“I was furious when you told me that the general had decided to excuse your colonel’s cowardly behavior. Now I’ll have the colonel court-martialed,” the marquess growled. “The man has no honor. None.”
Jeremy didn’t care.
Oh, he cared for his men; it felt like a physical blow, knowing that their lives were lost owing to one man’s greed for a title.
But he didn’t care what happened to the colonel. What’s done was done.
His father didn’t agree. “I’ll see your reputation restored if I have to rip the War Office apart brick by brick,” the marquess hissed.
“Good!” Betsy said. “What about Grégoire?”
“Attempted murder charges would stick,” the marquess said. He hesitated. “If his father were alive, my brother would ask me to allow Grégoire to flee the country, with the promise that he never return to England.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said flatly. No justice could make up for the lives lost. Grégoire rotting in prison wouldn’t do it; the colonel court-martialed wouldn’t do it.
“Only if his sapphire and anything else he owns are forfeit, and given to the families of Jeremy’s lost men,” Betsy ordered, folding her arms over her chest.
His father was obviously impressed. Lady Knowe wrapped an arm around her. “I trained her well,” she said with a chuckle.
“Where is Grégoire?” Jeremy asked.
“Locked in the chapel,” Lady Knowe said. “It’s cold but not freezing. I told him to contemplate his sins.”
“And the valet?”
“He escaped—which means that Prism decided that he wasn’t to blame. Prism has strong feelings about servants who are compelled to obey orders,” Lady Knowe said. She grimaced. “I expect the man will go straight to a stationery shop, Betsy, and sell a thrilling description of this evening for new etchings. I am sorry about that.”
“My reputation is ruined,” Betsy said, looking unmoved.
“Society will forget in time,” Jeremy said. He took her in his arms. “I thought perhaps you would like to take a wedding trip.”
Her eyes lit up. “Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere you like,” Jeremy said. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You could wear breeches when you wished, and be a lady when you didn’t.”
She hugged him as tightly as she could.
“As long as you’re always mine,” Jeremy said in a low voice. “My warrior, my queen, and the love of my life.”
Betsy looked up, her eyes shining, and Jeremy saw his future in them.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Just over a year later
“The new vicar is coming to tea,” Aunt Knowe called, bustling into the drawing room.
“Poor Father Duddleston,” Viola said mournfully. She was seated on a sofa unpicking her aunt’s tangled knitting. “He only had a few more weeks before he retired.”
“He died doing what he loved best,” her aunt said. “I’m sure that the new vicar . . . what’s his name? Mr. Marlowe. I’m sure he’ll be as good.”
“Is he married?” Joan asked. Now that she and Viola would be finally debuting in a matter of months, she thought of marriage constantly.
Viola poked at the knitting. She had no interest in marriage, and though she’d managed to postpone their debut for a year, it loomed in front of them now.
“He’s betrothed to a Miss Pettigrew,” Aunt Knowe reported. “Her grandfather is an archbishop, so it’s all very appropriate. I’ve invited her to stay with us for a time.” She jumped back to her feet. “I’d better warn Prism; I believe I forgot to mention it.”
“I have many ideas for the parish school,” Viola said. “Father Duddleston was so resistant to change.”
“You’ll have no time for that,” Joan said. She jumped up and whirled around, following the steps of a country dance. “I can’t wait, I can’t wait.”
Viola willed away the nausea that rose in her stomach. “I wish you would just allow me to wait another year.”
“You’d come up with an excuse and never debut at all,” Joan said briskly. “You’d spend your life puttering about the parish, teaching children silly rhymes and doing good works.”
“No retching in lemon trees from nerves, or spending an evening hiding in the retiring room,” Viola said.
“You must fight your shyness,” Joan urged, not for the first time. “I worry about you.”
Viola’s main worries had to do with the horrors of the Season. She could scarcely manage eating with strangers.
“What if you never meet a man to love, because you are immured in the country?” Joan demanded. “Would you be happy living Aunt Knowe’s life?”
“Why not? She is beloved by many, and she has all of us,” Viola said. “I think she is very lucky.”
“There’s no man in her life,” her sister exclaimed, exasperated. “No husband! Remember the way Betsy watches Jeremy under her lashes, or the way North gazes at Diana with adoration? Don’t you want to feel the same?”
“No,” Viola said decidedly. “It seems most uncomfortable.”
“I want a man to look at me desperately.”
Viola knew better than to express her opinion because Joan had drama in her bones, and Viola didn’t. Viola was also not a Wilde, even though she was raised with them, and the difference was telling. “How many men have come through this castle in the last year?” she asked instead. “Young, unmarried ones, I mean.”
“Likely over thirty,” Joan said, thinking about it. “There had to be at least that many at Diana’s wedding.”
“I have never met a single man whom I’d like to spend time with,” Viola stated. “Not one.”
Joan frowned. “You are being deliberately difficult, Viola. Just think of all the handsome men who pursued Betsy. She said no to all of them, though there were at least four whom I would have considered.”
“I wouldn’t consider any of them.”
Aunt Knowe swept back into the room, looking even more harried. “My dears, isn’t this fun? Mr. Marlowe and Miss Pettigrew have arrived a day early; such a lovely surprise!”
Viola and Joan jumped to their feet.
“My nieces, Lady Joan and Miss Viola Astley,” Aunt Knowe said. “Miss Pettigrew and Mr. Marlowe.”
Viola always looked to women first; having attended a girls’ seminary, she was comfortable in female company. Unfortunately, she knew immediately that Miss Pettigrew was not the sort of woman who would put her at her ease—more like the type who would plague her with advice.
She could weather suggestions from those she loved, but she loathed the guidance of strangers, who all seemed to think that they knew the key to overcoming her shyness. Miss Pettigrew definitely knew what was best for everyone in the room. You could see it in her eyes, and the way her head was held high.
At the moment she had inclined it just enough to make it clear that she recognized the secular power of a duke’s sister and daughters, but her virtue mattered more than their position in society.
Viola smiled and turned to the new vicar, hoping that he had sweet eyes, like Father Huddleston’s.
He hadn’t.
Epilogue
Belmain Manor
Country Seat of the Marquess of Thurrock
Eight years later
The billiard room of Belmain Manor was like a sitting room in other houses, or so the oldest daughter of the house, Lady Penny, thought. Her friends’ families gathered in sitting rooms or libraries comfortably full of overstuffed chairs, dogs, and books. The Roden family gathered in the billiard room, because it was big enough for two billiard tables—plus overstuffed chairs, dogs, and books.
Just now Penny was sitting on a high stool, her elbows propped on the gleaming sides of her mother’s favorite table, watching her parents play.
It was her mama’s birthday. Her father, the marquess, didn’t care for billiards nearly as much as her mama did, but he always agreed to play on special occasions. This was their third game, an
d so far they were tied at one each.
They were playing with new rules, which meant that they kept switching back and forth, and both of them got lots of tries to sink balls. It was her father’s turn now, so he rounded the table, stopping to kiss her mother on the way. “Last game,” he said.
Mama groaned, because she loved to play, almost as much as she loved being a mother to Penny and her brother.
Not quite, though.
“You need to rest,” Father said. It was only late afternoon but her mother had grown round with another baby, and Father kept dragging her away to nap. Actually, he did that even when Mama wasn’t carrying a child.
“But first we have to give you our present,” he added.
The marquess leaned over the table and sighted down the cue. Penny watched carefully as he lined up the billiard cue with the new leather cap that her mother adored so much.
The ball went thunk with a pleasing noise, ricocheted from one wall, hit another, and barely missed the pocket.
Penny frowned. Her father had shown Penny that stroke only a week ago, and he’d done it over and over and over, until she could trace the exact path in her mind. He never missed it, not once.
She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Papa scooped her off the stool. “Shall we give Mama her present?”
“Yes,” she said. “But Papa—”
“Our secret,” he whispered, putting one finger on her lips.
“Hmm,” Penny said.
She knew a losing argument when she saw it, so she skipped off to get the present instead. It was wrapped in silk. Her mother had seated herself in one of the widest chairs, and of course Peter had climbed in her lap and started sucking his thumb.
“Here,” Penny said, holding it out. “It’s from us. Me too.”
Papa sat down on one arm of the chair and wrapped an arm around Mama, so Penny climbed onto the other arm.
“I have such a wonderful family,” her mother said mistily.
“Open it!” Peter cried, popping his revoltingly wet thumb out of his mouth.
Inside the bundle was a tiny portrait, smaller than was really useful, to Penny’s mind. But she had to admit that it was pretty. It was painted in glowing, shiny paint by a friend of her mother’s. He was so old that his brush kept shaking when he painted it, but somehow it had turned out all right.
Her mother held it up.
Hardly bigger than her palm, Penny’s beloved grandfather, the late marquess, smiled from the gold frame, Penny nestled on his lap.
“It was finished just before he died,” the late marquess’s son said, touching his father’s cheek. “He loved Penny so much.”
“I know I shouldn’t cry,” her mother said, and then she burst into tears. “It’s just that I’m so lucky.”
Penny wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck, and Peter squirmed around and hugged her too. And her father wrapped his arms around all of them.
“Happy birthday, Queen Bess,” he whispered.
A Note about October Ale, Auction Houses, & PTSD
A romance author’s historical research clusters around questions of daily life. I need to know what kind of lamp could be carried from room to room in 1790, what kinds of ale a ducal brewhouse might have made and what that beer would have tasted like, as well as who was famous for painting miniatures (Samuel Finney, for one!).
Many of these questions are small, but they can make a large difference to a plot. For example, were women allowed to visit auction houses and bid on items? Many of the people who passed through Christie’s doors in the 1790s would have been art dealers or collectors. Christie’s Auction House kindly confirmed that women did attend their auctions, although they likely did not bid. Other auction houses may have forbidden women altogether, though I know of none with salacious cupids on the ceiling.
Sometimes, I deliberately go against historical fact, and for that, I apologize. The hymn “Amazing Grace” was published in 1779, and so my hero could not have heard it as a child. But I wanted Jeremy, in the dark and in the profound silence of falling snow, to suddenly hear his father sing, “I once was lost but now am found. Was blind but now I see.” Jeremy’s family was waiting for him, waiting for the moment when he learned to see once again.
Throughout human history, PTSD has been chronicled and described. The description that Grégoire reads aloud was written by Lucretius in 50 b.c. and translated by William Ellery Leonard. I want to add here that one of my readers kindly shared the symptoms that she faced and still faces after engaging in the war in Iraq. I am so grateful to her for revisiting experiences that are so painful.
Acknowledgments
My books are like small children; they take a whole village to get them to a literate state. I want to offer my deep gratitude to my village: my editor, Carrie Feron; my agent, Kim Witherspoon; my Web site designers, Wax Creative; and my personal team: Franzeca Drouin, Leslie Ferdinand, Sharlene Martin Moore, and Zoe Bly. My husband and daughter Anna debated many a plot point with me, and I’m fervently grateful to them. In addition, people in many departments of HarperCollins, from Art to Marketing to PR, have done a wonderful job of getting this book into readers’ hands: my heartfelt thanks goes to each of you.
About the Author
ELOISA JAMES is a New York Times bestselling author and professor of English literature who lives with her family in New York, but can sometimes be found in Paris or Italy. She is the mother of two and, in a particularly delicious irony for a romance writer, is married to a genuine Italian knight.
Visit her at www.eloisajames.com.
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By Eloisa James
Say No to the Duke
Born to Be Wilde
Too Wilde to Wed
Wilde in Love
Seven Minutes in Heaven
A Gentleman Never Tells (a novella)
My American Duchess
Four Nights with the Duke
Three Weeks with Lady X
Once Upon a Tower
As You Wish
With This Kiss (a novella in three parts)
Seduced by a Pirate (a novella)
The Ugly Duchess
The Duke Is Mine
Winning the Wallflower (a novella)
A Fool Again (a novella)
When Beauty Tamed the Beast
Storming the Castle (a novella)
A Kiss at Midnight
A Duke of Her Own
This Duchess of Mine
When the Duke Returns
Duchess by Night
An Affair Before Christmas
Desperate Duchesses
Pleasure for Pleasure
The Taming of the Duke
Kiss Me, Annabel
Much Ado About You
Your Wicked Ways
A Wild Pursuit
Fool for Love
Duchess in Love
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
say no to the duke. Copyright © 2019 by Eloisa James, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
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Digital Edition JULY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-287784-0
Print Edition ISBN:
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