My One and Only Duke--Includes a bonus novella

by Grace Burrowes

  “The library?” she asked, as if he’d confessed to a taste for keeping newts. “I hadn’t thought you a reader, my lord.”

  “And yet I am quite literate,” he replied. “Histories and plays, philosophy and the odd scientific tome. Even a novel every now and again. Will wonders never cease?”

  The color rose in her cheeks, and she averted her eyes from him. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I meant no disrespect.”

  He was about to brush aside her apology when the snow on a branch directly above her head picked that moment to fall.

  Miss St. John’s head and shoulders were covered with cold melting snow.

  For a moment she stood frozen in shock, her eyes wide and outraged.

  Adam simply couldn’t help it.

  He closed his eyes and laughed.

  Loud and ringing in the still winter air, he laughed and laughed and laughed—

  Wet snow was shoved unceremoniously in his face.

  Adam sputtered and opened his eyes to the sight of a sodden harpy with two handfuls of snow lunging at him. He ducked.

  She followed.

  Her eyes gleamed with righteous rage.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Adam caught her and pulled her against his chest.

  Sarah stared up into Lord d’Arque’s face, startled by his swift action. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and he held her tight against his broad chest.

  As if he embraced her.

  She inhaled and smelled mint and tea and something lemony, and her breath hitched.

  “Do you concede the battle, Miss St. John?” he asked, his voice deep and slow.

  “I…” He was so close.

  And so big.

  The snow fell forgotten from her mittened hands.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth and his head bent toward hers.

  Her heart started beating so fast she knew he must hear it.

  “Over here!” The shout, coming from just ahead of them, drove them apart.

  Lord d’Arque stepped back just as Jane walked out of the copse of trees. The doctor was a step behind her, carrying the basket that was meant to hold their holly.

  Jane waved to them. “You had better hurry! We’re almost to the holly behind the thicket.”

  She turned and disappeared around the trees, Dr. Manning trailing behind.

  Sarah busied herself smoothing her skirts, suddenly shy. “We should continue on our way.”

  Lord d’Arque gave her a look she couldn’t quite read and picked up the basket she’d dropped when she’d gathered the snow to attack him. “Lead on.”

  She nodded, picking up her skirts and stepping through the snow carefully. “There’s more holly up ahead past the copse.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She inhaled, desperate for something to say. Her face was hot and she ached low in her belly. Had he been about to kiss her? Or was she merely imagining things?

  She felt quite cross for a minute. Surely she didn’t want Lord d’Arque to kiss her? He was a rake.

  And yet…

  “Do you always decorate Hedge House for Christmas?”

  “Yes?” She peered at him sideways. “It’s tradition. Don’t you bring in green boughs and holly at your houses—or at your grandmother’s cousin’s house?”

  He had a strange little twist to his mouth. “My grandmother’s cousin isn’t one to make merry. She provides a feast and plenty of mulled wine, but that’s all. I don’t celebrate Christmas at my residences.”

  She stopped. “Not at all?”

  He shrugged. “I give a purse of money to each servant and direct the cook to serve them plum puddings and goose on Christmas. Besides that, no.”

  “But why?” Sarah frowned as she attempted to step over a snow-covered log. Really it was much too big and she wasn’t sure she could straddle it. “I always loved the Christmas season as a child. We would have guests and games and puddings and—”

  She broke off with a squeak as he wrapped his hands around her waist and simply lifted her over the log.

  He set her down and arched an amused eyebrow at her.

  “Thank you,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

  “Not at all,” he drawled, turning to continue on their trek. “My own childhood Christmases were not so idyllic. There were no guests and no puddings.”

  “Oh.” She studied him. Lord d’Arque seemed quite stoic about his lack of childhood Christmases. Except…he was such an expressive man usually, even if it was often in mockery. His very lack of expression now seemed most suspect. She cleared her throat and asked hesitantly, “Was there a reason your family didn’t celebrate Christmas?”

  “Not an ideological one, certainly.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “I hardly hail from Puritans.” He faced forward again as they trudged on. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Both my father and mother had numerous affairs.”

  Sarah blinked, feeling a little shocked. What did one say to such a confession?

  But he didn’t wait for her response. “No, I think my parents were simply too caught up in their own battles and petty arguments to bother with Christmas.” He shrugged carelessly. “And then they died on Christmas Eve when I was thirteen.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks.

  Lord d’Arque continued for another few steps before realizing. He turned and looked at her.

  What…what was she supposed to think of his story? She couldn’t feel sympathy for this man. She couldn’t.

  And yet, staring at him standing in crystalline snow, the flakes blowing against reddened cheeks, his eyes unable to hide his sadness, she felt herself fall headlong.

  He wasn’t just a rake. He was a man. A man with feelings—well hidden, but there all the same.

  She licked her lips. “How did they die?”

  He glanced away. “They had an argument. Yet another argument. My mother shrieked that she was running away with her lover. My father forbade her, even though he had mistresses of his own. She made to run from the house, but my father caught her at the top of the grand staircase.”

  Sarah drew in her breath, not wanting to hear what came next, though it had happened long ago.

  “They fell,” he said, his voice flat. “All the way down the staircase. My mother broke her neck and died instantly. My father broke both arms and also hit his head. He never woke up again, though it took him another week to die.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said with real regret.

  He turned to her. “Why? It happened over two decades ago, and besides you never knew them.”

  “Yes, but I know you,” she replied gently, “and I am sorry that such a terrible thing happened to you.”

  He shook his head and whispered, “You are too soft, Miss St. John. If you’re not careful, someone may take advantage and pierce your vulnerable heart.”

  She lifted her chin. “What makes you think someone hasn’t already?”

  Chapter Six

  Now the queen had quite strong opinions on keeping one’s word. Prince Brad gritted his teeth, smiled, apologized to the frog, and lifted her to the table beside his gold plate.

  “I’m going to get you for this,” he murmured under his breath to the frog.

  “Will you?” she replied. “Perhaps so, but in the meantime, be a good lad and cut me a bite of that steak, won’t you? I’m simply famished.”…

  —From The Frog Princess

  Adam’s brows snapped together. The thought of anyone hurting Miss St. John caused something inside him to twist and scrabble to get out.

  She shouldn’t be hurt.

  He was about to ask who had caused her this pain when a shout came from up ahead.

  Charlotte waved from the copse. “We’ve found the holly! You’d better hurry—we already have a full basket!”

  “Oh dear,” Miss St. John said from beside him. “I do believe we’re going to lose.”

  Forty-five minutes later they arrived back at Hedge House, their pitiful basket holding only a few branches of
holly. Everyone else had returned ahead of them.

  “I never seem to win these games,” Miss St. John sighed, watching her mother exclaim over the baskets of holly.

  “A pity,” Adam drawled. “I suppose you were looking forward to stealing a kiss.”

  She blushed—which rather intrigued him—but before he could tease her more, Mrs. St. John spoke.

  “Charlotte and Sir Hilary are the winners.” Their hostess glanced at her middle daughter. “Charlotte, would you like to claim your prize?”

  Adam leaned against the wall, watching the proceedings.

  Charlotte St. John glanced first at Sir Hilary, then Dr. Manning, and finally Lord Kirby, who, although he’d not participated in the holly gathering, had come to see the judging.

  She hesitated for a moment, and the good doctor looked pointedly away from her.

  Charlotte St. John lifted her chin and walked to Lord Kirby.

  That man’s eyes rounded as she stood on tiptoe and gave him a quite chaste kiss.

  That was interesting. Since Charlotte had chosen not to steal her kiss from her holly-hunting partner, that left Sir Hilary to pick a lady to kiss. Adam watched cynically to see if the man would ignore Charlotte St. John’s slight and take his kiss from her anyway.

  But he was already walking past Charlotte St. John.

  Adam straightened as realization hit him.

  Sir Hilary stopped before the eldest Miss St. John—standing only feet away from Adam—and bowed. “With your leave, madam?”

  She smiled, blushing a little, and nodded.

  Sir Hilary bent to set his mouth against hers and Adam felt his hands clench.

  It was only a second or two, but during that time he could feel the pulse beating in his temple.

  A kiss. A simple kiss. Nothing to become agitated about, especially since Miss St. John wasn’t important to him.

  Except it was rather hard to continue thinking that, wasn’t it? Not when he felt perilously close to hitting a man he hardly knew.

  Sir Hilary stepped back and made some sort of light comment. The rest of the party was moving toward the sitting room, presumably to participate in more juvenile games.

  “Come with me,” Adam said to Miss St. John.

  He took her wrist and swiftly pulled her from the room, away from everyone else. The hallway outside was empty, but Adam kept going, turning a corner. He opened the first door he came to—a study or small sitting room of some sort—and led her inside.

  “What—?” Miss St. John started, but he silenced her.

  By pressing his mouth to hers.

  Sarah gasped as Lord d’Arque kissed her. His mouth opened wide over hers, one thumb brushing her cheek. He held her with sure knowledge and embraced her as if he’d won the right.

  He pulled her tighter against him, her breasts crushed against his hard chest, one of his legs thrust into her skirts between her thighs. He angled his face over hers and nipped at her bottom lip.

  “My lord,” she whispered between their mouths.

  “Call me Adam,” he demanded, and then thrust his tongue into her mouth, preventing her.

  She moaned.

  She couldn’t help it. It had been years since anyone had touched her like this—Sir Hilary’s chaste peck hardly counted—and the only other man to do so hadn’t had a quarter of Adam’s skill.

  He made her feel. Made her want to cast away her inhibitions and doubts and just let him do as he wanted with her.

  The thought brought her up short.

  She’d felt this way before…and that man had taken everything she’d offered up and then thrust her away.

  Not again.

  She tore her mouth from his. “No.”

  “Sarah,” he murmured, and her heart clenched at the sound of her name on his lips.

  She couldn’t let this happen.

  She turned her head to the side.

  He pulled back and she could actually feel his gaze on her.

  Then he abruptly let her go.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice flat and formal.

  She looked at him and saw that everything she’d discovered in him was gone. His face was without expression, as closed as a locked gate.

  “My apologies if I’ve given offense.” He bowed, pivoted, and left the room.

  Adam took the stairs two at a time as he made his way to Grand-mère’s room. What a fool he was—becoming jealous over a country squire and Miss St. John. She was a respectable lady, determined to marry some poor man and birth a pack of blond, brown-eyed babies, chubby cheeked and solemn.

  He paused on the landing. Damn, Miss St. John’s babies would be adorable.

  He shook the ridiculous thought from his mind. Perhaps he’d contracted a brain fever from the snow tossed in his face. If so it was a relief: he’d be dead within a week and out of his misery.

  He turned his thoughts to Grand-mère as he continued up the stairs. She’d seemed better this morning. Perhaps she would be well enough to travel in a few days. He could leave Hedge House and never see Miss St. John and her respectable ways again.

  The thought made him unaccountably irritated.

  When he pushed open the door to Grand-mère’s room, she was sitting up in bed enjoying a late breakfast.

  “How are you feeling, darling?” he asked her, bending to kiss her cheek.

  He straightened and examined her critically. Her cheeks seemed to have more color than yesterday.

  “I’m feeling much better,” she said, but her voice was still weak and she started coughing as soon as the sentence was out of her mouth.

  Adam looked on with barely concealed concern as she bent over, gasping for breath.

  “Perhaps…” She stopped to inhale and take a sip of her tea. “Perhaps we can continue our journey tomorrow?”

  Adam pasted a smile on his face. “The roads are near impassible,” he lied. She was clearly in no condition to travel. “I think we shall stay another week—until at least after Christmas.”

  She took his verdict with better grace than he’d expected.

  “Then sit here and tell me what is happening in the house.” She indicated the chair next to her bed.

  He did as instructed, lowering himself to the chair and giving her a report of the holly hunt…with several key moments omitted.

  But perhaps he hadn’t been as discreet as he thought.

  Grand-mère half closed her eyes and said, “Miss St. John seems an interesting gel. What do you think of her?”

  He paused to choose his words carefully. “She’s intelligent, quick witted, and bent on marriage.”

  Grand-mère’s eyebrows rose to points above her eyes. “She told you this?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “But the three gentlemen invited to spend the holiday at Hedge House are unwed and of age. No doubt she’s thinking of ensnaring one of them.”

  “Hmm,” his grandmother hummed noncommittally. “Her mother probably made the invitations.”

  He tilted his head. “You think Miss St. John is uninterested in wedding?”

  Grand-mère waved an irritated hand. “Most ladies want to be married. I’m only suggesting that she may not have had these three gentlemen in mind.”

  Adam looked away from her, his mouth twisted. “It hardly matters to me. I have no intention of marrying—and certainly not Miss St. John.”

  “Not all marriages are as vitriolic as your mother’s and father’s,” Grand-mère said softly. “A wife—a partner—can be a great comfort.”

  Adam stared at his grandmother. If he ran mad and some day decided to marry, he might choose a woman such as Miss St. John.

  But that was never going to happen, and besides.

  The lady was clearly not interested in him.

  Chapter Seven

  That night Prince Brad took the frog to his bed and laid her on his pillow.

  “Oh no,” said the frog. “I’m a frog, not a toad. I need water. You’ll have to fetch a basin.”

 
Brad muttered under his breath, but as the queen had followed him to his bedroom to see to the comfort of their guest, he was forced to comply.

  The frog jumped into the basin of water beside Brad’s pillow and sighed sleepily. “Good night.”

  “I hate you,” Prince Brad replied.…

  —From The Frog Princess

  Three days later Adam lounged in the sitting room. It was after dinner and the party had all crowded into the room, where a silly game was in progress.

  He took a sip of his brandy and watched Miss St. John—Sarah—as she tried to find the other members of the party. She wore a scarf tied about her eyes and she walked haltingly, her hands outstretched, and with a small smile on her face.

  He hadn’t spoken to her save to say, “Good morning” or “Pass the bread” since he’d kissed her.

  Which was all for the best. He knew that. She wasn’t for him, and that strange feeling of…intimacy, of recognizing someone alike in mind and soul, all that had been false.

  There was a cheer, and Adam looked up to see Miss St. John holding Dr. Manning. The doctor was smiling gently as Miss St. John ran her fingers over his face to try to guess who he was.

  Rot.

  Adam threw back the last of the brandy in his glass and stood.

  “Had enough, d’Arque?”

  The soft voice was St. John’s, and Adam paused to look at him. The other man was watching him carefully and for once without malice.

  Adam inhaled. “As you can see, sir.”

  “I never took you for a man who retreated from…festivities.”

  Was St. John…approving of Adam’s interest in his sister? The world had turned upside-down. “Perhaps then you should revise your opinion of me.”

  St. John glanced at his sister and then at Adam. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Adam gritted his teeth. “Good night, sir.”

  The other man inclined his head and drawled, “My lord.”

  Adam strode from the room, a sort of black mood overcoming him. He’d done the only thing he could, he thought as he sprang up the stairs. He’d let Sarah go when she requested it. Had backed away.