garden might look like in spring, but she knew she would probably never find out. She certainly would never come to Sutton House again. At least, not after Jonathan married.

The thought depressed her.

“That is a fierce frown.”

His voice, in a dark rumble from the king’s chair by the fire, surprised her.

“Jonathan!” She huffed a laugh. “I was just thinking of you.”

Oh dear. Thank heavens he couldn’t see her flush in the shadows.

“Were you?” He stood and made his way over, then sat beside her, which was hardly wise. The window seat was not all that generous. As it was, his thigh touched hers; the propinquity scorched her and she edged away, but he, oblivious followed. “I was just thinking of you.”

His voice was playful and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“What were you thinking about?” Her performance, probably. “Did you like the aria?”

“I loved the aria. It’s my favorite, you know.”

“I didn’t know.” How could she? They’d never discussed the opera.

“Well, it is. And I adored the song you and the girls sang.”

“They are very talented.”

“Like their father, no doubt.” His smile was crooked.

“They sang it for Tessa.”

When she spoke her friend’s name, the mood shifted. It went from playful to sober. “I’m sure she appreciated it. But no. Those were not the things I was thinking of.”

He took her hand. His was warm. His gaze made her tremble.

“What-what were you thinking about?”

“How lovely you are.”

Her breath caught. She brushed back her hair. Swallowed. “I… Thank you.”

“All my friends are besotted, you know.”

“Are they?” She had to smile at that. “They’ve been following me like hungry pups.”

“I imagine they have been. You’ve…really won them over. No doubt a proposal is yours, if you so wish it.”

She quirked her head. “From which one?” Not that it mattered. None of them made her heart patter in the slightest.

He laughed. “All of them, I imagine.”

“Oh. Lovely.”

He leaned closer. Her pulse kicked up. “You don’t sound pleased.”

“Is it so wrong that I don’t want to marry any of them?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t think so,” he shrugged. “You will always have a home here, if you wish.”

Ah. “How kind.”

“Not in the least.” He moved closer. “Do you want to know what else I was thinking of?”

She met his gaze, held it. She thought she knew what he was going to say, and it made her breathless. “Yes.” A peep.

“I was thinking about that kiss last night. Do you remember it?”

She couldn’t hold back a laugh. Did she remember it? “Honestly, Jonathan. How terrible do you think my memory is?”

“So you do remember?”

“Of course I do. It was…”

“What?” He came closer still. His breath caressed her cheek.

“It was wonderful,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.

“I thought it was wonderful too. I’d like to do it again.” Somewhere, in his words, was an inherent question, which was ridiculous. In response, she put her hand to his cheek. His day beard scratched her palm and she loved it. So she stroked.

“Ah,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning in to her touch. “Meg. My Meg.”

The words stunned her—my Meg—but she had no time to react, because he touched his lips to hers, ever so tenderly. She allowed him to kiss her like that for a long time, but when he deepened the kiss, her conscience smote her, and not for the first time.

Gently, slowly, she pulled away. “We shouldn’t.”

His brow furrowed. “Why ever not?”

“Someone might see.”

“I don’t care.”

She frowned at him. “You should. You’re supposed to be here looking for a wife—”

His gaze glinted. “I am.”

“A young wife.”

His frown blossomed into a glower. “You’re younger than me.”

“But your mother has invited the cream of the crop, just for you.”

His snort echoed.

“The cream of the crop? Glorianna Pickering won’t speak, Louisa Mountbatten won’t stop, and Cicely Peck…”

Something in his tone made her wild with curiosity. “What about Cicely Peck?”

“She showed up in my chambers last night.”

Meg’s chin dropped. “She didn’t.”

“She did. Fortunately, I wasn’t there. But Rodgers was. He’s now locking my doors.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Rodgers is the best valet in Christendom.”

“Methinks he deserves a bonus.”

Jonathan grinned. “Methinks I agree. But aside from all that, someone else had caught my eye. Dare I say, my heart?”

She stared at him, her mind in a whirl. There were so many thoughts, she didn’t know where to start. Oh, she was delighted that none of the others interested him, certainly. And she was thrilled beyond bearing that he seemed to be courting her. But something had haunted her for years, and haunted her still.

When he took her hesitation for assent, and moved to kiss her again, she stopped him, but it cost her.

She had to look away. “Tessa was my best friend.” It was terrible to feel guilty for wanting to take her place. It was heart-rending in fact.

“And George was mine.” He turned her to face him. Offered a smile. “I like to think of them in heaven together.”

She had to smile at that.

“I think they would approve of us. Being together. They would approve of our marriage.”

The words shocked her. Our marriage. Something she’d never dreamed could come to be.

He continued, unabated. “Tessa would want you to be a mother to our girls. She wouldn’t want it to be anyone else. Don’t you agree?”

She couldn’t say no. Lying was a sin. “I do love the girls. With all my heart.”

“I know you do.” He took her hands in his, both of them. Enclosed them in the blanket of his warmth. “Do you think you could come to love me too? Some day? I would be honored if you said yes.”

“Love you? Some day?” She knew she was acting like a parrot, but she couldn’t help it. The nonsense he was spouting boggled her brain.

“Is it such a ludicrous idea? I am a duke after all.” His hopeful expression collapsed. It pained her to see.

“Oh, Jonathan,” she sighed. “I don’t care that you’re a duke. I never have.”

“But—”

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Hush, darling. And listen to me.”

He stilled. A smile blossomed on his oh-so-handsome face. “Did you just call me darling?”

“Hush. Darling, I have loved you for years. Since the day you rescued me from that tree. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. You were all scraggles and limbs.”

She frowned at him. “No need to be rude. The point is, I do love you. I always have. I just never thought you would be drawn to someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” He reared back and, to her horror, gave her the old up and down. What did he see, when he looked at her like that? Surely not a face that wasn’t as perfect as Tessa’s. A body that was plumper. Hair that wasn’t that lovely shade of blonde.

“Tessa was beautiful.”

He nodded. “She was. And you are beautiful too.”

It was difficult to hold back her snort. “Not as beautiful as she.”

He gave a small laugh. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you.”

“And how is that?” Was it foolish to ask?

“Perfect. A perfect woman. A perfect wife. A perfect duchess… You’re the one I want, Meg, and, if you are willing, you are the one I shall have.”

And then, perhaps to end the argument, such as it was, he kissed her soundly. And ah, it was glorious. He kissed her and kissed her—and, to be honest, she kissed him—for quite some time. They would probably have continued on forever, except a terrible thought occurred, and Meg had to pull away.

Jonathan studied her expression and his lips took a downturn. “What is it?”

“Oh, Jonathan, dear. What about your mother? She had such hopes that you would land a society bride.”

“You are a society bride,” he growled.

“You know what I mean.”

“My mother has no say in this.”

“But—”

“To hell with my mother!”

“Well really.” An affronted snort came from the door.

They both turned to see the dowager standing there with Susana, Lizzie, and Vicca.

Susana sniffed. “This is becoming a habit,” she said, although she said it with something of a smile.

“What are they doing?” Vicca asked, poking her head around her grandmother.

“I do believe your father is compromising my companion,” the dowager clipped.

Oh dear. Meg leaped to her feet. “It’s not what it seems—”

“Yes,” Jonathan said, standing as well and wrapping his arm around Meg’s waist. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Meg has just accepted my proposal.”

Susana crossed her arms. “Well, that took the two of you long enough.”

“Indeed,” his mother said. And, to Meg’s delight, the dowager came to her with open arms and gave her a lovely hug.

“What does that mean?” Lizzie said with a skeptical look at the lot of them.

Jonathan went down on one knee and pulled his daughters close, so he could look them in the eye. “Meg is to be my wife and, if you’re willing, your mother.”

They both turned to Meg then, and though she was unaccountably nervous, she smiled. “Would you like that?”

The twins exchanged a look and then shrugged. “Of course we like it,” Vicca said.

Lizzie nodded. “We told you days ago you should marry Meg.”

“Weren’t you paying attention?”

Jonathan sighed. “Apparently I wasn’t. I needed to work it out for myself.”

“Well, I am delighted,” the dowager said. “We’ll make an announcement at the ball this evening.”

Susana chuckled. “And ruin Christmas for Cicely Peck.”

The dowager smirked. “An added bonus, but it will do.” She sighed heartily and turned to survey the new family to be. Man, wife, and daughters. Hopefully sons soon enough, judging from the look in Jonathan’s eye. “It makes me supremely happy when my plans play out,” she murmured.

Jonathan smiled. “It was a brilliant plan, throwing a party to find a husband for Meg.”

“Oh?” his mother said cheekily. “Was that my plan?”

“Wasn’t it?”

She shrugged.

His eyes narrowed. “You told me the point of this party was to find a husband for Meg.”

Meg blinked. “You told me the point of this party was to find a bride for Jonathan.”

“Did I?” Was it possible for a woman to flutter her lashes that fervidly and not create a breeze?

“So what was your plan?” Meg had to ask.

But the dowager merely looked at them and smiled. “Let’s just say my plan played out, shall we? And I am so very happy for both of you. Now, let’s get going. We have a betrothal ball to attend.” And with that, she shooed Susana, Lizzie, and Vicca from the room, the last two doing a little jig.

“Your mother is a handful,” Meg said, as Jonathan turned her back into his arms.

“Yes,” he said. “But this time, I couldn’t be more pleased.”

“You know, neither could I.”

And it was true.

“Now, shall we go prepare for our ball?”

She smiled at him. Her heart in her eyes. “Yes. Let’s.”

“But, Meg.” He stopped her and fixed her with a fierce gaze. “You’re not dancing with anyone but me.”

EPILOGUE

SPRING IN SUTTON WAS LOVELY. Meg had known it would be so.

She woke up early on the four-month anniversary of her wedding to find her husband gone and four roses on his pillow. Her heart swelled with love and she sighed. It had been a wonderful four months.

After the house party, the family had decamped to London while the banns were read and enjoyed winter in the city, including the most amazing Frost Fair held right on the frozen-over River Thames. The girls had loved the menageries, skating on the ice, the horse drawn boat, and, of course, the gingerbread. They’d also visited the museums and shops, and she and Jonathan had gone to the opera.

It had, indeed been tedious, except during the arias, but Jonathan’s box had been recessed, so there might have been kissing.

And oh, with the season still in swing, there had been parties. Susana and Christian had led her into the fray, introducing her to all their friends.

Everyone, it seemed, had been delighted to welcome the new Duchess of Devon into the fold. With the possible exception of Cicely Peck, which was no great loss.

They’d even attended another wedding. Of all people, Hisdick and Louisa Mountbatten.

Once the thaw came, they’d discussed returning to Sutton, but hadn’t made any real plans until Meg had started feeling ill in the mornings.

Meg hadn’t realized what that meant, but the dowager had.

She’d packed them all up immediately and trundled them to Sutton, claiming Devon was too far to travel for a woman in her condition.

They’d been here ever since, just the family, enjoying the advent of spring and watching Meg’s belly grow.

The dowager had been pleased with her progress, exclaiming more than once that she was sure it was twins. And she would know, having carried a pair herself. How she knew these were boys, Meg had no clue, but she was happy to play along.

Though in truth, she didn’t care it if was a boy or a girl or one of each.

Just not two of each, please.

Lizzie and Vicca were delighted, of course, to know a sibling, or two, were on order. If the babies were twins, they announced, there would be one for each of them, whereas, if there was only one baby, they’d have to share and they didn’t care to share. Jonathan had told them there would always be more, so there was no need to squabble.

Meg smiled and stretched at the thought of more. She had always wanted lots of children, and Jonathan was more than happy to oblige.

Her stomach grumbled and she sat up in bed—on the off chance it might mean she was about to cast up her accounts. Again. But no. It was real hunger.

At that moment, the door opened on the most beautiful sight. Her handsome husband, with a tray of food.

“Ah, she’s awake,” he said and his comment was followed by squeals of delight as Vicca and Lizzie piled into the room and onto the bed.

“My darlings,” she said, giving each of them a kiss, even as Jonathan implored them to be gentle. He sat the tray on the bed and sat down beside her. Where he belonged.

“You finally woke up,” Lizzie said with a sigh.

“I was tired.”

“Why were you tired?” Vicca asked. “Didn’t you and Papa go to bed early?”

Indeed. They had.

“Perhaps she didn’t sleep well,” Jonathan suggested with a grin.

Meg surveyed her tray, which held eggs, toast points, hot chocolate, and a slice of cake. There was also a small bundle of greenery on the side. She reached for a triangle of toast and gave her husband a smile. “Thank you for the flowers,” she said, nodding to the roses.

“Thank you for last night,” he said, picking up the bundle and showing it to her. Where on earth had he found mistletoe this time of year? She laughed as he held it over her head and kissed her on the nose. Didn’t he know he didn’t need that anymore? He could kiss her anytime he wanted.

“What happened last night?” Lizzie asked.

They exchanged a glance.

“Ah, your mama read me a story.”

It was adorable, how he flushed.

“I did indeed. It was a very nice story.”

Jonathan frowned. “Nice? It was a damned sight more than nice.”

“Yes, dear,” she said patting him on the hand, because it had been.

Vicca put out a lip. “I want to hear the story.”

“Me too.” Lizzie pouted.

And, of course, Jonathan laughed. “You’ll have to wait for that,” he said.

“How long?” the twins chorused.

“Oh years, one hopes,” Jonathan said on a chuckle. “Years and years and years.”

She and Jonathan both fell into peals of laughter, but Vicca and Lizzie weren’t amused in the least. But they didn’t mind so much when their father kissed their mother until she was distracted, and they were able to steal her cake.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Her Royal Hotness, Sabrina York, is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of award-winning hot and humorous romance. Her heroes range from valiant SEALS to sweaty cowboys to hot Highlanders and more. Check out her latest awards for Susana and the Scot including a 2017 RITA nomination and the

2017 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award Winner.

Visit her webpage at www.sabrinayork.com to check out her books, excerpts and tiara giveaways.

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ALSO BY SABRINA YORK

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Noble Passions Series

Dark Fancy, Book 1

Dark Duke, Book 2

Brigand, Book 3

Defiant, Book 4

Folly, Book 5

Untamed Highlanders Series

Hannah and the Highlander, Book 1

Susana and the Scot, Book 2

Lana and the Laird, Book 3

The Highlander is All That, Book 4

What a Highlander’s Got to Do, Book 5

Say Yes to the Scot Anthology

The Dundragon Time Travel Trilogy

Laird of her Heart, Book 1

Her Hot Highlander, Book 2 (Coming Soon)

His Highland Lass, Book 3 (Coming Soon)

Waterloo Heroes

Tarnished Honor, Book 1

Call of the Wild Wind, Book 2

CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

Check out Sabrina’s SEALs, Cowboys and Steamy Romantic Romps on her bookshelf: Sabrinayork.com/books

DUELING WITH THE DUKE

JANUARY

EILEEN DREYER

PREFACE

When Adam Marrick, Duke of Rothray, shows up on Georgie Grace’s doorstep in rural Dorset, she thinks it is to acquaint himself with his cousin James’s widow and child. Instead the duke brings the news that Georgie’s four-year-old daughter Lilly Charlotte, whom James’s family disowned, has inherited a Scottish duchy. Unfortunately, the news has also brought danger to her door.

CHAPTER 1

SHE HAD a face that was completely forgettable. At least that was the way Jamie had described her. A girl you might overlook if you weren’t careful, which Jamie had said would be a shame. After four years, Adam was finally going to be able to judge for himself.

Just as the thought crossed Adam’s mind, the penguin-shaped little butler who had preceded him across the tidy entry hall threw open a set of doors as if invading Windsor and called out, “His Noble!!...er, no. His Gracious!….no, that’s not right either, is it?” His voice weakened with each progressive attempt, ending in a bare whisper. “His high….?”

Which was when Adam fully appreciated how young this butler was, not even to his majority, Adam suspected. The boy was suddenly red-faced and ducking his head. “Ma’am, excuse me. How do you introduce a duke?”

Adam leaned around the young man to discover a small, tidy young woman in a forest green round gown seated at a Sheraton desk, looking as if she was doing sums in an account book. “What, Tom?” she asked without looking up.

“A duke, ma’am. How do I introduce one?”

Muttering under her breath, she scratched something out and checked another page. She still didn’t look up. “You introduce them as His Grace the Duke of Whatever, Tom.”

The boy bowed. “Thank you, ma’am.” Clearing his throat, he straightened so fast it looked like he might crack. Adam fought back a smile. “His Grace, the Duke of Rothray!” the boy all but wailed, his voice breaking right in the middle, which provoked yet another blush.

The noise finally brought the young woman’s head up with a snap. She caught sight of Adam leaning on his cane just beyond her butler, and she gaped. “Good heavens.”

Adam smiled and bowed. “Lady Georgiana, I presume?”

She jumped to her feet and smoothed her skirt, which unfortunately left a smear of ink down the front. She never noticed. She was busy pulling off her spectacles and hiding them behind her skirt, as if it would make them disappear. Adam was finding it harder to maintain his ducal poise. She was blinking at him like a bunny.

“Mrs. Grace, ” she corrected, finally bobbing a curtsy. “Your Grace. Won’t you come in?”

He didn’t want to say the obvious, that he already was in. “Thank you.”

“Er….” she brushed at her chestnut hair, which seemed to be in want of some pins. “Tea? Yes. Tea. Tom, pop off and let Mrs. Cranston know, won’t you?”

The boy bounced a quick bow and left at a clattering run.

“A bit young for a butler, isn’t he?” Adam couldn’t help but ask once the boy had disappeared down the corridor.

“He is. Please accept my apologies for the, er, introduction.” She gave an ineffectual wave after the boy. “The actual butler is up in London with my brother right now, and I thought, well, Tom so wants to be a butler, that I might give him a chance for a bit while things were quiet. We have a program to teach young people from the workhouse, and, well, I never expected the poor boy would have to introduce a duke.”

Adam gave her his best smile. “A laudable act.”

She nodded a time or two, still just standing there, as if she’d never had a duke in her parlor before. Well, Adam thought, she might not have. Still. Her father was a marquess.

He might have to rethink his plan if this visit didn’t improve.

It was almost as if she’d heard him. “Oh!” she said, waving toward the sunflower-colored settee. “I’ve left you standing far too long. Please. Have a seat.”

It was all he could do to keep a straight face. He limped across the small salon, quickly taking it in as he passed. Small, square and cozy, it contained two settees and a few scattered chairs grouped around a fireplace. Considering its dominant color, the room was undoubtedly called either the Yellow Salon or the Lemon Square. At least it was warm, with a bright fire crackling in an Adams fireplace to push out the bitter January cold.

It was a pretty room, situated on the east side of the tidy Queen Anne manor to pick up the warm morning light. He couldn’t, however, call it comfortable. The settee he eased down onto was stiff with the kind of spindly legs that made him worry he would presently be seated on the floor. Mrs. Grace—he couldn’t help thinking of her as Georgie--settled herself on a matching yellow brocade chair.

Jamie had been correct. If Adam had simply seen Jamie’s wife sitting at a desk, he would have walked right by. It was when she moved that she began to make an impression. She had a compelling grace, especially for a small woman. He would have expected her to, well, bounce like a small bird on a fence. She glided as if books rested on her head.