Praise for Sarah MacLean
Sexy and sharp…MacLean proves she can do a duke in the present as readily as she can do one in the past!
Christina Lauren, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Unhoneymooners
MacLean writes her first ever contemporary story, and demonstrates that whether her dukes are prowling 19th-century Covent Garden or are camera-shy 21st-century lords, they’re equally as tantalizing.
Entertainment Weekly
Glorious! Welcome to contemporary Sarah. More anytime you like.
B.andherbooks on Goodreads
A Duke Worth Falling For
A Naughty Brits Novella
Sarah MacLean
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.
A Duke Worth Falling For Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Trabucchi.
First published in the Naughty Brits anthology, September 2020.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Angela Day
Editing: Julia Ganis of JuliaEdits
Contents
A Duke Worth Falling For
Sarah MacLean
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
Epilogue
Also by Sarah MacLean
About the Author
A Duke Worth Falling For
Sarah MacLean
1
These sheep were not storybook sheep.
Sure, they came with rolling English hills and a gentle mist, but these sheep were not soft and fluffy and they did not gently bleat. These sheep were muddy and pungent and noisy.
And they were advancing.
Lilah Rose planted her rain boots into the slick mud of the Devon countryside, lifted her Nikon and stared down the lens as the herd approached, an enormous black-eyed, gray beast leading the charge.
There it was, that familiar thrill, the one that came every time she knew the perfect shot was in reach—the thrill that came with the edge of threat, because she had one chance to get it.
“That’s it,” she said softly, the words barely a breath. Lilah might not have shot fashion for eighteen months, but twelve years as a style and portrait photographer were instantly there, hardwired as she cooed to the massive ewe. “Just like that.”
Click.
The whisper of the shutter summoned the beast, which increased its speed. Lilah backed away, her steps sure. How many times had she photographed this exact personality—foreboding, absolutely certain of its power, and completely unaware of its vulnerabilities? Wasn’t that what had made her the most coveted celebrity photographer out there?
It didn’t matter how impossible the subject, how impenetrable the personality. Lilah Rose could capture truth on film. She’d photographed playboys and presidents, longtime A-listers and hot new stars, athletes and socialites, billionaires and royalty. And she was great at it.
At least she had been.
Lilah swallowed around her frustration, hot and thick in her throat, willing away thoughts of Met Galas and Oscar after-parties and the three-thousand-square-foot Tribeca loft she’d once called home base.
It didn’t matter that at this exact moment, two years earlier, she’d been in that very loft, shooting the cover of the Bonfire Silver Screen issue—a famously impossible task. It didn’t matter that she’d been the first photographer in thirty years to get every one of the actors on the cover to agree to a single shoot, in the same room, at the same time.
It didn’t matter that working with Lilah Rose had been enough for them to agree. Not even thirty, and it had been her name that had brought ten sets of famously longtime Hollywood rivals together—in New York City no less!—and without a single superstar screeching for an agent.
It didn’t matter that she’d had to sell the studio when magazines had blacklisted her and her own agent and manager had stopped answering her calls, and the celebrities and power brokers who routinely invited her to parties and dinners in the hopes she’d decide to take their picture had seemingly lost her number.
Stars . . . they’re just like sheep!
None of it mattered anymore.
What mattered was getting a picture of this damn sheep.
“At me, beautiful. Right for me.”
The ewe didn’t hesitate to follow directions. She was ten yards away.
Click.
“That’s right.”
Eight yards. Coming fast.
Click, click. Lilah was fast too. Too much closer and she’d lose the shot.
Her heart started to pound. She loved this moment on the knife’s point, the moment before she either got the picture or lost it, and would never get it back. She crouched, changing the angle, making the beast larger than life.
Five yards.
Not low enough.
She sat, leaning forward, ignoring the cold wet that immediately soaked the seat of her jeans. She’d done worse to get a shot.
She waited, checking the frame, the way the late-summer grass swayed in the viewfinder. The sheep advanced, herd behind.
Enough time for a final shot.
Don’t blink.
“Come and get me, you gorgeous girl,” she crooned.
“I wouldn’t pass up that offer, Mabel.”
The shutter fired even as Lilah gave a little squeak and snapped her head around to find the source of the cool words—a pair of grimy Chameau boots about six feet away. She’d just begun to raise her attention higher than the laces to the man who’d spoken, when the sheep—apparently named Mabel—reached her. Along with Mabel’s friends.
And then Lilah couldn’t worry so much about the man, because she was headbutted by the enormous ewe, who was, as indicated previously, decidedly not a storybook sheep.
Mabel was strong.
And Lilah was down for the count.
“Argh!” she shouted, half indignation and half terror, and did the only thing that came to mind—rolled to her side, tucked her knees, protected her camera with one hand and her head with the other. Bleating and baas surrounded her, along with the pounding of hooves and the distinct funk of wet livestock. She took a hoof to the kidney. “Gah!”
“Christ!” the boots said, loud enough to be heard despite their distance. The word was punctuated with a high-pitched whistle and the deep, heavy woof of a dog that Lilah hoped was big enough to run off—a hundred sheep? A thousand? Infinity. Infinity sheep.
Another collection of urgent woofs, and the sheep parted.
Good dog.
Lilah lifted her head just enough to take stock of her surroundings. The herd passed on either side of where she was curled in a muddy ball, apparently having decided that trampling her was not worth the hassle of—
“Are you all right?”
The words were grumbled from above, equal parts concerned and irritated.
“I’m fine!” she reported, checking on all her important bits before returning her attention to the boots and beyond . . . up, up over a pair of dark jeans, worn in the knees and thighs, past the warm, wheat-colored sweater to the
man staring down at her.
Lilah’s mouth went instantly dry.
Good lord. And she’d thought the sheep was big.
Anyone else wouldn’t be in the best position to judge his size, but Lilah Rose had spent a decade photographing small men from low angles. This man didn’t need the angle. He was tall. Over six feet. She quickly catalogued the rest of him, broad in the chest and shoulders with a long, straight nose and a jaw that was comic book levels of square, dimpled chin and all.
Take his picture.
The thought was wild and absolutely terrible judgment. After all, she was a half-hour’s walk from anything approximating civilization and very likely without cell service, and this enormous man was not for picture taking. Definitely not while he glowered down at her.
Wait.
He wasn’t glowering down at her.
He was glowering down at her camera.
And then the glower became something worse. Those lips she’d catalogued flattened into something like disdain, colder than the muck seeping through her jeans. She knew that look. She’d had her fill of it as her life imploded and everything she’d worked for fell to pieces.
She’d run all the way to the English countryside to escape it.
But there was no outrunning it, only fighting it.
Lilah scrambled to sit up even as his hands—very big and warm, not that she noticed—wrapped around her elbows and hauled her upward.
In another situation, she would have been grateful for the help, considering there was no graceful way to rise from the slippery mud of a sheep pasture, but she was definitely not going to thank this disdainful jerk for laying hands—no matter how big and warm, not that she noticed—on her.
Before she could pull herself from his grasp and tell him exactly what he could do with those hands she did not notice, he released her, putting immediate distance between them, his jaw setting into stone.
“I’ve seen you people go to some lengths, but nearly getting trampled by a herd of sheep is new.”
Lilah blinked. “We people?”
His gaze narrowed. “There’s no need to play coy. I’m immune to it—cow eyes or no.”
What the hell? “Cow eyes?”
“Big. Empty.”
Who did this guy think he was? “Wow. You know what? You’re an asshole.” She probably shouldn’t have engaged with him at all, but she’d had enough of men who used intimidation as a weapon.
“To your kind? Absolutely.”
Ugh, she took back all the complimentary thoughts she’d almost had for this guy. He was clearly the worst.
“My kind? You mean civilized humans who were having a perfectly nice time before being manhandled by jerks?” She paused. “I don’t know what your problem is; you approached me.”
Lilah turned on her heel and walked away, as gracefully as she could, considering she was covered in mud. The white and gray sheepdog danced around her, enormous tongue lolling out of its mouth.
“Atlas,” the jerk said, and the dog immediately returned to his side. He called after her. “Of course I approached you! You were about to get trampled!”
“I would have happily taken my chances, considering what the alternative turned out to be,” she tossed over her shoulder before looking to the dog, happily watching her, tail waving wildly. “You did great though, Atlas. You should find yourself a better owner.”
“I’m a fine owner. The kind who came to help when you were lying on the ground.”
“I was trying to get a shot!”
And dammit, she hadn’t even gotten it. Or, if she had, it would be pure luck. Which meant she hadn’t gotten the shot.
Instead, she’d gotten kicked in the ribs by attack sheep and yelled at by the handsomest man she’d seen in a long time.
Not that she’d noticed.
“So you admit it,” he shouted back.
She turned to face him as he strode toward her, his steps sure and firm, as though he’d never dream of slipping in the mud. As though the mud would never dream of misbehaving for him.
In a decade as a style photographer, she’d come up against egos of epic proportions, but nothing like this. This man—he wasn’t ego. He was certainty.
There’d been a time when Lilah had been certainty too.
Never let them see you sweat.
She squared her shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye. “Admit what?”
“You’re a photographer.”
“Why wouldn’t I admit it?” She lifted her chin. “I’m the best photographer you’ll ever meet.”
If she believed this was a man who had ever in his life been surprised, she might have imagined she saw surprise in his whiskey-colored eyes before he caught himself and said, coolly, “If I’m lucky, you’ll also be the last one I ever meet. You’re trespassing.”
Lilah didn’t hesitate. “No, I’m not.”
“You’re on Weston lands. Uninvited.”
“How do you know I’m uninvited?”
He raised a brow at her. “Because I’d know if you’d been invited.”
Lilah had seen the mammoth estate house on the drive into the property owned by the Duke of Weston—it was hard not to see it. Maybe big old estates came with handsome security details.
Not handsome.
“Castle guard, are you?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re missing your armor.”
“It’s being repaired.”
“Broadsword?”
“Shall I fetch it?”
She resisted the urge to smile. This was not a man for smiling at. Back to the task at hand—putting him in his place. “Well, apparently you’re not the king’s favorite anymore, Lancelot. Because I’ve got keys to the castle.”
The cottage on the eastern edge of the estate wasn’t exactly the castle, but it didn’t matter.
“Impossible,” he said.
“Why don’t you call his lordship and check?” she said, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll lend you my phone.”
“It’s His Grace, actually.”
Lilah, who had photographed six royal families and knew proper forms of address in every one of their countries, smiled. “I don’t care.”
Something flashed in his eyes, recognition. “Lottie.”
Lady Charlotte Arden was a friend of an old art school friend of Lilah’s—and had kindly offered up the cottage on her family’s estate for two weeks.
Lilah nodded. “Lottie.”
“You’re at the cottage?”
She nodded, though the descriptor amused her. This “cottage” wasn’t a one-room affair. It came with a sun room, a formal dining room, gorgeous woodwork, creaking floors, a big, four-poster bed, a bathtub bigger than her kitchen in New York City, and an ancient, beautiful Aga stove that made a girl wish she had a reason to roast something. “It’s very nice.”
He grunted. It should have been off-putting. “She should have told me.”
“Oh yes, you seem like the exact right person to bring guests a welcome basket.”
“I saved you from Mabel, didn’t I?”
“Practically rolled out the red carpet.”
“I might not have if Lottie had told me you were a photographer.” He said the word like someone would say plague. Or cockroach.
“Gosh, it’s almost hard to imagine why she didn’t.”
Truthfully, Lilah would have liked to have had a little warning about this . . . farmer? Watchman? Whatever he was, he was comfortable enough with the owners to call the daughter of a duke by her nickname.
No one had warned Lilah though. She’d received directions to the cottage, instructions to find a key under a rock near the door, and an assurance that she was more than welcome.
Lottie is over the moon to have you at Salterton Abbey! She’s a HUGE fan!! Sophie had emailed a month ago, her excessive use of caps and exclamation points throwing the truth of the words into question. Don’t think too hard about it!! It’s solitary and YO
U’LL LOVE IT, and it comes with sheep, which I assume you ADORE now!!
Lilah had picked up the email from a cliffside hotspot in Sicily, where she’d been photographing goats. After the hard sell, Sophie had added what she’d really been thinking.
Take two weeks to steel yourself for your return.
Return. Period.
Sophie had left out all the bits that came after return.
Return, after eighteen months out of the public eye.
Return, after her career had been destroyed.
Return, but not to the world she’d lived in for a decade. To a different world. One that might not accept her.
She pushed the thoughts aside and eyed the man in front of her, who, when he wasn’t looking so irritated, was probably the poster boy for the Devonshire Farming Society with his broad shoulders and long legs and sure steps and his sweater that matched the barley in the fields beyond and also his eyes—not that she noticed.
She smiled her photographer smile. The one she used to settle starlets and Sicilian goats, princes and Peruvian llamas. The one that had not worked on grumpy sheep, but would hopefully disarm this incredibly grumpy man. “I’m Lilah.”
Another grunt.
Her brows shot up. “Your turn, Lancelot.”
She expected the irritation that flashed across his handsome face, but she didn’t expect the rest of the emotions—there and gone so fast that if she wasn’t used to watching the world at shutter speed, she wouldn’t have noticed. Suspicion. Surprise. And something she might have discovered was longing if she’d been able to study the film.
He ran a hand through his hair and a lesser woman would have called it endearing. “I’m . . . ” A pause, like he’d forgotten. Like he’d never known.
Lilah waited. A trick of the trade.
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