No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes

  The debilitating fury that had gripped him in the garden had become a dull, agitating throb. The look on Diana’s face when he left her had shaken him more than he cared to admit. The principles of honor that he had once believed to lie in straight, razor-edged lines of black and white had become a haze of gray.

  He set the pistol on the bed between the two piles of letters. The small pile on the right, the letters Diana had given him from Madelene, slid to rest against the muzzle of the pistol. His fingers hovered over the second pile, this one thick and tied with a simple leather string. These letters were worn and travel-stained, the bold, feminine handwriting unapologetic and steadfast. These letters were the piece of home that he had looked for every day, every week, every month that he had been gone. These letters made him feel like he was never alone.

  Oliver cursed and picked up the pistol again. From his coat pocket, he withdrew a torn scrap of paper, an address scrawled across the crumpled surface. He’d asked Thorpe for this address, and his friend had given him a long, measuring look but, in the end, had provided it. Oliver stood, shoving the pistol under his coat into the holster strapped across his chest, feeling very much like the corsair from whom the chieftain had taken the firearms in the first place. He looked down at the scrap of paper, stuffed it back into his coat pocket, and strode from the room.

  The sunshine faltered as he walked through the town, thick, dark clouds drifting across the sky and plunging the streets into an ever-shifting gloom. The gathering storm perfectly suited his mood. It perfectly suited what he was about to do.

  The address was easy to find. The building loomed in front of him, its whitewashed façade stark against the darkening sky. He checked the address once more, the weight of the pistol heavy beneath his coat. He ascended the stairs, the stone beneath his boots cracked and the blue paint on the wooden door starting to peel. He banged on the warped wood with his fist, and the sound echoed in his ears. From the bowels of the building, he heard a voice, and he pounded again.

  He had raised his fist a third time when the door was yanked open by a man, his expression going from irritation to surprise and then confusion. “Mr. Graham. May I help you?”

  “I believe we can help each other,” Oliver replied.

  The man looked at him for a moment before pulling the door wide. “Then, by all means, come in.”

  Oliver stepped over the threshold.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rhodes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  Diana wondered if she was destined to spend the entirety of her remaining sojourn in Brighton hiding behind shrubbery. The ferns on this night had been replaced by staked hibiscuses, meant again to capture the romantic ideals of the Far East, in case the architecture of the Pavilion itself did not. Diana wondered what Oliver would make of it. And then she cursed herself for wondering.

  Five days.

  Five days had passed since Oliver had left her standing in the back of the dowager’s house, and in those days, Diana’s emotions had ricocheted from terror to fury to heartbreak to hope. Terror that, any minute, she was going to be brought news of Riddington’s death and an announcement that Oliver Graham had been arrested by the authorities. Fury that he had left her in that garden the way he had. Heartbroken that, in the end, the future hadn’t been enough to overcome the past. She hadn’t been enough. He had chosen an antediluvian, skewed sense of honor that would accomplish nothing except tragedy. The ensuing silence was exhausting and nerve-racking, and she could barely concentrate on anything any longer.

  And yet, with each passing day, hope glimmered because Riddington still breathed. Diana tried not to let that hope in, because she knew very well that this might simply be the calm before the storm. This might be the time that Oliver Graham required to plan the demise of the Duke of Riddington.

  She raised her glass to her lips, her fingers shaking. She cursed again and set the glass on the edge of the hibiscus planter, a crimson flower falling from the vine to settle at her feet like a pool of blood. She never should have come here tonight. She never should have let Hannah dress her and all but drag her from her rooms. Hannah might have wanted to see the king, but Diana couldn’t have cared less that he was in attendance tonight. The king solved none of her problems. The king offered no solutions to a man bent on honor at the expense of everything else.

  The king only made this room horrifically overcrowded and hot.

  She bent down to pick up the fallen flower.

  “Dance with me.”

  Diana straightened, her heart lodging in her throat. “Oliver.”

  “Dance with me,” he said again. He had never looked more devastating, his inky hair and rich complexion foils for the perfect whiteness of his elaborately knotted cravat. He was wearing his evening clothes again, though they had been brushed and pressed back into pristine condition.

  Her heart returned to its rightful place, banging so hard against her ribs, she was afraid that they would crack. Heat flared and receded, only to smolder deep within her. Through sheer willpower, she kept from touching him.

  Very slowly, he took the crimson flower from her unfeeling fingers and tucked it behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  “What are you doing here?” The terror of the unknown crowded into her mind. He had come here to finally end things. With the king here, the Duke of Riddington would be here too, somewhere in this crush. Oliver would know that. Everyone would know that.

  “I’m asking you to dance. Because I’ve never danced with you. Not once, in all the time we’ve known each other.”

  Diana hesitated. “Oliver—”

  “There are a lot of things I haven’t yet done with you.” Oliver’s eyes held hers as he extended his hand. “I want to remedy that.”

  She stared at him, hope pushing through the terror and the anger and the heartbreak and making it difficult for her to think.

  “So I’m asking you to dance.” He held out his hand. “And I’m asking you to trust me.”

  She nodded because her voice no longer seemed to be working.

  Oliver caught her fingers in his and led her through the crowd, the music swelling over the buzz of voices. He slid his other hand around her waist, pulling her closer than was proper.

  “I choose you,” he whispered against her ear as he led them into their first steps. “I choose you, and I want everyone to know it.”

  Hope burst through her, and the room around them dissolved into a blur of color. And on the heels of that hope, love. She hung on to him with all her might, the way she had on a Brighton beach what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “I love you, Oliver,” she said, her throat thick. “I will always love you. No matter what.”

  She meant it. It didn’t matter what had happened or what might yet come—

  “Mrs. Thompson. I believe that I am owed a dance. And I believe that I’ll have that dance now.”

  Oliver stiffened beneath her hands as he stopped at the edge of the dance floor.

  Diana closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his shoulder, as if that could block everything out. As if that would keep Oliver with her, the Duke of Riddington reduced to nothing more than an inconsequential nuisance that could be ignored.

  He chose you , a small voice in the back of her head intoned frantically. He chose you, he chose you, he chose you. Yet, Oliver was only a man.

  She raised her head and faced the duke, aware that Oliver’s hand had not moved from her waist. “I owe you nothing,” she said, not looking at Oliver. Afraid to look at Oliver.

  Riddington’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’ve led me on more than enough, Mrs. Thompson. While I won’t deny I’ve enjoyed the chase, publicly choosing to spend your time with an unexceptional man such as Graham over me is not doing either one of us any favors. We both have reputations to uphold. We both must make smart choices, don’t you agree?”

  The fury and terror were back. Fury directed solely at this
man who lacked integrity and character. Terror that the man beside her had too much.

  “I’ve heard that,” Oliver said beside her.

  Diana’s eyes flew to his. He sounded almost… amused.

  “I beg your pardon?” the duke said scornfully.

  “Reputations.” Oliver waved a hand airily. “I heard that they are often thorny to manage and maintain. Especially when there are, indeed, so many choices.”

  Diana was staring at him. Oliver’s muscles were still rigid beneath her touch, but he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. He did not look like a man who had very clearly stated that he would happily kill the duke. He did not look like a man who was still planning to do so.

  “Have I missed something here, Graham?” the duke sneered. “I’ve only just arrived and thought to honor Mrs. Thompson with my undivided attention, yet she seems not to understand the privilege of that—”

  “Your Grace!” The address hailed from just behind Riddington.

  The duke turned, annoyance creasing his face. “Lord Lowell,” he replied, not bothering to keep that annoyance from his voice.

  The portly marquess who was puffing as he approached them seemed not to notice. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on such an intrepid undertaking!” he boomed, raising his glass of liquor in a salute to the duke. “I can only say that more of our countrymen should be so ambitious and courageous.”

  The duke stared at him, annoyance replaced with blankness. “I’m sorry?”

  “And humble too!” The marquess thumped Riddington on the shoulder, the liquor in his glass sloshing a little over the side. He looked at Oliver. “His Grace won’t tell you this, but even the king was impressed. He said he couldn’t think of a finer emissary.”

  Diana was looking between the three men, wondering what was going on.

  “The king? Indeed?” Oliver said, doing an admirable job of looking impressed. “Do tell.”

  “I don’t have to tell you,” the marquess said. “You can read it all for yourself in the Herald. A splendid article, if I do say so myself. Very flattering to His Grace, but then, you already knew that. I heard that the Times has even picked it up back in London. A bloody good show, Your Grace!”

  The duke nodded, confusion gouging lines around his mouth even as his chest swelled. “Of course,” he murmured.

  “I understand that you will be leaving us for India shortly,” Lowell continued. “We’ll miss you here, of course, but it is so inspiring to see a man such as yourself go on to greatness.”

  The duke stumbled back, knocking into a passing footman carrying an empty platter. The silver clanged loudly against the floor, drawing two dozen sets of eyes as the hapless servant scrambled to retrieve the tray.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, my lord,” the footman sputtered.

  Lord Lowell waved him away with impatience, though Riddington seemed oblivious.

  The marquess turned back to Diana and Oliver. “His Grace spoke so eloquently and so passionately, it moved me beyond words.” He tapped his fingers against his jowls, looking up as he recited, “‘Beyond our borders lies a world of culture and knowledge. The future and the control of it lie there, for men with the courage to face the risks that come with such great rewards.’” He clapped his hands. “Truly inspiring, Your Grace. Truly.” He gave Riddington one final thump and moved off, back into the crowd.

  “Good heavens, Your Grace, but you’ve certainly left an impression. And with the king, no less.” Oliver’s face was inscrutable.

  Riddington had paled. “That wasn’t at all—I never said…” He trailed off and ran a finger around the edge of his cravat.

  “Your Grace! Excellent news, excellent indeed,” another expensively dressed gentleman said as he strolled past, an equally extravagantly dressed woman on his arm. “You’ll do us all proud, I’m sure! Splendid coverage in the papers. Felicitations and best wishes!”

  The duke nodded, an angry flush starting to creep up his neck. “You did this,” he hissed at Oliver.

  “Did what, Your Grace?” Oliver asked. “Those were your words, recorded for your audience, who delight in the details of the lives of their betters. Also your words.” He paused. “Given that you so boldly declared your ambitions, you should be grateful if, somewhere along the way, an individual uttered a well-placed word to make those ambitions a reality.”

  “You bastard,” the duke wheezed. A line of perspiration beaded on his forehead.

  Oliver simply stared back, his face like granite.

  “I can’t go to India,” Riddington rasped. “People die there. Of heat and disease and all manners of foulness.”

  Oliver shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “I’m sure the king will understand if you change your mind. I’m sure everyone in this ballroom right now will understand if your courage fails you.”

  The duke opened his mouth, but there was a commotion just beyond them, a buzz of voices as people parted to the sides.

  Oliver glanced over the duke’s head. “Ah. It appears that the king approaches, no doubt to impart his support and salutations.” He tipped his head. “I believe I’ll take my leave so as not to intrude. Bon voyage, Your Grace, and best of luck.”

  “What did you do, Oliver?” Diana asked as he led her through the crush, every man and woman craning their necks to get a view of the king. No one took any notice of them.

  “I did what I should have done a long time ago,” he said. “I came home and asked a beautiful woman to dance with me and—”

  “Oliver.”

  He tightened his hand around hers and pulled her through the soaring halls of the Pavilion, leading them out into the darkness of the night. He stopped only when they reached the pool of water in the center of the lawns, torchlight reflected on the glassy surface.

  “The Duke of Riddington is not the only man who has the power to open doors for those who please him. Or close doors for those who do not,” he said quietly. “I merely expedited his ambition. I’m made to understand that the company has created a special position for him in Bombay.”

  Diana touched his face, her fingers slipping along the edge of his jaw. “I love you. And I’m proud of you. I know that this wasn’t easy for you.”

  “There is more than one way to vanquish a dragon without getting my lance all bloody,” he said.

  “You hope he dies?”

  Oliver shook his head. “No. I’m hoping he might learn a little something about living.” His arms slid up her back, and he pulled her to him. “I meant what I said, Dee. I will always choose you. I will always choose the woman who holds my heart and my soul and my future.”

  Diana wrapped her arms around his neck, joy and love burning the backs of her eyes. “I love you, Oliver.”

  “And I love you.” He bent his head and kissed her tenderly before he stepped away from her, catching her hand and bowing low. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to finish our dance, since we were so rudely interrupted.”

  Diana laughed. “Of course.”

  He took her in his arms once again and led them in a waltz across the lawn, with only the stars as an audience.

  “I’ve made a list, you know,” he said against her ear, “of things I’ve yet to do with you.” His lips grazed her cheek. “Of things I’ve yet to do to you.”

  She shivered even as heat blazed through her.

  “Would you like to hear them?”

  Diana caught his lips with hers, knowing that this kiss was the beginning of her forever. She smiled and let her fingers drift to the front of his chest, where his heart pounded beneath her palm.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Do tell.”

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to read Diana and Oliver’s story – I hope you enjoyed it! The best laid plans go spectacularly awry when nothing is as it seems on the surface, and that is a premise which I adore writing. If you’re new to my books and are in the mood for a f
ull-length tale of said subterfuge, I’d recommend the first novel in my Season for Scandal series, Duke of My Heart. (For the record, the subterfuge continues in the rest of the series!) The ordering links are here.

  I’ve also finished putting the final touches on Last Night With the Earl, the second book in my brand new Devils of Dover series, which comes out this September. This story introduces Eli Dawes, fourteenth Earl of Rivers, assumed dead at Waterloo, but finally back on English soil. Wishing his arrival to go unmarked and his presence unheeded, he heads directly to the isolated wilds of Dover — and straight into the path of Rose Hayward. A sneak peek at their reunion is in the excerpt below and the ordering links are here.

  If you’d like to keep up with my releases, you can sign up for my newsletter, or follow me on Bookbub. All of my books are listed on my website.

  Happy reading!

  Excerpt from Last Night With the Earl

  * * *

  “Don’t move.”

  Eli froze at the voice that had come out of the inky darkness. He turned his head slightly, only to feel the tip of a knife prick the skin at his neck.

  “I asked you not to move.”

  Eli clenched his teeth. It was a feminine voice, he thought. Or perhaps that of a very young boy, though the authority it carried suggested the former. A maid, then. Perhaps she had been up, or perhaps he had woken her. He supposed that this was what he deserved for sneaking into a house unannounced and unexpected. It was, in truth, his house now, but nevertheless, the last thing he needed was for her to start shrieking for help and summon the entire household. He wasn’t ready to face that just yet.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said clearly.

  “Not on your knees with my knife at your neck, I agree.” The knife tip twisted, though it didn’t break the skin.