by Cheryl Bolen
“Never,” he breathed against Maddie’s lips. Then there was no need of words as they set about showing each other their love.
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The End
About Wendy Vella
Wendy Vella is a bestselling author of contemporary and historical romances that have sold more than a million copies worldwide. Join her mailing list at wendyvella.com/subscribe for free reads, extra scenes and reader goodies.
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Known for compelling and uplifting stories laced with witty humor, sensuality and intrigue, Wendy has hit the bestseller ranks many times with reader favorites, the Langley Sister series, Lords of Night Street series, Sinclair & Raven series, and contemporary small-town series' Lake Howling and Ryker Falls.
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An incurable romantic, Wendy found writing romance a natural fit. When her children were small, she would find writing time in the early hours of the morning, sitting quietly with her grandfather's old typewriter while the family slept. These works, however, she says, will never see the light of day! Wendy joined Romance Writers of New Zealand and started honing her craft, and after years of contests and conferences, she was finally ready to publish her first book in 2013.
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Born and raised in a rural area in the North Island of New Zealand, she shares her life with one adorable husband, two delightful adult children and their partners, four delicious grandchildren, and too many cantankerous farm animals.
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You can find details of her work at
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www.WendyVella.com
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THE DUKE SHE DESPISED
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by
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ALINA K. FIELD
The new Duke of Kinmarty has lost everyone who mattered and gained naught but a title, and debt, and an old pile of a castle. Then a fetching new housekeeper appears on his doorstep, frantic to ready the place for the Yuletide, and he seizes the chance for a respite from grieving and pretends to be the new duke’s estate factor.
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When a vicar’s widow learns that her cousin’s children are arriving from India to reside with their dreadful uncle, the new Duke of Kinmarty, the man who years ago sabotaged her own chance for happiness, she hides her identity to take the position of his housekeeper. Overwhelmed by a castle understaffed and in disarray, she forges a bond with the new duke’s charming but not very competent factor, not knowing that he’s hiding something as well.
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When allies become lovers, each senses the truth may rip them apart. Can their love survive when she discovers he’s the duke she despised?
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Copyright © 2019 by Mary J. Kozlowski
Chapter 1
London,
June 1811
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“He’s ruined it for you, Minny.”
Filomena Grant barely felt the warm squeeze of her cousin’s plump hand on her arm. Penelope Grant—no, Penelope was a MacDonal now—was as prone to drama as to the unpunctuality that had made her more than an hour late.
Mr. Swinton was late as well. He was meant to arrive at the same time as the newly married Penelope, who was serving as chaperone for an afternoon visit while her godmother took a much-needed rest.
Mr. Swinton hadn’t appeared, nor had he sent a note.
A cold haze formed, numbing Filomena, much like the day when Godmama brought the news of her parents’ deaths. She fisted her hands, trying to bring back the feeling in them.
A tear trickled down Penelope’s cheek. “How pretty you are today, Minny. The pink muslin brings out the rose in your skin.”
Penelope rarely awarded compliments, Filomena being younger, and browner, and plainer.
“And you’ve taken more care with your hair, and—” Penelope sobbed.
Filomena took in a deep breath and willed her heart to not burst. “Who’s ruined what?”
“Has Mr. Swinton sent his regrets for tonight?”
Her godmother was hosting a dinner that night honoring the newlyweds, and Mr. Swinton was to be one of the guests. “No.”
“He will. Or he’ll be a complete boor and just won’t appear. Evan is furious. He’s cut ties with Andrew completely.”
Filomena’s heart thudded into her stomach. Andrew MacDonal was Penelope’s new brother-in-law, and only one thing could be ruined—her chance at a respectable marriage. “How? Why? He’s never even met me. He’s never seen me.” Evan’s wretched brother dodged most society events and anything to do with the marriage mart, and he had pointedly refused to attend the wedding of his brother to the unsuitable Penelope Grant.
“Andrew disparaged us, you and me, at his club. ‘Not good ton. Social climbing upstarts. Shabby genteel twits.’” Penelope shook her head. “Mr. Swinton was present. In fact Andrew made sure Mr. Swinton would hear.”
Filomena steadied herself while the room tilted. Black dots spotted her cousin’s face and the tears streaming there.
Now Penelope would cry? She’d married a man whose only family had fiercely opposed the match. The harm was done, and the cost would have to be counted. Unfortunately, Filomena would be paying it.
Blasted Andrew. How could he?
When her cousin sobbed harder, Filomena eased in a breath, trying to right herself, reaching for patience and a plan. Perhaps she could spend the next season in London with Penelope and Evan.
“Stop crying. You still have Godmama, and me, and your dowry. You won’t starve, and Evan will still inherit the dukedom someday.”
Penelope shook her head. “Of course, there’s the title, one day, but until then I won’t have you and Godmama, dear Minny. I won’t see you for ages after we depart.”
“Depart?”
“We won’t be at dinner. We are leaving tonight for Rotherhithe.”
“Rotherhithe,” Filomena said dumbly. “The docks?”
“Yes. We are bound for India. Evan said his brother has gone too far. Besides, he has an opportunity there, and my dowry paid for our passage.”
“India.” The black dots appeared in Filomena’s vision again and a weight pushed the air out of her lungs. Staggering to her feet, she stumbled to an armchair, plopping down with a creak that shook the room. “You are l-leaving.”
Their godmother required rest most of the time now. The only family Filomena had of any account was her cousin, who’d married well. To a duke’s heir.
And now she was leaving.
Filomena’s chance at a good marriage this season—or any other—was ruined. Her life was ruined. Mr. Swinton was no paragon of noble looks, but he was the younger son of a viscount. It was too late in the season for another match. No other gentleman of the ton would seek her out, not after Andrew MacDonal’s insults.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to breathe. It was true, she wasn’t good ton, but she was a gentleman’s daughter, well-brought up by her godmother, not a social climber exactly, and not a twit. She certainly had more good sense and manners than Andrew MacDonal.
But she was too poor, and her future ducal connection was sailing for India. When her godmother died, she’d have to take humble rooms, or worse, find work as a governess or companion.
Because Andrew MacDonal hated her.
She struggled to her feet and summoned some air, trying to quell a rising panic. “Go then, if you must.” The door seemed miles away, but she found her way to it.
“Minny, don’t be like this. It’s my husband’s wish to go. I must. It’s, it’s not my fault.”
Filomena squeezed her eyes shut on hot tears, thinking of all the scrapes Penelope had led them into over the years. This latest, her sudden marriage with its whiff of scandal, had incited the ton’s gossips. Not just Evan’s brother, but also his cousin, the Duke of Kinmarty, had cut ties with him. Oh, Evan would inherit one day, the duke couldn’t stop that, but the old man had made his displeasure clear.
“When did you make these
plans?” One didn’t up and board a ship for India on a whim.
Penelope shrugged. “Do not fret, Minny. Once we are settled, we will send for you.”
The door latch was cold in Filomena’s hand. Her dreams of travel had not extended beyond Bath or Brighton. All she’d ever wanted was a secure home and a true family.
“Englishmen are desperate for English women there, Evan says. We shall find you a husband quite easily.”
OH. Her knuckles went white around the ornate metal. So, a man would have to be desperate to see a social-climber like herself as a suitable wife. Andrew MacDonal and the entire ton believed so.
She eased in a breath. “I will go and tell Godmama to come down and say her farewells. Bon voyage, cousin.”
“You must write to me, Minny,” Penelope called. “And I will write back.”
Except for secret notes smuggled to Evan, Penelope didn’t write letters. Their scant correspondence had always been Filomena’s task. That she would pretend to promise letters now was one more blow. “Do not bother.” Filomena closed the door and leaned against the corridor wall.
She would not write to her cousin. At least not right away. Heavens—it would be years before she could forgive her.
And Mr. Swinton’s desertion? She squeezed her eyes shut. He’d made no real promises, had he? Oh, but he’d courted her, and everyone knew of it. A pox on him for raising her hopes and dashing them with such public humiliation.
She found her way to the bedchamber she’d once shared with Penelope, and gave full vent to her tears.
Godmama would die and Penelope had always been unreliable, but she’d been counting on Mr. Swinton, or if not him, some other gentleman in need of a sensible wife.
Instead, she’d have to make her way all alone, because of one beastly man’s slander, the arrogant, overbearing, heartless Andrew MacDonal.
Him she would never forgive.
Chapter 2
The Scottish Highlands,
21 December 1821
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Filomena Marlowe tucked her chin, pinning her shawl to her neck before the wind could lift it away and blow frozen wet flakes right down into her bodice.
Her foot slipped on an icy patch, and she rebalanced her valise in one hand and the large covered basket in the other.
It was slippery as Michaelmas goose fat on the road to Kinmarty Castle, true, but a stout donkey and cart could have navigated it, freighting her trunk and the basket of food the village innkeeper had urged on her. She would gladly have walked alongside a cart, for the chance to have all her things with her.
But no. While she’d haggled with the innkeeper over a cart, news arrived that the new duke was dismissing the old duke’s factor. Ale flowed freely with the rejoicing, and no one would offer the new duke’s new housekeeper anything more than winks, knowing glances, and from the tavern wench, a whispered warning.
Yes, Filomena had heard the lore of the Lairds of Kinmarty and their housekeepers. She, however, would take a poker to the man before she’d let the current duke lay a hand on her.
And a celebration it was by the villagers, the volume of which—both in noise and in tankards of ale—had been rising while she’d sorted out storage for her trunk and directions to the Castle. And with the factor gone, who would be there to greet her? The agent who’d hired her had confided he’d been searching in vain for a butler. She’d somehow have to manage the entire staff of footmen and maids of a duke’s castle on her own.
She reached a turn in the road and saw the two massive pillars the innkeeper promised would signal the lane. It was a scant mile walk from here, though the castle itself wouldn’t come into view until she was almost upon it, he’d said.
Or she thought that was what he’d said. Between his thick Scottish accent and her own impatience… Heavens, she must just keep going or she’d freeze in place.
Stands of yew bushes dotted the fields and lined the narrow lane. Unkempt it was, and yet breathtaking in its grand expanse. She hurried along, skirting holes, jumping over chasms, and dodging the errant branches threatening to smack her.
With her head muffled and her gaze to the ground, the rider was almost upon her before she saw him. Just in time, she jumped clear of him and his shouted curse, landing bottom first in a drift of new snow.
Blasted coxcomb. Had that been the dismissed factor or the dratted new duke himself?
She struggled to her feet and brushed off the snow, wishing the new duke to Hades and reminding herself of her mission. She must make Kinmarty ready because the children were coming for Christmas.
Just past a dense growth of yew and pine trees, the lane curved and the Castle rose before her, taking her breath away.
Two towers flanked the grand entry of the great stone edifice, and others rose behind. Oh, it was magnificent. Snow fog shrouded battlements with their crenellations and loopholes, and windows dotted the high walls stretching out on both wings. She’d not had the chance to see this on her childhood visits to Kinmarty. An ogre like Andrew MacDonal could not be so bad in a castle this grand.
It was a true castle, a stronghold to guard against fear, a fortress where old hatreds might heal, a place where her own small dreams might come true.
The children would love it.
“Well, I’ve done it, George. I’ve dismissed the bastard.”
Andrew MacDonal, new Duke of Kinmarty, tugged at his neckcloth, tearing off the constricting cloth and tossing it aside.
His friend, the Honorable George Lovelace, handed him a glass of brandy, and raised his own in salute. “And just how bad are things, your grace?”
Andrew waved a hand at a desk scattered with ledgers. “Look for yourself. And cease with the ‘your-gracing’. Would that I was still plain Mr. Andrew MacDonal, enjoying my spartan bachelor rooms.”
George settled into the massive desk chair and moved the lamp closer.
Andrew poured himself another drink. “I’d hoped to leave before Hogmanay. But looking at those ledgers, looking at the condition of this old heap and the village—I’m guessing Kinmarty has had a rough go under Haskill’s stewardship.”
He should have been here to help the old duke. Why hadn’t he come?
Because he’d been too angry, too selfish, too utterly bereft after Evan’s departure for India. He’d filled his time with every jolly manly pursuit he could drum up—cards, women, drink, and pretended it was enough. And now he was truly, totally, completely bereft. Now he had no one at all, except the multitude of mouths dependent upon him.
“I’ll stay at least through Hogmanay and give the tenants a proper New Year’s celebration.” They’d have a grand bonfire, one that would honor the old duke and the duke who should have been, his brother, Evan. “Then I’ll find a competent factor to help sort out this tangle, and I’ll go south to see about finding money.”
Would that he could go back to his old life and wake up from this nightmare that had started with news of Evan’s death.
George opened a ledger. “You’ll be required to put on your robes and coronet and take your seat in the Lords.”
“Those fusty Scots nobles never cast a vote for Old Horace. Neither will they elect me to represent them in Lords.” Dear God, he hoped not.
“And then there’s the matter of an heir. You’ll need a proper wife for that. Preferably one with a fat dowry.”
“Bite your tongue.”
George smirked. “There’ll be plenty of stuffed purses willing to dangle their daughters for the title of duchess. And you’re a handsome devil, so the ladies of London tell me.”
“I was better off being an untitled devil.” He waved toward the books again. “So, what do you think?”
George and his brother were crack managers of their father’s wealth. George would have spotted in five minutes what had taken himself half the day to uncover.
“If it was only a factor you wanted, you might have left the old one in place. There isn’t much more for him to embezzle.”
“Bloody thief. How old Horace didn’t catch him…tight as a drum, the man was…”
George traced down a column of figures. “He’d been ill, you said.”
“Aye. I suppose that was it.” Old Horace had been a skinflint to beat them all. Looking at the books, he understood why. Poor rents, poor crops, and a village populated with shoy-hoys only fit to scare away birds.
He swiped a hand through his hair and went to throw on another one of the logs they’d scrounged, moving by rote. “Good of you to come along and offer moral support, George.”
George had been with him when the letter dooming him arrived. They’d been hoisting toasts to Old Horace upon his passing, and to the new duke, his brother Evan. He’d been drowning his guilt over his neglect of the old man and rejoicing that Evan would have to return from India. Then he and his brother could reconcile. He’d do whatever it took to make peace. He wanted his brother back.
The letter had dashed all his hopes.
He poured another brandy, trying to shake the bleak memories.
“Shall you call in the magistrate?”
“No. Haskill can claim the old duke knew all and approved. Or claim his own incompetence.”
“At least send an express to the bank and the solicitor letting them know what you’ve found. You might also reconsider your order to cancel the hiring of the housekeeper and butler. If you decide you must let the Castle, it might be more appealing to have staff in place. Not to mention, there’s much upkeep needed before you even consider offering it.”