****
Thursday, December 24, 1812 (continued)
When he’d arrived in London, he’d had the precious stones removed from her offerings and replaced with lesser ones: clear citrine for diamonds, garnets for rubies, pretty beryls for sapphires and emeralds. Each year he returned one of them to her, sending a messenger home, behind the fortress wall of Europe, with a sealed parcel. And each year, she sent something new back by return trip. Never anything practical, no sandwiches nor gems, but always something personal and precious: a bit of lace, ripped from her favorite old gown, now doubtless tattered and dreadful; a handkerchief; a small scented pillow, redolent of her. If he ever had to choose between saving his treasure or saving her mementos from a roaring house fire, he’d be poor for life.
Another game was over. Another beautiful, worthy young woman’s dream was coming true. And someday, someday, he’d return home and fulfill the dreams of the one who really mattered.
Ernst Anton Oldenburg, First Duke of Cumberland and Crown Prince of Saxony, slid his invisible mask firmly into position and returned to Holly Hall.
****
Friday, December 25, 1812
Long ago he’d settled into his parish church, which always seemed a rather shabby way to refer to St. James’s, Piccadilly; any edifice containing such an exquisite gilt-and-white barrel roof and especially such an altar deserved a far grander descriptive. There’d been talk over the past two years of organizing a subscription for installing Gothic stained glass windows on the eastern side. It sounded pretty, but His Grace found himself ambivalent; as it stood, the gracious church was hard to improve. Even the Christmas greenery seemed an intrusion and offered little for the soul’s uplifting.
He settled in his box, but before he could compose himself for higher purposes, the Robinsons strolled by. Sometime over the past three weeks Dorcas had regained her slenderness, and she leaned on her husband’s arm with the enchanting glow of a new mother lighting the dim, holy air around her. She’d had a December baby, sufficiently long after her marriage to console Mr. Robinson, judging by his pride and unfeigned solicitousness; and if the ton’s dear gossips chose to continue the discussion, well, none of the principals involved any longer cared.
As she glided closer, she glanced aside, giving him a pert, adoring smile. Then her eyes lowered and they were past, turning in a few rows ahead.
Dorcas Wentworth-Gower’s dream was complete. But on the pew beside her, a darling slip of a thing with enormous eyes and copper curls peeking from beneath her bonnet dabbed a monogrammed handkerchief to her cheek. When she lowered it, its dampness and the dark circles beneath her eyes could not be missed. FGF, the initials read, with a crowned helmet embroidered beneath their arch. Fitzwilliam, perhaps? The family had connections to the Wentworths. He’d have to research that silver helmet with its golden crown.
It was never too early to begin planning for his next target. Never too late to help a lady’s dream come true.
Because while only one lady would ever hold his heart, all ladies deserved their dreams.
Afterword
Lady Ivy Plumthorne’s story is told in The Toymaker, by Kay Springsteen, while Tess Warren and Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, appear in Kim Bowman’s The Duke of Christmas Past. Only the most generous of friends would allow an alien writer to borrow a beloved character, rather like a cup of sugar, and this kind gesture from our “special K’s” could not be more appreciated.
As well, no amount of thanks can repay the debt of gratitude this writer owes to Rachel Van Dyken, whose talent is matched only by her generosity and sweetness. Readers, a toast to Mrs. Peabody! Bottoms up and no sipping!
As sharp readers have doubtless noticed, Holly Hall’s powder blue ballroom bears more than a passing resemblance to the Bath Assembly Room. Another of my private indulgences discovered, but before you condemn my boldness, dear readers, do please consider: how on earth could I have improved on such a choice?
About the Author
Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she’s not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too.
Also from Astraea Press
Chapter One
Phillip Peartree, Tenth Duke of Bartlett, squinted as he scanned the titles on the dusty shelves of his favorite bookstore. He needed something new to read, something to help him relax and forget the depression weighing him down ever since he'd inherited his burdensome title. Phillip had been aware of his father's extravagant tastes, but he'd had no idea about the extent of debt they'd caused. Debt that had become his worry and responsibility. In the two years since his father's passing, the young duke had managed to satisfy most of his creditors by selling off part of his estate and working hard to improve what was left. Needing a respite, he'd decided to spend the holiday season in London, near his sister and nieces.
London offered plenty of activities for an eligible bachelor, but the social whirlwind was something Phillip avoided. Not that he wanted to be alone. He'd always dreamed of having a contented, if not happy, life with a suitable mate. Ideally, he'd prefer to wed someone with charm, looks, and intelligence. His hand went to his face, tracing the scars left from the hunting accident that had changed his life several years before. He sighed. How could he hope to win the hand of such a woman once she compared him to the good-looking members of the ton? There was no shortage of handsome single men who knew exactly how to converse with a woman, how to charm them, and how to woo them.
So he lived vicariously through the characters in his books. They were his friends. Although he'd already read nearly every title on the shelves, he'd come to this quiet little shop, on the edge of town, hoping find something new. There had to be something...
"Oooof!"
The missile hitting his abdomen doubled him over, knocking the breath from his lungs. When he'd recovered enough to straighten, his eyes focused on the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Had the punch to his stomach addled his brain, or did a halo surround this woman's face? The lively young thing waved her arms as she talked, and judging from the way her mouth moved, she spoke as quickly as she moved. Shiny golden curls tumbled from her bonnet, and her deep brown eyes radiated with intelligence and purpose. Fascinated by the way her luscious lips formed her words, he forgot to pay attention to what she was saying.
The lips stopped moving, and her eyes widened. She must be waiting for him to reply, but he had no idea what she'd just said.
"Er — pardon me, miss. I didn't see you. I sincerely hope you're not injured." Spying a handful of books scattered near her feet, he quickly bent and retrieved them for her. "Here you are."
Her lovely brown eyes narrowed. Had he said something stupid? Sometimes he did, especially when he hadn't followed a conversation closely. Since he'd lost most of his hearing in the accident that had disfigured his face, he'd learned to read lips quite well, but occasionally he'd get it wrong, much to the amusement of his cousins, who would tease him mercilessly.
"I'm fine, good sir," she said, taking the books he offered. "And I thank you for retrieving my books." She took them and whirled away without so much as a goodbye.
Phillip stood transfixed, staring after her.
Slowly, common sense returned, and he sighed regretfully. Such a lovely woman would never consider a friendship, much less a courtship, with someone like him.
Remembering his reason for entering the bookstore, Phillip continued to peruse the titles. At the back of the store, he found the section from which the lady had emerged. Here he found an assortment of slender books like those she had dropped. They were children's stories. Of course. She was married and probably had been there to purchase books for her children. He'd best forget about dreaming of a life with her.
Chagrined, he moved on to the next section. His eye caught a familiar name from his youth. An elegantly bound volume held a collection of poetry by Robert Burns. He remembered his grandmother,
when she still lived, sitting on a bench in the estate gardens, reading her own well-worn book of Burns' poetry. Later, when she fell ill, Grandfather would go to her chambers and read to her, his gentle voice caressing the words as if singing a love song. Grandmother would lie back with her eyes closed, an ethereal smile lighting her face. It was his favorite memory of his grandparents and the love they shared.
Warmed by the memory, he picked up the volume, took it to the shop clerk, and purchased it.
****
Robert Townley, the duke's valet, stayed close to his master, but not so close as to intrude. The duke managed to get around quite well on his own, reading lips and using his other senses, but he couldn't hear warning shouts or the rushing carriages traveling the busy London streets. Though Robert hadn't been instructed to do so, he'd made it his mission to protect Phillip whenever the young duke went out.
Robert's father and grandfather had both served the duke's family. Robert himself had grown up on the estate, spending his youth with the young heir. He'd been allowed to sit in on Phillip's lessons, never letting on that he was learning as much as Phillip. When Phillip had left for Eton, Robert had continued his own education by reading the duke's discarded newspapers and everything else he could get his hands on.
When Phillip's gun had misfired, leaving him scarred and deaf, he'd come home to convalesce, and Robert had been one of the few people he'd allowed in his rooms. The two men had forged a bond more akin to friendship than the usual relationship between servant and master. Now, he noted Phillip's dazed expression.
What happened in that bookstore?
He reached out a hand and lightly touched the duke's sleeve to get his attention. "Your Grace?"
Phillip blinked several times, seeming to bring himself into the present. "Yes, Townley?"
"Is everything all right? Did something happen in there? You look rather… dazed."
Phillip sighed. "I suppose I do. I just caught a glimpse of heaven."
Also from Astraea Press!
Prologue
The magic of Christmas captivated Grace Hashiver each year. Yet as each year passed, she gave into the call of sleep and failed to wake in time to see Father Christmas. Tonight she was not making that same mistake. She softly tiptoed down the hardwood stairs without making a sound. This year she was a year older, a year wiser — she was eight. Her lace nightgown whispered against the wooden floor as she made it down the stairs and through the hall undetected.
The light was dim but brighter than usual from the extra candles her father always requested to stay lit all night on Christmas Eve. She took a deep breath and exhaled before tiptoeing to the parlor where the Christmas tree beckoned. After a quick glance behind her, she walked into the room, richly scented from the cedar boughs placed over the hearth. The tree had no presents, so she breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't missed the magic. The fire crackled as she sat in the chair facing the tree and struggled to stay awake as time ticked forward.
Something poked at Grace. The incessant prodding pulled her from a blissful dream. A moment later she had the brief sensation of weightlessness until the floor broke her fall.
"What…" She began to pull her foggy mind into gear but paused, hearing a snicker. Ewan.
"What're you doin' on the floor, Gracie?"
"I wasn't on the floor 'til you poked me!" Grace whispered back in a voice that betrayed her intense fury.
"Were too. I saw you. Curled up like your mum's poodle."
"If anyone looks like a poodle, it's you, Ewan!" she said as she fumbled trying to pick herself up off the cold floor.
"I do not. Besides, boys can have curls just as easily as girls," he said with all the confidence his eleven years afforded him.
"What are you doing here anyway?" Grace asked, standing up and pushing her braids over her shoulder. "You've no manners, wandering around in the middle of the night." She shook a finger at him.
"Oh, and I guess you're better? You're here too, ya know." He crossed his arms and waited for her response in his usual arrogant fashion, tapping his toe.
"Yes, but I live here. You. Do. Not," she enunciated, crossing her arms as well as she leaned forward, squinting.
"True, but that means I'm your guest. You've gotta serve me." Ewan's chin tilted upward as he smiled at his own brilliance.
Grace widened her eyes. "Serve you? I'm not your maid. I doubt there's a maid that would willingly serve you — you… arrogant worm." Her anger increased as Ewan refused to be properly insulted — worse, he laughed at her efforts.
"Yep, that's the rules; you've gotta serve me. I'm your guest, so, I'd like you to move over so I can have this seat by the tree." He moved to sit down.
"No!" Grace shouted as she lunged for the chair.
He lunged at the same time, pushing her away. Grace tried to move him, but he was too strong, too big. The fury built inside Grace, causing her to look for a weapon or something to help her remove the miserable boy from the chair. She noticed her father's brandy. She rushed over to the side table, grabbed the decanter, and poured it on Ewan. Though not enough to get the chair wet, it was enough to soak his nightshirt. Ewan froze, giving Grace a glare that chilled her insides.
"What is going on here!" came a voice that made both Grace and Ewan gasp.
Ewan's eyes widened. Grace turned slowly and saw her father's bewildered expression. He took in the sight of Grace still holding his now empty brandy decanter, and Ewan soaked with its contents.
"He — he — he…" Grace tried to think fast, but all she could think about was how she simply just wanted Ewan gone. He had been a thorn in her side all week, teasing, pulling her hair, calling her awful names — and as of yet, she hadn't once bested him. So, Grace lied. "Papa, I told Ewan you wouldn't approve of him drinking your brandy, but well, he insisted and when I tried to take it away…"
She began to cry out of fear, knowing if she were caught in her lie, she'd be punished severely.
"Ewan!" Grace's father scolded.
"Sir, I never — I didn't — She—" Ewan sputtered as he stood pointing at Grace, trying to explain the truth.
"Ewan, you march to your room and change."
Ewan began to protest again, but Grace's father held up his hand to silence his efforts. "No. Not another word. We'll speak more about this in the morning. Your parents will surely have something to say about sneaking around a host's home and pilfering brandy."
Grace's father crossed his arms as he waited for Ewan to obey.
Ewan stood up and shot daggers at Grace before marching out of the room, leaving the smell of brandy in his wake.
"Sweetling, why don't you put down the decanter and head to bed? Why were you up, anyway?" her father asked gently as he took the decanter from her trembling hand.
"I… I wanted to see Father Christmas," Grace replied, still terrified he'd see through her falsehood and punish her.
"Ahh, I see." Winding his arms around her small frame he carried her off to bed.
"We'll see the magic in the morning," he replied as he tucked her in, kissing the end of her nose.
"All right, Papa." She watched him as he left, but couldn't sleep. Oh, Ewan was going to be so angry with her! Fear crept in her heart as she wondered how he'd retaliate. For if there was one thing she knew about Ewan, the future Duke of Greys, it was that he would get even someday.
Chapter One
"How's my pretty little liar tonight? Hmm?" Ewan Emmett, Duke of Greys asked.
"Delightful, now that I'm dancing with you, your grace." The false sweetness dripped from Lady Grace Hashiver's lips with practiced execution. Her wide mouth pulled into a sarcastic smile that was all too familiar.
He still loved to taunt and provoke her. Satisfaction settled in his chest at her reaction. "Ah, Grace, sarcasm does not become you."
Her eyes narrowed. "It's Lady Grace to you." She spoke with a defiant tilt of her chin.
"Most people are too intimidated to correct me. Tell me, where did I go w
rong with you? A little humility, any semblance of respect from your lips would be manna from heaven. But I'm sure Hades would have to freeze over first?" he asked with a wicked grin, arching his eyebrow as he spoke the last words, knowing their truth.
"Ah, you're smarter than you let on, your grace," she mocked, beaming at him.
Unaffected, he continued with their banter. "Our little secret. After all, I wouldn't want to spoil the fun for all the blushing debutantes who only want me for my physique." Ewan waited for her prickly response. He knew how much she despised his teasing.
"Yes, well, some value looks over anything else, including manners," Grace shot back while she offered him a dismissive look and focused her attention on the other dancers.
"Ah, yes, the old 'manners' debate, but, we have digressed. Tell me, Grace dear, where did I go wrong with you? Haven't you the slightest tremble when I hold you in my arms, press myself close to you, lean down to whisper in your ear?" With a suppressed chuckle, he leaned down and pressed himself closer to her, teasing her with his legendary rakish charm, yet she never seemed the least bit affected.
Perhaps that was why he was able to remain such close friends with Grace over the years. She never took his advances seriously, and he was able to tease, torment, and play to his heart's content.
Yes, Grace never took him seriously, although a small part of his mind wondered what would happen if she did. In fact, a small part dared to hope for it, regardless of how he continued to silence the wild notion.
****
Indeed Grace was not as unaffected as she seemed. Ewan was a constant reminder of everything she wanted but could never have. Ever since her little lie — rather, a large lie, which had caused him unforgivable punishment — she had written him off as a possible suitor. But that didn't stop her heart from fluttering when he asked for a waltz at each gathering they both attended.
Scandal on Half Moon Street Page 10