The Duke's Reluctant Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Disregarding Royal orders was considered much worse than highway robbery. Punishable by hanging, she heard herself whisper deep in a dungeon in Scotland. Punishable by hanging, drawing, quartering…

  “Nothing is more important? Not even treason?”

  “Nothing. I knew it—I knew it while I sat in that prison awaiting trial, wondering where you were and whether rumors had reached your ears to cause you torment. And then, when I saw you standing at that rail…”

  His eyes mirrored the anguish she’d seen in them that moment.

  “But by then,” he continued, “it was too late. I was too weak, too drugged.” He swayed again. “I still am, it seems. They told me I wasn’t recovered enough to come to you yet, but, like you, I didn’t listen. Like you, I couldn’t listen, not when my love was at stake.” He risked a tiny, tentative smile, that chipped tooth peeking through.

  It cracked her heart.

  She’d been wrong, too. He’d asked her to trust him, said there were things he couldn’t tell her. But she hadn’t listened. She wanted to say she understood, but her throat closed with emotion.

  She looked down to the paper in her hand, the precious words blurring through fresh tears. In his own blood, he’d tried to tell her not to worry. And he’d written a poem for her, admitting his love, promising to earn her trust, asking for forgiveness.

  Poetry. He’d shared that most secret side of himself with her, just as she’d always hoped. His wall had finally come down.

  Or maybe she’d managed to scale it.

  He came forward and took the paper from her trembling hands, setting it aside.

  Then he stepped right into the water.

  “Your boots!” she gasped.

  In the big tub, he knelt at her feet. “I own a fleet and a warehouse stacked with imported goods from all over the world. I can buy a hundred pairs of boots.”

  His voice was thick and unsteady, his amber eyes so intense they seemed to spear her to her very soul.

  He reached beneath the water to take her hands in his. “Don’t you understand? I can buy almost anything—anything, sweet Kendra, except your love.”

  “You have it,” she whispered.

  EPILOGUE

  Six years later

  KENDRA RAN DOWN Amberley’s marble front steps, then, waiting for Trick, paused and looked back at the house. She smiled at the incongruous stone lintel over the elegant double front doors—a long, decidedly inelegant rock with symbols chiseled into it: the letters KC and PC, a ship, a heart, and a date. 1668.

  “What’s that?” she’d asked Trick the day she first came home from the orphanage to see it.

  He’d blinked. “Do you not remember Falkland? And the marriage lintels?”

  “Well, yes. But this isn’t a weaver’s cottage in Scotland—it’s a mansion in Sussex. And this house wasn’t built in 1668.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t,” he’d told her, lacing his fingers with hers. “But that was the year it became a home.”

  Remembering now, the same joy filled her heart that had filled it then. She touched the stones on her amber bracelet, knowing with a certainty that she’d never take it off again.

  Trick finally sauntered out, displaying none of her own impatience.

  “Hurry, Trick, or Cait’s babe will be born before we get there.”

  “Slow down, or our babe will be born too early.” Walking her over to the caleche, he smiled and ran a possessive hand over the slight bulge of her middle. “Besides, we were there already. It was you who insisted we leave everyone and return home for the gift you forgot.”

  “It was you who insisted on the hour we just spent in our chamber.” Grinning as he climbed up beside her, she leaned in for a quick kiss.

  With a hand on the back of her neck, he held her close, his lips meeting hers in a much longer, warmer embrace, sending a swirl of excitement spiraling through her. The soft, paper-wrapped package in her hands slipped to the caleche’s boards.

  He broke off and, with a chuckle, reached to collect it and set it back on her lap. “Do you want to go back upstairs, leannan?”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered on a sigh. “But no.”

  “Women.” He shook his head, bright gold in the sun, and lifted the caleche’s reins.

  “Drive fast,” she urged, and then, “Faster,” until they were racing toward Cainewood at an alarming speed, considering her delicate state. “I want to be there with Cait when the babe greets the world.”

  But as she was hurrying up Cainewood’s carved stone staircase, the thready cry of a newborn split the air. She paused with her hand on the gray marble rail.

  Trick squeezed her around the shoulders. “Sorry we’re late, lass, but do you not think our little interlude was worth it? We so rarely have time to ourselves these days.”

  “I suppose.” She gave him a mock pout. “Let’s go meet the child.”

  The door to Jason and Caithren’s chamber was wide open, the room crammed with cooing Chases. Cait reclined like a queen in the cobalt-curtained bed, a squalling infant in her arms.

  “For me?” she asked with a smile, indicating the gift in Kendra’s hands. “Or the babe?”

  “Both.” Kendra handed it to her. “Though really it’s from your cousin Cameron. I wrote asking him to send it. Then he wouldn’t accept my money.” Looking around the noisy chamber while Caithren opened the package, she spotted Jason and Colin, but not her twin. “Is Ford not here yet?”

  Jason sat beside Cait. “He sent a message from Lakefield House that they’d be a bit late,” he said, helping his wife unfold a green and blue tartan blanket. “Seems to think he’s on the verge of some discovery.”

  “Turning iron into gold? He always did want to be Midas.” Kendra laughed, moving closer as a grinning Cait wrapped her child in the Leslie plaid.

  Like magic, the babe quieted.

  Swathed in its maternal homeland’s colors, the baby looked so precious and content. Feeling her heart melt with tenderness, Kendra ran a fingertip along its downy cheek. “Everything went well?” she asked Cait while smiling down at the newborn. “You’re both healthy?”

  “Aye. Everything went perfectly.”

  The baby grasped her finger with tiny fingers of its own. Such a miracle. Beneath the new blanket, it was swaddled in plain white. Kendra looked up. “Well, what is it?”

  Cait gave a happy sigh. “A lad.”

  “Another boy?”

  That made three. The Chase family had multiplied in the six years since Kendra and Trick were wed.

  Cait’s two older sons were bouncing on the canopied bed. Thankfully the infant didn’t seem to mind the wild ride.

  The rest of the chamber was no more calm. Amy and Colin’s two boys were racing around the room, chasing Kendra and Trick’s two giggling daughters and gleefully careening off the tapestried walls. The oldest of the cousins at seven, Jewel was a bit more sedate. Of course that was because she was busy at the moment, serenading the new arrival with a lullaby—at the top of her lungs.

  One of Kendra’s young daughters rammed into her knees, the result of a hopeless attempt to escape her pursuing cousins. As she lifted the girl into her arms, Trick moved close. “Chaos, as always,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said, turning to him. “But a happy chaos, don’t you think?”

  He grinned and took her lips in a soft kiss, right there in front of her brothers and everyone, like their first kiss in Cainewood’s chapel so many years before.

  And this kiss left her every bit as breathless.

  A glorious thing, true love was, she thought as she pulled back with a smile, their daughter wriggling between them. Once, long ago, she’d promised Trick he’d find true love, and she’d followed through, hadn’t she?

  A Chase promise was never given lightly.

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  Next up is Ford’s story in The Viscount’s Wallflower Bride. Please read on for an excerpt.

  If you'd like to learn more about the real people, places, and events in The Duke’s Reluctant Bride, turn the page for Lauren’s Author's Note...

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Author's Note

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  Excerpt from The Viscount’s Wallflower Bride

  Books by Lauren & Devon Royal

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  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Dear Reader,

  King Charles I's baggage ferry really did go down in the Firth of Forth that fateful summer of 1633, although—so far as I know!—nobody had substituted rocks for the treasure. Interestingly, the sinking wasn't common knowledge until the early 1990s. Apparently embarrassed by the loss, Charles did his best to keep it quiet, and it was centuries before a historian noticed a footnote and began to look into it. Since then, three accounts have been found that make mention of the sinking. But although all the writers were contemporary to the incident, none of them were actually present, and therefore little is known about what actually lies at the bottom of the Firth of Forth.

  We know that one of two wooden ferries went down, carrying a portion of the king's household property, but which possessions were aboard remains to be seen. It is assumed to be mostly kitchen goods—a Royal "kitchen" consisting mainly of solid silver and gold serving pieces—but this is only a guess based on accountings of replacement items that were ordered in the months afterward.

  The search for the shipwreck began soon after the discovery of its existence, but progress has been slow, because conditions in the Forth—frigid choppy water, strong tides, poor visibility—severely limit diving opportunities. Early on, an American team searched for several summers, but their efforts proved unsuccessful. Following two years of inactivity, the project resumed, this time under a nonprofit group formed for the purpose, Burntisland Heritage Trust. The search is being carried out in acceptance with strict archaeological guidelines, and Historic Scotland is responsible for assuring that those standards are met and maintained. The world waits with bated breath to see what will rise from the Firth of Forth...here's hoping they don't find chests filled with rocks!

  As for the highwayman Jack Nevison (nicknamed Swift Nicks by King Charles II himself), the story Ford told of his ride from London to York was true, as well as the tale of his court visit and pardon from Charles. But alas, not one to learn from his mistakes, the notorious robber continued his life of crime. His escapes from prison were legendary, including the stunt I borrowed where a doctor friend painted him with blue spots and declared him dead. In 1685, he was caught for the last time in York. Brought to a hasty trial before he could devise an escape, he pleaded the king's most gracious pardon, which he claimed covered subsequent as well as prior misdeeds. Not surprisingly, the court dismissed his defense, and at the ripe old age of forty-six, Swift Nicks found himself hanged.

  The homes in my stories are usually inspired by real-life places, and this book is no exception. Although I put it in a different geographic location, Amberley House and its beautiful gardens were loosely modeled on Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, England. The original palace, built in 1497 by the Bishop of Ely, was the childhood and young-adult home of the first Queen Elizabeth. Two portraits of her can be viewed in the home today, along with some of her clothing and letters.

  Elizabeth's successor, James I, didn't care for Hatfield as a home, preferring Theobalds, the residence of Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury. He proposed an exchange, and the Cecils agreed. In 1608, the earl tore down most of the palace and began building the present house in what was then a modern style, at a cost of over £38,000, a staggering amount of money in those times. Though first designed by Robert Lyminge, the plans were modified by others, including, it is thought, young Inigo Jones. This is the house that you can visit today, and the one Kendra saw when she first rode up that long drive.

  From the seventeenth century until present day, Hatfield House has served as both a social and political center, hosting luminaries from royalty on down. Well worth a visit, the magnificent house is open for tours from March through October, and most of the gardens are open year-round.

  Duncraven Castle was invented when I stayed at Borthwick Castle, twin towers located just south of Edinburgh in Scotland (although, once again, I took the liberty of moving it). Built in 1430 by the first Lord Borthwick, whose sepulchre can still be seen with that of his Lady in the old village church, its virtually impregnable stone walls sheltered Mary Queen of Scots in her last days of freedom. When a force of some thousand men surrounded the castle, her husband, Bothwell, escaped, leaving Mary behind under the protection of the Borthwicks. Disguised as a page boy, Mary then climbed through a window in the great hall, lowered herself by rope to the ground below, and set off through the gate and across the glen in search of her husband. The stuff of romance novels, isn't it? But sadly, their reunion was a short one, and the tragic queen never again knew true freedom.

  Nearly a century later, Borthwick Castle was besieged by the forces of Oliver Cromwell, whose letter demanding surrender—the same one read by Trick in my story—hangs framed in today's great hall. Weathered and nobly scarred, Borthwick still stands hundreds of years later. Sir Walter Scott described Borthwick as by far the finest example of the Scottish castles which consist of a single "donjon," or keep. So it was, and so it still is, now run as a bed and breakfast. Do treat yourself with a stay there if ever you get a chance. After a delicious gourmet dinner, you may sit before the immense fireplace, sipping spirits while the caretakers regale you with stories of ghosts and legends. And when you climb the winding staircase to your chamber, don't be surprised if you find yourself looking over your shoulder...

  I hope you enjoyed The Duke’s Reluctant Bride! Next up is Ford’s story in The Viscount’s Wallflower Bride. Please read on for an excerpt as well as more bonus material!

  Always,

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  LAUREN & DEVON’S NEXT BOOK IS…

  The Viscount’s Wallflower Bride

  The Chase Brides

  Book Five

  Lady Violet Ashcroft grew up sheltered in the countryside, far from the dashing gentlemen of the court—and that’s how she likes it. Here on her family’s beautiful, quiet estate, she needn’t fight off suitors who are only after her sizable inheritance, or play second fiddle to her prettier younger sisters. Love and marriage aren’t for everyone, and sensible Violet would rather spend her days improving her mind than risking her heart. Until a rather dashing gentleman shows up next door…

  Ford Chase, Viscount Lakefield, has had it with women. Who’s got time for them, anyway, when there’s important work to be done? Fresh out of Oxford, Ford is ready to devise his first world-changing invention. All he needs is some peace and quiet on his neglected country estate, where there is no family to nag him and, most especially, no women to distract him—until he’s thrown into the company of the intriguing Lady Violet…

  Read an excerpt…

  England

  July 15, 1673<
br />
  ST. SWITHIN’S DAY. Well, it was fitting.

  Ford Chase stared out his carriage window at the miserable, wet landscape. According to St. Swithin’s legend, if rain fell on the fifteenth of July, it would continue for forty days and nights. Not that Ford believed in such superstitious swill. But today it seemed almost plausible.

  This was shaping up to be the worst day of his life.

  The carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into the modest courtyard of Greystone, his brother’s small castle. Cold raindrops pelted Ford’s head when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. Drenched gravel crunching beneath his boots, he made his way down a short, covered passageway and banged the knocker on the unassuming oak door.

  Benchley cracked open the door, then slipped outside and shut it behind him. “My lord, what brings you here today?”

  “I wish to speak with my brother.” Ford frowned down at the small, wiry valet. What was he doing answering the door? “Will you be letting me in?”

  “I think not,” Benchley replied in a surly tone Ford had never heard him use before. “I’ll fetch Lord Greystone.” And with that, he disappeared back into the ancient castle.

  Shivering, Ford stood open-mouthed in disbelief. Well, this treatment certainly fit in with the rest of his day. Rain dripped from his limp brown hair to sprinkle on the stones at his feet. Deciding he needn’t ask permission to enter his brother’s home, he reached for the latch.

  The door opened, and his brother stepped out. He looked haggard, his face a pasty gray, his green eyes and black hair dull.

  “Colin? What the deuce is going on?”

  “Illness. Measles, we think. Thank goodness you’re here.”

  Ford pulled his surcoat tighter around himself. “Come again?”

  “Amy is ill, along with Hugh and the baby. And half of the servants. One of them died yesterday,” Colin added grimly.