A Forbidden Waltz with the Dashing Duke
A Historical Regency Romance Novel
Hazel Linwood
Contents
A Lovely Gift From Me to You
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: The Enigmatic Lady in the Ivory Tower
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Also by Hazel Linwood
About the Author
A Lovely Gift From Me to You
I am so grateful that you have joined me on this journey of mine. Having you beside me is a dream come true for me!
In a way for me to thank you for your support, I am offering you a free book. The Awakening of the Lost Baroness will be available in a few weeks time but only to people who have downloaded one of my books will be able to get it!
You can get your free copy by clicking the image below or this link here…and you’ll be the first to get notified when my book is out!
Thank you for being by my side!
Hazel Linwood
About the Book
Love me the way you did once upon a dream…
Lady Rowena Burton is so dutiful, she doesn’t even bat an eye when her father announces her betrothal to a stranger. But her days as an obedient daughter come to an end the moment she meets an extraordinary Duke.
A business meeting takes a turn when newly appointed Duke of Westmond, Christopher Newmont, casts his eyes upon a lady’s portrait in her father’s study. The only problem? She is already betrothed to someone else.
After Rowena’s father rejects Christopher’s marriage offer, they are left with only one choice: escape to Gretna Green. But when Rowena is mysteriously abducted, Christopher sees their future burn in the worst fire London has ever seen...
Chapter 1
Christopher shifted in the uncomfortable hard wooden chair, trying to find a position that would not leave him utterly stiff.
By Jove, this is worse than the seats at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. At least I have a cushion there. How did Father manage to get through thirty years of this?
As if he’d read his mind, his uncle, Nestor Hicks, the Earl of Totham, leaned over toward him. “Getting stiff already? Wait until you reach my age.”
Christopher nodded with his chin toward the speaker. “He has been up there for three hours, talking. How much longer are we expected to sit through this?”
His uncle chuckled. “However long it takes. Lord Westchester once spoke for near six hours. I would have paid a pot of gold to have gotten out of having to sit through that one. You gather my meaning, eh, wot?” he laughed quietly once more.
Christopher had always liked his Uncle Nestor, brother of his late mother. He had to admit he found it a great relief to have an instant ally in the House of Lords, where he did not know many of his fellows. He glanced around the gallery at the many empty seats. There were no more than thirty or forty lords in attendance and all of them appeared to be rather on the old side.
Following his gaze, his uncle cleared his throat.
“Shameful, it is really. All these empty seats. It’s the Season, and we should have a full house each evening. Yet our fellow lords would rather shirk their duty to sit at White’s drinking and placing wagers.”
“I must say, having sat through that,” he nodded at the speaker who stood between the two sets. “I do not blame them.”
His uncle sighed. “Which makes me even prouder that you are here, doing your duty. Your Father would be ever so pleased.”
The mention of his father stirred something inside of Christopher. His father had passed away almost six months ago. He looked around the great chamber and tried to imagine his father sitting where he was now, listening to one speaker or another making their point and then heading down to White’s with Uncle Nestor or one of his fellow lords.
The thought made Christopher smile. It felt good to think of his father as the healthy man he had once been.
How I wish I had known him better when he was well. I should have spent more time with him when I had the chance.
He sighed and felt his uncle place one wrinkled hand upon his forearm. He patted the older man’s hand and they exchanged a nod, each knowing what the other was thinking.
Once, when Christopher was just a young boy, his father had been one of the most respected Peers in the Realm. The title of Duke of Westmond had inspired fear and loyalty in the heart of his subjects and trust and reverence in the minds of his fellow lords, as well as the Regent. His power and influence had reached far and wide.
But then disease had struck him and the once strong, fear-inducing man had withered away over several painful years. The disease had robbed him in a few short years of not just his health and vigor, but also of his position at Court as well as much of his wealth.
Christopher blamed himself. He’d trusted Horton, their steward, the run the estate while their father sought treatment after treatment, never realizing Horton was lining his own pockets while bleeding the Westmond estate dry.
Between the steward’s stealing and the expense of the physicians who were summoned from far and away, they had soon found themselves almost on the rocks financially. By the time Christopher had taken control of the estate, they were almost bankrupt.
No matter, I shall rebuild it all. I shall ensure that the Westmond name will once again be respected and I shall reclaim my Father’s position at Court.
The desire to rebuild the respect and wealth he felt he was owed to his family, was his main reason for sitting through these tedious proceedings day after day. He had arrived in London after the Easter break and had attended Parliament each day with his uncle, who made introductions he thought beneficial for Christopher.
The speaker at the podium had at last concluded his speech, causing even his uncle, a passionate Parliamentarian, to exhale with great relief.
“At last. Now, come quickly, Christopher. I would like to introduce you to another of my fellow lords.”
His uncle got up and made his way down the aisle, toward the Prince’s Chamber where the lords often gathered before and after the sessions. He was surprised at how spry his uncle was when he wanted to be.
Christopher struggled to follow him and when he finally managed to catch up, his uncle had already struck up a conversation with two men, both of whom appeared to be in the same age range as his uncle.
“Ah, very well. Here he is now. This is my nephew, Christopher Newmont, the Duke of Westmond. Lord Westmond, this is William Lornsdale, Viscount Havers, and Peter St. Clair, Baron Strygar.”
A Viscount and a Baron. And I have never heard of either. I wish Uncle Nestor would introduce me to some more influential types.
Hiding his disappointment, Christopher gre
eted his fellow lords with a nod of the head.
“My, I’ll be darned. You look just like your Father when he was your age. Same striking blue eyes. Your Father could instill the fear of God in anyone with those eyes,” Viscount Havers said with a chuckle.
“Indeed, it is true. Quite the force, your Father was, My Lord. I expect you’ve inherited his spirit as well as his eyes,” Baron Strygar added.
“He certainly has. The new Duke of Westmond shall be a force to be reckoned with, I declare,” his uncle said with a certainty in his voice that made Christopher break into a grin.
“I shall hope so.”
While the older men continued their conversation, Christopher felt himself momentarily distracted by activity at the other end of the room. He glanced over and saw two younger men squabbling.
“I was counting on you,” the taller fellow said. He was broad shouldered and had dark hair which hung down just past his chin. He was glowering at another man, shorter and with shaggy-blond hair. The taller man was presently jabbing his index finger into the shorter man’s chest, clearly displeased about something.
He appeared to notice Christopher’s glance for he turned his head and tilted his head.
“What?” he barked, his voice deep and full of anger.
Christopher raised both his hands and shook his head, looking away.
“That’s Lord Thornmouth,” his uncle explained. “Don’t mind him. He’s in a bit of a mood. He’d been trying to get the Lord High Chancellor to do something about unemployment out in Cambridgeshire and his pleas have fallen on deaf ears. Not something he’s used to.”
“He’s used to getting his way, Thornmouth is, eh, wot?” the Baron said, nodding toward the young man.
“Who is the other man?” Christopher asked, glancing back. The quarrel between the two men appeared to have slowed somewhat and they were now standing and talking with their voices lowered.
“Lord Lounds, Viscount from Cambridgeshire, like Thornmouth. He was to back him up but then changed his mind.”
Christopher licked his lips. It appeared this young man, who could not possibly be much older than him, was a rising star in the House of Lords. He scratched his chin and made a note of the name. Perhaps he could find a way to make his acquaintance. These were exactly the kind of people he needed to know to rise among the peerage once more.
Christopher bided his time and engaged in small talk with his uncle’s friends, having determined that the elderly Viscount and the even older Baron were most certainly not going to be among those who would help him restore the Dukedom of Westmond to its former glory. No. If he wanted to reclaim what was once his, he’d have to find another way. He glanced behind him to where the young Lord Thornmouth and his companion were just departing. He pursed his lips, deep in thought.
After what seemed an eternity, his uncle declared himself tired and in need of a rest, giving Christopher the chance to excuse himself and make his way toward his carriage. He was due to meet with his brother, Henry, for supper and his stomach was already grumbling.
“Home, My Lord?” the coachman asked as he opened the door. Climbing inside, Christopher felt a tug in his heart.
“To my uncle’s home. Yes, Thorpe,” he replied and sat leaned against the cushioned backrest. They no longer owned a home in the city. Their beautiful home in London, Havisham House, was among the properties that had been sold in order to pay off the enormous debt his father had left behind. Due to his illness and the shady business of his estate steward, Christopher had spent the first few months of his Dukedom trying to right the sinking ship. He was on the right path. Alas, some of the actions that had to be taken had been painful. The sale of Havisham House among them.
He’d loved the London house. Located in Westminster it overlooked St. James’s Park and featured one of the largest ballrooms in the entire city. His mother had loved hosting balls there when he was still a young child, long before consumption had taken her.
I shall get it back. I shall. It is one of the first things I will do.
These days, whenever they were in London, they stayed with his uncle at his modest Mayfair home.
He glanced outside at the streets which were lit by newly installed streetlights. Few people were about at this hour. He leaned his head against the window and watched as the houses passed, letting his thoughts wander. Even though he was not a keen rider, he always found the sound of trotting horses soothing, and tonight was no difference.
The carriage was just making its way past Green Park and turned onto Half Moon Street when Christopher spotted a commotion up ahead. In the dim light of the street, he saw two masked men dragging a third off his horse. He squinted and recognized that the man being pulled of his horse was a messenger.
“Thorpe, stop the carriage!”
The vehicle came to a stop and Christopher jumped out, rushing toward the men.
“Stop, you rogues.” The two men briefly looked up and then one rose to his full height, which was still somewhat shorter than Christopher who’d inherited his father’s tall statue.
“Walk away, Me Lord. This don’t concern ya at all.”
Christopher glanced down at the messenger whose nose was already bleeding and whose expression was one of fear.
“Please, My Lord. Help,” the man begged.
“I order the two of you walk away and leave the man be.”
“Do you order that now?” the masked man asked. “And on whose authority?”
Christopher grinned and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“On mine. I am Christopher Newmont, Duke of Westmond. And I order you to let up. Now.”
The masked man turned to his companion who was still holding down the terrified messenger.
“Do you hear that? The Duke of Westmond is ordering us to let the man go. What do you say? Shall we?”
His companion appeared to ponder the question for a moment and Christopher felt quite certain that the two would do as he’d asked. He was, after all, a Peer of the Realm. Alas, he was quite mistaken.
“Nah,” the second man said and suddenly Christopher felt himself being grabbed by his long hair and pushed onto the ground. It was only due to the utterly surprising attack that Christopher found himself at a disadvantage. He was no stranger to fights and always came out victorious. This time, however, he found himself on the ground.
From the corner of his eye he saw Thorpe rushing to his aid, only to be tackled by the second man, who’d let go of the messenger. To his horror, rather than help them, the messenger mounted his horse and rode into the night.
The tall man straddled Christopher’s chest and wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing hard. Gasping for air, Christopher saw flashing images appear before his eyes. His mother, young and beautiful. His father, strong and in his prime. He and his brother with their parents on a summer’s day. He, Christopher, the spitting image of his tall, dark haired and blue-eyed father and Henry, so like their mother. The images flickered as he struggled to breath.
This cannot be the end. No. I will not allow it. I have never lost a fight and I shall not start now.
Christopher knew he only had seconds left to act, seconds to save himself, and by the looks of it, Thorpe, who was now knocked out on the ground, was taking a beating from the second man. Christopher closed his eyes and gathered all of his strength. With one deep breath he curled his hand into a fist and a moment later, swung his arm forward.
Chapter 2
Rowena made her way down the grand staircase, running her hand along the beautifully carved wooden handrail. She crossed the foyer, passing Mrs. Wooster, their housekeeper, on the way. Mrs. Wooster was carrying a bundle of freshly cut flowers in her sturdy arms and smiled as she passed.
“Lady Rowena, don’t you look lovely today. Is that one of the new dresses Her Ladyship sent from Paris?”
“It is indeed,” she pulled the delicate silk fabric to the side and gave a little twirl, making the old woman chuckle.
“Utterly darling, I declare.”
“I was meant to save all the new dresses for when we go to London next week, but I couldn’t resist. And Mama is in London already with Margaret, so she won’t find out.” She paused and tilted her head to one side.
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