“This is my debut.” Georgiana spoke softly and clearly, her voice as melodious as his was dark and deep.
“Is it?” His tone held a faint note of surprise. “You’ve maturity beyond your years, Lady…”
“Perrin. Lady Perrin, Your Grace.”
“You know who I am then.”
She met the duke’s cold, clear stare without blinking. “Yes.”
“And yet you still came out here alone with me. That either shows admirable courage or incredible foolishness, Lady Perrin. Haven’t you heard what they say behind closed doors?”
“I prefer to meet a person before I judge them.”
“The rumors aren’t true, you know.” He shifted nearer. Just a small, nearly indiscernible change of balance that brought their faces within inches of one another. He was so close she could smell the tiniest hint of bourbon on his breath and see the steady throb of his pulse above the crisp fold of his white cravat.
“Oh - oh no?” Her voice trembled even as her body yearned.
“No,” he whispered, his mouth a hair’s breadth from her own. “The truth is much, much worse...”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2018 by Jillian Eaton
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A widow with a broken heart…
The granddaughter of a duke and darling of the ton, Lady Georgiana’s life was one glittering soiree after another...until her husband did her the grave disservice of dying. Recently returned to London after a year spent rusticating in the country, she’s eager to resume her social life. One thing she doesn’t plan on doing? Crossing paths with Sebastian Northcliff, the arrogant cad who stole her first kiss and broke her heart.
A duke with a dark past…
There are whispers about the Duke of Warwick. Whispers that he killed his first wife. Whispers that he is a cruel, unforgiving man. Whispers that he is incapable of love. For his part, Sebastian doesn’t care what people say...as long as they leave him the hell alone. With no family, no friends, and no plans to remarry, he’s content to live in the shadows. Until a chance encounter with an old flame reminds him just how hot his passion can burn.
A love that will change both of their lives...forever.
Georgiana has never forgiven Sebastian. Sebastian has never forgotten Georgiana. After seven years of loathing, can two opposites finally find love? Or is this one relationship that’s doomed to repeat itself? Find out in The Summer Duchess, the third installment in Jillian Eaton’s bestselling A Duchess for All Seasons series!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A DANGEROUS PASSION
BOW STREET BRIDES
CHAPTER ONE
The ton - which could never reach a general consensus on anything - agreed on two things. One, that Lady Georgiana was the most striking debutante in the past eight years. And two, that it was such a shame her husband had died. Beauty, they unanimously agreed, was wasted on a widow. Although if anyone could make black work with their complexion, it was Georgiana.
“That poor, poor family,” Lady Portia sighed dramatically. Blowing the steam off her tea, she took a careful sip before addressing her audience of one with an arched brow and a knowing smile. “Some people say they’re cursed, but of course I’ve never believed in such nonsense. Although one does begin to wonder, given who her brother married.”
“I heard it’s a love match,” Lady Beatrice interceded.
“Love?” Lady Portia’s second brow rose to join the first. “Why on heaven’s blessed green earth would a duke fall in love with a bluestocking?” She lowered her voice. “Everyone knows he married her to avoid a scandal.”
“I don’t know…” Lady Beatrice said uncertainly. “They seemed very happy at Lord Kinnear's dinner party just last week.”
“She keeps a rat in her pocket, Beatrice,” Lady Portia snapped.
“Actually,” a dark-haired woman said pleasantly as she glided up to the two women and sat down across from them, “it’s a hedgehog.”
“Lady Georgiana.” The malice that had crept into Lady Portia’s tone was instantly replaced with sugary sweetness as she sat up straighter in her chair. “I wasn’t aware you would be here this afternoon.”
“Yes, well, now that my mourning has officially ended I have decided to resume my charitable activities.” Nodding at a maid to indicate she would like some tea, Georgiana patiently waited for a cup to be filled before adding a splash of cream and a sprinkling of sugar. Raising it to her lips, she met Portia’s gaze over the curved porcelain rim and smiled.
It was a sharp sort of smile, the kind one used to silence crying children...or gossiping biddies who would do well to mind their own business. She and Portia may have made their Season debut together, but there was little love lost between the two women. Rivals from the moment they’d stepped into their first ballroom, they were always pleasant in public but rarely had a kind word to exchange in private.
“How wonderful. Lady Newgate mentioned you’d returned to London. I am so very sorry I haven’t made the time to pay you a call.” Portia’s hand fluttered airily. “Between running the charities and the children, I have been impossibly busy.”
“I’m sure,” Georgiana said demurely. “Well, hopefully with the Season drawing to a close at the end of the month you shall have more free time on your hands. Have you and Lord Dunlop made any plans for the summer?”
“We will be going to Bath, of course.”
“Of course.” Renowned for its healing waters, Bath was a premiere destination for members of the ton. One of the largest cities in all of England, its population quadrupled between the months of June and August. Personally, Georgiana had never cared to bathe in the same water as dozens of other women - no matter how magical it was supposed to be - but she was in the minority. The natural springs were said to cure all sorts of ailments, from infertility to gout, and the upper class paid a pretty penny to sit side by side like fish stuffed into a barrel.
Before Georgiana’s husband did her the grave disservice of dying – most inconsiderate of him – they’d traveled to Bath every year. He’d had a bad back from a fall off a horse as a child, and had sworn up and down that the waters made him feel better. She didn’t know about the waters, but he did always had an extra bounce in his step whenever he returned from visiting the Widow Granbury. To deliver her medicine, he’d told Georgiana earnestly on the one occasion she’d bothered to ask.
Say what you would about the man, but he had certainly held his cock in high regard.
Suffice it to say she hadn’t returned to Bath since his death, nor did she have any plans to. Particularly now that she knew Portia would be there.
“And you, Beatrice?” she asked, directing her clear cut gaze to the mousy-haired woman sitting beside Portia. Blushing, Beatrice looked down at her lap and mumbled somethin
g indecipherable. “I’m sorry dear, I did not quite catch that.”
“I said - I said my husband and I will be traveling to Wales to visit his mother. She has recently taken ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Please extend my best wishes for a fast recovery.” How quickly it all comes back, Georgiana reflected silently. The empty questions. The vague well wishes. The idle small chat. She had lived inside high society’s glittering bubble for the better part of eight years - more, if she counted her time at boarding school - and she could count the number of meaningful conversations she’d had on one hand.
Once she’d been content in her bubble. Happy to float along from one vapid social function to the next. But having glimpsed what existed outside of the clear glossy shell, she was finding it far emptier and constricting than she remembered.
For that she blamed her sister-in-law Eleanor, the red-haired social misfit who had more in common with the hedgehogs she kept in her pockets than most people. Against all odds, the peculiar little bluestocking had managed to do the impossible: bring the infallible Duke of Hawkridge to his knees. And contrary to whatever gossip was floating about, her brother and his wife were very happy. It was almost sickening, really. Like a fairytale brought to life. But if Derek and Eleanor were the blessed prince and princess, what did that make her?
The wicked stepsister, Georgiana thought with a smirking curve of her lips. Destined to be surrounded by love, but never to have it for herself. Not even with her late husband. Oh, they’d gotten along well enough. Mostly because she’d turned a blind eye to his various affairs and he’d rewarded her discretion by leaving her alone, both in the bedroom and out of it. They may have resided under the same roof, but they’d led completely different lives. And they’d been, if not happy, then at least content. Until James’ carriage overturned and he snapped his neck.
Once, before James, there had been another man...one with piercing eyes the color of dark slate and hair so black it might have been painted by the devil himself. She could have loved him. Had loved him, if she were honest with herself. But that had been a long time ago when she’d still be foolish enough to believe in happily-ever-afters.
There were worse things in life than not being in love, Georgiana assured herself as she refocused her attention on Portia. Like being a miserable, jealousy-ridden hag who took special delight in spreading vicious lies and rumors.
“If you will excuse me, ladies, I believe I shall step outside for a bit of fresh air. It was so delightful to see you again. We’ll have to do this again very soon.” Her smile warming as it swept over Beatrice, she set down her tea and left the room as gracefully as she’d entered it, rose colored skirts fluttering silently in her wake.
Bright afternoon sunlight reflected off the marble tiles in the foyer, causing Georgiana to squint as she tried to decide where to go next. The rear gardens were beautiful, but if she went out there she’d undoubtedly be forced to field question after question about her brother and his new bride.
After a year and a half of marriage one would think the speculation would have died down by now. And it most likely would have, if they’d continued living completely separate lives as any dutiful, well-behaved couple of the ton was expected to do. But no, Derek and Eleanor had to go and fall head over heels in love with each other, openly defying all convention and sending the gossip mill into a tither the likes of which it hadn’t seen since Lady Bishop had been caught in the broom closet with her footman.
If there was one good thing that had come out of their wedded bliss – aside from watching her arrogant brother finally being brought to heel – it was that everyone was so busy asking Georgiana about Derek that they’d completely forgotten about James. Some widows might have been insulted at the lack of attention, but she was grateful for it. Twelve months was more than enough time to mourn a man she’d quite liked but never loved, and she didn’t need his name dragged into every blessed conversation...or the thinly veiled sympathetic glances that inevitably followed.
Still, it was rather wearying to answer the same questions again and again. Which was why she was giving serious consideration to simply returning home...until the unmistakable clatter of hooves on cobblestone and the babble of excited feminine voices had her backing hastily away from the front door.
Good Lord. Just how many women had Lady Swiftmore invited to her charitable luncheon? ‘A quiet affair of close friends’, she’d promised Georgiana when they’d met last week for tea. ‘It will be the perfect venue for a soft launch back into society.’
Quiet affair my arse, Georgiana thought. There had to be nearly four dozen women in attendance, with more pouring in every second. What was supposed to be a private luncheon to discuss London’s poor had turned into a full-fledged high society affair. A regular who’s who of the ton’s female elite.
Once she would have relished such a function - the bigger the better - but time, maturity, and the realization that there was more to life than sitting about exchanging nasty gossip had dulled her enthusiasm considerably. Not to mention the fact that there were far better ways to help the unfortunate than an exclusive gathering that involved lots of talking and planning but very little actual doing.
“A cucumber sandwich, my lady?” A maid dressed in black with her blond hair tucked neatly under a cap walked up to Georgiana holding a silver tray. She removed the lid to reveal half a dozen tiny sandwiches nearly garnished with bright green sprigs of mint.
“No.” Georgiana gave a slight shake of her head. “Although if you could point me in the direction of the library, I would be most appreciative.”
If there was one place she would be guaranteed a bit of peace and quiet in a house filled with empty-headed gossips, it was a room full of books. It was ironic, really. She’d never been much of a reader before James died - truth be told, she’d mocked those who were - but after living in relative seclusion with only her eccentric sister-in-law for company, she’d learned to appreciate just how distracting a good book could be.
The library door creaked on its hinges when she pushed it open. Sweeping her skirts to the side she stepped in and quietly closed the door behind her, giving her eyes times to adjust to the subdued lighting before she walked into the room, the heels of her slippers sinking silently into a thick Aubusson rug.
All manner of books lined the walls, from heavy tomes bound in leather to slim penny dreadfuls with paper covers. After perusing the shelves for a few moments she selected a worn looking edition of The Sense of Reason, a short novel by acclaimed author James Sherbrook about the trials and tribulations of a young orphan girl growing up in the East End.
As a young orphan girl growing up in the West End of London, Georgiana had read the novel shortly after her parents died. Hannah may have been a fictional character, but her trials and tribulations – from running out of food to being sold into prostitution – had made Georgiana’s problems – a domineering grandfather and the unexpected loss of the two people she’d loved most in the world – seem manageable in comparison.
She’d accidentally left her worn, well-loved copy at Hawkridge Castle when she came to London for the Season and she immediately flipped to one of her favorite passages as she slowly backed up towards an oversized leather chair. Her eyes on the page in front of her, she failed to notice the chair was already occupied until she started to sit down…and encountered not a wool stuffed cushion as expected, but a pair of very hard, very masculine thighs.
“Oh!” she gasped, clutching The Sense of Reason to her chest as she shot upright and whirled around. “I - I do apologize. I did not realize anyone was...you.”
Shock sent the book tumbling from numb, bloodless fingers. Face drained of all color and mouth agape, she could only stare at the man sitting before her in wordless silence. The man with eyes the color of slate and hair as black as a raven’s wing. The man she hadn’t seen in seven years. The man who had stolen her heart…and then in one cruel, careless act, had shattered it into a thousand pi
eces.
The Duke of Warwick.
CHAPTER TWO
“Georgiana.” Sebastian’s leisurely drawl and the lazy flick of his stormy gaze across Georgiana’s pale countenance did nothing to betray the sudden tension radiating through his body. Unless she happened to glance down at his hands – the fingers of which were clenched with iron tightness around the curved arms of his chair – she’d never know how shocked he was to see her. Or what affect her sudden appearance was having on him. “It has been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” she snapped. “What are you doing here, Warwick?”
Bloody hell, but she looked and sounded exactly the same. And yet somehow not the same at all.
Her hair was precisely as he remembered. All of that soft, sleek ebony bundled up in a prim chignon at the nape of her neck that was just begging to be plucked from its pins. She was still as tall and slender as a willow, although he couldn’t help but notice a fullness in her breasts and hips that hadn’t been there when she was a young girl teetering on the precipice of womanhood. The rose colored dress she wore hugged every curve to blessed perfection, and it was a testament to his self-control that he managed to keep his gaze level with her face.
She still had the classical porcelain complexion of an English rose, but time had defined her features. Her cheekbones were sharper. Her lips fuller. Her chin a touch more defiant. But those eyes – those deep, dark hazel eyes a man could find himself drowning in if he wasn’t careful – might as well have been conjured straight from Sebastian’s dreams. Except in his dreams she always looked at him with lust instead of loathing.
“I asked you a question.” Color flooded back into her face as she stared down her nose at him, bringing a delicious tint of pink to her cheeks that made him think of an apple he wanted to sink his teeth into.
The Summer Duchess (A Duchess for All Seasons Book 3) Page 1