The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “I love you, too,” she blurted into his chest.

  The entire orchestra joined the violinist in song.

  Xavier lifted her chin with his knuckle and pressed a scandalous kiss to her lips before sweeping her into a waltz.

  Cheers rang out through the audience. The theatre came alive as two thousand people got to their feet at once. Shouts and whistles and raucous applause filled the air.

  “Marry me,” he murmured. “Let’s spend the rest of our lives making our future together. You and me. Forever.”

  Her heart was thundering too loudly to let her draw breath. “Xavier…”

  “I see you, Jane. I have you in my arms. I will never let you go.” He pulled her close, his blue eyes intense. “Please let me awaken to you every morning and spend every moment thereafter giving you more reasons to stay.”

  “I have all my reasons.” She couldn’t stop smiling as he twirled her across the stage. “I love you, you daft man. I accept your offer to wake in your arms every morning. I’m yours.”

  A grin split his face and he claimed her mouth with a kiss. When they finally broke apart, breathless, he took her hand and lifted their arms in the air.

  He turned toward the crowd. “City of London, meet my future bride—the incomparable Miss Jane Downing!”

  The audience went wild. Their whoops and cheers shook the glass of the chandeliers. The entire theatre seemed to sparkle with magic.

  Xavier swung her into his arms and lowered his lips to her ear. “One question. How determined are you to see the end of this play?”

  “Not one whit,” she whispered back. “If you really want to know the end, I’ll recite it to you in original Greek.”

  “I would like that.” He strode toward the exit, cuddling her to his chest. “I also have a few other ideas that might meet with your approval.”

  She laid her cheek against the sound of his heart. “Does one of them involve a bed?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “All of them do.”

  “I knew I made the right choice.” She held on tight.

  “I love you, Jane.” When he gazed down into her eyes, her heart melted. “No matter where the future is headed, I’ll never let go.”

  Neither would she. They belonged together.

  Their future was already perfect.

  Epilogue

  Jane held fast to her husband’s arm as they inched down the corridor of his cottage. “May I remove the blindfold, please?”

  “Not yet.” Warm lips pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Wait until I unlock the door.”

  She couldn’t stifle the quirk of her lips. Within days of their wedding, Xavier had forbidden her from entering his library. At first she had thought he’d meant to hide his erotic novels from her, even though they were now married.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d retrieved more than a dozen from who-knows-where and lined them up on her dressing table, bracketed by two small ivory statues: one a cherubic angel, the other a naughtily winking imp.

  If the arrival of two carriages fairly bowing under the weight of her crates of books hadn’t given her a hint of what he was up to, the influx of lumber and the midnight hammering would have given it away.

  He was not only welcoming her into his home, into his life. He was sharing it. Making his library—Xavier’s private space—just as much hers as it was his. Making his home theirs.

  Love flowed through her. Her heart warmed. There was no sense hiding the silly grin she seemed always to be wearing these past weeks. She was hopelessly, happily in love and she wanted him to know it.

  She heard a snick as Xavier slid his key into the lock and swung open the library door.

  He sunk his hands into her hair and seared her with a heated kiss. “Any last comments, my bluestocking siren, before I show you the surprise?”

  Unable to keep her own secret any longer, she tugged his fingers from her hair and slid his hands to her belly. “Only that I’ll have a surprise for you before the end of the year.”

  He hauled her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers. “I know.”

  “You knew?” She reached up to snatch off the blindfold… and stared in wonder at what had once been the library.

  The shelves lining the walls were filled with children’s books and wooden toys. The chaise longue was still before the fire—the better to read to an infant, she supposed—but the interior bookshelves had been replaced with big fluffy carpets and a large, handmade cradle with warm quilts and rocking legs for singing lullabies.

  Her heart flipped. She stared up at Xavier, openmouthed.

  He cleared his throat. “If you’re wondering where our books are, I’m afraid most are still in the shed. I’ll add bookshelves to our bedchamber next, and then we can—”

  Laughing, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. “There’s no hurry, my love. Once the baby arrives, I’ll be far too busy to do much reading for a little while.”

  “And before the baby arrives”—He swung her up into his arms and turned back toward the bedchamber—“you might also be too busy to do much reading for a little while.”

  “Mmm. Promise?” she whispered into his neck and squealed when they tumbled onto the mattress.

  She welcomed him into her arms. This was just the beginning.

  Their home would be overflowing with cradles in no time.

  THE END

  * * *

  Keep turning for The Major’s Faux Fiancée!

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  Acknowledgments

  As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Emma Locke, Janice Goodfellow, and Erica Monroe for their advice and encouragement, and Anne Victory for her invaluable Oops Detection.

  My thanks also go to Ailish Doherty, Amy Hargate Alvis, Barbara McCarthy, Carol Kumanchik, Daliana Ferrero, Debbie McCreary, Demetra Toula Iliopoulos, Dianna Richards, Janice Rodriguez, Jenn Marner, Jenn Ryan, Kathie Spitz, Lesia Chambliss, Lisa Schmidt-Ringsby, Margie Walzel Aronowitz, Monique Daoust, Roscoe Kendall, Sheri Gerwe, Vi Brandon, and Yvonne Daniels for their support and for sharing their ideas.

  I also want to thank my incredible street team (the Light-Skirts Brigade rocks!!) and all the readers in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

  Thank you so much!

  The Major’s Faux Fiancee

  A Dukes of War romance

  A Temporary Courtship…

  When Major Bartholomew Blackpool learns the girl-next-door from his childhood will be forced into an unwanted marriage, he returns home to play her pretend beau. He figures now that he's missing a leg, a faux fiancée is the best an ex-soldier can get. He admires her pluck, but the lady deserves a whole man—and he'll ensure she gets one.

  Miss Daphne Vaughan hates that crying off will destroy Major Blackpool's chances of finding a real bride. She plots to make him jilt her first. Who cares if it ruins her? She never wanted a husband anyway. But the major is equally determined that she break the engagement. With both of them on their worst behavior, neither expects their fake betrothal to lead to love...

  Copyright © 2015 Erica Ridley

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1939713323

  ISBN-13: 978-1939713322

  This is a work of fiction. Names
, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design © Erica Ridley

  Photograph on cover © lenanet, DepositPhotos

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Four left for war…

  Only three made it home.

  Chapter 1

  February 1816

  London, England

  Despite the icy wind pelting the windows with snow, hot rivulets of sweat dripped from Major Bartholomew Blackpool’s skin.

  He was facedown in the center of his town house parlor, the muscles of his upper arms trembling as he pushed his prone body up from the faded Oriental rug again and again. As he did every morning. Balancing on the toes of just one foot.

  Not that Bartholomew had much choice. Half his right leg was missing.

  He’d lost the limb—and everything else he’d ever cared about—seven long months ago, at the Battle of Waterloo. His pride. His twin brother. His very identity. All gone, in the space of a few seconds.

  Bartholomew gritted his teeth and increased his pace. He couldn’t replace his brother or his missing leg, but he wasn’t going to sit around weeping about it. He’d lived through the pain thus far. He could survive a great deal more.

  A loose floorboard squeaked in the corridor. Someone was approaching the parlor.

  With a muttered curse, Bartholomew flung himself off the rug and behind the pianoforte. He snatched up his discarded prosthesis and barely got the wretched thing secured before the parlor door slowly creaked open.

  The fury in Bartholomew’s tone could have melted iron as he hoisted himself up from the floor to scowl at his butler. “What the devil is so important that you would disrupt me when I have expressly forbidden all interruptions?”

  Only the slightest twitch of his nose betrayed Crabtree’s affront at this rebuke. Impassive, he strode into the parlor bearing the morning missives on a burnished silver platter, just as he’d done every single day of his seven years in Bartholomew’s employ.

  Every day until his master left for war, that was. Upon returning home, Bartholomew had requested all incoming correspondence be delivered directly to the closest fireplace.

  “Who put you up to this?” he demanded, although there could really only be one culprit. “Fitz, don’t you dare hide around the corner like a coward. If you’ve stones enough to order Crabtree about, you’ve stones enough to bring me your complaints in person.”

  Silence reigned for a few moments before Bartholomew’s thin, excitable valet appeared in the doorway, wringing his pale hands and casting beseeching looks at the ever-stoic Crabtree.

  Bartholomew let out a slow breath. This was his own folly. If he had been less vain and self-important when he left for war, he would not continue to pay his sought-after valet’s exorbitant fees, just to keep Fitz out of the clutches of the two-legged dandies.

  And if Bartholomew hadn’t been the most shameless braggadocio, the most infamous rake, the most imitated Corinthian—Fitz might not still be here, hoping against hope that someday, he might once again fluff and pluck and adorn his master back into his rightful place as the most celebrated pink of the ton.

  Foolishness, of course. Without two legs, a man couldn’t ride, box, waltz, or whisk pretty young ladies into shadowy corners. Nor did he wish to. Not anymore. Without his twin, Bartholomew couldn’t even smile, much less face the judgmental countenances of his peers.

  What was life now, but solitude and phantom pains and locking himself in his chambers whilst he attended to his own toilette? He could no longer stand for his valet to glimpse what had become of the once-perfect body he had been so arrogantly proud of. It was nothing, that’s what it was. ’Twas pride that kept him from allowing any help. And it was pride that kept him from letting Fitz go.

  Or allowing anyone to see him, now that he was less than perfect.

  “Whatever those missives are, you know what you can do with them.” Bartholomew wiped the sweat from his face with his towel. When he glanced back up, neither of his servants had moved. “If you need suggestions on where to put those letters, you might start with your—”

  “’Tis the Season,” Fitz blurted.

  Bartholomew shook his head. “Twelfth night is long past. It’s February.”

  “Not that season, sir.” Fitz looked horrified. “The Season that matters. The London Season. It’s here. You’re here. All we have to do is—”

  “I said no.”

  “You should be out in Society. You were made for Society.”

  Bartholomew snorted and gestured at the awkward wooden prosthesis strapped to his right knee. “With this leg, Fitz? What would be the point?”

  “Not every moment must be spent dancing.”

  “Or sparring in Gentleman Jackson’s, I suppose, or riding hell for leather through St. James Square, or hiking to remote follies, or sweeping ladies off their feet?” Bartholomew tossed his towel over his shoulder.

  “You don’t have to literally sweep them off their feet,” Fitz said earnestly, his thin hands wringing without cease. “You could use your… your charm, sir. Surely you didn’t lose that in the war.”

  “My charm? What I had was good looks, two legs, and plenty of arrogance.” Bartholomew crossed his arms. “That was then. This is now. If wooden pegs haven’t suddenly become an aphrodisiac to gently bred ladies, I fail to see—”

  “You do fail to see, sir! Your apparatus is scarcely an eyesore. It’s got moving ankle joints and five cunning little toes—”

  “Wooden toes…”

  “—and one cannot even discern it beneath your breeches and stockings and boots. Truly.” Fitz took a deep breath and rushed forward, his fingers stretching toward his master’s chest. “If you would just let me do something about this hideous waistcoat—”

  Bartholomew batted away his valet’s hands. He glared over Fitz’s shoulder at the butler, who hadn’t changed position or expression since entering the room. “Crabtree, if you’ve nothing to say for yourself, could you at least brain Fitz with that silver platter until he recovers a modicum of sense?”

  “What about your brain?” Fitz put in before Crabtree could respond. “If your charm is rusty, surely your mind is not. Do not discount yourself so easily, sir. You went to Eton and Cambridge, and you were a major in the King’s Army. If you would use—”

  Bartholomew scoffed. “My brain is irrelevant. The ton has never held the least interest in intellectuals. My conversations with men centered on sport, horseflesh, and women, and my conversations with ladies were limited to ballroom gallantry and bedroom whispers. Attempting to force a crippled, but intellectual version of myself upon Society would be a nightmare for all involved. No, thank you.”

  “But sir—”

  “I’ve no wish to be part of that world anymore, Fitz. Not from a distance, and not as an object of pity.” He lifted his chin toward Crabtree’s silver tray. “Why do you think I receive so much correspondence? Because no one wishes to visit. No one wishes to see me in person. Not with this crippled leg. The ton sends letters to make themselves feel better, not because they long for the presence of a broken soldier.”

  “You did so have an invitation,” Fitz stammered. “Last month, for the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball. I saved it.”

  Bartholomew sighed. “The sister of one of my best friends sent me that invitation.”

  “You receive many invitations, sir,” came Crabtree’s bored voice. “It’s simply difficult to respond to them once they’ve burned to ash. Are you certain you wish the same fate for these?”

  “I do.” Bartholomew smiled tightly. “’Twould be embarrassing for all parties
to have me show up and clomp about their lymewashed floors as they try desperately to think of something to say that doesn’t involve my missing leg or my missing brother. Coping with my own grief is hard enough. I bloody sure won’t waste my time scribbling platitudes to people I hope never to see again. And I’ll be damned if my name pops up in the scandal sheets for stumbling on my prosthesis and falling on my arse in front of all and sundry.” He gestured toward the fireplace. “Go on. Toss them in.”

  “Only once you’ve verified they’re all rubbish.” Crabtree lifted the first missive from the pile. “Addington? It certainly looks like an invitation.”

  Bartholomew cut him a flat look.

  Crabtree tossed the folded parchment into the flames and squinted at the next. “Grenville? I’m told that family still has unwed daughters.”

  Bartholomew crossed his arms and turned toward the windows. Snow clung to the panes and whirled past in clouds of white, blocking his view, but anything was better than enduring the ritual of his unwanted correspondence. He refused to read any of it, and his butler refused to destroy a single word without first ensuring he wasn’t tossing anything of importance.

  “Montgomery… Blaylock… Kingsley…”

  Seven months. Bartholomew closed his eyes and let the names fade to silence.

  His closest friends had visited when he’d first returned from war. The Duke of Ravenwood. Lord Carlisle. Captain Grey.

  Bartholomew hadn’t been fitted for a false leg yet, so he’d refused to let them in. He wouldn’t let them see him as a bedridden invalid.

  Even once he got his expensive prosthesis—a fully articulated contraption designed by James Potts, a true craftsman and a visionary—it had taken months for Bartholomew to accustom himself to the strangeness of its weight, to its lack of feeling and sluggish behavior. But he’d never stopped exercising. Never stopped trying.