Bewitching the Forbidden Duke: A Steamy Regency Romance
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Bewitching the Forbidden Duke
A Steamy Regency Romance
Scarlett Osborne
Contents
A Thank You Gift
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Tamed by the Marquess
About the Book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Also by Scarlett Osborne
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Seduced by the Brooding Duke. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
With love and appreciation,
Scarlett Osborne
About the Book
She never really craved attention, until she tasted his…
Melissa Alford, youngest daughter of the Duke of Greyfield, has always been the black sheep of her family. When her mother arranges a betrothal for her older sister, her life changes in the most unexpected way.
Patrick Dutton, Marquess of Bergon, takes pride in being a very responsible young gentleman. But even though his word is his bond, he immediately falls for the rebellious, youngest daughter of the Duke instead of his intended, whom he finds completely dull.
When Melissa suddenly disappears into the woods, people realize this is not one of her usual games. With wolves as the least of her problems, Patrick is determined to find her before the night is out.
Soon it becomes apparent that someone is behind the disappearance and that the key to the riddle just might lie in a birthmark...
Chapter 1
A Birthday Mix-Up
Melissa Alford was up with the birds, as she was wont to do, on the day of her birthday ball. Leaping out of bed, she put on her shoes before slipping out the door and down the back stairs. As expected, Brynn was waiting at the bottom with a hot cup of ale and a plaid shawl for Melissa to wrap around her head.
She led Melissa to the mews where they saddled two horses and took off for Convent Garden, Brynn’s basket looped securely over her arm. They would get to the market just as the fresh produce was arriving and then Brynn would do the day’s shopping; picking two bundles a penny, primroses to put in a vase in the hall, perhaps some fried eels for breakfast. They might get a pint of milk, another of ale, and a bushel of apples.
Melissa never knew exactly the shopping list they were going for, but she loved to accompany Brynn on these early morning runs. It was the only time she felt free as nobody knew nor cared who she was beneath her coverings. As the youngest child of The Duke of Greyfield, a great and powerful gentleman, it was difficult to go anywhere without immediately becoming the center of attention.
So, she tucked her dark hair under the shawl and hid her warm complexion from the casual gaze. Her hazel eyes looked hither and thither, taking in all the sights as they peeked mischievously from the tip of the cashmere wool covering her face.
She knew that she only got away with her escapades because there was no way that her mother would rise before ten in the morning and neither would her sister, Rose. Melissa cherished these few hours of freedom, where she did not have to listen to her mother harping on about her faults and failings. She could simply be nothing more than a girl of nine and ten with nothing to do but sit by her friend as she purchased the household produce.
They arrived back at Greyfield House just as her father was stirring. They stood back as footmen hurried up the stairs bearing hot water for The Duke’s morning ablutions. As soon as they were gone, Melissa hurried to the back stairs and crept back up to her room. Diving under the covers, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep.
Not three hours later, she was roughly shaken by Brynn, only then realizing that her pretense of sleep had become reality.
“Wha…?” she mumbled as she jerked awake.
“Her Grace says for you to join her in the library now, My Lady. She has the dressmaker come to do last fittings.” Brynn hissed in her ear.
Melissa felt irritation burn at her craw. “Last fittings? Why? Does she expect I have gained weight in the three days since we got the gowns?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, My Lady. Are you going to go or do you want to wait for her to come for you herself? You know that she will.”
Melissa grunted resentfully. “Can she curb her impulse to make my life difficult for one day? It’s my birthday.”
“Perhaps you should ask her.” Brynn shrugged, manhandling Melissa out of her nightgown. She wrestled a corset tight around Melissa’s torso before dropping a simple blue muslin gown over her head, paying no heed to her mumbled complaints.
“There. Let me just add some color to your face and sweep your hair into a knot, and you will be ready to face your mother.”
Melissa snorted. “When am I ever ready to face her? Mother is such a nightmare.”
“Well, today is your day, so try and enjoy it, hmm?” Brynn squeezed her shoulder before picking up Melissa’s discarded nightgown and riding clothes and exiting the room.
* * *
She would wash the clothes personally, so as to ensure that if there were any traces of Convent Garden mud along the hem of Lady Melissa’s habit, nobody else would be any the wiser.
This was a dangerous game Brynn was playing with The Duke’s daughter but the lady’s maid saw how unhappy Lady Melissa was, trying to live up to her mother’s impossible expectations. If a simple ride to the market at the crack of dawn gave her some relief, who was Brynn to refuse her that?
She had grown up with Lady Melissa, her mother being the Greyfield Housekeeper. When she had turned twelve, her mother had started her off as a scullery maid but she soon got promoted to maid of all work and then to her current position as lady’s maid to The Duke and Duchess’ youngest daughter.
The Greyfields only had the two daughters which was just one more unusual thing about them. They did not seem eager to try for a son and heir, despite the vast lands and property that The Duke owned. He was one of the most powerful people in the land; why Brynn had heard it said that he had the ear of the Prince!
But his wife was a miserable old hag for all that, seeming to enjoy inflicting pain and misery on everyone around her, most especially Lady Melissa. Only her older daughter, Lady Rose, was immune.
Brynn found it passing strange but it wasn’t her place to comment.
* * *
Patrick Dutton, Marquess Bergon was up at the cra
ck of dawn and ready to leave before the majority of his household had yawned their way to full alertness. He had promised to be present at the docks when the new shipment of furniture his father had ordered from China arrived.
Herbert Dutton, Duke of Cheshmill had recently remarried. His wife, Alexandra, much younger than he, could be described as a diamond of the first water with very particular tastes. She had decided to redecorate the Cheshmill Town House in a manner befitting her tastes. Said tastes demanded an entire set of furniture from the Far East and His Grace was in a mood to indulge her.
He was not, however, in a mood to do any of the actual heavy lifting. For that, he had Patrick, his firstborn, always eager to please and perpetually at The Duke’s beck and call. He could rely on Patrick to not only make sure the shipment was intact and accurate but also arrange for it to be installed under his new wife’s exacting instructions.
Meanwhile, The Duke would hole up at White’s until it was done.
* * *
Patrick found his stepmother’s new furniture to be garish in the extreme. Just because something was exotic did not mean it was good. His mother had decorated the Town House in earth tones; blending greens and browns together to produce a peaceful whole that invited one to sit back and relax. They were to be replaced with Lady Cheshmill’s furniture upholstered in blood-red silk and wall hangings with stark gold embellishments not to mention a gold-plated dragon sculpture and dozens of red and gold silk pillows.
It rather reminded Patrick of the high-end brothel his uncle Milford had taken him to on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday, two years ago. Pausing, his eyes on the middle distance and a slight smile on his face, he called to mind the spirited redhead that had dived down and swallowed him whole…
A sigh escaped him and he shook his head slightly to clear it of the memories so that he could focus on dealing with the customs agent at hand.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, good sir, I am here for the Cheshmill shipment.”
The man looked up, frowning at Patrick, the agent could not believe that the Marquess had the nerve to disturb his day in such a manner.
“Cheshmill? Which shipment is that?”
“The furniture, from China. I believe it was to come in with your ship on the 18th, according to the notice sent to my father.”
“Your father?”
Patrick lifted an elegant blonde eyebrow as he looked down at the agent from his six-foot height. He caressed his chin as he waited for the agent to show any sign that he knew how to do his job.
The man sighed, looking up at Patrick like his presence was a huge inconvenience. He got slowly to his feet as if he was fighting arthritic knees before shuffling off to check on the Cheshmill shipment. Rolling his eyes, Patrick turned to watch the ships as they made their way into London Harbor. Even at this early hour, the River Thames was teeming with marine life, the harbor bustling with life. The mud larks were busy already, collecting debris.
The customs agent was back, clutching at a piece of paper as if it was trying to escape.
“Yes, Mr. uh?” he lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.
“I am the Marquess of Bergon, son of The Duke of Cheshmill.”
The customs agent visibly stiffened his spine. “Oh, well, uh, your shipment has er, arrived. You can collect it from Warehouse three. I just need your signature or seal on this document,” he held out the document in question, hand shaking slightly.
With an inward sigh, Patrick took the paper, extracted wax and his father’s signet ring which he used to stamp the paper. He handed it back to the customs agent still in silence. The customs agent led him to the right warehouse, Patrick towering over him as he cut a tall, strong, elegant figure with his pristine white pantaloons tucked neatly into his knee-high boots. His black tail coat provided a suitable contrast while highlighting his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped silhouette. He wore a tall hat, his blond curls peeking through on the sides.
Patrick was accompanied by several footmen who helped unload the furniture from the warehouse, loading it onto the wagons from whence they would be transported to Mayfair.
He was bleakly hopeful that he would not be pulled into any consultations related to arranging the furniture as his only advice would have been to throw it all out and begin again.
Heaving a sigh of relief that he did not have to live there–and sparing a sympathetic thought for his poor sister–he climbed into his carriage, which lead the team of wagons on their short journey to transport the new furniture to its home. He made sure–as instructed–to take the scenic route so that as many of The Duke’s neighbors as had servants walking about could see that The Duchess was making the Cheshmill townhouse her own.
He could well understand her need to make an impression. The late Duchess, Patrick’s mother, had been a force to reckon with in the ton. She had been loved and respected. As a consequence, the new Duchess was treated as something of a usurper. Patrick knew this was unfair, and tried his best to demonstrate his good wishes toward her. But Lady Cheshmill did herself no favors by her loud and gaudy disregard of anything and everything his mother had held dear.
They arrived at the Cheshmill townhouse on the dot of ten-o’clock, just in time for Her Grace to receive them in her drawing room, instructing the footmen on where exactly everything went. Patrick excused himself as soon as possible, his duty done.
The air was crisp and a slight drizzle salted his cheeks with cold droplets. Patrick elected to walk, for even though he was a little late, he thought he might pass by Convent Garden and see if the mystery girl was there again today.
He attributed his fascination with her to the mystery she presented. He had noticed her one morning as he took the air on horseback. Although she was dressed similarly to the lady’s maid she rode with, and her shawl covered her head completely, she sometimes forgot to change out of her bedroom slippers. They were very impractical for riding, made of silk lined with gold lame as they were.
The first time Patrick had noticed them, he had been eager to see if he could guess who the young lady was and what exactly she was about. He had no doubt that whoever her unfortunate guardian was, he had no idea of her early morning adventures in produce shopping.
It worried him sometimes when he thought of her out there, unprotected apart from her lady’s maid. There was little he could do about it as he did not know who she was. Still, he liked to watch over her as she haggled inelegantly over potatoes or fresh fish, her voice deliberately roughened to sound similar to that of her maid.
It was ridiculous.
It was amusing.
It was dangerous.
Any day now, her guardian would find out what she was doing and the mystery girl would disappear. Patrick might run into her at a ball or attend her wedding and he would never know that it was her.
What a sad ending that would be to this adventure.
He walked around Convent Garden for a while, keeping an eye out for her or her companion. After an hour, he conceded that it was too late in the morning for her to still be gallivanting about unsupervised and went home to his house on Grosvenor Street.
He intended to ride immediately for the country, in part because he much preferred it to London but also because he wanted to be as far away as possible lest Lady Cheshmill decides she wanted his input in her household design. He put himself out to be civil to the woman because his father had chosen her and surely, he must have seen something worth having. Still, he could not deny that he found her draining to his spirit.
He had an excellent excuse for his flight from Town. He was to hold a grouse-hunting party a week hence and he needed the time to prepare. He had extended an invitation to The Duke and hoped that he would find time to attend. He had a deep respect for his father and cherished the few talks they had on any topic from the health of his horses to that of his finances. Any advice his father could give him was deeply appreciated.
He stepped into his house; coat held out for his butler to take befo
re walking to the morning room in search of breakfast. Stirring some lemon into his tea, he stared out of the window before turning back to the table as his butler walked in with the mail on a tray. He caught sight of his father’s seal on a note and his heart rate sped up.
He had seen his father just the day before when he had sent Patrick on his errand. He could not imagine why The Duke would feel the need to write him a note today unless something untoward had occurred. He snatched the note, tearing the seal so he could read it.