No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes, Kelly Bowen, Anna Harrington

  “There is a reasonable explanation.” He fought back frustration. Dammit, but he just wanted to be left alone.

  “I’m sure. But the silverware is downstairs,” the voice almost sneered. “In case you missed it.”

  “I’m not a thief.” He felt his brow crease slightly. Something about that voice was oddly familiar.

  “Ah.” The response was measured, though there was as slight waver to it. “I’ll scream this bloody house down before I allow you to touch me or any of the girls.”

  “I’m not touching anyone,” he snapped, before he abruptly stopped. Any of the girls? What the hell did that mean?

  The knife tip pressed down a little harder, and Eli winced. He could hear rapid breathing, and a new scent reached him, one unmistakably feminine. Soap, he realized, the fragrance exotic and faintly floral. Something that one wouldn’t expect from a maid.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I might ask the same.”

  “Criminals don’t have that privilege.”

  Eli bit back another curse. This was ridiculous. His knees were getting sore, he was chilled to the bone and exhausted from travel, and he was in his own damn house. If he had to endure England, it would not be like this.

  In a fluid motion, he dropped flat against the floor and rolled immediately to the side, sweeping his arm up to knock that of his attacker. He heard her utter a strangled gasp as the knife fell to the floor and she stumbled forward, caught off balance. Eli was on his knees instantly, his hands catching hers as they flailed at him. He pinned her wrists, twisting her body so it was she who was on the floor, on her back, with Eli hovering over her. She sucked in a breath, and he yanked a hand away to cover her mouth, stopping her scream before it ever escaped.

  “Again,” he said between clenched teeth, “I am not going to hurt you.” Beneath his hand her head jerked from side to side. She had fine features, he realized. In fact, all of her felt tiny, from the bones in her wrists to the small frame that was struggling beneath him. It made him feel suddenly protective. As if he held something infinitely fragile that was his to care for.

  Though a woman who brandished a knife in such a manner couldn’t be that fragile. He tightened his hold. “If you recall, it was you who had me at a disadvantage with a knife at my neck. I will not make any apologies for removing myself from that position. Nor will I make any apologies for my presence at Avondale. I have every right to be here.”

  Her struggles stilled.

  Eli tried to make out her features in the darkness, but it was impossible. “If I take my hand away, will you scream?”

  He felt her shake her head.

  “Promise?”

  She made a furious noise in the back of her throat in response.

  Very slowly Eli removed his hand. She blew out a breath but kept her word and didn’t scream. He released her wrists and pushed himself back on his heels. He heard the rustle of fabric, and the air stirred as she pushed herself away. Her scent swirled around him before fading.

  “You’re not a maid,” he said.

  “What?” Her confusion was clear. “No.”

  “Then who are you?” he demanded. “And why are you in my rooms?”

  “Your rooms?” Now there was disbelief. “I don’t know who you think you are or where you think you are, but I can assure you that these are not your rooms.”

  Eli swallowed, a sudden thought making his stomach sink unpleasantly. Had Avondale been sold? Had he had broken into a house that, in truth, he no longer owned? It wasn’t impossible. It might even be probable. He had been away a long time.

  “Is it my brother you are looking for? Is someone hurt?”

  The question caught him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  Eli found himself scowling fiercely, completely at a loss. Nothing since he had pushed open that door had made any sort of sense. “Who owns Avondale?”

  “What?” Now it was her turn to sound stymied.

  “This house—was it sold? Do you own it?”

  “No. We’ve leased Avondale from the Earl of Rivers for years. From his estate now, I suppose, until they decide what to do with it.” Suspicion seeped from every syllable. “Did you know him before he died? The old earl?”

  Eli opened his mouth before closing it. He finally settled on, “Yes.”

  “Then you’re what? A friend of the family? Relative?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Which one?”

  Eli drew in a breath that wasn’t wholly steady. He tried to work his tongue around the words that would forever commit him to this place. That would effectively sever any retreat.

  He cleared his throat. “I am the Earl of Rivers.”

  * * *

  Preorder a copy of Last Night With the Earl

  The Double Duchess

  Anna Harrington

  Dedicated to my darling Mel

  A very special thank you to

  Sara Kortenray, Head of Charity

  Greenwich Hospital, London

  for her help in researching this story

  Prologue

  * * *

  Fort St George, India

  October, 1813

  Lieutenant Maxwell Thorpe stared at the letter in his hand, for once oblivious to the hot rains that poured endlessly over the white stone fort. The candle lighting the small writing desk in the quarters he shared with five other junior officers sputtered as a drop of water dripped through the ceiling and onto the flame.

  … to notify you that I will be asking for her hand in marriage.

  A burning clawed at his gut, helped along in no small part by the now-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk, one last swallow of the stuff in the glass beside it.

  She will become a respected woman of rank and fortune within the Collins family, protected by my brother, Duke of Winchester. I will offer a generous settlement that will erase her father’s debts. She will never want for anything.

  Hell … that’s what this was. He had seen torment and suffering on the battlefields. Had endured weather that killed lesser men. Had once even been in such physical pain that he’d wished for death. None of that compared to the agony that pulsed through him now.

  So I ask you, as one gentleman to another, to let her have the life she deserves.

  Slowly, he set it down and picked up a second letter. This one had arrived the same day as the first, dated nearly two months ago. Two months that he’d lived thinking that his fate was still his own, his future his to claim. In reality, his heart had been killed then, but the damnable thing only now knew to break.

  … a terrible position. Papa wants me to marry Lord George Collins. He sees that as the salvation for our family’s future. But I want only you for a husband, my love. Please come home—come home and help me.

  With grim determination, he tossed back the last swallow of whiskey, then reached for the inkpot and paper. She would think him a bastard for this. But let her place the blame on him, let her hate him to the end of her days. Small price to pay for the life that he could never give her otherwise. Scribbling quickly before he changed his mind—

  My dearest Belinda, I cannot return to England. My life is in the army here. I want you to forget me…

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Brighton, England

  July, 1823

  Belinda stared across the meeting table toward Maxwell Thorpe and bit out, “You are a heartless monster.”

  The monster himself said nothing. He silently continued to gaze at her with brown eyes that had always reminded her of melted chocolate, with a face that most women would have said was handsome enough to give sweet dreams but which had brought her nightmares.

  Around them, the other members of the board of the Royal Hospital who had arrived in time for this meeting shifted awkwardly in their chairs. The tips of Mr. Peterson’s ears turned red, and Lord Daubney was downright shocked. But when had she ever care
d what Society gentlemen thought of her?

  And she certainly couldn’t care less what the monster at the head of the table thought. Maxwell Thorpe had lost that right a very long time ago.

  Colonel Woodhouse leaned forward. “Your Grace, if you would consider—”

  She slid a narrowed gaze at him, silencing him with a look. Nor did she care what opinions the colonel—or any actively commissioned officer, especially the one leading the meeting—held about this matter. Those same officers were now conspiring to shut down the Royal Hospital, home to more than sixty military pensioners, and she refused to let that happen.

  “Of course you support him, Colonel.” Her calm words belied her anger. “I’m certain the orders came down from the highest level in the War Office, and a good soldier never questions his orders. Not even when it destroys the home of elderly men who have lost the best years of their lives—and several dozen eyes and limbs between them—protecting England.”

  That silenced the colonel. He leaned back in his chair and busied himself by shuffling through the papers in front of him.

  It silenced all protests from the other board members as well. Good. They needed to know that she was resolute in carrying out the remaining few months of her late husband’s three-year tenure on the board. Once a new board was seated, she’d lose the influence she held as a voting member. But until then, she planned to fight to keep those men in the only home they had left, and the one they deserved.

  “As I explained,” Maxwell interjected, “the army needs another training facility in the south of England, and because the garrison barracks are already located here, Brighton is the most logical choice.”

  “Very well.” She kept her hands folded demurely in her lap, not once reaching for the tea tray that the flustered aide-de-camp had hurried to ready and bring into the room, once his surprise had worn off at a woman arriving unannounced for the meeting. The widow of a duke, no less. One who spoke her mind on military matters and held her own against peers and His Majesty’s officers. “Then, by all means, you should build one.”

  And leave the Royal Hospital and its pensioners alone. The unspoken challenge hung in the air between them.

  She’d received word only yesterday about this called meeting of the board and the War Office’s plans, which had taken her completely by surprise. And she certainly hadn’t expected that the man who was leading the meeting, as special War Office liaison to the board, was the same one who had once shattered her heart.

  Now, apparently, he was also set on turning pensioners out of their home, just so soldiers could learn to more effectively wage war.

  But he had another think coming if he thought he could come sweeping in and so easily close the hospital.

  She flashed a saccharine smile. “Other properties are available where the academy can be constructed.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not feasible.” Maxwell’s answer was calm, although she was certain he wanted to throttle her for raising objections to his plans. “We need the academy to be operational within six months, which means we need these existing buildings.”

  “Without regard to the men whom the army no longer has any use for?” She held up the list of pensioners’ names. “What’s to become of them?”

  “They’re not being kicked out into the cold, Your Grace.” His forced smile proved that she was wearing on his patience. Good. “They’ll be relocated to other hospitals, including Chelsea.”

  “But their home isn’t Chelsea. It’s Brighton.”

  “They will adapt to their new home, wherever it is.” His hard expression told her that he was through attempting to win her over by persuasion. So did the way he leaned back in his chair, reminding her of a tiger studying his prey. Right before it pounced. “His Majesty’s soldiers are all loyal men who are used to doing what’s needed of them.”

  “Are they? My experience tells me differently.”

  His eyes glinted at that private cut, the only outward reaction that her arrow had hit home. But she’d noticed. After all, there was a time when she’d noticed everything about this man.

  “With respect, Your Grace,” Mr. Peterson interjected, perhaps fearing the two of them would come to blows if someone didn’t intercede, “your experience with the military is limited. I’m certain Brigadier Thorpe is doing what’s best for both the pensioners and the cadets.”

  “While my experience with the military might be limited”—she leveled her gaze on Maxwell to make certain he understood that she’d neither forgotten nor forgiven how he’d used her for his own advancement all those years ago—“my experience with military officers is not. In addition to serving on this board in my late husband’s stead and being the hospital’s leading patroness, I am also a patroness for the Royal Hospital Chelsea and the Greenwich Hospital.”

  As the Duchess of Winchester, she wielded a great deal of influence, and her role here couldn’t be dismissed out of hand. That was the greatest gift that her late husband, George, had ever given her—the power of a duchess, along with a dower that ensured she’d be able to give financially to whatever charities she favored. Winchester had known since the day he married her that her heart lay with her charity work. He’d probably laugh to know that she was using his old position on the board to put a thorn in Maxwell Thorpe’s side.

  She straightened her shoulders to become as imposing as her twenty-eight years could be. “Gentlemen, need I remind you that those pensioners are here because they have no money and no families to look after them? It is up to us to defend them.”

  “And it is up to His Majesty’s active army and navy to defend all of England,” Maxwell countered. “Sandhurst has proven a grand success, and the War Office believes—and I concur—that more academies are needed. Of course, we want to work with the board, not against it, to ensure a smooth transition.”

  In other words, the War Office was going ahead with the academy whether the board liked it or not.

  “And if the board refuses?” she pressed.

  The men all looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. After all, they’d have to be mad to go against the War Office’s wishes.

  Except for Maxwell, in whom she saw a flash of admiration for her tenacity.

  Perhaps, though, it wasn’t admiration at all but simply acknowledgment of an adversary. If so, he had no idea how stalwart an opponent she could be.

  Colonel Woodhouse gently cleared his throat. “I believe, Your Grace, that the board agrees with Brigadier Thorpe.”

  “Does it? By my count, only a third of the board is present.” Eleven men—and one lone widow—sat on the board, but because of the rushed nature of this meeting, only four of them were present. “Do we really want to expose ourselves and the War Office to the hostilities that might ensue if sixty pensioners are expelled from their home based upon the agreement of only one-third of the board?”

  The men exchanged troubled looks. Only Max’s inscrutable expression remained unchanged, as if he’d expected a fight from her all along.

  “What are your terms, Your Grace?” he asked. The same words, she noted, that generals used when negotiating surrender. The question was… which one of them did he think was surrendering?

  “That we hold a formal vote by the entire board in a fortnight. Delaying the decision will give the others the opportunity to weigh in or send their proxies.”

  And give her time to sway them all to vote against the academy.

  Woodhouse’s patience snapped. “This is absurd!” He dismissingly waved a hand at her. “To let this woman—”

  “Colonel.” The force of that word reverberated through the room as Maxwell rose from his chair. “You forget yourself.”

  Woodhouse snapped his mouth shut, but his nostrils flared. “Yes, Brigadier.”

  “Apologize to Her Grace.”

  Woodhouse hesitated. “Sir?”

  “Apologize.”

  Clenching his jaw, Woodhouse was anything but apologetic as he ground out, “My
apologies, Your Grace.”

  Well, that was a surprise—Maxwell coming to her defense. Yet Belinda regally inclined her head to coolly accept the apology.

  “Her Grace has a valid point.”

  That surprised her even more. Did Maxwell truly mean it, or was he simply flattering her in an attempt to appease? Especially since he remained standing at the head of the table in a posture of pure command.

  “Of course, the War Office can petition Parliament to claim the property if it likes,” he explained. “But the secretary would prefer the cooperation of both the board and the town, and avoiding rancor will be more pleasant for everyone.”

  For everyone … For King George, he meant.

  While the War Office might very well have the influence to take over the property, the soldiers—and King George himself—would find Brighton a very inhospitable place if the board voted against them. She’d use that to her advantage and personally appeal to His Majesty on behalf of the pensioners, if she had to.

  “So we’ll adjourn for today and take up the discussion again when the other board members arrive.” He closed his portfolio. “But if they are not all here within the fortnight, we proceed without them. Lord Palmerston wants a new academy established by Christmastide.”

  Belinda forced her shoulders not to sink. A fortnight would barely be enough time for the others to travel to Brighton, let alone for her to sway them to her side.

  But she would have to. Somehow.

  “Gentlemen and Your Grace.” Maxwell nodded at the room at large, then at Belinda. “Thank you for your time.”

  He moved toward the door, where he spoke to each man in turn as they left. But when Belinda rose from her seat, the devil closed the door instead of following the men from the room, shutting them inside together.