The Duke of Christmas Past

by Kim Bowman

  Blasted ghost! The least he could have done was tell me if I really fixed things. He could leave his study to find out, but what if—

  "There you are."

  That voice. That honey-sweet voice. Her voice. Behind him, speaking as naturally as if…

  As if they really had married.

  Donovan spun around. "Tess," he whispered.

  She stood in the study doorway. The white gown with pale blue lacing hugged her curves. "We really should be going."

  He started toward her then paused. Was she real? Or was she a figment of his imagination, a dream? He stumbled forward and reached out to her. When his fingers touched her arm, a jolt of exquisite delight rushed through his body. She was here and she was real. He jerked her to him in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  "Donovan Ellis, what has gotten into you? Are you foxed?"

  He laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. The sound was foreign to his ears. When was the last time he'd laughed? "You are the third person tonight — myself included — to make that accusation."

  Tess furrowed her brow. "Um… the third per—"

  He took her mouth in a hungry kiss. One he'd been waiting eight years to bestow upon her. With the slightest bit of urging, she let him deepen the kiss. Her warm fingers caressed his cheeks and he moaned. The touch of her, the smell of her had him on fire with desire.

  Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. "How I've missed you."

  Tess laughed. "Is that a jab at how long it took me to get ready?" Her hands drifted to his chest. His pulse soared. "You could have used the time to dress for the Kringles' ball, you know."

  "Will, umm…" He stopped, cleared his throat. He tried to force himself to say the words, but he couldn't do it. Heaven help him, he couldn't do it, didn't want to know.

  Tess lifted her brows. "Yes…"

  "Will… will Delia be there?"

  Tess furrowed her brow. "Of course not."

  Grief exploded in his heart. Donovan stumbled backward. His hand grazed the edge of the desk, and he sank to the floor. Dread seeped into the pit of his stomach. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to rip the traitorous heart from his chest. How could he be so happy, even overjoyed, when Delia's fate hadn't changed? She'd still died.

  "Donovan!" Tess dropped to her knees in front of him, took his face in her hands. "What's happened? Are you unwell? Should I send for the doctor?"

  He stared, unseeing. Her voice was no more than a faint whisper. How could this be? It had all been for naught. How could he be happy when Delia had still died? How could he—

  "…Delia and Henry tomorrow. They can make our excuses to John and Elizabeth Dickens. I'll send word we must delay—"

  Donovan grabbed her hands. "What did you just say?"

  "I said we can't possibly make the trip to Guildford if you've taken ill."

  Memories rushed back to him so quickly he became lightheaded. The room started spinning, blurring everything. Delia was alive and well and living in Guildford, awaiting the arrival of her third child. And she was happy. Deliriously so. Almost as happy as he and Tess. Their son was in Guildford with Delia and Henry. He had a son. The lad had fair hair and blue eyes like his mother. Donovan Henry would be six this year.

  He jumped to his feet and swung her up into his arms, laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. It seemed even his heart chuckled.

  She squealed. "Put me down this instant."

  "Never."

  She scowled. "You are foxed!"

  "I'm only drunk on you." With that he headed out the study door and up the stairs.

  "Wh-what do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm taking my wife to bed."

  Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. "What about Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve Ball?"

  "I've attended enough of Lord and Lady Kringle's balls tonight."

  "I beg your pardon? Are you quite certain you don't need me to send for the doctor?"

  "I've never been better. I'll tell you everything on the way to Guildford. Right now, I want to hold you."

  How would he explain to her how he knew what it would be like to live without her and how he couldn't bear it? How did one explain that he'd gotten a second chance and now he intended to make the most of every single second? Perhaps not the real truth then, but just how much he loved her. He'd think of something. She wouldn't believe the truth anyway. He hardly believed it himself.

  Once in their room, he set Tess on her feet and shut the door. She eyed him suspiciously. He starting toward her, pulling his cravat loose and unbuttoning his shirt.

  "What on earth are you doing?"

  "I'm taking my shirt off, then I'm going to help you out of that beautiful gown, then I'm going to make love to my wife." He removed his shirt and tossed it on the settee at the foot of the bed.

  He took Tess's face in his hands. "I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  "No, I really love you. I'm a better person because of you. You breathe the life into me."

  Donovan turned her around and loosened the buttons of her dress. With a gentle tug, the gown slid down her shoulders and dropped to the floor. Goose flesh covered her ivory skin around her chemise. He leaned close, breathed her in. Honeysuckle and rosewater. Lips barely touching her, he placed feather-light kisses on her shoulder, up her neck, stopping behind her ear. The tiny bumps spread, and she shivered.

  "Donovan…" Tess leaned into him, let her head fall back against his chest.

  He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and placed her in the center of the bed. Her breath came in tiny pants. Passion shone bright in her sapphire eyes.

  Never letting his eyes leave hers, he joined her, covering her body with his. "Merry Christmas, my love."

  Her only answer was to pull his mouth down to hers for a sensual kiss.

  Author's Note

  I so hope you enjoyed The Duke of Christmas Past. I assure you, it was made much better by the imaginations and some of the characters from the Regency Christmas stories of several of my fellow Astraea Press authors.

  Thank you so much, J. Gunnar Grey, for allowing me the honor of mentioning Ernst Anton Oldenburg, the Duke of Cumberland, and the Honorable Anne Kirkhoven from Scandal on Half Moon Street. And a special "thank you" for allowing me to mention Captain Alexander Fleming from A Different Sort of Perfect. You are a dear and I can't say how much I appreciate your help. Believe me, this story wouldn't be near as good without your advice, editing, and willingness to share your vast knowledge of the writing craft and Regency period with me. My hat is off to you, lady!

  As in J. Gunnar Grey's story, I, too, have "borrowed" Lady Ivy Plumthorne and Roland Melwyn, Fourth Earl of Norcross, from Kay Springsteen's The Toymaker. Kay, I had so much fun allowing my duke the privilege of punching your earl in the nose. And any time I can combine my writing with yours, mine is better for it.

  I couldn't resist the humor behind Ruth Hartman's character Lord Stanchbach in Time for a Duke, and I'm very happy that she let me jab fun at him as well. Charles Hamilton Douglas Wade, the Fourth Duke of Bramblewood Green, created quite a stir in Ruth's story by bringing Isabella Hodgkin, an American (gasp!), to the Kringles' ball. So of course, I had to mention the scandal in my book as well! Thank you so much, Ruth.

  Leah Sanders, I so appreciate you letting me make fun of Paisley from your Christmas story Two Turtledoves. The man simply asked for it, letting his fists fly the way he did!

  A special thank you goes to Rachel Van Dyken for graciously writing the Prologue to my story. The witty, eagle-eyed Mrs. Peabody's Society Paper was the perfect addition and an ingenious way to poke fun at my characters with gossip from Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve ball. It was greatly appreciated! I also want to extend a huge "THANK YOU" for your graciousness in adding your voice and charm via the wonderful Mrs. Peabody to all of Astraea Press's Regency Christmas stories. Your kindness and willingness to help your fellow authors never ceases to amaze me.

  About
the Author

  Kim Bowman lives in Indiana, where she was born and raised. For the past thirteen years, she has been married to her best friend, Tony. She has four wonderful, awesome children. Three she was lucky enough to inherit from her husband and one she was given by the grace of God. They live on a small farm with two of their four kids, five horses, and Lex the lovable pit bull.

  Although she has notebooks full of songs, poems, and short stories she has composed, it wasn't until she started doing technical writing for her job that she really got the bug and decided to take her English professor's advice and write novels for a living. Find Kim on Facebook and at her blog: http://kimbowmanauthor.blogspot.com/

  Also from Astraea Press!

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, December 8, 1812

  The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the windowed front of the linen draper's shop, and there stood sweet Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he'd ever chewed. A stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally brilliant smile flashed a moment later.

  An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of her new husband beside her.

  And of course their swift, smiling recognition had been spotted. Dear Lady Gower's hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The matched greys smacked the phaeton's front wheel against the sidewalk's edge before she returned to her own affairs.

  And of course, by then the new husband had whisked sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant's wife now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her husband's arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again into a dull winter's day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn't bother to hide his satisfied smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her shoulder.

  Well, he'd done what he'd intended for her. His Grace could honestly say, he'd made sweet Dorcas' dream come true.

  Leaving him free for a new adventure.

  Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across the way.

  In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect rose-hued flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid's-bow mouth curved in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as their daughters' mischievous innocence allowed.

  And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room's corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton's sight, sat the young solicitor the daughter admired and the mother scorned.

  Time to play.

  His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere, bowed, and opened the door for him.

  Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set less from the quality of the conversation and more from the strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.

  As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele, conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.

  And let the mothers hide their daughters if they didn't.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.

  Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed, his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the dead. And kept them that way.

  Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a delightful surprise."

  In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an "unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."

  Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.

  She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from the wrong side of the blanket.

  And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam, neither would he.

  A full page from every society rag in town, that would be. Should he ever need one, of course.

  "A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent." Satisfied with his sally, he turned away.

  Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the man's privacy. He'd ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his way.

  "Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise."

  If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden. He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his gloves and umbrella.

  "A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately a brief one."

  Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed someone else had had the same plan and target.

  Well, Culver had never been able to stand competition.

  Nor could he compete.

  As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.

  Indeed no, that one wouldn't mind at all.

  His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored Trent's pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his chair.

  Staring at Anne.

  Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup, focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female. Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving her pale as
death.

  The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued, horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as he'd made his actions, surely they'd had no trouble tracing his stare.

  Finally she glanced at him.

  He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and lifted his cup.

  And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.

  But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile and gaze hadn't shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate, swan's-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.

  Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess the young solicitor's expression, hidden with him in his dark corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace didn't surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class professional man, watching a titled one far above his station admiring the woman upon whom he'd set his heart.

  Or at least, that's what he should imagine if the rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn situations.

  The volume eased back to normal conversational levels around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by the onlookers' flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel coffee shop. Doubtless they were watching the solicitor, and their reaction provided His Grace all the background information required.

  Finally — finally! — Lady Wotton's volubility snagged, as if the twisting atmospherics had shaken her from her chattering reverie. A glance at her daughter, a measured following of her daughter's attention, and Lady Wotton's gaze crossed his own. She started. As well she might; she'd missed his entire posturing display. Shame on her.