A RECKLESS IMPULSE
The low light made the tears in her eyes glisten. She rushed to wipe them.
He took her hands in his so she would not work so hard at being brave. “Weep if you need to. No one will think the less of you.”
She let him support her while she gave in and the tears flowed.
It was sympathy that led him to press a soft kiss to her crown, but more than that stirred in him when he did it. She did not seem to notice.
The tears tapered off but she remained against him, sighing out their remnants. He should release her now, set her away. He didn’t, but instead submitted to the reckless impulse to hold her longer.
She stirred, as if wakening from a dream or a daze. She looked up at him. Her eyes still glistened and her face appeared luminous in the dusk. Not thinking or caring about consequences, he did what he should not do. He kissed her.
Praise for A Devil of a Duke
“Rich with scandal and sensuality, Hunter’s second Decadent Dukes Society Regency (after The Most Dangerous Duke in London) features a fabulous heroine, a secretary with a criminal secret who falls for a man far above her station . . . Scintillating love scenes are plentiful in this page-turning tale, which is enhanced by a cast of memorable characters and smart, witty protagonists.”
—Publishers Weekly, STARRED REVIEW
“Readers who crave historical romances served up with a surfeit of searing sensuality and plenty of sharply nuanced characters will snap up this sterling addition to Hunter’s Decadent Dukes Society series.”
—Booklist
“With a delectable blend of clever ripostes, scorching sensuality, and masterly plotting, Hunter’s latest sees the most infamous of the Decadent Dukes fall head over heels.”
—Library Journal
“Another passionate, adventurous, captivating romance from a grand mistress of the genre. Hunter combines a heated love story with a feminist vibe with a dangerous mission led by unconventional characters. Thanks to the snappy dialogue, readers will find the pace never slows as they try and keep up with a bold thief and a devilish duke engaged in a subtle game of seduction. Readers will adore the smart characters who actually talk to one another as they set aside foolish misunderstandings in favor of communication.”
—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick
Praise for The Most Dangerous Duke in London
“The writing is lively and the characters fun, and the duke’s cronies promise to make good heroes in future books. A thoroughly enjoyable read.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Hunter has created an intelligent, fast-paced romance, chock-full of sensuality and spiced with mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Decadent Dukes Society are just what Hunter fans crave: gorgeous, sexy, scandalous men who are about to meet extraordinary women. Hunter merges passion with vengeance, and pride with romance, in this perfectly balanced love story. As always, the wonderful, witty prose and unforgettable characters enhance the intricate plot, and there is no doubt readers will be captivated.”
—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick
“The first in Hunter’s seductive new Decadent Dukes Society series is an elegantly written story with richly nuanced characters and a surfeit of intoxicating sensuality that will have fans of soigné Regency-set romances sighing happily with satisfaction.”
—Booklist
“This is a historical romance to savor, and readers will root for the pair of lovers and the justice they seek.”
—BookPage, Top Pick
Books by Madeline Hunter
The Most Dangerous Duke in London
A Devil of a Duke
Never Deny a Duke
Never Deny A DUKE
MADELINE HUNTER
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
A RECKLESS IMPULSE
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Seduction on a Snowy Night
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Madeline Hunter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4394-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4395-9 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4201-4395-6 (eBook)
This book is dedicated to the loving memory of
Warren Archer (1946–2018),
my husband,
my best friend,
and my hero
Chapter One
Davina touched the crown of her bonnet to make sure it was still angled correctly. She smoothed the leather of her gloves. The anteroom in which she sat held two other people, both gentlemen from their bearings and garments. She assumed she would have to wait for them to be seen first.
The summons had arrived three days ago, impressive in its cream laid paper, exquisite penmanship and crested wax seal. It instructed her to arrive at St. James’s Palace at one o’clock today, and to give the summons to a page at the door of the Tapestry room. That young man had brought her to this chamber to wait.
What a commotion that letter had caused. Mr. Hume, her employer, had insisted on reading it, then demanded her attention for almost an hour while he instructed her on how to behave, what to say, what not to say, and how to subtly make threats without doing so outright. She hoped she would be spared the last. On her lap she had the letter her grandfather had received from Court. Surely once it was seen all would be rectified.
She fingered the other paper she carried, the one in her father’s hand where he explained all he knew about the legacy. He had given it to her when he became ill with the malady that would kill him. I am entrusting all this to you, for what good it will do. Still, you’ve a right to know. She wished she had him beside her now. His quiet, steady manner had always given her confidence.
A different page appeared in
the chamber. He approached her. The two gentlemen did not take that well. Their glares followed her while the page escorted her out.
She was almost never nervous, but her stomach churned now. Still, she needed to keep her wits about her if she were going to speak to the king.
The page brought her to an office not far from the anteroom. A man greeted her and bade her sit on the blue-silk upholstered chair near the large window. He then sat nearby in a wooden chair that kept his posture very straight.
“I am pleased to meet you, Miss MacCallum. I am Jonathan Haversham. I am of the Household.”
He meant the king’s household, of course. Perhaps he was an important functionary in it. Maybe not. For all she knew Mr. Haversham was nothing more than a very old page. He certainly wasn’t a young one. He looked to be about fifty, his gray hair had turned sparse on the sides and absent on the top. Lean and angular, his heavy-lidded dark eyes and wide, flaccid mouth gave the impression he resented having to deal with her.
“Your petition for an audience was received,” he said.
“I have sent others.”
“I am aware of that. I am sure you can imagine how busy His Majesty is. He is not indifferent to the concerns of his subjects, however, so he has asked me to speak with you.”
So she would not see the king. At least she was being seen by someone, however. “As I explained in each of my letters, I have evidence that my great-grandfather’s estate was taken by the Crown after he died. I know that in many such cases the property was later returned to the family. I have a letter from the king’s father that he would do the same for us.” She handed over an old folded parchment. “The king himself told me when he was in Edinburgh that he would address the matter.”
Mr. Haversham perused the letter. “What makes you think your grandfather was the heir to these properties?”
“He told my father that he was, before he died.”
Mr. Haversham smiled slightly. “There have been errors on such matters.”
“The last king did not think so.” She gestured to the letter he still held.
“The last king was at times confused.” He looked down at the letter. She wondered if he wanted to claim it was a forgery. That would be hard to do, because it bore a seal. “Do you have whatever proof was sent to the palace, to convince the last king of your grandfather’s claim?”
“I assume it was kept by the king.”
“We have found no evidence of it.”
Her heart sank. She could not guarantee there ever had been evidence, so she could hardly now demand they find it.
“The king, this king, the living one, told me personally that he would look into this and deal with it. He was in Edinburgh and I had an audience. You were not there, but I am sure he remembers and, if not, there were others like you present who certainly do. The man who obtained the audience for me does.” I have proof of this at least, so don’t try to put me off.
His lips thinned and folded like a frog’s. “No one questions that meeting, Miss MacCallum. We will indeed look into it. We have already begun. Hence my comment about the proof. It will be needed. Kings do not hand over land to claimants merely on their say-so. As for this,” he waved the letter that he still held. “It will figure in the final determination of what to do once that proof is found.”
She took the opportunity on one wave to snatch it away. “I will hold it, if you do not mind. I would not want it to be lost and I am sure you have thousands of letters here.”
“Of course. As you wish.” He glanced at the letter greedily.
“I will also endeavor to provide yet more proof, to support that which was sent all those years ago,” she said. “I am determined to settle this.”
“As are we, I assure you.” He stood and offered his hand to help her up. “You will give His Majesty’s regards to the duchess, I hope. He was delighted to receive her letter.”
Davina doubted that. However, that letter was probably why she had been received by anyone at all. If not for the Duchess of Stratton, this entire journey to London would have been a waste of time.
Again a page escorted her through corridors and chambers until he deposited her in the drawing room.
No one took note of her. A few glances came her way but immediately moved on. Too unfashionable to be important, those fluttering lids said. She didn’t care. She had not come here to impress anyone with her style and wit. She had come for justice, for herself, her father, and the grandfather she had never met.
Her mind returned to her meeting. She picked through the memory, seeking evidence it had gone better than her dampened mood believed. As she did so, the door to which she walked opened and a man entered.
She halted in her tracks. Considering what had just transpired with Mr. Haversham, this man’s presence only increased her consternation.
He entered like he had been here a hundred times before, which he probably had. No need for him to gawk at the large chamber’s appointments the way she did.
He made his presence known through no effort or intention. Everyone noticed him arrive. Some ladies repositioned themselves so they might catch his eye.
He stood taller than anyone else and his bearing insinuated a man who did not bend easily. His vague smile implied tolerance more than friendliness. His handsome, chiseled face, with its straight nose and square jaw, reflected the Germanic blood brought into the family line by a great-grandmother. His eyes, more a dark gray than blue, created a steely gaze that shot through all that it saw.
Eric Marshall, the Duke of Brentworth. The most ducal duke, he was called.
Davina had been introduced to him several days ago, at a party to celebrate the Duchess of Stratton finally taking credit as the patroness of Parnassus, a woman’s journal of increasing renown. Davina had been invited because she contributed essays to the journal. That was the only reason she knew the duchess, or any of the other ladies present. Almost everyone in attendance far surpassed her in social standing.
The duke had condescended to have some conversation with her at that party. She had held her own, using the opportunity to take his measure. One should do that with a person who might be an enemy. Of course, she had known when they met that she would have this meeting today, and had anticipated a much more favorable outcome then. A summons from the king gave one a lot of confidence when meeting a duke.
She had no interest in conversing with the duke today. She averted her gaze, and aimed through the chamber, turning her thoughts again to the potentially insurmountable problem of finding more evidence to support her petition about her legacy.
* * *
It was rare for Brentworth to receive a summons to Court. Granted, it had not been a true summons. More of an invitation, to the extent that kings ever invite instead of summon. His Majesty would be happy to receive you tomorrow at two o’clock.
He entered St. James’s Palace at fifteen minutes to two, wondering why the king would want to see him at all. He and the king did not rub well together. The king was a fool and Brentworth was not, so they had little in common.
He considered that it might have to do with the meeting he had attended earlier in the day. The king may have learned about the renewed efforts to again pick up the question of abolishing slavery in the colonies. He might want to voice his views on the matter and think an informal conversation with a duke would be the best way to do that.
Brentworth had no idea what that view would be. This king was not known for engagement in political questions, or in much, really, except his pleasure. He probably did have opinions, however. Most men did, no matter how ill-informed those men might be.
It was not a drawing room day, so few people were about. There was no crush in the anteroom of those hoping to obtain vouchers to watch the nobility on parade. He strode through that chamber and the next and entered the drawing room. At most twenty people moved through it, chatting.
He did not announce himself to any of the pages. They knew him, and upon his arrival one hu
rried across the chamber and disappeared through the door that led to some offices.
He idled in the drawing room, awaiting either the king himself or an escort to wherever the king lounged. While he did he saw a young woman in serviceable blue garments and bonnet stride across the chamber. He recognized her as Miss MacCallum. He had been introduced to her at a party earlier in the week. She was a writer with an unusual interest in medicine.
She had impressed him with her ability to hold her own in a chamber full of nobles and members of the ton. He could not ignore that during their brief conversation she had been sincerely unimpressed with his title or status. That almost never happened, especially with women. Most peers would be annoyed. He had been intrigued.
Her bonnet obscured most of her blond hair, hiding its short length. That cropping had been apparent at that party despite a heroic attempt to disguise it. He had concluded that her interest in medicine derived from a serious illness of her own, a recent one in which her hair had been cut off to help with the fever.
Right now she appeared both out of place and distraught. He intercepted her before she could leave.
“Miss MacCallum, what a pleasant surprise.”
She halted abruptly and blinked away whatever had been distracting her. She executed a neat curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Are you unwell? You appear haunted.”
She glanced back at the door that led to the long wing with offices. “Not haunted so much as distressed that my business here is being treated lightly.”
Never Deny a Duke Page 1