Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Blurb
High Acclaim For Grace Burrowes
Also by Grace Burrowes
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
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
Epilogue
A Preview of A Rogue of Her Own
Chapter One
About the Author
Newsletter
This book 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 coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Grace Burrowes
Preview of A Rogue of Her Own copyright © 2017 by Grace Burrowes
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner
Cover illustration by Chris Cocozza
Cover hand lettering by Jen Mussari
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ISBNs: 978-1-4555-7001-0 (mass market), 978-1-4555-7000-3 (ebook)
I’ve left my common sense back in England.
Elizabeth hadn’t meant to confide in Haverford, hadn’t meant to disclose her past. The dratted man was like no kind of aristocrat Elizabeth had met—or kissed—before.
Haverford was trying to convince her he was a lazy kisser, but he was lazy like a prowling lion, bringing infinite patience and focus to his advances. His lips moved over Elizabeth’s in gentle brushes, and she scooted closer, the better to grip him by the lapels.
He came closer as well, spreading his knees, and sliding a hand into Elizabeth’s hair. His kisses were lovely. Tender, teasing, maddeningly undemanding.
“I want—” Elizabeth muttered against his mouth. She took a taste of him, and his every movement, from his breathing to the susurration of his clothing, to his slight shifts on the hassock, stilled.
“Again,” he said. “Please.”
Elizabeth liked the sound of that, liked the feel of the word please spoken against her mouth. And as the kiss deepened and became a frolic followed by a dare, punctuated by a challenge, she rejoiced.
I was wrong. I was so very, wonderfully wrong. All men weren’t inconsiderate louts. They weren’t all monuments to self-satisfaction. At least one man could kiss and kiss and kiss.…
HIGH ACCLAIM FOR
GRACE BURROWES
“Sexy heroes, strong heroines, intelligent plots, enchanting love stories…Grace Burrowes’s romances have them all.”
—Mary Balogh, New York Times bestselling author
“Grace Burrowes writes from the heart—with warmth, humor, and a generous dash of sensuality, her stories are unputdownable! If you’re not reading Grace Burrowes you’re missing the very best in today’s Regency romance!”
—Elizabeth Hoyt, New York Times bestselling author
TOO SCOT TO HANDLE
“A well-plotted, beautifully written story made all the more satisfying by its delightful secondary characters.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Top Pick! Burrowes’s delightful plotlines, heartfelt emotions, humor, and realistic, honest characters have turned her Windham series spinoffs into a fan favorite…a gem of a read. 4 ½ Stars.”
—RT Book Reviews (starred review)
THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES
“The hero of The Trouble with Dukes reminds me of Mary Balogh’s charming men, and the heroine brings to mind Sarah MacLean’s intelligent, fiery women…This is a wonderfully funny, moving romance, not to be missed!”
—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
“The Trouble with Dukes has everything Grace Burrowes’s many fans have come to adore: a swoonworthy hero, a strong heroine, humor, and passion. Her characters not only know their own hearts, but share them with fearless joy. Grace Burrowes is a romance treasure.”
—Tessa Dare, New York Times bestselling author
“The Trouble with Dukes is captivating! It has everything I love in a book—a sexy Scotsman, a charming heroine, witty banter, plenty of humor, and lots of heart.”
—Jennifer Ashley, New York Times bestselling author
“Exquisite writing, outstanding characters, a gorgeous romance, and a nail-biter of an ending. The Trouble with Dukes is the definition of a perfect historical romance!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Readers who enjoy Tessa Dare will embrace…this affecting and clever tale.”
—Booklist
Also by Grace Burrowes
The Windham Brides Series
Too Scot to Handle
The Trouble with Dukes
To the librarians!
Acknowledgments
Some books do pretty much write themselves. This was not such a book. My dear readers have heard me muttering on social media for months about The Welsh Duke, and what an obstreperous, challenging fellow he could be, despite the size of his…library, and his vast stores of subtle charm. I am indebted to my editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, for inspiring me to persist in befriending this dragon of a hero, because his story was well worth telling. Turns out, he’s my favorite duke so far, and not just because of all those wonderful books he has so fiercely protected behind his castle walls. Leah, your patience isn’t always rewarded, but it is appreciated.
Readers, I commend Julian, Duke of Haverford, to your keeping now—yours and Elizabeth Windham’s!
Author’s Note
In my literary wanderings, I happened upon the illustrious doings of Arthur Annesley (Angelsey in some spellings) who had the good fortune to participate in the Restoration of the English monarchy under Charles II. Arthur, who’d been a mere viscount previously, was granted an earldom by a grateful king. What did Arthur do to remark his improved circumstances? He bought books, of course! At the time of his death in 1686, he owned some 30,000 volumes, which his heirs—who must have been daft
—subsequently sold. There is much more to the family tale (Arthur had 21 siblings), but that number—a personal collection of 30,000 books—caught my eye.
That is some To Be Read pile, readin’ buddies. That is, in fact, a TBR collection worthy of a duke…and thus did our Welsh dragon—I mean duke—seize upon books as the object his family chose to hoard.
Happy reading!
Chapter One
“STOP TRYING TO CHEER me up, or I’ll call you out.” Julian Andreas Cynan Evan St. David, twelfth Duke of Haverford, wanted to blast away at something, though the Marquess of Radnor, being both a dead shot and Julian’s dearest friend, made a poor choice of target.
“Are you upset with your sister for the expense this house party will cause,” Radnor asked, “or for the number of eligible young ladies you’ll have to partner at whist?”
“Dukes do not become upset. If you continue nattering, you’ll frighten the fish away.”
Radnor made an elegant cast into the middle of the stream. “Haverford, if it’s a matter of coin—?”
“Do you want me to blow out your brains, Radnor, assuming even I could hit a target that small?”
Radnor’s line dipped, then bowed down. Julian gathered up his rod and maintained a respectful silence while the marquess did battle with a trout intent on putting a presuming aristocrat in his place.
The morning was lovely as only Wales in spring could be lovely, the hills Eden-green, the sky full of fluffy white clouds—lamb clouds, Glenys used to call them—and the breeze scented with freshly scythed hay.
The valley was coming into its most impressive verdure, and of course, Glenys had timed her house party ambush to show off the estate as well as her older brother.
Radnor swung his line from the water, and Julian took up a net. He snagged the thrashing trout and held it up for the marquess to admire.
“Fine specimen,” Radnor said, setting his pole aside. “Though I’m sure we have larger fish in my ponds at Radnor Hall.”
“Larger perhaps, but not with more fight.” Julian gripped the trout about the back and eased the hook free. The fish wiggled in his grasp, fighting to the last, its mouth moving in a desperate effort to sustain life.
“He’ll make a lovely addition to the table—what the deuce, Haverford! That is my fish.”
Julian tossed the trout back into the water, and it was off downstream with an indignant swish of its tail.
“We have enough,” Julian said, nudging a wicker basket with his toe. “That one earned his freedom, while I have tarried here as long as I dare. Glenys expects me for the midday meal, and then I must meet with my land steward.”
“I accept your invitation to dine,” Radnor said, reeling in his line. “To do otherwise would leave Lady Glenys to endure a tongue-lashing at table, which thought my gallant nature shudders to contemplate.”
“Your gallant nature wants to brag about your success as an angler.”
Radnor was being kind, ensuring Julian would have an ally when Glenys maundered on regarding her plan to end Julian’s bachelorhood. Radnor meant well, Glenys meant well, the damned trout had probably meant well, drat the lot of them.
Julian had his own plan for ensuring the succession, and according to that plan, hunting for a duchess would begin in approximately eight years and seven months, assuming no radical fluctuations in market conditions occurred.
A costly, pointless house party did not figure into his plans at all.
He and Radnor walked in silence toward Haverford Castle’s back terrace. The prospect across the gardens was lovely and should have been soothing. Unlike many titled landholders, Julian had not ripped up his ancestors’ formal parterres to replace them with an artificial—and astronomically expensive—wilderness landscape. His gardens were old-fashioned, and a duchess would consider redesigning them just one of the exorbitant projects she was entitled to undertake.
The indignant trout came to mind, thrashing his heart out to preserve his freedom.
“The young ladies invited to this house party will exhaust themselves trying to gain my notice,” Julian said. So would their mamas, if the gathering ran true to tiresome form. “Glenys will also have to invite a suitable number of bachelors. That suggests I can turn the gathering to a more worthy purpose.”
“Where young ladies gather, there are also chaperones, widowed mamas, and other delights. Is that the more worthy purpose you refer to?”
“Your imagination suffers a sad want of variety, my friend.”
“A sad want of variety characterizes your social life,” Radnor countered. “You’re suggesting that Lady Glenys’s attempt to find you a duchess will end in her ladyship’s own engagement?”
Radnor was a quick study, for all his cheerfulness. “Precisely. Glenys should have chosen a husband five years ago.” Though how much more bleak would the past five years have been, without her company and good humor?
“Lady Glenys will doubtless have a score of offers by the end of the first week,” Radnor said. “No man with any sense tarries in London during the heat of summer, and the daughters of dukes—much less lovely, sensible, gracious daughters of dukes—are rare marital prizes.”
Julian ignored the wistful quality of Radnor’s compliment, just as Glenys ignored every flirtation and lure Radnor pitched at her.
“My sister will have offers, and I shall ensure one of them is the right offer. The solution is clear: We must make a list.”
The marquess stopped and set the end of his pole on the ground. “Not another list.”
“Organization and determination have bested many a challenge,” Julian retorted, without breaking stride. “Glenys has sent out her invitations. I’ll simply send out a few of my own.”
On the remaining half-mile hike to the castle, Julian suggested names, all of which Radnor took exception to. This man was a gambler, though handsome. That one had a solid fortune, but no sense of humor.
“Why don’t you offer for her?” Julian asked, as they approached the back of the castle.
“You are hopeless, Haverford. One doesn’t offer unless the lady has expressed a desire for one’s company. I’m Lady Glenys’s spare project. When she tires of managing you and Griffin, she manages me. It’s…sweet and vexing as hell.”
“Rather like marriage, I suppose.”
The sweet part was tempting. Julian was thirty-six years old, and yet the dukedom could not at present afford a duchess. She loomed in Julian’s future as a reward for years of hard work and self-discipline, and by God, he would choose carefully and well when finances permitted him that indulgence.
Across the back terrace, a table had been set for the midday meal. Lady Glenys occupied one of three chairs beneath the white canopy, and busied herself arranging a pot of daisies in the center of the table.
“If you think to distract me with a picnic, Glenys, think again,” Julian said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “We are not through discussing this house party of yours.”
She shared the height, dark hair, and swooping eyebrows that had been a hallmark of the St. Davids for generations. Her eyes were hazel, while Julian’s were green, and this for some reason made her jealous.
At present those hazel eyes were turned on him in a transparent facsimile of innocence. “Dock my pin money, if you must, Haverford. I am determined to have my way in this, and nobody is more determined than a St. David. Radnor, apologies for mentioning finances before a guest.”
Nobody was more determined than a St. David duke, but even he couldn’t put on a respectable house party with mere pin money.
“Now I’m a guest,” Radnor said, bowing over Glenys’s proffered hand, “after having run tame in this castle since I was in dresses. I’m onto your tricks, my lady. You’re summoning half the unmarried women in England to fawn over your brother, when in fact, it’s my matrimonial prospects that will be imperiled. Not well done of you.”
Glenys snatched her hand back, pink staining her cheeks. “Haverford, please dispense wit
h those fish. Elfryd, see to the sporting accoutrements.”
The footman stationed by the buffet stepped forward to take the rods and the wicker basket holding the morning’s catch. Julian washed his hands in the basin provided, and Radnor did likewise.
As Julian reached for a towel, Radnor flicked water at his face, a taunt they’d been exchanging since childhood. Julian passed Radnor the towel rather than retaliate.
They weren’t boys, and would never be boys again.
Over beef pastry and mashed potatoes, Glenys launched into a discourse on the best preparation of estate trout for a buffet. The topic left Julian bilious. If Glenys had her way, he’d be hooked, landed, and filleted by the conclusion of her infernal party.
He complimented her ideas, and mentally refined the list of bachelors he’d recruit to distract her ladyship from her matchmaking. He also created a sub-list of young ladies who might suit Radnor, who had depths beyond his charm.
Lists, plans, budgets, and unwavering attention to detail were slowly but surely bringing the Haverford finances to rights, and they would see Julian through this farce of a house party as well.
He would make sure of it.
* * *
“Shoot me,” Charlotte Windham moaned. “Please, if you have any love for me at all, take out the coach pistol and end my torment.”
“I could read to you, Charl,” Elizabeth Windham replied from the coach’s backward-facing seat. “Everybody is taxed by long journeys.”
Charlotte sprawled on the opposite seat, one foot braced on the floor, one hand on her middle. “I am not taxed, I am dying. Why did nobody warn me that the roads in Wales are instruments of torture?”
Elizabeth put her copy of Childe Harold aside. “It’s not the roads making you ill, it’s probably the ale you had at the last inn.”
Charlotte was pale, dyspeptic, and had stopped to visit the bushes three times in the last five miles. Thank goodness, bushes were in generous supply in this part of Wales. Aunt Arabella had chosen to ride in the second coach with the ladies’ maids, so that “poor Charlotte” had room to stretch out on the bench.
No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides) Page 1