“What did you tell me the last time we were here? That this was a place for men of purpose?”
He was kissing her neck, making little circles with his tongue at the place where it met her shoulder, where she was sensitive enough that he could make her sigh with a mere touch. He smiled there, against that impossibly soft skin, his hands finding the round swell of her bottom as she pushed his coat from his shoulders. “I seem to recall such a description.”
The coat gone, his hand stole to her breast, cupping it, testing its heavy weight, and she groaned softly at the touch. “And what have you to say about it?”
His lips tracked down the slope of that breast. “I have purpose right now, don’t you think?”
She burst out laughing, the sound carrying down the staid, venerable halls of Parliament, out of place and perfect. And Mal set about making her laugh again and again, until she was making entirely different sounds altogether.
And then he was making them, too.
When they returned to earth, on the floor of his office, wrapped in his heavy velvet robes—robes he would never again be able to wear without summoning his wife to his offices to help him remove them—he pressed a kiss to her temple and said, softly, “I suppose I’ve got to get round to the news today.”
She lifted her head, confusion furrowing her brow. “Whatever for?”
He smiled down at his former and future wife. “We should announce our engagement, don’t you think? The Duke of Haven and The Singing Sparrow?”
That laugh again, beautiful and perfect and his. “Most definitely. We wouldn’t want people to talk.”
Epilogue
Bevingstoke Babe: Haven Can’t Wait!
Six Years Later
“Your Grace, it simply is not done!”
Mal ignored the midwife as he pushed into the room, shucking his gloves to the floor and sending his coat after it, eyes only for his wife as he climbed onto the bed.
His wife, who appeared entirely too serene, considering she was minutes from giving birth. “You’ll give the midwife the vapors.”
“She’ll be fine,” he replied, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth for a firm kiss. “I’m never touching you again.”
She laughed, as though they were out for a stroll. “That’s what you said the other times.”
“This time, I mean it.”
“You said that last time.”
He didn’t remember, but he imagined he did. Three months after their second wedding—a glorious spectacle attended by half of London at the insistence of his sisters-in-law—Sera and Mal had discovered that Sera was increasing, to equal measures of surprise, delight, and terror.
Miraculously, an easy birth produced a healthy son, Oliver, now five and wild about horses and paints. Two years later, they’d welcomed Amelia, as brilliant as her mother, and full of opinions. Just that morning, at breakfast, she’d looked Mal dead in the eye and pronounced, “If you and Mama can have a baby, it’s only fair that Oliver and I have a kitten.”
Mal had spent the morning in the stables, selecting the perfect pair of cats to live in the manor house. After all, Amelia had pointed out, the baby should receive a gift upon its arrival. That was only polite.
Needless to say, the doctor who had pronounced Sera barren after the birth of their first child had been wrong. And the happy life into which Sera and Mal had settled, had become an equally happy chaos.
“Any word from the Sparrow?” Sera asked, as though she were in the gardens playing lawn bowls and not preparing to birth a child.
“Caleb arrived yesterday,” Mal replied. “Your tavern is in fine hands while you attend to other business.”
The family lived most of the year in London, close enough to The Singing Sparrow that Sera could manage the daily operations, and that the Sparrow herself could find time to sing on rare, wonderful occasions, always with the Duke of Haven in attendance.
But all of their children had been born at Highley, and this one would be no different.
A wave of discomfort hit Sera and she gasped. “It’s time.”
Mal rolled up his sleeves and moved behind his wife. While he was properly besotted by his children, and thanked God above for them every day of his lucky life, it did not change the fact that he had no love for the getting of them. “I am reminded I don’t like any part of this.”
“You like the bits leading up to it quite a bit, husband,” she said dryly. “As do I.”
The midwife tutted her disapproval, and Mal raised a brow. “You know they say I am the scandal, now, don’t you? And here you are, scandalizing the room with your talk of the bits leading up.”
She smiled. “Considering my current state, Mad Malcolm, I’m fairly certain the room is aware of the bits leading up.”
He laughed, wild for his wife, as ever beauty and steel.
A wave of pain hit her then, and Mal did his best to retain his composure as the midwife looked to Sera. “The babe comes, Your Grace.” She looked to Mal then. “You are certain you wish to remain?”
Sera clasped his hand. “He is certain.”
As though there were anywhere else he would be.
He offered his wife his hands and his strength as she did the immense, magnificent work of bringing their child into the world. Not that she needed him.
Indeed, it was Mal who required Sera’s strength when, minutes later—the healthy cries of their second son filling the room and Mal’s heart—she delivered their third daughter.
Hours later, as the sun set in the distance, turning the room a rich, golden hue, Mal entered the Ducal rooms to find his wife abed, looking every bit an angel, hair down about her shoulders, surrounded by their children.
She held one of the twins, the second asleep at her side, both blissfully unaware of the thorough inspections they received from their older siblings. Sera’s gaze found him, blue and full of love, a smile playing over her lips before she said, restrained amusement in her tone, “We are considering our options.”
He approached, feeling as though his heart might burst from his chest at the picture they made, these children, this woman. His loves.
Amelia was on her hands and knees, considering the baby on the bed. “I prefer this one.”
Oliver shook his head, all seriousness. “I don’t. Sisters can be very troublesome.”
“That much is true,” Sera agreed, speaking from vast experience. “But they can also be terribly loyal.”
“And excellent in battle,” Mal added, winking at his wife.
“Nevertheless,” Oliver said, “I would prefer to keep the boy.”
Mal’s brows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
Sera grinned. “It seems they only had one name selected, and so we must choose which to keep.”
He matched his wife’s grin. “Does the name help with the decision?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
He looked to his older children. “What is it?”
“Chicken,” Amelia said, simply.
Mal laughed loud and long, before taking his place at the head of the bed, on the other side of his youngest daughter. “Well, I think we’ll be keeping them both if you don’t mind.”
Oliver sighed. “If we must.”
Mal leaned over to kiss his wife, soft and lingering. “You are magnificent.”
“I am, rather, aren’t I?” she said, happily.
He chuckled and leaned down to place a kiss on the forehead of the boy in her arms, and another on little girl asleep on the bed.
“And me!” Amelia cried, launching herself into his embrace. He cuddled her against his chest and kissed her forehead, too, as Oliver scurried into the cradle of Sera’s free arm.
The family lingered until the last of the golden sun had dissolved into red and purple streaks and faded to black, revealing stars and a sliver of moon in the night sky beyond. Mal carried his children to their respective chambers, settling the babies in the next room—the rooms once reserved fo
r the Duchess of Haven had been turned into a nursery, as neither Sera nor Mal had any desire to sleep apart.
Once the children had been cared for, Mal returned to find his wife at the open window in their bedchamber, a nightingale singing in the darkness beyond. From behind, he pressed a kiss on the soft skin peeking above her night rail, wrapping his arms about her.
She leaned into the caress, giving herself up to it for long, lingering minutes. “You are going to catch cold in this window, wife.”
“Do you see?” She pointed. “He’s here.”
He followed her direction. “Orion. Poor chap, always chasing.”
“I think you mean poor girl, never caught.” Sera turned to him then, tilting her face to his, sliding her hand up to pull him down for a kiss, deep and slow, filled with love. When they parted, she added, “She ought to take matters into her own hands. He’d never know what hit him.”
“Nonsense.” He lifted her high in his arms and carried her back to bed. “If she chased him, he’d do everything he could to get himself caught. And well.”
She smiled at that, tucking herself against him. “And what happens after she catches him?”
He kissed her gently, marveling at this life they shared. “Happy ever after, of course.”
She smiled, eyes closed, sleep coming fast. “Finally. Well deserved.”
Author’s Note
Haven and Sera’s story has haunted me for longer than I can say—since long before they had names and took center stage in The Rogue Not Taken as the catalyst for Sophie and King’s love story. The Day of the Duchess is a story of finding hope from sorrow—from a marriage that might never work and a loss that might never be overcome—and when I sat down to write it, I had no idea that it would become the story of so many women I’ve known, women who have amazed me with their strength and their ability to face an uncertain future. I could not have predicted that, over the course of writing this book, I would be so inspired by so many—friends, family, readers, strangers—all made of beauty and steel. Sera is for all of you.
While it may seem as though Sera and Haven’s divorce was too easily obtained, the events in the story are a surprisingly close reflection of divorce proceedings in the House of Lords during the early 1800s. Until 1857, women were largely excluded from petitioning for divorce, as wives had no legal personage. What’s more, wives were not allowed to testify on their own behalf in Parliament, which made divorce on the grounds of anything but female adultery tricky. In the late 1700s, however, a shift came in the way Parliament and society viewed marriage—as less a requirement for property and more a possibility for happiness—and divorce petitions rose significantly . . . along with spousal collusion. Essentially, men and women trapped in unhappy marriages worked together to achieve their common goal—usually with an unsuspecting bystander being dragged into the ruse as a witness to a wife’s adultery. A quick (albeit expensive) Parliamentary vote resulted in the dissolution of the marriage, and everyone was free to head off and marry their lovers. I was shocked by how easily a rich and powerful couple might obtain a divorce—and fascinated by the idea that husbands and wives might work together to get it done. For a rich, riveting history of divorce in England, I recommend Lawrence Stone’s Road to Divorce, which was a constant companion while I wrote—much to my own husband’s trepidation. The extensive Parliamentary collections at the British Library were also essential to this part of the story.
A note on Sera’s music: “The Spanish Ladies” is an old sea shanty, predating the 1700s when it was finally written down; I’ve also used Thomas Moore’s “Oft in the Stilly Night” and “The Last Rose of Summer.” “She Was Born That Day in the Heart of a Boy” is mine, with many thanks to a long-ago French café wall for the titular inspiration.
Sometimes, a piece of history grabs hold of you and won’t let go. For several years (and several books), I’ve searched for a way to put an underwater ballroom into a story. The ballroom is real! There is a nearly identical underwater ballroom at Witley Park in Surrey, a massive estate built in the late nineteenth century by Whitaker Wright, an eccentric millionaire scoundrel. While Witley’s underwater ballroom was built in the 1890s, there’s no reason why it could not have existed in the 1830s at the hands of a man desperate for a monument to his love, as metal and glass submarines had existed for more than a century already. Though I swapped Witley’s Neptune for Highley’s Orion, I borrowed liberally from photos and first-person accounts of visits to the Witley ballroom, which, remarkably, remains intact. I’m deeply indebted to Atlas Obscura and numerous Reddit users for their commitment to understanding the physics and engineering of the ballroom.
As always, I am endlessly grateful to Carrie Feron, Carolyn Coons, and the outstanding team at Avon Books, including Liate Stehlik, Shawn Nicholls, Pam Jaffee, Libby Collins, Tobly McSmith, Carla Parker, Brian Grogan, Frank Albanese, Eileen DeWald, and Eleanor Mikucki. Thank you, also, to Steve Axelrod, who has all the best stories.
I am lucky to have a husband who has never once made me want to storm Parliament and friends who are the very best. Thank you to Eric for unflappable calm; to Lily Everett, Carrie Ryan, and Sophie Jordan for unwavering friendship; and to Bob, Tom, Felicity, and everyone at Krupa Grocery for keeping a table free for me.
And to you, wonderful readers, thank you for trusting me, for reading me, and for sharing so much of yourselves with me. These books are nothing without you. I hope you will all join me in 2018 for my next series, featuring the Bareknuckle Bastards, and some young women you’ll find familiar.
Oh, and as for Sesily and her American, stay tuned.
The Bareknuckle Bastards
Three brothers, bound by a secret they cannot escape . . .
The Rake, all vengeance and vice
The Warrior, all fists and fury
The Duke, all power and past
. . . and the women who bring them to their knees.
The Bareknuckle Bastards
A new series from Sarah MacLean
Coming 2018
About the Author
A life-long romance reader, SARAH MacLEAN wrote her first romance novel on a dare, and never looked back. She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of historical romances, and the author of a monthly column at The Washington Post celebrating the best of the romance genre. She lives in New York City. Visit her at www.sarahmaclean.net.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Romances by Sarah MacLean
Scandal & Scoundrel
The Rogue Not Taken
A Scot in the Dark
The Day of the Duchess
Rule of Scoundrels
A Rogue by Any Other Name
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
No Good Duke Goes Unpunished
Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Love by Numbers
Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake
Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart
The Season
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.
the day of the duchess. Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Trabucchi. 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
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Digital Edition JULY 2017 ISBN: 978-0-06-237946-7
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-237943-6
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HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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