by Erica Ridley
Ten Days with a Duke
12 Dukes of Christmas #11
Erica Ridley
Contents
Also by Erica Ridley
Ten Days with a Duke
Acknowledgments
Ten Days with a Duke
Cressmouth Gazette
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Thank You
Thank You For Reading
Forever Your Duke
The Duke Heist
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Free Books
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Also by Erica Ridley
The Dukes of War:
The Viscount’s Tempting Minx
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway
The Duke's Accidental Wife
* * *
The Wild Wynchesters:
The Governess Gambit
The Duke Heist
* * *
Rogues to Riches:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas:
Once Upon a Duke
Kiss of a Duke
Wish Upon a Duke
Never Say Duke
Dukes, Actually
The Duke’s Bride
The Duke’s Embrace
The Duke’s Desire
Dawn With a Duke
One Night With a Duke
Ten Days With a Duke
Forever Your Duke
* * *
Gothic Love Stories:
Too Wicked to Kiss
Too Sinful to Deny
Too Tempting to Resist
Too Wanton to Wed
Too Brazen to Bite
* * *
Magic & Mayhem:
Kissed by Magic
Must Love Magic
Smitten by Magic
Ten Days with a Duke
12 Dukes of Christmas #11
Copyright © 2020 Erica Ridley
Photograph on cover © PeriodImages
Design © Teresa Spreckelmeyer, Erica Ridley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partner, beta readers, and editors. Huge thanks go out to Jenna Beacom, Rose Lerner, Erica Monroe and Tessa Shapcott. You are the best!
Lastly, I want to thank my Historical Romance Book Club, and my fabulous street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
Ten Days with a Duke
Olive Harper's family has been feuding with the Westons for decades. The Westons’ stud farm is the biggest, but the Harpers’ is the most famous... and she's the sole heiress. Or was, until her father brokers a truce by offering the Weston heir the Harper farm. The only way to get it back is to marry the knave who kissed her and humiliated her, twice—or prove to her father that some rifts can never be healed.
* * *
Scholar and botanist Elijah Weston is dreadful at feuding. For one, he prefers horticulture to horses. For two, he's been desperately in love with his mortal enemy ever since he kissed her—and, yes, publicly destroyed her—all those years ago. When he's given ten days to win Olive's heart, he arrives with marriage license in hand. But where lies and double-crosses abound, how can lifelong rivals learn to trust their hearts?
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. Twelve delightful romances… and plenty of delicious dukes!
Cressmouth Gazette
Welcome to Christmas!
Our picturesque village is nestled around Marlowe Castle, high atop the gorgeous mountain we call home. Cressmouth is best known for our year-round Yuletide cheer. Here, we’re family.
The legend of our twelve dukes? Absolutely true! But they may not always be who—or what—one might expect…
Chapter 1
Christmas Day, 1814
Miss Olive Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter, but the shaking of her shoulders gave her away.
“It’s true,” protested the Duke of Nottingvale. “She flew out of that tree without a single care for gravity.”
As was time-honored tradition, all of the other guests at the duke’s annual Yuletide party launched into equally fantastic tales of gossip they’d read about Olive and the famous Harper horses, or antics they’d witnessed with their own eyes.
She turned to her father, who stood between the pianoforte and a table full of treats. “His Grace claims he saw me drop from a tree branch onto a passing horse.”
Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Sidesaddle or low pommel?”
“Low pommel, of course.” Papa was the one who had taught her how.
She and her father had been inseparable for as long as she could remember. Not only were they the best of friends, they’d worked side-by-side on their stud farm from the moment she was out of leading strings. Olive had learnt to ride before she’d learnt to read.
Local blacksmith Sébastien le Duc groaned. “And then there was the time she wagered Lucien her horse could leap further than his.”
Olive tamped down a smile. The Harpers and the le Ducs lived across the street from one another, at the edge of the only road leading into the village.
She repeated his comment to her father in sign language. Papa could read the lips of one speaker if the circumstances were right, but it was impossible to watch everyone at once in a crowd.
“I do not race with Mademoiselle Olive anymore,” Lucien le Duc admitted grudgingly. “I already know la démone intrépide will win.”
“Perhaps it’s not Olive who has preternatural talent,” teased another friend. “Perhaps it’s the horses who have preternatural powers.”
Olive interpreted as quickly as she could.
Papa gave a wicked grin in response. “Who do they think trained our horses?”
“Horses like Duke!” crowed another friend, turning the teasing to the party’s host. “The Harpers’ prized stud is more famous than you, Nottingvale!”
The Duke of Nottingvale affected faux outrage. “I don’t know whether to take umbrage at being compared to a horse, or to pout because I did not emerge
the victor.”
“Neither did Prinny.” Sébastien turned to Olive. “Is it true you refused to sell Duke to the Prince Regent?”
Olive batted her eyelashes innocently, whilst interpreting for her father.
“I refused three times,” she assured the party, to the delight of all. “For the good of the country, of course. Duke won’t let anyone but me ride him. He would toss Prinny into a lake at the first opportunity.”
“When has common sense stopped Prinny?” laughed a friend. “I wager it was Olive who chased him away. The Regent is more terrified of you than Napoleon.”
“As he should be,” she agreed primly.
The Harpers were not only renowned horse breeders and trainers, they were also champion grudge-keepers. Had Prinny tried to take Duke from them by force, they would have done everything in their power to get Duke back... or make the Regent regret his actions. Their horses meant the world to Olive and her father.
Fortunately, no such dire circumstances had come to pass. She was having one of the best Yuletides—nay, one of the best years!—in recent memory.
As her father aged, he’d entrusted more and more of the farm’s operations to Olive. She was no longer “Mr. Harper’s daughter” but a respected horse trainer and business owner in her own right.
Oh, very well, she didn’t own anything yet. But she and Papa were each other’s only relatives, which made Olive the estate’s sole heiress. Their farm was her kingdom, and she its Queen. Her horses’ well-deserved fame had long proved her talent and success in an arena dominated by men.
What more could a lady want?
One of the new faces here tonight turned to Olive. “Would you sell Duke to me?”
“I wouldn’t sell him to anyone,” she replied.
She allowed certain customers to mate their mares with her stallion or purchase a foal, but she would not part with her favorite horse. Duke was part of the family.
“What if I offered...” The stranger named a figure five times higher than Prinny’s best offer and gave her a hopeful grin.
“Not even for ten times as much,” she informed him and quickly glanced away.
Her tight-lipped smile wasn’t because she found the question offensive—a stud farm was meant to breed and sell horses, after all—but because Olive didn’t want the cheerful stranger to see what she hid behind her smile.
When she was younger, Papa had assured her she’d grow into her too-wide mouth and over-large teeth.
Olive had not.
It was the only lie Papa had ever told her.
She knew it was because he loved her. To Papa, his daughter was beautiful. He probably thought she had grown into her features. But there was no reason for her to subject strangers to her oversized teeth. Or to open herself up to ridicule.
Instead, she smoothed her hands over her prettiest gown and did her best to smile with her eyes instead of her tightly closed mouth.
The sound of champagne popping filled the air.
“A toast.” Nottingvale held the foaming bottle aloft. “To my sister, on her betrothal.”
Glasses clinked and cheers filled the air.
Olive was thrilled for the duke’s sister, she really was. But Olive was even more glad that she need never worry about being in the same shoes.
Her fulfillment came from her work. Olive wasn’t missing anything. Papa was the best companion anyone could ask for. They had each other, which was more than enough.
She knew her purpose and excelled at it. Even before the Prinny Incident, the Harper horses had been famous. Olive was no shrinking wallflower. She was a very busy spinster, and she liked it that way.
Papa had been making noises about retiring, and Olive was more than ready to take the reins. She was in control of her own future, and soon would be in charge of the entire Harper farm.
“After this, we’re singing carols,” called out one of the guests. No doubt they would be at it for hours.
“I believe I’ll return home,” signed her father.
“I’ll go with you.” Olive was happy to interpret, but the struggle to switch back and forth between languages for long periods of time was exhausting. She looked forward to a peaceful evening with her father. She turned to the duke. “Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon.”
There was almost too much revelry for her to be heard over the noise, but the duke bowed and invited them back later in the evening for dancing.
Olive relayed the invitation to her father before addressing their host. “We’ll see.”
This meant no. There was no reason to dance with gentlemen she was uninterested in flirting with, and besides, keeping one’s mouth guarded for twenty-minute sets at a time was exhausting.
“Don’t forget my Twelfth Night ball,” Nottingvale reminded her. “If you can’t come tonight, I’ll save you a dance then!”
Absolutely not.
Olive retrieved their hats and coats from the butler and followed her father out into the brisk winter day. The sun was still an hour from setting, but the air was cold enough that snow glistened everywhere without any sign of melting.
They could have flagged any one of the sleighs Cressmouth used as hackneys for a ride home, but it was easier to walk and talk, and Olive enjoyed quiet moments like these with her father. She and her father conversed using their usual signs.
“Can you believe the Duke of Nottingvale’s sister is marrying a tailor?” Olive made an expression of faux shock as she gestured with her hands. “His Grace is toasting now, but I can only imagine what his face looked like when he first found out.”
Papa screwed up his features and clutched his chest in an exaggerated parody of apoplexy.
She grinned at him, over-large teeth and all. Her father’s love was unconditional. “I’m glad for her. They seem to suit each other well.”
“About that.” Her father’s typically merry eyes grew serious. “I’ve decided on a husband for you.”
The words pelted Olive like icy snowballs.
“You what?” Her cold fingers shook in the wind. “I don’t need or want a husband.”
“I shall give him one hundred percent of my shares in the farm,” Papa continued relentlessly, “upon your marriage.”
“Our farm?” There was no reason to feign apoplexy. Olive was certain her heart was exploding right out of her chest. Her gestures were sharper. “Why would you do this?”
“You need a husband, daughter.”
That was the last thing she needed.
Olive wanted to be respected on her own. Considered as capable as any man. She’d thought she was, at least to her father.
“No.” She shook her head, negating with her fingers. “You’re bamming me.”
“You spend almost all of your time with me or on the farm. You do nothing for yourself, and little with your friends. You deserve an opportunity to relax.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. “You think marriage means less work for a woman?”
Long ago, Olive had decided to do whatever it took to be independent. Yes, she spent every possible moment raising the horses, training the horses, checking that the stable hands were properly attending to the horses... And she wouldn’t trade a single moment of it.
She loved her life.
Papa pushed open the front door to their home and gestured her through. “I’m getting old, Olive. I used to be helpful, and now I am not.”
“Our farm makes more than enough money to employ as many hired hands as we need.” She shoved her pelisse onto its hook. “Besides, I can—”
“You can do anything the stable hands can. I know that. But now you won’t have to.”
The back of Olive’s throat pricked with heat. She’d dedicated her entire life to proving herself as deserving an heiress for the farm as any male heir, and she still wasn’t good enough.
Even when she was the only one, her father would still rather find someone else.
Her hands trembled. “I cannot believe you would betroth me t
o some random—”
“Not random.” Papa’s eyes held hers. “You’ll marry Elijah Weston.”
The breath rushed out of her lungs with such force that Olive staggered backward until she regained her equilibrium. No.
Her lips parted, but she could not force herself to repeat that name. The mere thought of him turned her back into a sobbing, humiliated fourteen-year-old.
“It’s a means to an end.” Her father shifted his weight as if he knew just how much he was hurting her. “I’m old. It’s time to heal the rift between our families. Three decades of rivalry is long enough. We are stronger united.”
Papa didn’t think Olive had deficiencies after all.
He simply had ulterior motives.
“That’s not better.” Her muscles rebelled at the injustice. “Using me as an inducement is worse, no matter your reasons. The answer is no. I won’t marry any man, and especially not that man.”
“I shan’t debate you on the matter. You’re of age, so legally I cannot force you. But marriage to Mr. Weston is the only way you’ll have my shares in the farm.”
“How can I have them at all?” Her spine collapsed against the wall. “You’re giving control to him, not me.” She could not bring herself to form his name. “I’d rather stay enemies forever than see that happen.”