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About the Author
Copyright Page
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To Anthony—Two sentences weren’t enough, but you lucky dog, you went home with the heart-shaped rock.
Acknowledgments
From the first words I wrote in The Bad Luck Bride, Paul hounded me for his own story. How could one so dissolute and selfish become a hero? There’s only one answer—by being a very charming but persistent fellow. He always demanded to be in every story even if it was only a mention. The Good, the Bad, and the Duke would never have been written without my fabulous agent, Pam Ahearn. As soon as she read the first scene that Paul ever appeared in, she told me that I had to write his story. Needless to say, Paul charmed Pam, also.
My marvelous editor, Alexandra Sehulster, is pure genius. She helped me craft these characters into a special couple, and their story was a joy to write. Saying thank you isn’t enough. It was my honor to work with you on this book.
Marissa Sangiacomo, Meghan Harrington, Mara Delgado-Sanchez, and the rest of the team at St. Martin’s Press, I’m so lucky to have you all behind me. The art department at St. Martin’s Press and Jon Paul Ferrara have my special gratitude, also. The cover for Paul and Daphne’s book is not only gorgeous, but it’s pure romance.
Holly Ingraham, I can’t say thank you enough. You are simply brilliant. More important, thank you for believing in me and my stories. Corinne DeMaagd, you are the best teacher any writer could have. Your skills at editing are only surpassed by your warmth and friendship. Kim Rozzell, thank you. Everything you touch sparkles with class and wit. You make it seem so easy. Simply put, you’re a force to be reckoned with.
Without you, my dear readers, none of this would have happened. From the very first, you encouraged me to write Paul and Daphne’s story. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for believing that Paul was worthy of his own tale. I truly have fallen in love with this couple, and I hope you do, too.
Finally, I couldn’t do any of this without the love and support of my own darling rogue. Thank you, Greg, the author of my romantic life.
Prologue
Pemhill
Ancestral estate of the Marquess of Pembrooke
Soon, she’d face her nemesis in hand-to-hand combat.
Or a more apt description was “hand-to-paw combat.”
She was Lady Daphne Hallworth, a proud name synonymous with bravery.
She always said that mantra when she needed courage, and today she would not lose. An innocent’s life was at stake, and Daphne would defend it until the bitter end.
A trickle of sweat cascaded down the side of her face. Her mother had instructed her repeatedly that women do not sweat. Only horses sweat, while men perspire and women glisten. Whatever it was, Daphne bent her head to wipe the offending nuisance away. With a stealth-like maneuver that reminded her of her enemy, the dribble evaded her swipe and attacked her eye. The stinging salt forced her to blink several times to relieve the pain.
Swoosh. Out of nowhere, a forced gust of air assailed her.
The angry magpie darted close, and Daphne ducked her head. As best she could, Daphne ignored the screaming and furious bird. Instead, she focused on her opponent—one that possessed an intelligence and cunning that knew no limits—her older brother’s cat, Athena.
Taking advantage of the magpie’s frantic calls and repeated swoops around Daphne’s head, her adversary approached from the far-left flank.
All things considered, Daphne loved Athena. The orange-striped cat cuddled with her late at night when she couldn’t sleep.
But this was war.
Daphne would make it up to the cat this evening. She’d sneak some pheasant from tonight’s dinner and wrap it in one of her linen squares, if there were any left over from their skirmish.
Thankfully, the mother bird returned to her nest in the mighty oak tree. Now Daphne could prepare for the next battle. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, she took a piece of linen and dunked it in the bucket of water. She was down to her last five pieces. Earlier, she’d taken one of her mother’s best table coverings and ripped it into squares the size of a man’s handkerchief.
Such was the cost of war. Finery and fripperies were worth the sacrifice for the greater good. When doused in water, the fabric transformed into a projectile, a weapon that her adversary loathed and feared.
Of course, when her mother, the Marchioness of Pembrooke, discovered her best linen tablecloth destroyed, Daphne would face a blistering lecture and some harsh punishment. Most probably, her mother would forbid she have any tarts for the next week. They were her only weakness in life, and her mother would consider the destruction of the antique linen worthy of such a chastisement.
If only her mother would forbid her from eating kippers.
She hated kippers. When served for breakfast, the little herrings always appeared to be staring straight at you.
With a sigh, Daphne wadded the linen into a wet ball. Forgoing tarts would be worth the sacrifice if she succeeded in guarding the precious life behind her to safety.
“One step closer, Athena, and you’ll be wearing this as a mobcap for your face.” Daphne aimed the sopping missile.
“What are you about, imp? Why are you fighting with your brother’s cat?”
Of all the rotten luck.
Paul.
She didn’t need her brother’s charmingly arrogant but affable friend interfering now—not when another battle loomed before her.
* * *
Lord Paul Barstowe, the second son of the Duke of Southart, studied the nest, then surveyed the lawn in front of him. Scraps of material littered the ground, making it look like it had snowed linen. “Are you in some sort of epic battle?”
“Yes.” Daphne drew her shoulders back and defiantly tipped her chin. She pointed at a nest of twigs and grass she’d constructed on the ground with a makeshift wall of briar branches surrounding a tiny bird. His black and white wings constantly fluttered as he tried to escape the little sanctuary she’d carefully crafted around him. “Athena wants him for dinner.”
Paul surveyed her from top to bottom. Her black hair had escaped the confines of her bow and mud covered her half boots. “Instead of a well-groomed sister of a marquess, you look like a mess of dirt, grime, and sweat.”
“Dirt, grim, and glisten,” she said in an authoritative manner. “Only horses sweat. Mother says girls glisten and boys perspire.”
“What do pigs do?” A tiny smile broke across his lips.
“Are you calling me a pig?” She narrowed her eyes in challenge.
He quickly subdued his humor. If provoked, she might be more dangerous than the angry magpie hurling squawks their way. “No. If recollection serves, pigs don’t sweat, glisten, or perspire,” he said. “That’s why they wallow in the mud.”
“Astounding,” she answered incredulously.
“Never mind. Once your governess finds the depth of your dishevel you’ll be punished, I’d
wager.”
Once a pristine white, the color of her simple dress resembled the dirty coal-infused fogs that smothered London on cool autumn days. The sash around her waist had somehow come untied, and the ends had turned black where she’d dragged it along the ground as she defended her territory and the baby bird.
“It’s my governess’s fault I look like this.” Daphne waved her hand down the front of her dress. “She won’t let me wear Alex’s hand-me-down breeches and shirts. Who would want to wear a dress when gathering briar branches?”
“Indeed. Who would?” Sympathetically, he grinned. There was no sense in making the point, but he highly doubted if a single bath would clean the filth she’d managed to attract today.
“My governess will make me put myself to rights before I’m allowed any dinner.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It makes little difference. I came prepared to spend the night. I have plenty of provisions and a warm blanket.”
His gaze darted from hers to the cat that crouched in preparation to strike. The tip of Athena’s tail flickered in warning of an impending pounce, one that would lead to victory with the spoils of war, namely the baby magpie, in her mouth.
“Get down.” Daphne grabbed his arm as she ducked.
The mother bird squawked as she flew past without any consideration for their position. This time she’d reserved her screeching fury for Athena and swooped low over the cat’s back. Athena darted in a zigzag pattern toward the kitchen.
Paul inhaled sharply as his gaze raked over Daphne’s bloodied arms. Scratched and bruised, she had suffered a severe thrashing from something, most likely an angry cat. Normally, Athena didn’t live up to her namesake, the goddess of war. Alex’s cat much preferred prowling around the kitchen for any scraps that might have dropped and expressing her thanks with a quick rub against the cook’s legs and a purr. But having wet linen repeatedly hurled at its head would give any cat cause for attack. “Did Athena do that to you?”
She shook her head. “I tripped and landed on the bramble branches.”
With a slight tug, he straightened out her arms to study her injuries. His hands dwarfed her smaller ones, reminding him she wasn’t just a hellion on a mission but a little girl. Some of her dress stains were the result of dirt, but far more of the brown blotches were dried blood. Her impressive conviction to save the little bird perplexed him. Didn’t most little girls prefer needlework, painting, and playing with dolls?
He pulled her gently toward the house. “Those scratches must hurt. Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
“I’m not leaving him.” She jerked her hands away and pointed at the bird on the ground.
Paul drew a deep breath and glanced at the fountain in the courtyard. The gurgling water soothed and encouraged him to practice sufferance as he exhaled. Sometimes he lost his patience with Lady Alice Hallworth, Alex’s youngest sister, who had a tendency to whine, but never Daphne. Her confidence and moral compass defied her young age. Only her bottom lip sticking out betrayed her stubbornness, a trait that she had in abundance. “That magpie came close to attacking you. This isn’t worth you getting hurt. You can’t change Athena. She’s born to hunt. You need to let nature take its course.”
Daphne blew a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes. “I’m not changing nature or Athena’s behavior. I’m just modifying it a tad.” She turned her unyielding gaze to him. “I’m not scared of the magpie.”
Had he ever been that stalwart in his principles or that innocent?
Perhaps when his mother was alive and he’d had her undivided attention. Once she was gone, no one paid much heed to him or his needs. His father’s interests had focused solely on his older brother, Robert, the ducal heir. Paul’s priorities then had changed to shocking his sire with his wayward actions—gambling and drinking to excess. He learned early that if he lived up to his reputation as a firebrand his father paid some mind to him.
“Come, Daphne. I’ll escort you inside. You need a bath, and your nursemaid should attend to your wounds.”
“Not until I know he’s safe.” She crouched next to the little bird on the ground.
He hopped and fluttered his wings, almost managing to become airborne. His brothers and sisters squeaked and tweeted in encouragement. Their little chorus of protests grew more frantic the longer their mother was gone from the nest.
“I have an idea,” Daphne offered. “Would you help me? I asked Alex earlier, but he had estate work to attend to. Alice is looking through the latest fashion plates Mother received from London.”
He didn’t miss the slight crinkle of the little hoyden’s nose at the word “fashion.”
“What do you have in mind? I don’t have much time.” Paul brushed his hands together. “Lucky for you, I haven’t lost my sense of adventure. I’m always game for anything completely inappropriate.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, then stood. “This is life and death we’re discussing. Not some stupid prank of schoolboys.”
She was deliberately piquing him. “Schoolboys? Seriously?”
“Of course. Pardon me,” she mocked. “Ever since you and Alex returned home from university, you both have preened and paraded like peacocks. Eton must offer a requisite class on offensive male behavior.”
He knew better than to quarrel with a tart-tongued spitfire, but she needed correction. He took a challenging step closer. “Haven’t you been taught that a man’s honor and character are something to be cherished and guarded?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve been warned they’re very fragile and to take heed when around one.”
The little rapscallion never ceased to surprise him with her quips. He threw back his head and laughed. For the life of him, he couldn’t resist and tapped her on the nose. “Well done, minx.”
With a dip of her head, she swept her hands out to the sides and delivered a courtly bow. A heated flush, one undoubtedly caused by his praise, crawled up her neck to her cheeks.
Though filthy, Daphne was really quite adorable the way she straightened her shoulders to try to quash her embarrassment. Pembrooke was quite fortunate that he had such an entertaining little sister. With a slight grin, he turned his attention to the nest in the tree. With little trouble, he could scale the oak’s branches, deposit the bird, and be down before anyone, namely that obnoxious mother magpie, returned. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll climb the tree and put the little fellow back in his nest. Then we can both leave this battlefield and prepare for the evening.”
“You’ll do that?” she asked.
The adulation in her gray eyes made his throat cinch tight. No one ever looked at him like that. He scrambled madly to come up with something to say that would shock or at least disabuse her of the notion that he deserved her admiration. He’d made it his life’s mission to be outrageous.
“Paul?” Daphne pulled on his sleeve. Once she had his full attention, she continued, “I tried to climb the tree, but couldn’t reach the second branch to pull myself up.” Suddenly, she smiled. “My opinion of you has changed. It proves you are worthy of my friendship.”
At least someone, even if she was an imp, appreciated his company. Perhaps she could have a conversation with his father. She could certainly go toe-to-toe with the old man.
“Would you sit by me at dinner tonight?” She bounced on her feet like a bobber on a pond. “Pleasssse.”
“I can’t. Your brother and I are dining in the village this evening.”
Her face fell as if he’d stolen her favorite pastry from her plate. Immediately, he regretted sharing that tidbit.
“To see your favorite barmaids and make fools of yourselves as you play hazard until the dawn?” Her mouth dipped into a frown. “Boys have all the fun. It’s so unfair.”
“To make up for the all unfairness in life, how about I promise to take you riding tomorrow?” Paul shrugged out of his coat. “We’ll ask Pembrooke and Alice to join us.”
“Really?” Excitement blazed in her eyes, turning them from gray
to silver. “That would be lovely.”
In seconds, he had managed to hoist himself onto the first branch. “Give him to me, will you?”
Daphne carefully scooped up the baby bird, then gently placed him in Paul’s outstretched hand. The small claws of the bird’s feet and downy-soft feathers tickled his palm. He carefully placed the bird in one of his waistcoat’s front pockets.
Without much fanfare, he pulled himself up to the second branch, then spread his body halfway across the limb. He reached into his pocket and found the soft quiver of feathers. Gently, he pulled the bird free, then placed him back in the nest with his brothers and sisters. A chorus of chirps and tweets greeted him on behalf of his benevolent actions.
Without warning, the mother magpie descended in a rage and seemed to surround him in every direction with a flurry of feathers. Attacking and screeching in hysterics, she beat her wings around his head and pecked at his face. He covered himself with one arm and tried to shoo her away. She managed to find a place where his cheek was exposed, then pecked him without mercy.
“Bloody hell.” The pain of an ice pick plunging into his face would have hurt less. He scrambled backward from the nest, mindful of the branch below, then plummeted to the ground with a thud and landed on his back.
A trail of hot blood ran down his cheek where the bird had brutalized him. He rolled to his feet. The magpie kept swooping at them, so he grabbed Daphne’s hand and pulled her away from the tree to escape any further attacks.
“I hope that doesn’t leave a scar.” She handed him a piece of her mother’s table covering. “What people say about you isn’t true.”
He stopped, completely speechless, and stared for a moment, then took the square of material and wiped the blood from his face. He grimaced, then schooled his features so his characteristic aloofness returned, replacing his earlier ease and warmth. He shouldn’t have let a snip of a girl past his defenses.
The rays of the setting sun tangled in Daphne’s black tresses, painting them mahogany. The bits of twigs and leaves twined in her hair completely ruined the effect. His gaze slid past her to the orange horizon. His behavior was becoming infamous if a nine-year-old girl had heard rumors about him. He shrugged into his riding jacket and picked up the hat and gloves he’d discarded. Uncomfortable with her steely gaze, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. Appearing not to have a care in the world, he strolled toward the front of the house.
The Good, the Bad, and the Duke Page 1