Table of Contents
Title Page
A Year Without a Duke
Copyright
To learn more
Blurb
Opening
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
A Year Without a Duke
Seduced in September
Excerpt from Seduced in September
Acknowledgments and About the Author
Also by Suzanna Medeiros
Forbidden in February
A Year Without a Duke, Book 2
Suzanna Medeiros
A Year Without a Duke
The duke has died. Long live the duke! The only problem is no one knows who the new Duke of Beckworth is. All of England wonders, but no one more so than the people who depend upon Beckworth for their livelihood. In 1816, a year so cold that the word “summer” is a cruel joke, that livelihood is even more uncertain. However, they are all about to find out, with the duke away, there is nothing more warming than scandal and love…
Jilted in January by Kate Pearce
Forbidden in February by Suzanna Medeiros
Seduced in September by Genevieve Turner
An Affair in Autumn by Jennifer Haymore
A Duke by December by Sabrina Darby
First Digital Edition, January 2016
Copyright © 2015 Saozinha Medeiros
Cover design © Kim Killion
Edited by Victory Editing
ISBN: 9781988223001
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Forbidden in February
Suzanna Medeiros
Robert Milton’s future as the valet to the Duke of Beckworth is uncertain. His employer has died, leaving no heir in sight. When Robert’s mother also dies, he discovers that her companion has taken over her household.
Isabel Durham’s dream of gaining her independence is almost a reality, but her cousin is determined to see her married to a wealthy but much-older man. Robert’s arrival in London is the answer to her prayers. Neither can deny the very real attraction sizzling between them and if he ruins her, she’ll be free of the unwanted marriage.
But Robert’s very existence has proven to him that romantic entanglements are to be avoided at all costs. His desire for Isabel could cost him the one thing he’s vowed never to lose—his heart.
Mr. Reginald Tompkins,
Richards, Thistlewaite and Tompkins Solicitors
Temple, London
My dear Mr. Tompkins,
Thank you so much for your kind consideration in keeping us informed as to the search for the new Duke of Beckworth. As you might imagine, there are several members of the ducal staff whose jobs are now in jeopardy until the new duke is found.
You have probably heard from Mr. Colin Ford, the assistant land agent, as to the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Morehouse and all the funds. I am certain that a man of your good sense and character will attach no blame to Mr. Ford who has proved to be an excellent manager of the estate so far. But, if you do decide to visit Beckworth Park, please be assured that you will receive the warmest of welcomes from all the staff that remain.
The duchess has written to suggest that any of the deceased duke’s servants who wish to seek employment elsewhere are free to do so. She asks that they present themselves to your office for a reference and the payment of any monies owing to them for their year of service. I believe she has already spoken about this matter to you and received your full support.
Please do not hesitate to write with any further instructions, sir. I remain, as always at your disposal.
Yours,
Henrietta Pemberley
Housekeeper, Beckworth Park
Chapter One
February 1816
London
Robert Milton tried but failed to shake off the apprehension that settled over him as he stood by his mother’s grave. They said bad news always came in threes. First his employer, the Duke of Beckworth, had died eight months before without having secured an heir, a fact that left Robert’s own future in question since they still hadn’t found his successor. And then he’d received a letter from his mother’s solicitor informing him that his mother had also passed away. Who would be next?
It had shocked him to learn his mother hadn’t been lying to him in her last letters. He’d refused to believe her claims that she was ill and that her doctor hadn’t given her long to live. Had even part of him suspected she was telling the truth, nothing would have stopped him from returning to London—heaven knew there was very little for him to do at Beckworth Park. But his mother had often lied to him, hoping to get him to return and fulfill her one greatest wish, something he just couldn’t do, and he’d dismissed those letters as merely her latest attempts.
When he hadn’t heard from her again in the space of a month, he’d begun to dread the worst. Even when she threatened never to speak to him again—one of her favorite weapons in the arsenal she employed to try to bend him to her will—she’d never gone more than a fortnight without writing to him. The solicitor’s letter had arrived just when he’d resigned himself to the fact that he would have to return to London to check on her health.
He was indeed in London now, but instead of yet another argument about why he wouldn’t visit his father, he found himself standing by his mother’s graveside, guilt riding him hard. If he hadn’t ignored her letters, hadn’t taken the shaky handwriting covering her last correspondence as further proof that his mother would stop at nothing to force a reconciliation between him and his father, his presence would, at the very least, have given her some comfort in her final hours. Instead, she’d died alone.
He stood there as though on a precipice, his future before him like a great chasm. His only real family was gone, and it was likely he would no longer be employed when the new Duke of Beckworth was found. Most gentlemen, after all, employed their own valet, and he was certain the same would hold true for the new duke.
Robert didn’t particularly enjoy being a valet, especially not to the fastidious, domineering duke, but it was something at which he excelled. Putting together colors and patterns came naturally to hi
m, a product of his onetime love for drawing and painting. His years in service had given him a purpose in life that didn’t necessitate turning to his father for charity. Even if that were something he wasn’t set against, as the bastard son of the man’s cast-off mistress, it was unlikely his father would give him so much as a shilling.
Saying a final good-bye to his mother, his heart heavier than he’d ever remembered, he turned away from the grave and made his way back to the carriage that the Duchess of Beckworth had insisted he use when she’d learned of his errand that morning. He hesitated when the coachman asked him if he wished to return to the duke’s town house in Mayfair, the temptation to bury himself in some mundane task almost overwhelming. But there was no point in putting off the inevitable. He needed to attend to his mother’s affairs, ensure everything was still running smoothly at her house—the house in which he’d been raised. He wouldn’t be meeting with his mother’s solicitor until tomorrow morning, but a quick check of his former home would tell him if the servants were still there and being paid. After all, he knew firsthand how it felt to be a servant in a household that had no master. He’d have to let them know about his plans to sell the house, reassure them that he planned to give them good references. He owed it to them. Walters and Mrs. Harris had been with his mother since he was a lad and were as good as family.
He shivered, the cold February wind cutting through his coat, and gave silent thanks that the rain that had plagued him on his journey to London had stopped last night. He gave his mother’s address to the coachman, stepped up into the carriage, and settled back against the comfortable cushions. He couldn’t enjoy the almost-decadent splendor within, however. His mother’s disappointed face refused to leave his thoughts.
It surprised him that the house in which he’d grown seemed so much smaller than he remembered. Of course, since he spent the majority of his time at either Beckworth Park or the duke’s large town house in Mayfair, that was only to be expected. Especially since he hadn’t visited his mother in almost two years, making one excuse after another about being too busy to take time away from his duties whenever she learned he was in Town.
He stood before the narrow three-story house as the carriage pulled away, the coachman having explained that he needed to return to Mayfair. The building was nondescript from the outside, its cream-colored façade blending in with the houses that bordered it. No one would have guessed that a rich man’s mistress lived there, together with his bastard son at one time. Of course, after his father stopped visiting around the time Robert turned ten, that was no longer true. His mother had always portrayed herself as a widow, and essentially she had been just that for the past eighteen years. She’d certainly grieved for that lost relationship the same way a widow would.
Taking a deep breath, he took out the key that he hadn’t used since he’d stopped living there and let himself into the house.
Silence reigned in the gloomy interior, almost oppressive in its intensity. He tried to shake off the unease that hadn’t left him since learning of his mother’s death and that now threatened to suffocate him. No one was expecting him, so Walters was probably off doing something else.
He made his way down the long hallway toward the back of the house and down the stairs, hoping to come across one of the staff. His mother didn’t employ many—a butler and a cook who’d been with them since he was a child, a maid, and her lady’s maid—but surely someone would be here.
He frowned when he found no one in the kitchen. With no one to cook for aside from the rest of the staff, he hadn’t really expected to find Mrs. Harris there, but surely there should be some sign of her. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that perhaps the staff had already moved on to other positions if arrangements hadn’t been made to continue their salary. The short letter he’d received from his mother’s solicitor informing him of her death and requesting his presence in London hadn’t gone into any details about the current state of the household.
Cursing softly, he changed direction and headed for the second-floor library that also served as a study. Even if the staff were still employed and off doing heaven only knew what, they’d no doubt appreciate knowing what would happen to them. Anxious to learn what had transpired during his mother’s final months, he realized that he’d need to search through her papers. He didn’t intend to keep the house, but he hoped to find some instructions there. He wasn’t sure he could wait until his meeting with her solicitor.
As he made his way upstairs, his disquiet grew. The stillness of the house left him with the uneasy sensation that the house had died along with his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when it had ever been this quiet.
When he reached the library and crossed the threshold, two things struck him at once. The first was that the curtains were open and the room free of dust, indicating that it had been cleaned recently. The second was that a young woman was curled on the settee, asleep, an open book lying on the small table beside the settee. He froze as he tried to make out her features, but her light brown hair—hair that he couldn’t help noticing was much lighter on the ends—was unbound and covered part of her face. He was almost certain he’d never met her though since she appeared to be quite a bit younger than the other servants. But the fact that he didn’t recognize her didn’t really mean anything. His mother could have hired a new maid, and she certainly wouldn’t have felt the need to run that decision by him.
Just a few months before, when the duke had still been alive, Robert wouldn’t have hesitated to wake her and demand that she return to her duties. It said a lot about the current state of upheaval in his life that he wasn’t even tempted to do so now. Heaven knew he’d had his share of interminable days that dragged on with nothing to occupy himself since his duties as a valet had ceased to become necessary. Although he’d never taken a nap during the day, he couldn’t deny that there had been times when he’d been tempted to do so to make the day pass more quickly.
He hesitated for a moment, then decided that he wouldn’t allow the sleeping woman to keep him from his current task. But first he needed to set a fire. It was so cold in the room he could almost see his breath. He moved to the small fireplace opposite the settee and crouched, going about the task with quick, efficient movements before standing again and turning toward his mother’s desk.
He couldn’t keep his eyes from straying back to the young woman and moving in appreciation over the curves of her slim figure beneath the light blanket she’d draped over herself to guard against the chill of the room. He was only human, after all, and he’d always appreciated a pretty woman. Not that he could really tell if she was pretty. Maybe if he moved the loose strands of hair away from her face…
He clenched his hand at his side and forced himself to move toward the desk, which was across the room. The back of the settee would be between him and the young woman and would obscure her from view as he worked. Whoever she was, the very last thing she needed was to awaken with a strange man hovering over her, his hand in her hair. He could just imagine the scream he’d be subjected to, and there would be no way to excuse his actions.
It took an almost-inhuman amount of effort to force his thoughts away from the young woman and back to the task at hand as he lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. Its deep mahogany surface was smooth and free of clutter, just as his mother preferred. He opened a drawer and let out a heavy breath. A quick glance through all the other draws told him that while his mother preferred to maintain an appearance of serenity and control, she was still as disorganized as ever below the surface. He went back to the first drawer and removed all the papers stuffed haphazardly within it onto the desk’s surface. It was going to take him a while to go through all the papers she’d crammed into the drawers.
Chapter Two
Isabel came awake slowly. She rolled onto her back and stretched out on the settee, easing her cramped legs, and sighed. The nap had been blissful, but it hadn’t solved any of her problems. She’d always be
en prone to putting aside troubling thoughts, preferring to find solace in keeping busy. When that wasn’t possible, she usually sought the oblivion of a book. And yes, when she was younger she’d also been known to escape, however temporarily, by taking a nap. She thought she’d shaken that habit since coming to work for Mrs. Milton one year ago, but apparently that wasn’t the case.
When she remembered that she’d been reading, she panicked for a moment, afraid she’d slept with the book on her and crumpled some of the pages. She looked down at herself, then at the floor next to her. Finally, when she spotted the book on the side table, she released the breath she’d been holding. No one would know if she’d bent the pages of the ornate volume of poetry, but she would know and would feel guilty.
The sun streaming through the windows told her that it was sometime around midafternoon. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different, and it took her a few moments to realize that a fire had been lit. She frowned, wondering who could have lit it. She was warm under her blanket and it hadn’t been necessary. She’d told everyone they had to watch their expenses carefully. They couldn’t afford to have fires burning in rooms where they weren’t needed.
She dragged herself into a sitting position, trying to shake off the lethargy that usually plagued her when she slept during the day.
“Don’t be frightened.”
She gasped at the sound of the unfamiliar male voice and spun around on the settee, hoping to find that Mr. Walters had returned from the errand on which she’d sent him. When she saw, instead, a stranger rising from behind Mrs. Milton’s desk—a desk that looked as though he’d dumped volumes of paperwork over its surface—she stood in alarm, very aware that she was, in all likelihood, alone in the house with a stranger.
Forbidden in February Page 1