Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Drat him! It was incredibly hard to hate a man whom children and widows adored.

  Which made her wonder—was he doing all this simply to charm her into relinquishing her opposition to the lock and canal? Or was he hoping to get her back into his arms? The past few weeks felt as if he’d set a task for himself to convince her that he wasn’t the enemy after all.

  But with this latest proposal for the mill, he’d proven himself to be nothing more than a wolf in duke’s clothing.

  “You have gone too far,” she declared as she charged into his study. “What kind of scheme are you planning now, Your Grace?”

  He rose slowly from behind his large desk, placing his hands flat on the desktop as he leaned toward her. “A grand one.” When he gestured toward the chair in front of the desk for her to sit, she obstinately remained on her feet. “You’ve read my solution, then.”

  “How is this a solution?” In frustration, she slapped the letter onto the desk. “It’s simply another attempt to close my father’s mill!”

  Which hurt more than she wanted to admit, because she’d hoped that in all the time they’d spent together that he would have realized she and her father had no intention of dropping their opposition to the lock. And that he wasn’t a heartless aristocrat who cared nothing about what happened to them.

  “If I wanted to close your father’s mill, I would have already done so weeks ago and built the lock. There would have been nothing you could have done to stop me.”

  His voice was slow and controlled, but she couldn’t deny the truth behind his words.

  The river ran through Monmouth land. The only reason she’d been able to keep the lock from being built so far was because her father’s mill perched along the river on a freehold, and Parliament wasn’t ready to toss over private landowners for the sake of progress, not even the small ones like her father. But she wouldn’t be able to keep up the opposition for much longer. Samuel Newhouse had told her only days ago that a new act was going before Parliament that would allow the crown to do just that—seize whatever land it liked for canals, as long as the seizure benefited the general population. A new stretch of canals connecting growing factories to the existing network of waterways would do just that.

  “Then why haven’t you?” she forced out through her growing frustration.

  “Because I have no intention of shutting down your father’s mill. What I want to do is move it. Every last board and stone.”

  Her heart jumped into her throat. Something about the way his eyes shined triggered a memory at the back of her mind, yet one that remained in the shadows…

  “I’m proposing a compromise.”

  “This isn’t a compromise.” She tapped an angry finger on the letter from his secretary. He hadn’t even had the decency to bother to write to her himself. “Our mill requires a fast current. There’s no where else along the river that provides that.”

  “There is if we build a sluice for it, to channel the water so that it moves quickly beneath the mill. You’ll have more than enough power to grind flour day and night.”

  “We can never afford that.”

  “I can. Especially if I give you the new plot of land where it will sit.”

  Her heart slammed brutally against her ribs. She didn’t dare hope—“But you want to move it onto Monmouth property. You wrote that in your proposal.”

  “Yes. And closer to the manor house.”

  “Why?” Surely, he wanted the opposite—to put her as far away from him as possible.

  “Because it will make it easier for you to oversee the mill.”

  He’d gone mad. The mill would be further away from the village. “My home is—”

  “Here in Bishopswood Hall.” Electricity pulsed palpably between them as his gaze locked with hers. “Where you’ll be living with me as my duchess.”

  The air knocked from her lungs, and then she did sit. Rather, she collapsed into the chair as her knees buckled beneath her.

  She stared at him, her mouth falling open. This was a joke—he had to be joking…except that it wasn’t a very humorous joke, and his handsome face was serious as he waited for her to reply. To say anything.

  But in her stunned state, she couldn’t find her voice except to squeak out, “Pardon?”

  Not breaking eye contact, he reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a stack of letters, secured with a red ribbon.

  “I should have told you sooner.” He set them on the desk. “As soon as I realized who had been leaving those letters for me.”

  For him? The world fell away beneath her, and her fingers dug into the chair arms to keep from spinning away with it. No. Not him. For John. The man she’d danced with, the man who had made love to her with his words—

  The man who was standing right in front of her.

  “But you’re—you’re—” She choked, her eyes stinging.

  “John Drake,” he replied quietly. “The man who sent you all those letters.”

  She couldn’t look away, couldn’t release the death grip her hands held on the chair. Even now, the floor rose and fell beneath her, stealing her breath and making her heart pound so hard that the rush of blood through her ears was deafening.

  He reached into the drawer again, this time pulling out the white swan mask. “The man you danced with at the masquerade.” Slowly, he circled the desk to stand in front of her. He set the mask on top the letters, taking a brief caress of its satin. “The same man you wanted to spend the evening with.”

  The same man she’d wanted to make love to her.

  Her cheeks flushed at the memory of the things he’d whispered to her, how he’d kissed and caressed her, how she’d reacted—impossible! That was John. He could not have been Monmouth.

  Yet he had her letters, her mask…and the way he’d felt when he’d kissed her as Monmouth had stirred the same delicious sensations she’d felt when she’d been kissed by her masked John.

  He knelt on the floor in front of her and covered her hand with his. Caressing the backs of her fingers until she loosened her grip on the chair arm, he folded her hand in both of his. “You had no idea who I was?”

  “None,” she whispered, then caught her breath when he lifted her hand to kiss it.

  “And if you’d known I was Monmouth?”

  She bit her lip, then honestly whispered, “I never would have left that first letter.”

  He laughed and squeezed her hands, as if she’d said the most perfect thing to him rather than insulting him. “Thank God that you did.” He reached up to cup her face in his palm. “I cannot begin to tell you how much those letters meant to me, that you were sharing your deepest thoughts and secrets with someone you thought was simply an ordinary man, or that you wanted to spend the evening with me. The man I am, not the title that was thrust upon me.”

  “I don’t care about any of that.” She’d meant the words as a scolding, but they emerged as a throaty whisper.

  “I know.” With a smile, he caressed his thumb over her bottom lip and made it shiver. Just as he had the night of the masquerade. “Which is why I love you.”

  Her heart stopped. When it started again, the foolish thing raced with a happiness it had never felt before.

  But her head knew differently.

  “But you don’t. You’re…”

  “The enemy,” he finished for her, his smile fading into a frown. “I’m not your enemy, Cora. What I am is a man who has fallen in over his head and needs you to help rescue him. You’ve seen during the past few weeks what my life as Monmouth is like.” Another caress across her lip. “I cannot do this without you. Beyond that—” He rose up to touch his lips to hers, drawing a surprised inhalation from her. “I simply adore you.”

  He kissed her again, this time so slowly and tenderly that she completely lost her breath. Her hand reached up of its own volition to touch his cheek, to feel his warmth and strength. She closed her eyes and drank in the overwhelming sensation.

  He slid his lips over
her cheek and back to her ear. “Tell me…do you love him, the man who sent those letters? The man who danced with you, who whispered words of love to you in the shadows?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  He shifted back to cup her face in both hands. “Then love me, too.” Her eyes fluttered open, and the expression on his face took her breath away. “Marry me.”

  Oh, how she wanted nothing more! But they weren’t living in a fairytale masquerade, and she sadly shook her head as the hot tears blurred her vision. “I’m a miller’s daughter,” she choked out. “You’re a duke.”

  “I’m also a warehouse owner. Before that I was a builder in construction, and before that, I started as a day laborer, digging ditches.” A stray tear fell down her cheek, and he brushed it gently away with his thumb. “Do you think you could lower yourself enough to marry a ditch digger?”

  He reached into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the ring she’d found in the lane all those weeks ago. The same ring that started it all. But now it had been freshly polished until it gleamed, a portent of a shiny new future for them. Together.

  He slipped it onto her finger. “Cora Bradley, will you marry me?” He raised her hand to his lips to place a kiss to the ring. “Not the duke, but me. The man who loves you.”

  Her heart was so full that she had no idea how it was able to keep beating. But it did, even as another tear slipped free. She rested her hand against his cheek, the ring shining in the sunlight.

  “I wanted him to be you,” she admitted in a trembling whisper, unable to speak louder through the happiness that consumed her. “So much…” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his, sharing her heart’s last secret. “I love you, John. I love you.”

  Then he kissed her, finally giving her the embrace she’d craved since the night of the masquerade—the one from the man whose name she now knew, a name she couldn’t wait to take as her own.

  Two months letter, they went together to the tree and pinned one last note to its trunk. Then she placed the old spoon ring onto the nail, not needing it now that it had been replaced just that morning by a gold wedding band.

  To whomever comes across this note…We found this ring on the path, and then we found love. We dearly wish the same for you. Give it to the one you love, and let love open your hearts to a lifetime of possibilities. Together.

  Author’s Note

  As you probably realized, this novella is a Georgian adaptation of You’ve Got Mail, starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, which was itself a late 20th century retelling of a by-then familiar story. Two people expressing their love through their letters is a story for the ages, to my knowledge stretching back to Eloise and Abelard in the 12th century. A modern twist on the old story turned the two lovers into rivals. This was the version presented by Hungarian playwright Miklós László, whose 1937 play, Parfumerie, was the inspiration for the 1940 movie starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan, The Shop Around the Corner. In 1949, the play was turned into a movie musical, In the Good Old Summertime, starring Judy Garland and Van Johnson, and later into the Broadway musical, She Loves Me, in 1963, and finally into You’ve Got Mail in 1998.

  No matter the time period or location, whether 1990s New York, 1930s Budapest, or 1800’s England, the essential lesson remains—the heart knows that the heart wants, and sometimes we only need to step out of its way to let love come.

  Hello, my dear reader!

  * * *

  I hope you enjoyed spending time with Cora and John, because I had such a fun time writing their story. The hardest part? Figuring out how to turn the equivalent of modern-day emails into early 19th century anonymous notes. But I think it all worked out just lovely, don’t you?

  If you enjoy romances with hidden identities, you might enjoy the most recent books in my award-winning Capturing the Carlisles series. The Carlisle cousins are caught up in a web of treachery and treason in HOW THE EARL ENTICES, and the only person who can save them is a dead woman. And in WHAT A LORD WANTS, Evelyn Winslow’s need for adventure puts her into scandal—and into the arms of a notorious Italian painter, only to discover that he isn’t at all as he seems.

  Society balls, dashing men, adventurous heroines, treachery at nearly every turn, spicy sex, and a spot of tea…what more could you want in a Regency romance?

  * * *

  Happy reading!

  ♥ Anna Harrington

  * * *

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  MUST LOVE DUKE

  November

  Heather Snow

  Preface

  Lady Emmaline Paulson is destined to land a duke—at least that has been the expectation since she was a cherub faced babe. But she has no wish to live her life in a gilded cage, always on display. Besides, she already has her Duke—an adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel pup she rescued from the Serpentine with the help of a handsome stranger.

  * * *

  Maxwell Granville, heir to the Duke of Albemarle, wasn’t fishing for love—or fair maidens trying to save drowning puppies—that November afternoon. But that’s precisely what he found, IF he can convince Emmaline that her Duke isn’t the only duke she wants in her life...

  Chapter 1

  November 1835, London

  Sharp honking squawks, followed by the angry flapping of wings, broke through the early morning stillness of Hyde Park.

  Lady Emmaline Paulson ignored the blustering geese. The large birds often haunted the banks of the Serpentine, as much a part of the park as the multi-arched bridge that separated the lake from the long water. She was much too caught up in her own pressing worries to pay them mind anyway.

  Until a peal of panicked barking joined the cacophony, only to end in an abrupt splash.

  Emmaline’s head jerked toward the sound, but from her position on the bridge, all she could see was the shimmer of the water between the stone balusturs on the other side. She rushed to the railing and peered over the edge.

  An enormous white goose stood agitatedly soothing her ruffled feathers, as her partner strode along the high bank, posturing in satisfaction at having defended his lady.

  Emmaline scanned the surface of the water, searching for the dog she suspected the gander had chased into the lake.

  And indeed, a small white and chestnut head bobbed precariously, the pup’s fur plastered to its skin. Its long ears disappeared beneath the blue-brown water as it tried to paddle toward the bank.

  “Poor thing,” Emmaline murmured as she watched its progress. Though many common Londoners actually bathed in the Serpentine on hot summer days, this was November. The unfortunate pup was going to be quite cold when it pulled itself from the water.

  If it got the chance to pull itself from the water, that was.

  For as the dog got close to the bank, the gander kicked up a veritable fuss, extending its wings and snapping its beak in a fit of feathery aggression.

  The pup whimpered and changed course, trying to find another spot farther down where it might escape the chilly lake. But the goose gave it no quarter, running the shore line and threatening the poor dog any time it got near.

  “There now, you great bully!” Emmaline shouted, hoping her voice carried across the water and startled the gander enough to give the pup a fighting chance. But the goose ignored her.

  She pushed away from the stone railing and ran the rest of the way across the bridge. Emmaline’s cloak billowed behind her as her long legs ate up the distance, leaving her shorter, slower maid to follow in her wake.

  Making the turn at the end of the bridge, Emmaline picked her way down to the shore. A quick check told her that the geese and the pup were farther down the lake now, moving to an even higher bank where the dog would have no chance of pulling itself out. “Vicious birds,” she grumbled as she hurri
ed faster.

  As she drew near, Emmaline waved her arms wildly. “Leave him be!” she commanded the gander in her sharpest tones. She hoped to goodness the damp weather and earliness of the hour had kept everyone else away from the park this morning, or she’d have some explaining to do as to why the Earl of Montgomery’s youngest daughter was charging geese along the Serpentine, all whilst yelling like a fishwife.

  Finally, the birds noticed her, honking in alarm and scattering in a flurry of flaps and feathers. Satisfaction flared, but only for a moment because as she tried to stop, her boots skidded on the dewy grass (and something she quite feared was goose dung) and she was sent flailing toward the land’s edge.

  “No, no, no, no!” she cried as she neared the drop. A dousing in the lake wouldn’t make this already rotten morning any better. Her hands flew out in front of her, as if they could shove against air to keep her upright, but Emmaline knew it was no use as her momentum tipped her forward. She scrunched up her face against the inevitable shock of frigid water.

  And was yanked from behind with a sudden jerk.

  “I’ve got you.”