The Dukes of Vauxhall

by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen

  “I hated always watching my back. I hated never trusting anyone. I hated expecting that at any moment someone would try to kill me.”

  He slid his hands into her skirts and pushed the dress over her hips. “It makes life less pleasurable,” he said.

  “Yes,” she murmured against his neck as she moved her body so he could help her wiggle out of the dress. “I never thought I would see you again, and when I did, I remembered what my life had been. I remembered what it felt like to trust and to love.” She looked up at him. “I love you, Henry. I’ve always loved you.”

  He dropped her dress on the floor, and she straddled him, naked.

  “And I trust you,” she said. “I’ve always trusted you.”

  “You can always trust me,” he said. “I have a plan, and it’s really quite simple. We’ll go to France and—”

  She kissed him, long and deep, and when she pulled away, he’d forgotten what he’d been saying.

  “Why don’t we talk about the plan later?” she said, and she pushed him back on the berth and kissed him again.

  He let her have her way, let her tease him with her lips and her hands, until he thought he would go mad. Then he flipped her over and had his way, exploring her body and reveling in every little moan and sigh. She was the Kate he’d always loved, and she was also the woman he’d fallen in love with.

  And when she took him in, when she opened herself to him, and the last of her defenses fell away, he fell in love with her all over again.

  Later, he dozed while she stroked his hair back from his head. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he murmured.

  “Sleeping is a hazard if you’re a crime lord.”

  “I see.” He vowed one day she would feel safe again.

  “You said something earlier about a plan. I believe you were rudely interrupted.”

  “Pleasantly interrupted.” He faced her and propped his chin on his hand. “Would you like to know my plan now?”

  “Please.”

  “You may not know that the Viscounts Bexley have properties in France and Austria. When we reach France, I will send notices back to England that I was called to one of my Continental estates on urgent business.”

  “And that will appease the prince?”

  “Oh, the prince will only be too happy to have me out of the way and no longer holding the purse strings. You and I will travel the Continent—”

  “By land, I hope.”

  “Yes, by land. And you will adopt a new identity. You can be anyone you want, though for my purposes it would be best if you choose to become a noblewoman.”

  She smiled. “A noblewoman? I like that.”

  “I thought you might. Then we grow your hair out, have a new wardrobe made for you, and perhaps feed you a bit more.”

  “Are you saying I’m too thin?”

  “I am saying you could do with a few more pounds if we are to change your appearance.”

  “And then, when we return, I look different and you call me a different name, and no one ever knows I was once the Duke of Vauxhall.”

  “That’s it. Except for one small point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must also return as my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “You’d be a viscountess.”

  She frowned. “I’d probably hate that.”

  “Probably as much as I hate being a viscount.”

  She smiled. “We could hate it together.”

  “We could use our influence to help the poor.”

  She waved a hand. “We could use our influence to annoy all those nobs with their noses in the air.”

  He laughed. “That too.” He took her hand and kissed her palm. “What do you say, Kate?” Henry held his breath. For a man who was cautious to a fault, he felt as though he was laying himself open, not only to rejection but to the danger of exposure and ridicule.

  And it was all worth it to have her by his side.

  Kate squeezed his hand. “I say yes.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “Neither will you,” she promised.

  * * *

  But Henry did have one regret in the end. Months later, he learned that after he’d left England, not only had the prince exceeded his budget for the celebrations at Vauxhall, but he’d also spent a fortune that had even the most liberal of his financial counselors shaking their heads and cursing the foreign holdings of Viscount Bexley.

  Henry would have liked to have been the man who’d taken the prince and his lavish spending in hand, but one could not have everything. And Henry had the most important thing of all.

  His darling.

  His love.

  His duke.

  The End

  About Shana Galen

  * * *

  Shana Galen is three-time Rita award nominee and the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers' Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, "The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun," and RT Bookreviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching." She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston's inner city. Now she writes full time. She's happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers, so stop by her website or join her mailing list for exclusive news and giveaways.

  Books by Shana Galen

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, read more from Shana.

  Pre-order Traitor in Her Arms, which comes out August 22, and is the first in a series set during France’s tumultuous French Revolution.

  Also pre-order Third Son’s a Charm, the first in The Survivors series.

  Covent Garden Cubs series begins with Earls Just Want to Have Fun.

  The Lord and Lady Spy series begins with Lord and Lady Spy.

  The Jewels of the Ton series begins with When You Give a Duke a Diamond.

  The Sons of the Revolution series begins with The Making of a Duchess.

  The Misadventures in Matrimony series begins with No Man’s Bride.

  The Regency Spies Series begins with While You Were Spying

  Other anthologies

  * * *

  FIGHTING FOR HIS LADY

  * * *

  CHRISTI CALDWELL

  Fighting For His Lady

  * * *

  Fighting for Survival…

  Years earlier Patience Storm, daughter of a late great fighter, had her heart broken by Godrick Gunnery. One of the most talented fighters ever trained by her father, Godrick lived with her family, and stole her heart...all the while withholding the truth of his identity. The day his betrayal was revealed, she vowed to banish him from her life forever. Now her father's gone, her family's in dire financial straits, and her brother's in desperate need of an instructor to prepare him for a match against England's most ruthless fighter. With nowhere else to turn, she sets aside her pride and seeks out the one man she swore never to see again.

  Fighting for Redemption…

  Godrick Gunnery’s mistakes cost him the only woman he ever loved, and he paid the price with a broken heart. After he lost Patience Storm, he devoted himself to building a fighting club that would rival Gentleman Jackson's. But wealth and power hasn’t filled the hole in his empty life and he’s reminded of all he lost when Patience comes to him with a favor.

  Former Lovers Reunited

  Now, as Patience and Godrick work together to prepare her brother for the big fight at Vauxhall, passions flare, and they remember the love they once shared. When the past resurfaces, Godrick will have to wage the most important fight of his life—the one for Patience's love.

  Chapter One

  * * *

  London, England

  From lords and ladies to sailors and thugs born to the streets, the whole of England was celebrating. Had been celebrating since victory was de
clared upon the battlefields of Waterloo.

  All were celebrating… except for Miss Patience Storm. At this moment, she was nursing a brother—a badly injured brother—and trying not to think of the fact that, come the end of the month, they’d be without a home and funds and the fragile stability they’d known since their father’s passing.

  From where she sat beside Samuel’s bed, Patience tested a knot just above his brow. A loud groan split the quiet of their cramped London residence. Even in a disjointed slumber, he moaned through his pain. He was better off for it. Better for her to tend his wounds this way than if he were fully alert.

  “Mean Jack seized him by the breeches, miss,” Jeremy Tufts said from the doorway, calling her attention to where he’d been standing since he’d carried Samuel back from another failed match. “Not his fault.” She heard the defensive thread there. Two years younger than her twenty-year-old brother, Jeremy had expressed an admiration for the Storm family that came from their connection to the late bare-knuckle-fighting legend “The Tempest.”

  “No,” she agreed. Not Samuel’s fault. But he should know better. She’d instructed him more times than she could count. Not everyone honored Broughton’s rules that governed fighting, and if one expected them to, one would find oneself as battered as Samuel was now. With a sigh, she bit back those words for his loyal friend. It would do no good to speak now on all the reasons Sam had lost—again. “Thank you for helping him home.”

  “Do ya need anything?” he asked, scrabbling with the hat in his hands.

  A miracle, a fortune, and some fighting sense for her brother. Short of those, there was nothing she required. She forced a smile, her muscles strained under the weight of that falseness. “No. I’ll send word should I need you,” she assured him.

  After he’d gone, Patience soaked a scrap of linen in cool water. After wringing out the excess moisture, she lowered the cloth to Samuel’s swollen right eye. He stirred, attempting to open his eyes, and then groaned. “Here,” she murmured. A knot had already formed just above his right eyebrow. Come tomorrow, he’d be fortunate if he had a slit he could even see light through. She prodded that wound, eliciting another agonized moan, a sound befitting a wounded pup their sister, Ruth, had once brought in to nurse back to health years earlier.

  She grabbed another cloth and went through the same motions again and again, placing them upon each bruise, lump, and cut upon his face until Samuel stuck his hand up.

  “You hate me,” he said hoarsely from behind the sea of cloths on his face. “Or you’re trying to kill me.”

  For the first time since Jeremy had returned him from the losing match, her lips twitched.

  “Oh, it’s certainly the latter,” their eighteen-year-old sister, Ruth, piped in, entering the room. At Samuel’s muffled grousing, the sisters shared a small smile. “You lost another one, Samuel,” she accused with the same gruff disappointment their late sire, the great bare-knuckle-boxing legend Tom Storm, had been notorious for.

  “I had a bad go of it,” he mumbled. “Jack grabbed my breeches and snuck a punch to my kidney and groin.” He winced as Patience removed the strips of fabric. “Bloody hell, Patience.”

  Gentling her touch, she lifted the now lukewarm cloths from his face with a sigh. His heavily battered face.

  “Rules don’t apply in fighting,” Ruth snapped, coming over. The younger woman knew that, and she’d received even less tutelage from their father than Sam. The candle’s glow played off her sister’s features. She passed a gaze over him and whistled. That soft inhalation filled the small, cramped chambers. “You look like hell.” That was being generous. Samuel had the look of one who’d been dragged by his heels through the streets of London. “You know Donovan is three stone bigger and four inches taller.” She muttered something under her breath about being born the wrong gender.

  As Ruth proceeded to lecture Samuel on the right and wrong way to battle a dirty opponent, Patience continued seeing to his wounds. Hotheaded and rash, he was very much like their late father... except where skill in bare-knuckle fighting was concerned. Tom Storm had been one of the most skilled, ruthless fighters. It was a talent he had not passed on to his son.

  She stared over at the tiny window that overlooked the London streets. Then, their father had been otherwise busy schooling an altogether different fighter than his son. A man fleet of foot and fast of fist had earned her father’s admiration, and that had seen Samuel forgotten... until it was altogether too late. Apprentice gone, father ill, and just like that, all of Samuel’s hopes for lessons were gone as swiftly as that wicked fighter had entered and gone out of their lives.

  Godrick Gunnery’s visage flashed in her mind’s eye, and the cloth slipped from her fingers. It fell with a noisy thump upon the hardwood floor.

  “Are you all right?” her sister asked with concern in her voice.

  Skin pricking from the intensity of her probing stare, Patience gave a jerky nod. “Fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She dropped to a knee and made a show of rescuing the linen. Why had he entered her thoughts? Why, after all these years, had he just slipped back in?

  Because he’s always there. He’ll always be there.

  Despite her resolve to never again think of the man who’d seen her as more than Storm’s daughter and treated her as a woman. Tamping down the unwanted memories of the only man who’d ever held her heart, a man who’d also broken it, she came to her feet. “Come,” she urged, tossing the cloth back into the bowl. “Sam needs to rest.”

  “He needs an instructor,” Ruth insisted as soon as they’d stepped into the narrow hall.

  Patience touched a finger to her lips.

  Through the thin walls, Samuel cursed loudly a vile epithet that would have made most people blush. Then again, she and Ruth weren’t most people. They were two women born to a once-famous bare-knuckle fighter.

  She quickened her strides. At nearly six feet tall, she built a steady distance between herself and her obstinate sister, who in her stockinged feet was almost a foot shorter.

  “You know I’m right,” Ruth insisted, easily catching up. What she lacked in height, she made up for in spades with gumption.

  Even separated by ten years, Patience and Ruth were the best of friends. Both level-headed. Logical. Clearheaded. “I didn’t disagree with you,” Patience pointed out as she entered the kitchen. Stalking over to the counter, she set to work wiping down the table, a task abandoned when Sam had returned from another failed match.

  Though I wasn’t always reasonable....

  Her fingers curled reflexively on the cloth in her hand. Samuel had always been the most dramatic of all the Storms. Papa had called it flair when Samuel was just a boy and said it was the gift that would see them one-day plump in the purse, with a lofty manor house in the country. It hadn’t taken long for their father to see that their fortunes would not be built upon Samuel’s back.

  Which brought them to the dire financial situation they now found themselves in. “Edwin will—”

  “Edwin will what?” her sister snapped. She’d been far less forgiving of their eldest brother’s vice and abandonment. After a fight he refused to speak of, he’d lost vision in his right eye and become a shell of the man he’d been. “He lives in a bottle and hasn’t come ’round in a fortnight. You expect he’s the instructor that Sam needs?”

  Patience dusted a hand over her face. No. She didn’t. What were the bloody options at this point?

  Her sister touched a hand to her shoulder, and she jumped. “He’s going to get killed in that match.”

  “Quiet,” Patience demanded. That match, as they’d all taken to calling it, would see Samuel go up against London’s reigning champion, Darius King, in a fight heralded as the Waterloo of bare-knuckle fighting. “He has time to prepare.”

  Ruth scrunched her mouth up. “When he’s able to crawl out of bed after tonight’s match and with you as his instructor.”

  Those pragmatic words were a statement that
was stripped of all derision.

  Damn her for being correct. Why was she always correct? “King can be beat,” she forced herself to say. Were those words meant to reassure herself? Or Ruth?

  Her youngest sibling, far too wise for her years, glanced back toward Samuel’s room. She dropped her voice to a hushed whisper that barely reached Patience’s ears. “Sam’s not been picked to win. You know that.”

  No, the rub of it was, no one in the whole of England took the upcoming “battle” as anything more than what it clearly was—an orchestrated competition meant to serve as a play on that great, decisive Battle of Waterloo. No one, that was, except the Storm siblings. King had been pitted against him because Samuel’s damned fighting name was The Emperor, and a victory on King’s part would mark him as the next greatest fighter since...

  Her stomach muscles tightened. “We have time.” Four weeks.

  “It’s not time we need.” Ruth drifted closer. “This is all you can impart,” she said, tapping Patience on the forehead. “Fighting can’t be taught in a schoolroom,” she went on with her usual logic. “You lost your post at Madam Bisset’s.” Guilt filled her. “And if Sam doesn’t win—?”

  “I know what happens if we don’t have those funds.” The sharp retort exploded from her lips, and she quickly closed her eyes. She’d never possessed her mother’s skill with a needle. Ruth alone had inherited their mother’s innate ability. Patience stared at her callused hands. Blistered. Red. Sore from fighting a different battle than her brother or any prized fighter would—life was far rawer and ruthless than any match that saw Samuel bloodied and battered. And Madam Bisset had been far more patient with her clumsy efforts. But she’d not have Sam thinking about the desperately needed funds on which their family’s future hung. That worrying wouldn’t do anything for a clear head for the match.