Anyone But a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  “YOU.”

  It came out before he had a chance to think about it, but in retrospect it was the most truthful thing he could have said.

  She was here . . . at the crux of his past and future . . . at the heart of all that had been his hopes and expectations . . . with her curvy frame and sun-polished cheeks and big green eyes that flashed her emotions like semaphores. So easy to read.

  So easy to want.

  Before she could respond, he bent to touch her lips with his.

  Her lips were warm and sweet, and there was a hint of exploration in the way she fitted them to his. In his travels he’d kissed a number of women, usually ones with considerable experience. Their eagerness had a measured, practiced feel that was nothing like her earnest response.

  The world around him fell away as her arms circled his waist and she met his embrace. He didn’t hear the movement, the quick thud of paws on the path, or the growl until it was too late.

  It was probably no accident that he took the brunt of the impact . . .

  Also by Betina Krahn

  The Sin & Sensibility romances

  A Good Day to Marry a Duke

  The Girl With the Sweetest Secret

  Three Nights With the Princess

  Behind Closed Doors

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Anyone But A Duke

  BETINA KRAHN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  “YOU.”

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Teaser chapter

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Betina Krahn

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4351-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4352-2 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4352-2 (eBook)

  For my beloved Rex,

  the partner of my “second half ”

  Prologue

  London

  “Our family has never had much luck with dukes,” Elizabeth Bumgarten declared, smoothing her already impeccable skirts and staring out the window of the darkened carriage into the chilled September night.

  “He’s not a duke.” Sarah Bumgarten countered her mother’s observation, sitting straighter so as not to crumple her costly blue satin. “He’s an earl. A new one at that . . . three months . . . mostly spent in Italy garnering family support and alliances.” She smiled, thinking of his handsome face and irreverent wit. “But he’s finally home.”

  “I am only saying, he could have found time in his busy schedule to call on you.” Her mother sniffed. “In London for days and not even a word.”

  “He is now responsible for his family’s businesses.” Sarah thought of his previous devil-may-care attitude toward those weighty concerns. No doubt it was a huge adjustment for him to have to contend constantly with directors, ledgers, and lawyers. “I’m certain that after tonight you’ll be complaining that his lordship is always underfoot.”

  She glanced down at her smartly gloved hands and the package they held. She couldn’t wait to see him open the birthday present she had chosen.

  “At least he’s not a duke,” her mother muttered. “One in the family is quite enough.”

  Sarah expected her mother to recount again the unfortunate way that her son-in-law had become the Duke of Meridian . . . his older brother, Arthur, had died abroad under unknown circumstances. It was just one of several unfortunate happenings involving their family and men of ducal rank. It was almost enough to put Elizabeth off noblemen altogether. Except, of course, that she had one more daughter to see married. And for once, Sarah found herself in sympathy with her mother’s fondest hopes.

  For the early part of the season Terrence Tyrell had talked and teased, walked and waltzed with her under the gaze of London society, raising both eyebrows and expectations. She was hardly the most eligible young woman in the marriage hunt, despite her considerable wealth. Always with her nose in a book, dogging some ghastly physician’s footsteps, picking up stray animals, or riding hellbent on her demon horse through London’s outer boroughs. She made him laugh, he said when questioned by his cohorts. But in private he called her “pretty” and gently touched her hair.

  Then, just over three months ago, he’d inherited the title of Earl of Kelling and was whisked away to Italy by the family elders. Now he was back and was undoubtedly expected to settle down, take a wife, and produce an heir. What better time than the final grand ball of the season to take the next prescribed step in the life of a nobleman?

  Before he left London he had dropped hints that the family council would meet in Florence, and he made references to the exquisite ring that every earl’s bride had worn. Tonight could be the night. If he proposed, by next Monday the Times would share the news with all of England, and her mother would be over the moon with delight.

  The grand Palladian-style mansion glowed with candlelight reflected by gilt furnishings, French satin, and family jewels. No garish gaslight would intrude on this grand gathering. They paused in the doorway as their names were announced, and Sarah took a deep breath. Her mother’s hand on her elbow reminded her of decorum’s demands, but she couldn’t help scanning the faces, looking for him as they moved forward.

  She had to greet their host and hostess, the Earl of Sunderland and his countess, Lady Maribel, and then to acknowledge sundry others of rank and precedence before she would be free to join him. It was the final major event of an unusually long season and, coincidentally, his birthday. She held the flat, ribbon-wrapped box at her side, now wishing she had waited to give it to him . . . or at least had chosen less conspicuous wrappings.


  Smiles, continental kisses, and handshakes distracted her as she paid duty to all the proper people. Mercifully, her mother absorbed most of the attention, answering queries about married daughters and a forthcoming grandchild. She managed to steal away and enter the ballroom proper, smoothing her rich blue gown and her long kidskin gloves.

  Heads turned and whispers began as she made her way around the room, scanning the glittering crowd until she spotted him.

  It would be crass, under so many searching eyes, to rush to his side. She had to let him come to her. As she paused to exchange greetings with an older couple, he turned slowly toward her.

  That dark hair, those aquiline features, that easy smile . . . were attached by an arm to a dark-haired woman in a pale yellow gown. She was a sloe-eyed beauty with olive skin and a demure smile that seemed oddly knowing. As the pair turned, his gaze swept across the ballroom and passed over Sarah without the slightest glint of recognition.

  She stood with leaden limbs and a racing heart as one of the earl’s boisterous dark-haired companions pointed to her and asked the earl something. He turned with a half smile and replied in Italian before escorting the woman on his arm across the ballroom toward her.

  “There you are,” he said a bit too loudly, before speaking in what she recognized as Italian to his voluptuous companion. “Mi amore, vi presento Signorina Sarah Bumgarten.” The woman said something in a dry tone that sounded like “Sono, in effetti, incantata” to her, which might have meant either “enchanted” or “eat grass, you cow” in her language. He nodded before turning to Sarah. “My dear girl, I would have you meet Signorina Ava Marie Lombardi, of Florence . . . soon to be my countess.”

  Words—always her obliging servants—utterly failed her.

  She looked between them and forced a brittle smile, hoping to hide the fact that her heart was shattering into a million pieces. She managed a sociable lie about the pleasure of making the woman’s acquaintance, and watched helplessly as Terrence’s Italian bride turned to him and said something that set the Italians around them smirking. She caught two words that were appallingly similar in English: dollaro and principessa.

  She backed a step and brought her hands up defensively—realizing too late that they held the gift she had brought.

  “Ahhh.” The Lombardi creature pounced on that mistake with icy amusement, focusing on that pretty blue paper and brilliant yellow bow. “E così per lui? Eri una bambina tanto dolce.”

  Bambina. She had read enough of Dante and other Italian classics to know she had just been called a child. When she looked up in disbelief and caught Terrence’s gaze, he quickly looked away. He might be uncomfortable, but he clearly did not value her enough to intervene in such rude and degrading treatment.

  She glanced away, only to find a quarter of the ballroom watching that unthinkable exchange. Standing at the front of the onlookers was her mother, and the horror on Elizabeth’s face jolted her wits back into action.

  “I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” she said, throwing the gift on the floor near his feet and hearing the satisfying tinkle of breaking glass. “I am not now, nor have I ever been a ‘sweet child.’ And it appears that I have mistaken you, sir”—she looked at the earl through a prism of hot tears—“for a gentleman of character and worth.”

  She turned on her heel and strode for the door, spine straight and head held high, ignoring the slither of gossip trailing her through the crowd.

  Moments later, as she donned her wrap near the front doors, her mother came rushing down the stairs from the ballroom to pull her aside.

  “What did that beast say to you?” she demanded.

  “Nothing I shouldn’t have seen coming,” she answered bitterly.

  “Where are you going? You cannot run from this, Sarah. You must stay and hold your head up and brave it through. The Richardsons are here and the Spencers. They will see us through.”

  She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her hair and looked around the grand entry hall, watching the faces of the people staring at them while pretending not to stare.

  “I don’t want to be seen through. I don’t want to have to bow and scrape and pretend I give a flying fig about these awful people. They think I’m odd and eccentric because I read so many books and help stray animals and study medicine. Well, they can all bloody well die on the privy, for all I care.”

  As she turned to the door, her mother grabbed her wrist and held her until Sarah turned a scalding look on her. She loosened her grip and then, reading the pain and fury in her daughter’s gaze, released her.

  “Wait, I’ll get my cloak—”

  “No. You stay and gut it out with the Spencers and Richardsons.” Banked tears finally slipped down her cheeks. “You’ll want a life here after I’ve gone.”

  “Gone? What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere”—Sarah forced the words past the constriction in her throat—“but London.”

  Chapter One

  Months later

  The English countryside

  “Blasted animal,” Sarah Bumgarten muttered as she strode down the tree-lined country lane. She had started this search near the main house, and ventured farther and farther—until she now found herself almost to the village, still on foot in unsuitable shoes. It was an exceptionally warm day, and she was annoyed to have to spend it looking for her dog when there was so much to be done at Betancourt. Every footfall on the gravel of the road sounded like teeth grinding.

  Consarned dog. She pushed her hair back from her face. Running off to hell and gone, again. The last two times, she had found him in Betany terrifying the locals. Nero was more dog than most of the villagers had ever seen . . . Irish wolfhound with a bit of heft that probably came from a mastiff somewhere in the line. He was tall and gray and had red-brown eyes as bright as copper pennies. He was stunning. And intimidating. And he had a grin that could melt an iceberg. All of which had combined to lure her into rescuing him from London’s mean streets. She had no idea how an Irish wolfhound pup came to be running free in London’s West End, but she wasn’t one to pass up a hungry, frightened animal when it came her way.

  It wasn’t long before the Iron Penny Inn and Tavern came into view. The rambling stone and half-timber structure had served as the social center of the village of Betany for generations. If anyone had seen Nero in the vicinity, it would be Bascom, the sturdy, taciturn innkeeper. He kept an eye on the village as well as his own property. If he hadn’t seen Nero, there was a good chance she could get him or his son William to help her search.

  Raucous male voices and harsh laughter from the far side of the tavern caught her ear as she approached the inn. That low, wicked rumble was punctuated by a yelp of surprise . . . anger . . . pain.

  Damn and blast!

  “Bascom!” she shouted as she ran past the open tavern door. “Bascom, I need help!”

  A dog was in trouble, and she would have bet her best riding boots which dog it would be. Her heart gave a furious thump as another yelp and then some snarling reached her.

  Around the corner, in the side yard of the Iron Penny, four men surrounded her wolfhound. Nero was growling and showing teeth as he crouched defensively and looked for a way out. But the men were steadily closing the gaps between them, hefting rocks and taking turns taunting Nero. As she caught her breath, one of the four lobbed a rock at her dog, who dodged, but only into the path of another missile hurled at him. He yelped and shrank for an instant, then came back growling and baring teeth.

  She bolted toward the fray, yelling, “Stop! This instant!”

  The men turned on her, surprised—by her appearance as much as her demand. She had dressed for a day of visiting the local vicar and a few tradesmen: a yellow cotton day dress printed with blue flowers, made with French-blue piping, and satin ribbon laced through the bodice. She had meant to present a ladylike appearance to the people of Betany—to reassure them that someone was upholding Betancourt standards.
However, her hair was down and windblown—she hadn’t had time to put it up when housemaid Mazie stumbled up the stairs to tell her that Nero was missing again.

  “Well . . . look wot we got ’ere,” one of the men said, turning to her with an ugly grin filled with dark gaps and yellowed teeth.

  “That’s my dog.” Her anxiety rose as two of the others closed on Nero. “You leave him alone!”

  “Ooh, hear that? Orders. We got us a duchess, boys,” another, taller fellow declared before giving an enormous belch. Fumes from spent liquor wafted in her direction as he made a sloppy bow of deference.

  Drunk, she realized. At this hour of the morning.

  “Yer mutt near took my leg off when I went out back to take a piss,” the farthest wretch snarled, glaring at Nero as he removed his belt. “He needs teachin’.” He drew back with the strap and found his arm stopped—held. His wrist was caught in the grip of a man with long hair, hands like iron bands, and eyes filled with heat like forge flames.

  “Lemme go.” He turned and swung at the stranger with his free hand, but his ale-sodden reflexes were no match for the stranger’s quickness. The blow was deflected and the next minute, the stranger’s fist rammed into his gut and all hell broke loose.

  The wretch nearest Sarah lunged for her and she slammed a fist straight into the middle of his face. There was a crunching sound and a howl that might have come from her as pain shot up her hand and arm. Suddenly there was a storm of scuffling and growling and the sound of fists smacking flesh all around the tavern yard.