Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8)

by Rebecca Connolly

He shrugged, smiling at her. “To ride back to Lord David and set things aright.”

  Ceana’s jaw dropped. “You knew?”

  He chuckled, squeezing her free hand. “Aye, I knew. I also knew he was good for you, duke or not, so the title seemed a small matter.”

  Small matter? How could it be a small matter? She had fallen in love with a duke, and yet the duke was not here, had never been. David had lied to her.

  David.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she exhaled sharply. She’d fallen in love with David. Not the duke. The fact that he’d been a duke had kept her from falling in love with him for some time, and now it turned out . . .

  She loved David.

  And she’d left him.

  “Papa.”

  He reached out and wiped away a tear on her cheek. “Are these tears of distress or grief?”

  Ceana hiccupped. “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” her father said, rising from his seat, “one kind will send you to your room, the other to the stables. I’ll leave it to you to decide where your path lies. Just so you know, the horse is already being saddled. Also, I sent a man to break the axle on the Ashcombe carriage, in case Lord David decides to move on to another estate.”

  Ceana stared at her father in shock, finding herself able to smile just a touch. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Not at all. I have no idea what you’re going to say to the lad when you see him again, let alone what will convince him to take you now. But telling him you love him still might be a bonny place to start.” He winked at her, then turned to leave the gallery, whistling as he did so.

  It only took the space of three heartbeats before Ceana was dashing in the opposite direction, heading down to the front of the house, and barreling toward the stables, where her father’s horse was already saddled, as promised.

  She mounted it and kicked her heels in at once. It hadn’t occurred to her that David could leave, but given the fact that he’d made appropriate changes to the estate and its running, he could easily have done so—particularly if she’d broken his heart and not given him a reason to stay.

  She had no idea where the other estates were; she’d never even asked. They’d never discussed how long he’d stay or what his life had been like elsewhere. She’d been so focused on the present, on their being together here and now, that nothing else had seemed important.

  She urged the horse onward, harder, faster, not caring if she looked like a tumbled mess of a woman when she saw David again.

  If she saw David again.

  The Dovenbard lands were suddenly before her, and she gave an exultant grunt as she leaned farther over the horse. She was so close now, so close to him . . .

  So close to her future, if it still existed.

  A lone figure appeared in the distance, a lean man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, no cravat, dark hair in disarray. All of her hopes and dreams suddenly found themselves back on full display. She turned the horse toward him, galloping furiously in his direction.

  He looked up just as she was nearly upon him, and her horse reared, though not nearly as much as his had that first day.

  “Ceana Shaw, are you quite mad?” David barked, grabbing at the horse’s reins to steady and soothe him.

  “I wasn’t going to trample you,” she snapped as she patted the horse.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Well, there’s a comfort, but that was not exactly what I was most concerned about.” He went back to the horse, which was snuffing in irritation, but settled now.

  Ceana slid from the horse’s back and moved to David, who still talked softly to the horse.

  “You’re all right,” he murmured, rubbing the horse’s nose.

  “No, I’m not,” Ceana told him, her voice catching.

  David paused in his ministrations to the horse, glancing at her, then stroked the horse one more time. “I surmised as much from your near trampling of me.”

  She laughed a watery laugh and reached out to cover his hand with hers. “David . . .”

  “Are you here to say something I want to hear, Ceana Shaw?” he murmured, still not quite looking at her. “Because if you’re not, I’m going to keep talking to the horse.”

  Ceana closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. “I love you, Lord David Chambers.”

  David exhaled roughly, then looked at her. “Do you?”

  She nodded repeatedly, another tear falling. “Yes. Very much. And I’m sorry for leaving you.”

  He reached out and brushed an unruly strand of hair behind her ear, then smoothed the tear away. “I left you, remember? I knew seeing you cry would be my undoing.” He pulled her against him hard, wrapping his arms around her. “And I was right.”

  Ceana felt him kiss her hair, and she buried her face into his shoulder, her arms latching around him.

  “Oh, Ceana, I’m so sorry,” David whispered, his lips now against her ear. “Forgive me.”

  She nodded against him, gripping at his shirt. “I forgive you, if you forgive me.”

  “Easy enough,” he quipped with a light kiss to her ear. He pulled back and stroked her cheek again, smiling at her. “I love you, Ceana Shaw.”

  A dreamy smile spread across her lips. “Good.”

  David leaned down and kissed her slowly, tenderly, and Ceana’s skin tingled with the sensation of it.

  “Marry me?” David whispered when his lips parted from hers.

  Ceana reared back a little in his hold. “What?”

  “Marry me,” he repeated earnestly, his eyes searching hers. “I’ve already written to my father that I wish to purchase Dovenbard from him, that I want to make this my home. Before I ever told you how I felt, that was I wanted. And now, if I have you, this will truly be home.”

  “But . . . But the other estates . . .”

  He cupped her cheek. “I’ll see to them, of course. You could come with me. See the rest of Ashcombe’s properties and judge him for them.”

  She laughed at that.

  “You could help me find ways to improve them all, just as we’re doing here.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “I’d go anywhere with you by my side, Ceana Shaw, be it the Highlands, the Lowlands, or Cheshire.”

  She reached up to stroke his jaw lightly. “You’re sure about this? About me?”

  David touched his brow to hers. “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life than I am of my love for you, of my future with you. Say yes, Ceana Shaw, and make my life complete.”

  Ceana nuzzled against him. “Yes,” she breathed.

  She felt his exhale of relief and gasped when his lips brushed against hers. She arched up to kiss him more fully, wrapping her arms around his neck, thrilling when he pulled her closer.

  “Well,” he said when they broke apart once more, “now I’ll have to write to my father about something more substantial than a house claim.”

  “Will he approve?” Ceana asked, worry clenching her stomach.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not writing for his approval, merely to inform him and see about a wedding with his blessing.”

  Ceana smiled shyly. “This is Scotland, David. We don’t have to—”

  “I know,” he interrupted gently, grinning at her. “I know we could get married right this minute, and no one would even blink. But I want a real wedding for you, Ceana Shaw, with all of the finery you deserve. I want to show my bride off to the world and put the full influence of my family’s name behind us.”

  “And if your father doesn’t give his blessing?” she asked.

  David smirked in his usual insolent way. “Then we’ll do it the other way, and I’ll take your name instead.”

  Ceana tossed her head back on a laugh and hummed to herself when David kissed her throat gently. She straightened and looked at the man she loved with complete adoration.

  “I am marrying you, Ceana,” he vowed, “whether before dozens of people or two.”

 
“And I you, Lord David,” she told him, sighing in his hold. “And that is far more important than falling for a duke.”

  He grinned at her. “Well, that’s a relief, because it would be deuced awkward to have you in love with the Duke of Ashcombe when that is my father. Much better to be in love with and marry me, Ceana Shaw.”

  Ceana smiled. “What are you going to call me, David, when I marry you and am no longer Ceana Shaw?”

  David kissed her gently. “Ceana fair. Ceana love. Ceana mine. The possibilities are endless, lass, and I intend to try them all.”

  To the surprise of absolutely everyone, the Duke of Ashcombe did give his blessing to David’s marriage with Ceana and approved of it as well. Her family lineage was impressive enough for his tastes, and the estate and lands appropriate for an alliance with the family.

  He was the only person who cared about that, but it was worth mentioning.

  David’s brother, the Marquess of Whitlock and Lady Whitlock, now reconciled, adored Ceana and hosted parties for her at every opportunity, determined to show her off. Lady Beckham and her husband, less inclined to hosting parties, found themselves eagerly descending upon her brother and his wife in Scotland whenever they could, and they were always welcome.

  Sir Andrew did indeed make his inheritance over to Ceana and was pleased to do so. With David’s fortune, they immediately began the much-needed renovations to Ravensmere, and by the time the farms and land began to prosper once more, the house was ready for the mad melee of guests always descending upon it.

  Dovenbard developed into the most prosperous of the Ashcombe estates, though it became David’s in truth shortly after the wedding. Because of the impressive change, Ashcombe took on David as his chief advisor in estate management and frequently asked for his advice and input. At David’s suggestion, Derek also took an active part in these proceedings, ensuring that all parties involved were in full possession of facts about the nature of each estate’s concerns.

  Being next in line for the baronetcy at Ravensmere, Ceana made all decisions where that estate was concerned, proving herself a wise and capable landowner herself. David was her chief advisor on estate management as well, though their meetings had a much different tone than the others.

  With the changes in their situation, David and Ceana made the necessary arrangements for their children. Ravensmere, as the holdings of the baronetcy, would go to the firstborn, whether that child be male or female. Dovenbard would remain the family residence and settle as need be.

  As it happened, Ellen Chambers was born first in the family, so Ravensmere and the baronetcy would fall to her one day.

  Her first of four brothers, Andrew Shaw Chambers, who came a year later, decided at the age of six that their neighboring estates, when they were grown, would be the best of friends just as they were.

  And he was right.

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  Rebecca Connolly writes romances, both period and contemporary, because she absolutely loves a good love story. She has been creating stories since childhood, and there are home videos to prove it! She started writing them down in elementary school and has never looked back. She currently lives in Minnesota, spends every spare moment away from her day job absorbed in her writing, and is a hot cocoa addict.

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  Mrs. Finchley’s nerves committed murder in the end.

  The event did not come as a great surprise to Eliza.

  Everyone in Rothsbury was well acquainted with the vigorous force of Mrs. Finchley’s nerves. And more to the point, Mrs. Finchley herself had long predicted her nerves would be the death of her.

  Though Elizabeth Mail née Carter conceded that Mrs. Finchley’s nerves led to a figurative death, not a literal one. And it was not so much the lady’s nerves themselves, but an unexpected announcement the said nerves precipitated. So perhaps they should be exonerated.

  It all began over knitting during the quarterly meeting of the Daughters of Rothsbury Temperance Society. The society members had gathered in Mrs. Young’s front parlor, which had the double advantage of facing south—ensuring plenty of warm autumn sun—and overlooking High Street—ensuring nothing transpired unwitnessed. It was a cheerful, if not overly large, room. Perfect for a group of women to knit caps and sincerely discuss how to improve the lives of the poor . . .

  Eliza nearly smiled at her own wit.

  She clearly meant . . . perfect for the ladies to show off their knitting prowess and indulge in good gossip.

  It was, quite frankly, the only reason Eliza delighted in attending. Though not technically a daughter of Rothsbury herself, Eliza had been granted honorary citizen status due to her “upright behavior and ladylike manners.”

  How those who had known her previously would laugh at such a statement. Eliza Carter a model of decorum? A paragon of lady-ness?

  Hah!

  But Eliza Carter was long gone, and in her stead was Elizabeth Mail, widow of Sergeant Robert Mail, late of His Majesty’s army. Granted, her slide into genteel respectability had been accelerated when Eliza was widowed at the tender age of nineteen and now, at a much-older twenty-four, she was firmly ensconced among the matrons of the village.

  It was a position she carefully worked to maintain. Robert, though a gentleman and her dearest love, had not left her much in the way of worldly possessions. Her reputation and small marriage settlement were the only items between herself and penury. Eliza managed both with careful diligence.

  “I have the most delightful news,” Mrs. Finchley began, eyes dancing underneath the white lace of her mobcap. She waited expectantly until every head had swung her way, her round body quivering with excitement.

  Mrs. Finchley knew how to manage an audience.

  Once every eye was fixed upon her, she clasped her hands together and made the announcement: “Our own Lord Swansea is to host a house party at Ambrose Park.”

  That was, indeed, news.

  The entire room stilled. Shocked silence.

  Mrs. Finchley beamed, thoroughly satisfied with the reaction.

  Lord Swansea was seventy if he was a day, a widower, crotchety, and rarely seen outside the confines of Ambrose Park. When he did leave home, it was to attend Sunday services. And only then when the sun shone and the wind stilled and the vicar was demonstrably dazzled by the honor.

  No one visited Lord Swansea. And he visited no one.

  More to the point—he never hosted parties.

  Mrs. Finchley leaned forward. “Naturally, as Lord Swansea’s heir, Mr. Edward Forsythe will attend the party.”

  Well.

  Mr. Edward Forsythe had not been seen once during the entire five years of Eliza’s residence in Rothsbury, though she had certainly heard plenty about him.

  Eliza herself had certainly never set foot inside Ambrose Park. But then she doubted any members of the Daughters of Rothsbury Temperance Society had seen the interior of Ambrose Park. Lord Swansea was not known for his condescension to those of less exalted rank, particularly genteel widows of little consequence and humble means.

  The excited bobbing of Mrs. Finchley’s mobcap meant she was not done. “In addition, I have it on good authority that Lord Swansea has invited the grandson of an old friend to visit, as well. This gentleman,” the lady continued, her eyes acquiring a conspiratorial gleam, “is a most illustrious guest.”

  More silence.

  Mrs. Finchley waited, drawing out the suspense. She would not give up more information without first being prodded. She did have a reputation to maintain.

  Eliza felt Mrs. Young sigh beside her.

  Mrs. Young was never an eager participant in Mrs. Finchley’s games. Exceptionally tall and thin, Mrs. Young was the precise opposite of her short, round friend—a sleek greyhound to Mrs. Finchley’s excitable pug. Watching the two friends spar back and forth was the highlight of these meetings.

  “Hea
vens, Mariah,” Mrs. Young intoned. “I cannot imagine that Lord Swansea knows anyone of consequence at this point in his life. Besides, Mr. Forsythe has not particularly distinguished himself in recent years from what I hear. Why should an illustrious guest dance attendance on either gentleman?”

  Mrs. Young took in a breath, eyed Mrs. Finchley’s rotund quivering, and then said the worst: “Are you sure you are not mistaken?”

  In lady’s speak, the question was the verbal equivalent of a glove slap.

  Mrs. Finchley gasped, appropriately wide-eyed and outraged. Eliza echoed her surprise.

  Mrs. Young usually had more patience for her friend’s idiosyncrasies. But for some reason, today Mrs. Young had jumped all preliminaries and gone straight to challenge.

  “I most certainly am sure, Beatrice Young. I have it on the best authority.” Mrs. Finchley pressed a shaking hand to her bosom. “You set my poor nerves aquiver with such disdain.”

  “Everything sets your nerves aquiver, Mariah Finchley.” Mrs. Young raised her eyebrows, upping the stakes.

  Heavens. They had proceeded straight from glove slap to pistols and ten paces at dawn.

  “I am not wrong.” Two bright spots of color dotted Mrs. Finchley’s cheeks. “I heard it just this morning from Lord Swansea’s housekeeper.”

  The entire room exhaled.

  Mrs. Finchley rarely named a source. Why give away her methods? And yet, Mrs. Young had drawn it from her.

  “Well, out with it then, Mariah.” Mrs. Young brandished her figurative pistol.

  A pause, while Mrs. Finchley fluttered her hands and checked her breathing, ensuring all and sundry noted her distress.

  Eliza suppressed a smile. This was why she never missed these meetings. Mrs. Young and Mrs. Finchley truly were well matched.

  “As I said, the most-illustrious guest is the grandson of one of Lord Swansea’s oldest friends.” Mrs. Finchley pursed her lips, nerves miraculously quelled as she wrested the attention back to herself.

  Mrs. Young first rolled her eyes and then rolled her hand. Get to the point.