by Tessa Dare
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Note from the Authors
Meet Me in Mayfair 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
Epilogue
About Tessa Dare
The Duke of Christmas Present Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About Sarah MacLean
Heiress Alone Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About Sophie Jordan
Christmas in Central Park Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About Joanna Shupe
The Shortbread
Announcements
Praise for the Novels of Tessa Dare, Sarah MacLean, Sophie Jordan, and Joanna Shupe
Also by the Authors
Copyright
About the Publisher
Note from the Authors
Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing How the Dukes Stole Christmas. We hope it holds a special place on your keeper shelves.
We are thrilled to share our holiday stories with you. When we first conceived of this anthology, we had so much fun collaborating and letting our favorite Christmas movies inspire us. It definitely put us into the holiday spirit and we hope these stories do the same for you. Also, please don’t miss the MacLean family shortbread recipe at the end!
So, relax with a hot cup of tea and a cookie (shortbread, perhaps?) and read on to enjoy our four surly dukes.
We promise, there’s magic inside.
Happy reading,
Tessa, Sarah, Sophie, and Joanna
Meet Me in Mayfair
Tessa Dare
Chapter One
Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas this year. A cloud loomed over the Ward sisters’ bedchamber, and it wasn’t the sort that dispensed glittering snowflakes. This would be their last holiday in Mayfair. That was, unless Louisa managed to work a miracle.
Tonight.
Thanks to her friendship with Miss Fiona Carville, she was invited to attend the Carvilles’ lavish holiday ball. If she managed to attract a gentleman tonight, and if said gentleman was both wealthy and generous, and if he fell sufficiently in love with her to propose marriage within the next two weeks—then and only then could Louisa save this Christmas, and all her family’s Christmases thereafter.
No pressure, she thought wryly. None at all.
She drew a deep breath and regarded her half-coiffed reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t afford to indulge her nerves. Not with flame-hot curling tongs mere inches from her scalp.
“Here. Eat this.” Kat thrust a plate under Louisa’s nose.
Without turning her head, Louisa arrowed a glance at the scorched, misshapen lump of . . . something. A cautious sniff made her stomach turn. Her youngest sister’s experiments in baking could be downright vicious. When you took a bite, they bit back.
“It’s delicious,” Kat sang, waving the shortbread back and forth under Louisa’s nose.
“It’s burned.”
“Piffle. What’s a bit of brown on the edges?” Kat whisked around her, attacking from the opposite side. She held the plate in front of her mouth and mimicked a tiny, chirping voice coming from the shortbread. “Eat me, Louisa! Eat me!”
“No, thank you.”
“Let her alone, Kat.” Maggie leveled the curling tongs in warning. Although she was the middle sister, the role of family disciplinarian came naturally to her.
Unfortunately, twelve-year-old Kat took just as naturally to the part of irrepressible hellion. She was not so easily deterred.
“You must eat it, Louisa,” Kat said. “While I was packing the books into crates, I found the recipe in a moldy little collection of Scottish folklore. One bite, and every man you meet will fall in love with you. It’s guaranteed to make you irresistible.”
“Guaranteed to make me vomit, I warrant.”
“But this is our last chance,” Kat pleaded. “The whole family is depending on you.”
Really. As if Louisa needed the reminder.
Ages ago, their father had borrowed money from a generous friend—a friend who just happened to be a duke—to purchase the Mayfair row house they called home. For decades, the old duke had ignored the debt on account of their fast friendship. Then he’d died last year, suddenly and without warning, and the mysterious new Duke of Thorndale had called in Papa’s debt. He demanded not only the original amount, but also decades’ worth of compounded interest. Papa had sent letters to the Thorndale estate in Yorkshire, even swallowed his pride and visited the duke’s London solicitors, but no amount of pleading had persuaded the man to leniency.
At the New Year, this house—their beloved home—would belong to a stranger.
Kat thrust the shortbread at her again. “Just one bite. If you’re going to catch a husband at the ball, you need all the help you can get.”
She sighed. “Thank you, poppet, for your faith in my desirability.”
“Louisa would be an exceptional catch for any gentleman.” Maggie pulled a hairpin from her clenched teeth to secure one of Louisa’s chestnut-brown curls.
And yet, she silently lamented, thus far the gentlemen had failed to agree.
Louisa’s parents had raised her to believe in her own worth. She was clever, she loved to laugh, and she was pretty enough that Mama’s friends would occasionally comment on it—but she didn’t possess the kind of beauty that would make a man cross the room, much less convince him to overlook her “flaws.” She’d discouraged more than one would-be suitor with her free opinions and straightforward manner. In the Ward family, the three daughters were encouraged to read and learn and speak their minds in equal measure with their three brothers. A difficult habit to break.
Tonight, she must try.
If she could snare a wealthy husband—one sufficiently generous to pay Papa’s debts—the Ward family could remain in London. If she failed, they would be forced to leave within the month. Not to live in a charming cottage in the Cotswolds or a sleepy village in Surrey. Oh no. Papa’s sole employment prospect would take them to the Isle of Jersey, of all places.
Jersey.
It might as well be a thousand miles away.
“I tell you,” Kat said, “this marrying scheme is balderdash. If I were the eldest, I’d be carrying out a different plan tonight.”
Maggie sighed. “We’ve discussed this. Murdering the duke is not a plan.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Kat replied. “Murdering the duke is an objective. A plan requires specifics. A concealed pistol. A hidden dagger. Poison-tipped darts.”
“
Shortbread,” Louisa suggested.
In retaliation, Kat gave her arm a savage pinch.
“Promise me one thing.” Maggie tied an emerald-green velvet ribbon at the base of Louisa’s neck. “If you’re invited to display an accomplishment tonight, please do not recite scandalous poetry.”
“Byron isn’t scandalous. Well, not terribly.” Louisa reconsidered. “Very well, I’ll play the pianoforte.”
Maggie winced. “Never mind. Recite the poetry. Keep to Milton or Shakespeare, at least?”
“Milton, at a party? Good Lord.”
“And don’t blaspheme.”
With a sigh, Louisa rose from the dressing table and moved to the full-length mirror. She corrected her posture, smoothed the ivory satin of her gown with gloved hands, and spoke to her reflection. “I will carry myself with quiet grace. I will give every appearance of a docile, compliant bride. And I vow it, I will hold my tongue.”
Kat flopped onto the bed with a groan. “We’re doomed.”
Her little sister was right. In one way or another, Louisa was doomed. She had always expected to marry for love. To be courted by a gentleman who admired her for her mind and spirit, not despite them. A gentleman whose intelligence and principles deserved her admiration in equal measure.
Someone who loved her for herself, not for what society wished her to be.
It wasn’t a duke who’d be murdered tonight, but Louisa’s own hopes of a loving marriage. And the man holding the sword to her breast was the cruel, heartless Duke of Thorndale.
Oh, how she loathed the man.
Louisa glanced at the lump of burned shortbread. Perhaps she ought to give it a try, just in case. If some ancient Scottish superstition had even the slightest chance to save them, who was she to decline?
Before she could reach for it, however, their younger brother Harold called up from the bottom of the stairwell. “Lou-EEE-saah! The Carvilles’ carriage is here for you.”
It was time.
“Try not to look so glum,” Maggie said. “It’s nearly Christmas.”
“Lucky for us it is.” Kat propped her chin in her hand. “Because this family needs a miracle.”
Chapter Two
Louisa’s pulse quickened as she entered the Carville House ballroom. How she would miss this—the lively music, the company of friends, the holiday scents of nutmeg and evergreen in the air. Most of all, she’d miss the atmosphere of excitement and possibility. There was nothing like a ball to make one feel alive.
She prayed this ball wouldn’t be her last.
As soon as they could safely escape, she and Fiona withdrew to a corner of the ballroom. Upon Louisa’s arrival, they’d exchanged the usual pleasantries. But with Lord and Lady Carville nearby, they hadn’t had an opportunity to properly talk.
And oh, did Louisa need to talk.
If this snag-a-suitor plan was to have any chance of success, she needed her friend’s help. As the daughter of a lord, Fiona’s connections were far superior. She could introduce Louisa to the most eligible wealthy gentlemen in attendance. Many of the landed gentry had gone to their country estates for the holidays, but the best of the rest would be present tonight. First sons, widowers, new-money families without country estates of their own. Surely some of the gentlemen would be in the market for a wife.
“Fiona, please. I must beg your assistan—”
Her friend clutched Louisa’s wrist. “He’s here.”
Louisa blinked, confused. “Who’s here?”
“Ralph. He’s here. I saw him just outside.”
“Ralph? Surely you don’t mean Ralph-Your-Father’s-Land-Steward’s-Son Ralph.”
A rosy glow brightened Fiona’s cheeks. “Yes, that Ralph. My Ralph.”
Dear Fiona. As the son of her father’s land agent, Ralph was hopelessly beneath a lord’s daughter in class—but hearts didn’t obey society’s rules. The two had been in love for years.
“This is our chance,” Fiona whispered. “We’re eloping tonight.”
“Eloping?” In Louisa’s surprise, she forgot to lower her voice. After a hasty look about them, she continued in a murmur. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“You’re my closest friend. But as much as I trust you, I didn’t dare let slip any hint of our plans. Not to anyone. Please don’t be cross with me. Tell me you understand.”
“I could never be cross with you. And of course I understand.”
Louisa understood better than her friend could know. She’d been keeping her own secrets from Fiona—namely her father’s dire financial situation and the Ward family’s likely departure from London. The first was too embarrassing to admit, and as for the second . . . She’d been so hoping that a miracle would save them.
Her miracle was slipping away by the second. If Fiona left the ball, who would introduce Louisa to eligible gentlemen?
“I need your help.” Fiona pressed her dance card into Louisa’s hand. “Please. Will you take my dances? Tell my partners I’ve retired upstairs with a headache. That way they won’t search for me and bring my absence to Mama’s attention. She’s too occupied with hostess duties to notice otherwise.”
“But—”
“Just until the midnight supper. Midnight is when the Royal Mail coach departs. It’s the fastest way to the Scottish border. Once we’ve left London, they’ll have no hope of catching us.”
“Oh, Fiona.”
“Don’t worry. Mama and Papa will forgive me. I know they will. They’ve always liked Ralph. And it’s nearly Christmas. Who can be angry at Christmas?” Fiona looked over her shoulder. “I must leave at once. He’ll be waiting on me.”
“But—”
But what? What could Louisa say to her friend? Throw away your own long-awaited happiness to give me a slim chance at my own? No. Of course not. “Go, then. Run to him. I’ll make excuses for you.”
“What a good friend you are.” Fiona gave her a quick, fierce hug. “I only wish you could be at the wedding to serve as my maid of honor.”
She smiled. “I demand to be godmother to your firstborn instead.”
“Done.” With one last squeeze of her hand, Fiona slipped away.
Once her friend disappeared, Louisa was left holding the full dance card. Dread crept through her veins. Fiona always made a habit of engaging the least eligible, most undesirable dance partners. No potential suitors. With her heart already given elsewhere, she’d been trying to avoid a proposal.
Louisa looked down at the list. It proved even worse than she’d feared.
The quadrille was promised to Mr. Younge, an aging widower with no plans to remarry. Fiona had given the country dance to a fourth son of an earl with no inheritance, destined for the clergy. And her third set belonged to Mr. Haverton—a dear man and “confirmed bachelor” who would have no interest in Louisa, nor indeed, any lady at all.
After Mr. Haverton’s dances came the supper set, a waltz just before midnight. Fiona had promised to dance with . . .
She peered hard at the name written in close, severe script.
No.
It couldn’t be. The man was all the way up in Yorkshire, wasn’t he?
Louisa blinked hard and looked again, hoping the scrawled letters might have rearranged themselves in the meantime. Fate couldn’t be this cruel.
The midnight waltz was promised to none other than—
“His Grace, the Duke of Thorndale.”
Chapter Three
“His Grace, the Duke of Thorndale.”
For a long moment, James didn’t move. To the assembly, he probably appeared haughty or displeased. In truth, he needed a moment to recognize the grandiose title as his.
God, how he wished it wasn’t.
He was never meant to be a duke.
Never meant for London, never meant for the ton, never meant for restrictive tailcoats and pinching boots. He was too big, too rough-mannered, too impatient. He belonged in an oat field in the North Riding, his sleeves turned up to the elbow and his boots
six inches deep in mud.
St. John ought to have been here tonight. While James was learning how to manage his father’s land, his brother had been prepared to assume their uncle’s title through years of education and training in comportment. But St. John was dead, and James was the duke, and no amount of wishing or praying could change it. Lord knew he’d tried both.
Get on with it, then.
He’d avoided balls since arriving in Town, but the Carvilles were distant relations. Their invitation was one he couldn’t decline.
He took a wineglass from a passing servant’s tray and downed the contents in a single, uncouth gulp. Already, he heard rumors buzzing around him, pricking at his skin like wasps.
He had come to London for two—and only two—reasons. First, sorting out the estate finances. Second, suffering through his obligatory presentation at Court.
He explained these two—and only two—reasons clearly, repeatedly, to anyone who asked.
So, naturally, the entire ton had decided he was in London to find a bride.
And they made certain he didn’t lack for candidates. Every marriageable lady he encountered flattered and fawned over him. They made excuses to take his arm and praised graces he didn’t have. They declared a long-held desire to live a stone’s throw from the barren Yorkshire moors. They’d been yearning for the rustic life, they all insisted. How charming it must be.
He knew what they wanted. It wasn’t the country life, and it certainly wasn’t him—it was the title of duchess. To a one, they would have leaped into his carriage the following day with nary an idea of what they’d agreed to take on.
And then, once they’d given him the requisite heir and spare, every one of them would have gone running back to London. If not to the other side of the world.
He knew what happened when a delicate butterfly was carried to the windswept north. She flew south with the next migration. His own mother had proved the rule. Whatever starry-eyed courting had caught her in London, it faded when Northern reality dawned. And nothing in Yorkshire had been enough to make her stay.