How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  Her insides melted and she slid her palm over his whisker-roughened jaw. “Then you’d best get to it. I cannot have bad luck hanging over me.”

  He bent toward her, and she held her breath, anticipating the gentle press of his lips, the fire he ignited in her with a single touch. Her body had barely recovered from earlier, but she could already feel the sweet pulse of desire tugging at her insides. With his lips almost touching hers, he whispered, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Rose Walker. You have bewitched me.”

  Lord, this man could be dangerous to her heart. Hoping to prevent any more declarations, she gestured to the mistletoe. “My luck, Havermeyer. You must save me before it is too late.”

  A noise sounded in the kitchens, breaking the spell in the larder. Someone was out there. Rose sucked in a breath, leaning back to find Duke’s equally startled gaze. He leaped to his feet—he was surprisingly quick for a man of his size—and pounded on the door. “Ho! Let us out of here.”

  Rose joined him. “Hello! Help!”

  After a second, the door flew open and a well-dressed older man appeared, his expression etched with fury. When the stranger spotted Duke, he rocked back on his heels, his anger melting into confusion. “Duke Havermeyer? Who is this woman and what are you both doing in my house?”

  “Your house?” Duke frowned at the vaguely familiar man. “This is her house.” He indicated Rose, who had gone unnaturally still at his side.

  The man sneered at Rose from beneath his large mustache. “I have no idea who she is, but I assure you this is my home.”

  Rose stepped forward and began to lead the man into the kitchens. “Sir, this is merely a simple misunderstanding. Please come with me—”

  “This is no misunderstanding, madam.” The stranger halted in his tracks, his tone approaching a shout. “Someone has broken into my home and…hosted a party of some sort. I shall bring the authorities here instantly if you do not tell me what is going on.”

  Duke put himself between the furious man and Rose. “Do not raise your voice to her. It is clear you are confused, but I will not tolerate any disrespect for one second more.”

  “Mr. Havermeyer.” The stranger heaved out a long breath. “I am Mr. Rutherford Miller. We met last summer at the New York Yacht Club. My sister is married to Mr. Jay Cranford, who is cousin to Mr. Walter Cranford.”

  Walter Cranford was on HPC’s board of directors. “Yes, I know Cranford. In fact, he was here earlier. What does all that have to do with Mrs. Walker?” He glanced over his shoulder. Rose had gone pale, wringing her hands as she watched the exchange. Duke lifted a brow at her in the hopes she would clear this all up.

  Instead, Miller answered. “I could not say, but I do know this house is still legally mine. We’ve had it on the market for a few months in an attempt to find a buyer. It has been sitting empty for weeks. Then I received a telegram tonight from Cranford telling me he had met the new owners and congratulating me on a sale that had never happened.”

  “Empty?” Duke had to admit, Miller sounded entirely credible—which meant none of this made sense. “I’m confused. If this is your house, then…” He spun on his heel. “Rose, did you…rent this man’s home for the dinner party?”

  “Not exactly,” she whispered.

  “Then you used it without permission?” Even saying it out loud was madness. Surely, he was wrong.

  Her lip quivered as she drew herself up. “The house had been empty and we only needed one day and one night. I never thought anyone would notice. We did pay the real estate agent, if that helps.”

  Duke’s mouth fell open as the words fell into place. This was…not her house. But the staff? The decor? How on earth had she managed it?

  The details hardly mattered. The relevant part was that she had lied.

  Everything tonight had been a lie.

  The weight of that statement pressed down on him, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He was stunned, utterly flabbergasted. This was not her home. Were those her servants? Where did she and Mr. Walker actually live? No wonder she had offered to pack up the glasses; they had to vacate the premises as quickly as possible, like thieves in the night.

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. What if his board found out the evening had been a lie? The possibility turned his blood to ice. Would they assume Duke was complicit, that he had actively participated in the deception?

  Christ, they would roast him over a spit and eat him alive.

  The newspapers. The company. He must protect both. Nothing else mattered.

  He heard Miller square off against Rose. “It certainly does not help and I shall be firing that real estate agent directly. I don’t know who you think you are, breaking into houses and using them without permission, but I will see you reported to the authorities and—”

  “Stop,” Duke said, his tone sharp. He felt nothing, no anger or fear, merely a bitter resolve for this to go away. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Miller. This will be handled quickly and quietly. I’ll see you are well compensated for the inconvenience. My attorney will be around tomorrow. In the meantime, say nothing about this to anyone. Do you understand?”

  Miller grew agitated, his face turning redder. “I want answers, Havermeyer. Who is this woman? Is she a friend of yours? Did you approve of this scheme?”

  He straightened, using his height to intimidate the other man. “I do not owe you answers, so you won’t get them. We apologize for intruding and a team of maids will arrive tomorrow to clean your former home. Along with what I plan to pay you, let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  Miller appeared like he might argue then gave a sharp nod. “Fine. I expect to hear from you tomorrow.” With one final glare in Rose’s direction, he marched through the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs.

  Silence descended with all the subtlety of a hammer.

  “Duke—”

  “Was any of it real?” He kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Or was it all a lie?”

  He heard her swallow. “I am unmarried and live in a boardinghouse on East Fifty-Ninth Street. The man who posed as my husband is a friend.”

  He nearly stumbled back at the magnitude of this revelation. Dear God, it was worse than he thought. Absolutely nothing she’d told him earlier turned out to be true. Every bit of it—tonight’s dinner party, her persona, and her marriage—had been false. She had lied to him and the HPC readers for nearly two years.

  It turned out Mrs. Walker wasn’t a recluse. She was a fraud, a figment of imagination. A young girl determined to make a quick buck, spinning lies to further her career.

  Jesus, she was unmarried…and an employee…and he’d fucked her on a counter. A strange combination of anger, resentment, and shame rolled through him. He longed to throw something, to smash every glass in that goddamn larder.

  Shit, the larder. He closed his eyes. Though he dreaded the answer, he had to ask. “Before the pantry, were you a virgin?”

  Her skin turned a dull red and he had his answer. He took a deep breath and counted to ten slowly. For God’s sake…How had he not realized this earlier?

  “It hardly matters.” Her voice quivered. “My maidenhead was mine and I was able to do whatever I chose with it.”

  “It matters to me,” he said carefully. “I would have been—” He had been about to say “more tender” but if he’d known of her inexperience, the two of them never would have ended up in the pantry together in the first place. He filed this away to contemplate later.

  “I do not regret it,” she said, daring him to say otherwise.

  He let that go—for now. Instead, he had to find out the depth of her betrayal to the company. “Do you even write the column?”

  “Yes!” The word was shrill and sharp. “Every word. I do have friends who help with the research if there is a question I cannot answer.”

  She sounded credible, but he hadn’t a clue what to believe. His whole world had just been turned upside down. The open door to the pantry cau
ght his gaze and his insides froze. The ice within him doubled, tripled, to spread throughout his veins, making him impenetrable. He would turn off any bothersome emotions, just as he had as a boy when his father had been cruel or distant. Or when his mother died. I do not need anyone else. Havermeyer Publishing is everything I need.

  “Let’s go.” He gestured toward the stairs.

  “Duke, please. We should talk about this. You have hardly spoken.”

  You’ve ruined everything, he wanted to say. You’ve jeopardized my company. You’ve destroyed what could have been between us.

  He strode to the larder and turned the switch, glad to darken that memory. Then he did the same with the kitchen light. “Come.”

  Only a soft yellow glow from the upper floor illuminated their way as they climbed the steps. He didn’t touch her as they continued on. Did not yell or even scowl at her. He had successfully shut down any feelings, become numb to his surroundings. It was a relief, really. The world was much clearer, simpler when emotions were not involved.

  Part of this was his fault for believing her. When was the last time he had trusted someone? A mistake he would not repeat.

  You were too busy attempting to get under her skirts. You let your cock do your thinking.

  “Duke, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you or ruin tonight.” She hurried to keep up with him, her skirts rustling in the quiet corridor. “I only tried to do as you asked—to host a Christmas dinner for the board.”

  The result had now given him another reason to hate Christmas. Excellent.

  “I’ll see that your friends are well compensated for their troubles,” was all he could think to say.

  “I have already paid them—and I don’t want to discuss the compensation. I want to apologize.”

  Now at the front entryway, he located their coats in the tiny closet. He helped her with her overcoat, then donned his own. There were things he could have said, probably should have said, but he never looked back once a decision had been made. There was no point—and Rose had forced his hand by lying.

  He opened the front door. “Is there a key or…?”

  She bit her bottom lip, her brows dipping together, and her hand produced a key from under her skirts. Duke took the metal key, closed the door behind them, and locked it.

  He returned the key to her. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and he offered his arm to lead her down the smooth front steps. His brougham waited at the end of the walk. “Where is your address?”

  She rattled it off and Duke repeated the location for his driver. Then he helped Rose into the carriage. He did not follow.

  She dropped onto the seat, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t you wish to shout at me? Is there not anything you want to say? Anything at all?”

  He had to keep control, to swallow all the angry words and messy sentiment. Too much was at risk to uncork the chaos swirling inside him.

  “I do have one thing to say.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed the carriage door. “You’re fired.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  You’re fired.

  Fired. He had actually fired her.

  Worse, Duke would not talk to her or answer her notes. Refused to see her when she paid a call to his home yesterday. It was as if she had ceased to exist for him.

  If only the reverse were true.

  Unfortunately, she could not stop thinking about him, about the night of the dinner party. Before Mr. Miller’s arrival, Duke had been so charming. Flirtatious and fun. Not to mention the way he made her feel in the pantry…. Good heavens, she broke out in a sweat merely recalling his kisses, the sweep of his large hands over her skin, unlocking all her secret desires and unraveling her with the simplest touch.

  Then he had learned of her lies, and whatever had been blossoming between them had withered. He’d shut down, shut her out. She had never seen someone go from blazing hot to ice cold in a matter of seconds. Yes, she had lied to him. She had put his business at risk, not to mention those who depended on Havermeyer Publishing for their livelihoods. Though she believed her actions were justified, he had every right to be angry with her.

  However, after everything that happened, could not he allow her five minutes to explain?

  This was how she found herself at the HPC offices on Christmas Day. By God, he was going to see her—and listen to her—if she had to strap him in a chair to do it. This was precisely what she would have advised one of her readers to do…and if she could not take her own advice, then she had no business writing a weekly advice column.

  Though it was a holiday, the main newsroom bustled with activity. News never took a holiday—nor did the man obsessed with his empire. Undoubtedly, Duke would be here. That he worked on Christmas to relieve other employees—instead of closing up shop—was an indicator of his priorities.

  Outside the large wall of windows, an impending storm hovered in the afternoon sky, the dour, melancholy clouds matching her mood. Inside, men were checking copy, typing rapidly, and hurrying about as they rushed to put tomorrow’s edition together. The door to Mr. Pike’s office stood ajar, which was odd considering he no longer worked here. Was this his replacement? Or had someone else decided to use the office, someone whose own office sat far from the newsroom?

  She peered inside and saw Duke at the desk, his dark head bent over a proof of the Gazette.

  “Reggie, this headline on the East Side murder—” He looked up and surprise skated over his features before he masked it behind a wall of cool reserve. Dropping his gaze, he resumed his work. “Make an appointment with my assistant if you need something, Miss Walker. I am quite busy.”

  “You will see me now, Mr. Havermeyer.” She closed the door behind her and turned the lock. The scratch of his pen faltered for a brief second, then continued. Undaunted, she crossed the room and planted her feet in front of his desk. No fear. No hesitation.

  “Well, get to it. I have an edition to finish.”

  Her heart squeezed in agony over his wintry tone. Had this been a mistake? The loving, passionate man from the other night seemed like a distant memory.

  “You have three minutes, Miss Walker, before I have you shown out. Were I you, I would hurry it up.”

  She took a deep breath. “You never allowed me a chance to apologize properly. Or to explain why I lied.”

  He made a scornful noise in his throat. “A justified lie is still a lie—and I abhor liars.”

  The back of her neck tingled, the dismissive words irritating her. Yes, she had deceived him. Yes, she deserved his anger. However, did she not also deserve a bit of compassion? An opportunity to share her side? His rigid judgment stung and her temper flared.

  Drawing herself up, she snapped, “How nice for you, this luxury of judgment. How easy for you to remain sanctimonious, a man who never had to struggle or scrape, never had to prove himself to rise above the others. Not all of us have been so fortunate. You don’t even care to learn the reasons behind the charade.”

  He shot to his feet and braced his hands on the desk. “I know you have deceived thousands of people for months. Does their trust mean nothing to you?”

  “Their trust—or yours?”

  The hit landed, the truth obvious on his face, yet he sneered, “You think this is about my hurt feelings?”

  “Are you saying it is not?”

  “Rose, there are more than ten thousand employees who depend on HPC for their livelihoods. If no one buys the newspapers, then those people are out of work. People do not buy newspapers unless they trust them. Ergo, it is my job to present the truth. Always.”

  “Noms de plume abound in journalism—and you know it. Nellie Bly’s real name is Elizabeth Cochran, for God’s sake. Pike and I made up the Mrs. Walker persona knowing readers would have an easier time accepting advice from an older married woman. However, the advice was entirely factual. I am still the woman behind the words.”

  “Yes, you and your research partners. Let’s not forget them.”


  She put her hands on her hips and struggled to remain composed. “You probably do not realize this, but I applied for a reporting position at the Gazette. I wanted to be like those men out there”—she gestured toward the outer room—“but Mr. Pike told me women reporters would be a distraction to the men on staff. He agreed to let me write an advice column from home, however. It was not ideal, giving out recipes and solving marital squabbles, but there was no other choice. I needed a position, one that would provide for my mother and myself. A job that will not break me, as hers has broken her.”

  A flicker of emotion glowed in his dark eyes. “What job is that?”

  “My mother is a maid. A housemaid in her younger days, a job that is too rigorous for her now. She works in the kitchens at the Lowe residence with Henry, Bridget, and the others.”

  “Ah. Your comments at dinner make more sense.”

  She remembered Mr. Cameron’s insensitive attitude concerning the servant class and her reaction. “You were worried about losing your business, but I was worried about losing the roof over my head. And my mother’s health. Our future. Telling a fib or two was sometimes necessary.”

  “You think I only insist on the truth because I am rich.”

  “No, there are plenty of rich liars in the world. Yet I do believe your rigid sense of right and wrong has been tainted by your status. You get to decide the rules…and everyone else must play by them.”

  “My newspaper, my rules. Does not seem unreasonable to me.”

  She clenched her teeth. This was getting her nowhere fast. How could she make him understand? “Duke—”

  “You are wasting your time, Rose.” He dropped into the large leather chair. “The paper is barely surviving one scandal. Can you imagine the hullabaloo if another one surfaced?”

  “Wrong. You are selling the readership short. I read their letters and I know them. They don’t like Mrs. Walker because of her wedding ring or her fancy house. They like her because of the wisdom and compassion she displays, the wit and the emotion. That is all right here.” She pointed at herself.