by Eva Devon
Wish Upon A Duke
A Dukes’ Club Novel
By
Eva Devon
BARD PRODUCTIONS
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Wish Upon A Duke
Copyright © 2015 by Maire Creegan
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information: [email protected]
For my son and my husband
You two are the reason why.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Epilogue
Other Books by Eva Devon
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to Lindsey, Be My Bard, Demetra, Cerian, Noelle, Barbara, Delilah, Jenn, Kati, Catherine, and Erin.
My journey continues because of your generosity of spirit.
Chapter 1
Duncan Hamish Fergus, the Tenth Duke of Blackburn, loathed sassenachs. Even more so, he loathed house parties thrown by said sassenachs. He loathed everything about them. Whether it be the shrill giggling of the silly women, the arrogant chest puffing of the gentlemen, or the way in which they shot every bird that flew through the air, he loathed them. And of all of them, he loathed his neighbor, Lady Imogen Cavendish the most.
The blasted Prince Regent had gone and made Scotland popular. Damn the man. And now, every Englishman that could find a carriage to take him North, cast off their trews and donned a kilt. Knobby knees or no.
It was enough to make a Scots’ man weep.
All those bloody Englishmen apparently, given his frequent hearings and sightings of drunken, merry making lords, had one destination. Lady Cavendish’s hunting lodge. Yesterday’s report of a particularly loathsome sighting had been the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.
Duncan strode over the frost covered heather, bent on confronting Lady Cavendish once and for all. He could have sent his man. Most would. But for once, he wanted to vent his full rage upon the ridiculous woman who was as useful as a soft slipper upon a highland ben.
He loved the highlands in winter. Silent except for the wild wind, bitter cold, and brushed with god’s own perfect snow, he should have been enjoying his solitude and management of his estates, not herding a sassenach woman like a sheepdog worries an errant sheep. But he was. And he was going to give her a set down that would have her running for London and all its sinful pleasures.
He gazed up at the crisp sky that was shockingly blue for the first week of December and last week of the hunting season. It should have been full white, heavy with snow, or wicked gray full of slashing rain. But no. It had to be marvelously blue. Which of course meant that the idiocy of Lady Cavendish’s guests would only escalate above their already idiotic state. Good weather meant excessive sport and he’d be bloody damned if he was going to let another gun wander onto his estate without his permission.
He didn’t permit shooting for entertainment on his land. It was a damned foolish occupation, picking birds out of the sky because a man had nothing better to do. Almost any occupation was better, and certainly kinder to the animals that graced the land.
The gurgling of a rushing stream filled the air and he headed down toward it. The silvery bit of water marked the end of his estate and the beginning of a small tract of land belonging to the English woman. Why in god’s name an English widow would wish to have a small bit of of the Highlands was beyond him, except for the fact she seemed to like to invite horde’s of sassenachs up and behave as though her tiny patch of land was Sodom and Gomorrah.
It should have been a pleasant day.
He should have been out managing the herds of great highland cattle.
He should have been speaking with tenants, assuring them that Scotland’s woes were behind them now that Parliament in all its pompous wisdom had decided to ease many of the cruel laws against the Northerners.
But it wasn’t.
Frankly, any day a Scot had to come face to face with a sassenach since the battle of Culloden was a bad one.
Just as he was about to swipe at an ancient and massive holly bush, despite its prickly leaves, he curved around the foliage and bashed into a soft form. His foot caught in the long hem of a cape and he slipped upon the wet grass.
A feminine yelp of dismay burst from said soft form and just before he could land full bore atop the woman, he twisted his body, wrapped his arms around her slight form and took the force of their tumble, landing on his back.
Every single one of her womanly curves seemed pressed against his body.
He held absolutely still. For surely, if he held absolutely still, his mind would stop the sudden riot that had commenced within his usually perfectly ordered head.
As a rule, he didn’t clasp women to his form.
Over the years, he’d exuded a ferocious amount of control over his animal appetites. Good dukes acted in a manner that couldn’t be gainsaid by the nosiest biddy in the village. In the highlands, any activity that he might have engaged in outside of the marriage bed would be fodder for the gossips. Fodder was not something he was prepared to be. So, the gentle, pliant curves of the young lass was a bit of shock against his hard frame.
As was her scent.
Soft rosemary and lavender wafted around him and he had the most perverse desire to lift his head and bury his face in her loosely bound hair. As it was, it was all he could do not to yield to the sudden temptation the fates had thrown in his path and pull her tightly to him and savor every damn curve she possessed.
A laugh, rich and full of merriment tumbled from her. “Goodness! Were you gathering wool?”
He blinked at those suitable words. He had indeed been “wool gathering”. But that was not what gave him a sudden dose of distemper. The damned woman had the accent of the oppressors. And given the weave of the fine wool beneath his fingers, this was she. The sassenach woman who gave sin a bad name.
He should have pushed her away immediately. Even though he was a duke, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he was also just a man. Holy god, didn’t the woman feel like heaven even if she was straight from the fiery pit of hell?
“It was most gallant of you to protect me from the hard ground,” she said, “but perhaps we could stand now or are you incapacitated in some way?”
He cleared his throat. Yes. They should stand. But he didn’t want to. In fact, quite contrary to good sense, he wanted to roll her over, slide up her skirts, and take her body in a way he hadn’t had a woman since
his days in France. Duncan clenched his jaw lest he say something utterly moronic. He was not about to let her think he was some highland barbarian.
She wiggled then let out a sound of astonishment. “I say, are you wearing a kilt?”
“Yes,” he gritted, affected by said wiggle in a way that he was not going to be able to keep hidden for long. Apparently, years of self denial had not prepared him for such a circumstance. If anything, they seemed to make him more vulnerable to his predicament. God’s teeth but she felt good.
She squirmed, this time her body caressing him in a multitude of places.
Another merry laugh escaped her small person. “I think it has gone askew.”
Her hand tickled against his upper thigh.
He jerked against her touch.
“Do forgive me,” she said. “Terribly rude, I know but I’ve never met a man in a kilt.”
He tensed and fought a groan. What kind of woman tickled a man’s naked thigh? A no good one. That’s what kind. “I’ll have you know, woman, a kilt is a perfectly correct piece of clothing for this country.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I think it would be agreeable in any country, if you must know.” She reached down and gave his hem a tug, apparently trying to cover him. Something that should have cooled their situation but did not. The soft skim of her fingers over his thigh, forced him to bite back a soft sigh of pleasure.
“I adore it,” she continued, clearly unaware of his state of torture. “I don’t know why more men don’t wear them. They seem to be far more practical for a man’s. . . Um. . . Well, they’re more practical.”
At that, he could no longer suppress his groan. He was discussing the freedom of a man’s cock in a kilt with a sassenach noblewoman. Surely, he’d konked his head on a rock when he’d fallen. Yes. That had to be it. When he stood, he’d see yon stone, with a bit of blood on it, and he’d feel much better about himself knowing all this was a figment of his over active imagination.
But a quick check seemed to suggest that his head was pressed against rough highland grass. He closed his eyes for a long moment then opened them. No. She was still there, gazing down at him. Her damned beautiful face was as pretty as any Scottish lass he could have imagined. Now, what had she been saying. Och. . .
Didn’t she know that ladies were not supposed to discuss a man’s nether regions? Said nether regions were behaving in a most unruly fashion. His cock liked her. In fact, it was hard and preening for her attention, a most alarming thing, considering she was the enemy and supposedly the object of his loathing.
She wiggled again, her full skirts sliding over his calves and the ground about them. “I do beg your pardon, but would you mind easing your grip. Your hands are quite strong.”
It took him a moment to self evaluate his entire physical predicament, and not just his groin, but he was indeed pressing his hands into her back, holding her tight to his chest. In a damned possessive way, no less.
She wasna someone he wished to possess. She was everything that a man such as he should wish to dismiss! And as quickly as possible. Yet, like his traitorous cock, his hands seemed to have other ideas. In fact, those damned appendages longed to roam in a southerly direction, to cup her buttocks and see if they were as delightfully round and lush as the rest of her.
She smiled down at him, a devilishly charming smile. “Not to complain over much, for you are quite a handsome specimen, but I am gaining a crick in my neck.”
It was true, she did have to hold her head up to stare down at his face. As if to illustrate the discomfort of the position, she lowered her head and rested her cheek on his shoulder.
His breath caught in his chest. Why the blethering hell would she do such a thing? Such an intimate, trusting gesture. The highlands weren’t safe. He could be a rover for god’s sake. He could roll her onto her back and take her, will she or will she no, in a moment. He blinked. What was he to make of her? For though, her actions suggested she was a simpleton, her gaze had been that of an intelligent if infuriating woman.
“Any time will do,” she said simply against his wool coat. “Though, I must admit, you do feel quite nice. And you’ve the decided and lovely scent of juniper.” She gave a sniff to the curve of his neck. “Very nice.”
A growl emanated from his throat.
That was enough. Enough to prove she was just as scandalous as he’d accused her of a thousand times in his mind over the last months. And if he didn’t act now, he was going to lose his mind and prove no better than the rover he’d just considered.
He shoved her up and over, landing her with slightly less grace than he’d like, onto her bum.
She gave a startled cry then peered up at him, her brow quirked. “Famous! You’ve thrown me over and all I was doing was minding my own holly tree.”
He scowled at her, then looked to said holly tree. On the ground, just to the right of the base of the ancient prickly foliage was a basket filled with green sprigs, bright with red berries.
Rolling up into a sitting position, he ensured his kilt was adjusted in such a manner that she couldn’t see anything of import. Still, her almond eyed gaze seemed drawn to his legs.
Her pale cheeks already pink with the brisk cold, positively glowed rose. She arched a blond brow. “My, you do have fine legs.”
“My limbs are none of your business,” he scoffed, nearly flummoxed by her continued boldness.
She laughed, an irritatingly delightful sound then adjusted her own full flowing skirts over her ankles. “Well, if you shouldn’t wish ladies to comment on them, you shouldn’t show them in such fine fashion.”
Duncan jumped to his feet and turned away, lest she see his discomforture. The last time he’d discussed limbs with a woman had been before he’d become the Duke of Blackburn, and well, the sudden tone of the conversation was turning his head. And not the one he was accustomed to thinking with.
“Woman, I’ll have you know, that you are the first in years to mention anything about my person.”
She clucked her tongue, her gloved hands propping her up. “That is a tragedy, good sir. For you’ve a fine personage and seem much the gentleman. Doesn’t your wife compliment you? She should.”
He cleared his throat. How in the devil did she manage to converse so fluidly about such scandalous things? Practice, he’d wager. “There is no wife at present and if there were she’d never stoop to such low discourse.”
The young woman cocked her head, a blond curl tumbling against her cheek in a damned charming manner. “Indeed, not? How very dreary your lives would be then. So, perhaps it’s best you are a bachelor.”
“And did you speak thus to your husband?” he demanded, a sudden indignation flaring up. He knew Lady Cavendish to be a widow. But he wouldn’t allow such censure from her. Hell, the woman would have him be a gray old nanny what with his thoughts of propriety. “I suppose you discussed each and everyone of his body parts in detail!”
Her pink lips parted in a grin and she laughed. Again. “Why such a thing would be so terrible between a man and his wife, I can’t imagine.”
He scowled. She couldn’t see the harm? Married couples, from his experience needed to act with propriety above all else. Still, he suddenly felt quite curious. Did she truly discuss things so openly with her husband and perhaps other men now? “So, you did then?”
Her smile dimmed. “It is none of your business, of course, but if you must know, no. My husband was nearly forty years my senior. We discussed little.”
Then where was all this sauciness learned, he wanted to demand. He didn’t. But it was incredibly tempting. It was unavoidable from the sudden lack of mirth, that her marriage had been a sad one. He felt a moment’s hesitation in condemning her for a English hussy, but no. He couldn’t yield. The moment he started thinking well of her was the moment he might start allowing himself to slip.
She braced her hands on the earth, leaning forward. “Would you mind helping me up, or am I too much the shocking, scarlet woma
n for you?”
“I never said that,” he rebutted, suddenly feeling a quick dose of embarrassment. He prided himself on his manners, even if she had none, and he’d left her on her bum on the cold ground.
She stretched out a gloved hand. “It was implied by your every sneer.”
“I don’t sneer,” he sneered. He caught himself and groaned. “I’m in an ill humor.”
“Thank goodness that this is not your good humor,” she drawled.
He took her small hand in his and carefully pulled her to her feet. She was quite short. In fact, she didn’t come up to his shoulder. “If you must know I was on my way to see you.”
She batted her lashes. “Me? How do you even know who I am?”
“Are you not Lady Cavendish?”
“I am!” She leaned towards him. “How did you know?”
He gave her an incredulous stare. “You’re the only Englishwoman for miles.”
“What of my guests?” she pointed out.
“From what I can tell you only have men to visit.”
“Gentlemen,” she said lightly. “There’s a difference. I do have ladies to visit also. And you’re sneering again.”
He snorted. “Well, your gentlemen are too high handed when it comes to highland hospitality. They came onto my land and shot my birds.”
“How terrible that your birds were shot,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “But impossible that they were my guests.”
Narrowing his eyes, he challenged, “Are you calling me a liar madam.”
“Not at all, simply misinformed.” She paused, then brushed her gloved hands over her upper arms. “It’s quite cool. Would you care to come to my abode. A warm drink should improve both our spirits, don’t you think?”
He’d rather go to hell and back than with the beautiful, infuriating woman. “My spirits can’t be improved until I’ve had your assurance there will be no more trespassing. If I find another unwelcome person upon my land, he’ll be the one shot for sport. Not my grouse.”