by Amelia Grey
“No, I won’t,” Race said as he walked over to stand by Susannah. “They belong to the Raceworth family.” He looked over at Mrs. Parker and said, “With your permission, I’d like to marry your daughter.”
Susannah gasped and felt her heart rising up to her throat. Race looked at her with loving eyes before gazing back at her mother.
“The Talbot pearls will no longer be yours or mine. I will give them to Susannah on our wedding day, and then they will be hers.”
Race took Susannah’s hand and kissed it. “I know I’m asking a lot of you to give up your title as duchess to marry me, but I promise to love you forever and never make you sorry you agreed.”
Susannah was too astonished, too euphoric to speak at first because he had asked her in front of everyone. “You want me to marry you?”
He smiled. “As soon as I can make it happen.”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation as she looked up into his glowing eyes. “I love you, Race, and I will gladly give up my title to marry you.”
The room erupted into cheers and clapping from everyone, including Susannah’s mother.
Race bent down and whispered into Susannah’s ear, “Leave your door unlocked. I will be coming through the yew again tonight.”
“You can’t. My mother is here,” she whispered back to him.
“Then I suggest you put her on the second floor with Mrs. Princeton. I will not be denied your bed tonight.”
Race turned to Susannah’s mother and with a smile said, “Hide your eyes if you so desire, Mrs. Parker, because I’m about to kiss your daughter.”
Without further warning, Race pulled Susannah into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips.
Susannah thrilled to his touch.
THE END
Don’t miss the first book in The Rogues’ Dynasty series from New York Times bestselling author Amelia Grey
A Duke to Die For
Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca
My Dearest Grandson Lucien,
You would do well in life to heed Lord Chesterfield’s wise words: “Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
Lucien Trent, the fifth Duke of Blakewell, strode through the front door of his town house, taking off his riding gloves.
“Your Grace, I’m glad you’re home.”
“Not now, Ashby,” Blake said, tossing his gloves, hat, and cloak into the butler’s hands without breaking his stride. “I don’t have time.” He’d stayed too long at the shooting match, and now he was running late.
One of his cousins was racing a new horse in Hyde Park at four o’clock, and the other had a high-stakes card game starting at six. Blake didn’t plan on missing either event. But in order to make both, he had to finish reviewing at least one account book for his solicitor. The poor fellow had been begging for them for over a month.
From the corridor, Blake walked into his book room. Piled high on his desk was the stack of ledgers, numerous miscellaneous correspondence, and invitations he’d left unopened for weeks.
He shrugged out of his coat, loosened his neckcloth, and sat down at his desk with an impatient sigh. There were times when being a duke was downright hellish.
Grudgingly, he opened the top book, determined to make a dent in the work he had to do.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace,” Ashby said from the doorway.
Blake didn’t bother to glance up from the ledger he was thumbing through, trying to find where he’d left off the last time he looked at it…which was too many days ago to remember. He still hadn’t become completely used to hearing himself called “Your Grace,” even though his father had been dead almost two years.
It was a time-consuming task, keeping up-to-date with all his holdings and property, not to mention the details of the various businesses in which his father had invested over the years. His solicitor constantly sent documents for him to sign or account books to check. And, last year when his grandmother had passed on, her estate had added more responsibilities to his already full desk of unattended paperwork.
His new role in life had certainly curtailed his once daily and quite enjoyable activities of riding, fencing, and late afternoon games of billiards and cards at White’s or one of the other gentlemen’s clubs he belonged to. He was not accustomed to being on anyone’s schedule but his own.
The butler cleared his throat.
“Yes, Ashby, what is it?” Blake finally said when it was apparent the man wasn’t going to leave him alone until he had his say.
“There’s a young lady here to see you, sir.”
That got Blake’s attention. He glanced up at the tall, thin, and immaculately dressed butler, who wore his long graying hair held neatly away from his sharp face in a queue.
“A young lady, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Who is she?”
“Miss Henrietta Tweed.”
“Tweed,” Blake said aloud as he thought about the name for a moment. He couldn’t place it. “Who is with her?”
“Just her maid.”
“No other chaperone?”
“None that I saw.”
That was odd.
It was unusual for a young lady, or any gentleman, to call on him without making prior arrangements—and altogether inappropriate for a lady to do so without a suitable chaperone. Blake shrugged. On another afternoon he might have been intrigued by this strange request to see him, but not today. He didn’t have time to entertain anyone.
“Just take her card and send her away.”
Blake picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink jar he’d just opened, and returned his attention to the numbers in front of him.
“I tried that, Your Grace. She says she doesn’t have a card.”
The quill stilled in his hand. That was most curious, too. A woman without an appropriate chaperone and without a proper calling card. For half a second he wondered if one of the ladies he’d met earlier in the day at Hyde Park had followed him home. And there were other possibilities. It was rare, but he knew that sometimes a lady of the evening would be bold enough to seek out a titled man in hopes of bettering her station in life by earning a few coins or becoming his latest mistress.
Blake’s interest was piqued once again, though he had to admit almost anything could take his mind off accounts and ledgers.
He glanced back up at the butler. “What does she look like?” he asked, thinking that would help him determine if she warranted interrupting his work.
Ashby’s chin lifted and his eyebrows rose slightly. “Like a young lady.”
Sometimes Blake wished he hadn’t kept his father’s annoying butler. The old man could be downright impudent at times. But Ashby kept the household and the sizable staff running in near-perfect order. The butler’s work was testimony to the care with which his father had trained the man. That, and that alone, was what kept the aging servant at his job.
“Did she say why she wanted to see me?”
“Not exactly, Your Grace.”
In exasperation, Blake laid down the quill he had just picked up. “Ashby, what the hell did she say?”
Unflustered, the butler replied, “She said you were expecting her.”
“Was I?” Blake asked. Since Blake had turned off his father’s secretary a few months earlier, the butler had tried to help him keep up with his social calendar, but so far neither one of them was doing a good job.
“Not that I’m aware of, Your Grace. She also said that her trunks were on the front steps.”
Blake made a noise in his throat that sounded like a mixture of a grunt and a laugh. He must have been in too big a hurry to notice her luggage when he came through the front door.
“What the devil?” Blake sa
id. “I’m expecting no one, especially a young woman with baggage and no proper chaperone. She obviously has the wrong house.” He rose from his chair. “Did you question her about who she is looking for?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She said the Duke of Blakewell was expecting her.”
“That’s not bloody likely when I have no recollection of knowing anyone by the name of Tweed.”
“She also suggested that I should speak to you at once so that you could clear up what she called my obvious confusion.”
That sounded rather impertinent coming from someone who was apparently befuddled herself. No doubt the quickest way to handle this situation was for him to take a moment or two to speak with her.
Blake looked down at his paper-cluttered desk. His eyes centered on the open book in front of him, and he swore softly to himself. Reviewing the latest entries would have to wait again.
“Show her to the front parlor and say I’ll be in to see her.”
“Right away, Your Grace.” Ashby turned stiffly and walked out.
Blake marked his place in the ledger with a dry quill. He hastily retied his neckcloth and reached for his coat. No doubt the woman had him mixed up with someone else. The sooner he dealt with the waif and sent her on her way, the faster he could get back to checking the balances in the accounts book so he wouldn’t miss the race or the card game. For the most part he got along quite well with his cousins, but they would be unforgiving if they felt he’d slighted them.
When Blake approached the doorway to the drawing room, he saw a short, rotund lady with her back to him warming herself in front of the low-burning fireplace. It took only a glance at the fabric of her cloak and bonnet to know that she was not a lady of means.
What was Ashby thinking to allow her entrance into the house?
“Miss Tweed,” he said, striding into the room, determined to set her straight and then have a word with his errant butler.
The chit turned to face him and he immediately realized she had on a maid’s frock. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, he saw a rather tall, slender young lady rise from a side chair in the far corner and come toward him. When he looked at her, Blake felt his stomach do a slow roll. She moved with exquisite grace and an inner confidence lacking in most of the young ladies in Society.
Big, almond-shaped eyes—bluer than a midsummer sky and fringed with long black lashes—pierced him with a wary look of impatience. Her lips were full, beautifully sculpted, and the shade of spring’s first rose. The color of her skin was a sheer, pale ivory, and her complexion was flawless.
She was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen.
She wore an expensively tailored black cape that parted down the front as she walked, showing a blush-colored traveling dress. Her wide-brimmed bonnet with tightly woven trim matched her cape and gloves. He couldn’t help but wonder what color of hair was hidden beneath her headpiece.
For some reason he found it exceedingly seductive the way the satin ribbon of her bonnet had been tied into a perfect bow under her chin. He had a sudden urge to reach up, pull on the end of the black ribbon, and untie it…despite the fact that every inch of her said “lady.”
“Yes, I’m Henrietta Tweed.” She inclined her head a little as if pondering whether to say more. “I’m waiting for the Duke of Blakewell.”
Blake bowed and then said, “At your service, Miss Tweed. I am he.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. That was the only outward sign that she was confused for a moment. Quickly, she regained her air of confidence. She lowered her lashes as she curtsied in front of him.
“I apologize, Your Grace. I didn’t recognize you.”
A prickle of desire rushed through him and settled low in his groin as he watched her dutifully acknowledge his title. He found everything about her tremendously seductive.
“No harm done,” he said.
Blake’s gaze swept over her face once again. She appeared to be a self-assured, capable young lady who wasn’t the least bit intimidated by his title. He also noticed she wasn’t indifferent to his appearance as her gaze slowly swept down to his riding boots and then innocently crawled back up to his face. Her close observation of him sent a rush of heat like he hadn’t felt in years searing through his loins.
Ashby cleared his throat. “Should I have Cook prepare tea, Your Grace?”
Despite all the work he had to do, not to mention contending with a cheeky butler, Blake found himself agreeing. Quite frankly, how could he say no to this intriguing lady?
“Yes, Ashby, and take the young lady’s wrap. Have tea served in here after you show Miss Tweed’s maid to the kitchen for refreshments.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Blake watched as his unexpected guest took off her gloves and then untied the bow beneath her chin. Her hands were lovely and without jewels. He’d never realized just how stimulating it could be to watch a lady take off her bonnet until he found himself experiencing another twinge of desire as the soft, fluttering ribbons slid along her shoulders.
She had lush, golden blond hair arranged neatly on top of her head, and Blake had no doubt that it would be gorgeous hanging down her back. She handed her bonnet, cape, and gloves to her maid and softly told the woman she would be fine alone and to follow the butler to the kitchen.
Blake waited to speak until the maid and Ashby left the room. “I’m afraid I don’t know of you, Miss Tweed. Who is your father?”
With ease and more self-confidence than anyone her age should have, she walked closer to him, keeping her gaze pinned on his. He liked the way her carriage was straight but not stiff. He liked the way she looked directly at him and didn’t try to impress him with batting lashes, false smiles, or the unnatural soft voice some ladies used when talking to him.
Blake also liked the way she looked in her simple, high-waisted traveling dress. It was long-sleeved and quite modest for the current fashion. The fabric was of a fine quality, though not the best available. The neckline was high and trimmed in dainty pink lace that made her look absolutely fetching.
He was more curious than ever to know who she was.
“My father was Sir William Tweed. Considering your age, you probably never met him. I must assume your father knew him.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Because the Duke of Blakewell is the last name on my father’s list.”
What in the hell was she talking about? He became more intrigued with each word she spoke.
“What list is that, Miss Tweed?”
She clasped her lovely hands together in front of her, and once again she looked straight into his eyes. “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, Your Grace, we have a problem.”
“At last we agree on something. Those are the truest words you have spoken thus far.”
A wrinkle of concern settled between her eyes, but it in no way detracted from her beauty.
“You were supposed to receive a letter and some rather important documents from a solicitor named Mr. Conrad Milton that would announce my arrival and explain everything about me.”
Blake immediately thought of his desk. Not only was the blasted thing covered in account books that hadn’t been reviewed, along with papers and documents that hadn’t been signed, it was littered with all kinds of correspondence that hadn’t been opened.
For the first time since becoming a duke, Blake wished he had taken his responsibilities as the Duke of Blakewell a little more seriously.
“I’ve been behind on mail recently. Just tell me why you are here.”
“All right.” She unclasped her hands and calmly let her arms fall comfortably to her sides. “I am your ward and your house is supposed to be my new home.”
Blake couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d thrown cold water in his face.
“What? No. This is ridiculous.” A strained
chuckle caught briefly on his breath. “I can assure you that you are not my ward, Miss Tweed.”
She took a deep breath but otherwise remained composed.
“If only that were true, Your Grace, but I’m afraid it isn’t. I don’t know what happened to the letter or the documents you were to receive, but rest assured there are papers that prove the Duke of Blakewell is next in line to be my legal guardian and the sole trustee of my inheritance.”
“Guardian? How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“But you carry yourself like…”
“Someone older?”
She was not only beautiful, she was perceptive, too. Why was he finding everything about her appealing? She was obviously laying out some elaborate scheme and expecting him to swallow it, yet still he found her fascinating.
“Yes,” he said.
“I assure you I’ve had to grow up quickly.”
For a moment Blake thought he saw a hint of wistfulness in her bright blue eyes, but it was so fleeting he wasn’t positive. And nothing else in her manner had caused him to think she was in the least unsure of herself, which was remarkable concerning her situation, if the tale she told was true.
“Regardless of your age, I can’t be your guardian. Don’t you know who I am?”
A knowing smile gently lifted the corners of her attractive lips. Blake’s lower body responded once again.
“Your reputation stretches much farther than all of London, Your Grace. In the scandal sheets, you are referred to as the Devilish Duke.”
Far from being insulted that she brought up that nickname Society had placed on him some years ago, he threw up his hands and said, “My point exactly. Who in their right mind would expect me to be the protector of a young lady’s reputation? I’m the kind of man fathers safeguard their daughters against. There has been a mistake.”
She didn’t appear perturbed in the least. “I agree. I can only assume your father was the Duke of Blakewell who agreed to be my guardian, should anything happen to Lord Palmer.”
“Who is Lord Palmer? I thought you said your father was Sir William Tweed.”