In Bed With the Duke

by Christina Dodd

  How strange. She had never seen any of them smile before.

  “Throckmorton arranged for the stable boy to hold our horses,” Jude said. “There’s something odd about this palace and this party. And this country, for that matter—they’re having some kind of weird costume party. They’re all dressed as ghosts or something.”

  Emma realized what Michael and Lady Fanchere had done, and chuckled deep in her throat.

  Michael grinned down at her.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about that, Michael?” the other man asked.

  “Yes, Throckmorton, I might.” Emma loved the way Michael’s voice sounded while he was smiling: warm, amused, smug.

  They reached the massive front door. The men placed their pistols in holsters strapped to their sides, a futile attempt at discretion, and walked out into the courtyard.

  The night air was smoky; torches lit the perimeter of the walls.

  Carriages were rumbling across the cobblestones and up to the steps. Men and women dressed as Reapers were descending, stopping and mingling with the other guests, then laughing as if they all enjoyed this masquerade more than they should.

  No one seemed at all interested in four men dressed as travelers and a young woman in damp, dirty clothes.

  “An odd and peculiar place you chose to inhabit, Michael,” Nevitt snapped.

  “A good part of the time, sir, it was not a choice,” Michael said firmly.

  “Over here.” Throckmorton led them toward the stables, then beckoned, and a boy came forward, leading two horses. He handed reins to Throckmorton and to Jude, and went back for the other two horses tethered nearby.

  “I’ve got another mount below,” Michael said. “We can stop and get him on the way.”

  “Old Nelson.” Emma sighed with delight. “I’m so glad. I would hate to leave him behind.”

  “In the meantime, can the young lady ride with you, Michael?” Throckmorton asked.

  “Throckmorton, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Michael flashed him a grin.

  Emma didn’t like being demoted to mere saddle luggage. “Or perhaps, Mr. Throckmorton, Michael can ride with me.”

  “Who is this saucy wench?” The Duke of Nevitt sounded stern, but one side of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile.

  “Let me introduce you.” Michael took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the Duke of Nevitt. “Father, this lady is Miss Emma Chegwidden.”

  She curtsied as correctly as she would in any ballroom.

  Michael continued. “She saved my life when it was in danger. She saved my heart when I thought it was broken. She saved my sanity . . . for what that is worth.”

  Jude snorted.

  Michael never turned his gaze away from his father, but his fist flew out and punched Jude in the arm. As calmly as if nothing had happened, he continued speaking to his father. “She has consented to be my wife, and I’m going to marry her as soon as I can. Pray give us your blessing.”

  Nevitt accepted the reins, put his boot in the stirrup, and lifted himself into the saddle.

  Emma tensed. Oh, God. He was going to refuse.

  He looked down at them. “If she did all those things, then she’s more than you deserve, boy. Of course you have my blessing.”

  Emma almost collapsed with relief . . . and surprise.

  “Father recognizes an Amazon when he sees one,” Michael said in her ear.

  “I’ll help you up, Miss Chegwidden.” Jude put his hands on her shoulders. “Michael, hurry up.”

  Michael mounted and held out his hand.

  Emma put her hand in his, her foot in Jude’s cupped palms, and scrambled into the saddle behind Michael, flashing, she was sure, bare legs as she wrapped them around the horse.

  She had been the Reaper; she was not riding side-saddle.

  The men noticed, of course. They were men. But there was no censure in their gazes.

  Nevitt wheeled his horse away, then wheeled it back. “Michael, you should worry more about Miss Chegwidden’s father’s blessing.”

  “My father is deceased, sir,” she said.

  “I always said Michael had the devil’s own luck,” Nevitt said gruffly. “But I’ll stand in for your father and tell you—you don’t have to marry this reprobate. You’ve saved his life and I owe you for that, and I can settle a sum on you that would enable you to be an independent woman.”

  “Father, for the love of God, shut up!” Michael pulled her arms tightly around his waist. “She wants to marry me.”

  Jude laughed and mounted his horse. “Probably just for your position as the future Duke of Nevitt.”

  Throckmorton chuckled, but his gaze wandered, scrutinizing the gate and the guards, before he also mounted his horse.

  “I don’t care why she wants to marry me,” Michael said. “She can have my every penny; she can flaunt the title when she gets it, as long as she stays beside me and keeps the darkness away.”

  Emma realized she needed to make her position clear now, before they rode away and conversation was no longer possible. In her firmest tone, she said, “I intend to marry Michael, and squander all his money and run his life, and make sure he never again consorts with wicked women or gambles with licentious men. I promise I will henpeck him until he has no life beyond what I allow him, and when we die, I will lie in his arms through all eternity.”

  For a moment, the men were silent.

  Nevitt took out his handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk.

  “There you go. I’ve lost all control of my life.” Michael sounded cheerful, and he picked up her hand from around his waist and kissed it.

  “It’s about time. You were never good at control, anyway,” Nevitt said.

  “Bravo, Miss Chegwidden!” Throckmorton urged his horse forward. “Well said. Now let’s go.”

  Michael replaced her hand on his waist. “Hold me tight. Never let me go.”

  He and Emma followed Throckmorton out the gate and down the steep road. Nevitt and Jude followed them. They avoided oncoming carriages, riding into the darkness and the forest below.

  Michael led them into the woods to Old Nelson.

  As Michael adjusted the stirrups, Emma greeted the gelding with delight, then mounted him and sighed with relief. Now she felt at home. She felt free.

  Michael looked up at her. “You can’t ride the roads of England righting wrongs, you know.”

  “No?” She smiled down at him. “I can’t?”

  “You’re going to lead me a merry chase, aren’t you?” He sounded resigned. And delighted.

  Nevitt watched and announced, “We’d better get these two married in Spain. Michael was always an impatient lad.”

  Emma glanced at her future father-in-law in dismay. How much had they betrayed with a glance and a few words?

  Nevitt chuckled. “Don’t worry, lass; the first child can come at any time. The rest of them take nine months.”

  Michael mounted his horse. “Father, stop embarrassing Emma and ride. We want to be well away from Jean-Pierre by morning.”

  “He’s a coward,” Jude said.

  “He’s not a coward.” Michael led the way back to the road. “He is the most dangerous man I know. Throckmorton’s right: We should get out of Moricadia as fast as possible—before he discovers what I did with Sandre, and before all hell breaks loose.”

  “So my sources are right?” Throckmorton asked. “Trouble is about to visit the de Guignards?”

  Michael’s gaze grew cold with satisfaction. “Sandre should have paid attention. The appearance of the Reaper was a sign. The king has returned.”

  The party at the palace was in full swing. Guests dressed as the Reaper danced with abandon, disguised by their masks, their makeup, and their costumes. When asked, they said they were half- mad with the joy of knowing the Reaper had been captured and tomorrow would hang.

  Jean-Pierre believed they behaved like children let out of school because Prince Sandre was nowhere in s
ight.

  Jean-Pierre stood on the balcony, his hand wrapped in a bloody napkin, his wrists torn from his wrestling with the ropes, watching the crowd and wondering where that cursed Durant had hidden Sandre. He’d sent the guard everywhere, into every room, every closet, every cupboard. They hadn’t found him . . . or they said they hadn’t.

  He didn’t trust them. Their hatred had gone beyond fear. If one of them had found Sandre bound and gagged, Jean-Pierre was sure that guardsman would have slit Sandre’s throat without compunction.

  Jean-Pierre didn’t trust the servants, either. They set up a long table on the edge of the dance floor and filled it with dishes of exquisite taste—a peacock with its tail feathers attached, an aspic in the shape of a red rose—and while they did, they smiled. Smiled! That wasn’t the way Sandre’s servants behaved.

  And where were the keys to the dungeon? Sandre’s keys had disappeared. Gotzon’s keys had disappeared. Were there more? Jean- Pierre didn’t know.

  Curse Durant all to hell.

  The small orchestra stopped in the middle of the dance, and blew a fanfare.

  Jean-Pierre leaned over the railing.

  Two hefty men carried out a huge covered silver salver. Pleased chatter swept the dance floor.

  “The pièce de résistance!”

  “A whole roasted pig!”

  The guests crowded around.

  The men hoisted the platter onto the table.

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes narrowed on them.

  Those guys looked more than just strong. They were rough, bearded, and neither of them wore the palace livery.

  His gaze fell on the dome-covered salver again. He realized the contents. He straightened. He shouted, “No!”

  The men glanced up. They met his gaze—and grinned. They whipped off the lid, stepped back—and there was Prince Sandre, naked and trussed up like a chicken, his butt in the air and a lit candle between his hairy cheeks.

  A moment of shocked silence. Then—a hundred Reapers roared with laughter.

  Jean-Pierre sprinted down the stairs, shouting at the men who had carried Sandre to remain where they were. He would get to the bottom of this, he shouted.

  The Reapers laughed harder.

  Jean-Pierre pulled his pistol and pointed it at one of the intruders who had carried in the prince.

  The man froze.

  Then Sandre screamed.

  The candle burned down; Sandre’s butt hair was on fire.

  Jean-Pierre forgot the laughing guests, forgot the treacherous men. He raced to Sandre’s side and blew out the candle and the other burning parts, and when he straightened, the crowd had vanished as if it had never been.

  The party was over.

  The laughter was ended.

  Prince Sandre’s much-cherished pride was ground into dust.

  From a dark corner, Raul Lawrence watched and smiled, then turned away to go back to his home, to his people . . . and to the secret he had hidden so well.

  The rumors were right. The true king had indeed returned to Moricadia.

  Read on for an excerpt of New York

  Times bestseller Christina Dodd’s

  sparkling new historical romance

  coming in March 2011.

  England, 1837

  “So, Grimsborough, this is your little bastard.”

  Eleven-year-old Saber stood on the thick rug in the middle of the big English room in the big English manor. He glowered at the tall, elegant, older woman with the sneering mouth and the pale yellow hair. She stood in front of tall shelves filled with more books than he had ever imagined, and she dared to insult him. In his native tongue, he said, “In Moricadia, I kill people who call me names.”

  “What?” The woman frowned, angry and alarmed. “Grimsborough, what did he say?”

  The shadowy figure behind the wide polished desk did not look up from his writing.

  Five brightly dressed girls, ages five to twelve, stood lined up by the fireplace, and one of them, the skinny one in the middle, said in awestruck tones, “He’s so dirty.”

  “And skinny,” said another.

  Saber shifted his attention to them. Soft, silly English children.

  They stared at him as if he were a trained dancing bear, and when he scowled, the littlest’s eyes filled with tears; she popped her thumb into her mouth, and slid behind her sisters’ skirts.

  “Look, he’s tired.” The oldest spoke with authority. “He’s swaying on his feet.”

  Then in unison, the four biggest girls smiled at him. Kindly, sweetly, as if nothing ugly or brutal ever touched their lives.

  Saber hated them. He hated the lady, hated the tutors assembled to meet him, hated the uniformed servants standing at attention, hated them all. Most of all, he hated the evil man in charge, the man behind the desk, the one he knew must the English viscount . . . and his father.

  Again in his native tongue, Saber spat, “Stupid English wenches.”

  “What did he say?” Again the sneering English lady looked between Saber and the viscount. “What did he mean?”

  For the first time, the man spoke. “Bring him to me.”

  Two of the man’s absurdly dressed servants grabbed Saber’s arms and propelled him around the desk to face the man.

  Grimsborough gestured the candelabra closer, and when the light played across his face, Saber thought he looked like the older woman. Not in his features, which were sharp and strong, but in his attitude: in the aristocratic lift of his chin and contemptuous curve of his mouth.

  The English lady drew in a sharp breath. Because although Saber didn’t realize it, he and Grimsborough looked alike, also.

  Grimsborough examined the skinny, filthy, tired child as if he were a bug to be squashed beneath his shoe. Then he reached out a pale, long- fingered hand and slapped Saber across the face with his open palm.

  The sound of flesh against flesh echoed like a gunshot.

  At the impact, Saber fell sideways.

  One of the girls gasped. One whimpered.

  The woman smiled in satisfaction.

  And, cheek stinging, Saber lunged for Grimsborough.

  The servants caught him, dragged him backward.

  The viscount waved him forward again.

  The servants didn’t let go of his arms this time.

  Grimsborough brought his narrow patrician nose so close it almost touched Saber’s, and his soft, deep, menacing tone raised prickles of fear up the back of Saber’s spine. “Listen to me, lad. You are nothing. Nothing. My bastard by a foreigner, and if I had had another son, your filthy feet would never sully the floors of my home. But God in His infinite wisdom has blessed me with nothing from this marriage but daughters.” He glanced at the girls, so colorfully clothed, so sweet in their innocence, and he despised them with his gaze. “Five daughters. So you will live here until you’re fit to be sent to school. And never again will you speak of your betters in that insolent manner.”

  Saber shook his head, shrugged and gestured helplessly.

  “Don’t pretend with me, lad. Your mother spoke English. So do you.”

  Saber didn’t quite have the guts to swear at Grimsborough, but he spoke Moricadian when he said, “English is for the ignorant.”

  Again Saber didn’t see the blow coming, but the impact of Grimsborough’s palm against his cheek snapped his head sideways so hard, his neck cracked and his ear rang.

  “Never let me hear you speak that barbaric tongue again.” Grimsborough’s voice never lifted.

  Saber lifted his chin. “I hate you,” he said in clear, plain English.

  “I hate you, sir.” Grimsborough said with chilling precision.

  Saber loathed him with his gaze.

  “Say it.” Grimsborough’s frigid eyes held nothing: no spark, no interest . . . no soul.

  Saber glanced toward the elegant, sneering woman. She stood terrified, looking at her husband the way a mouse looked at a snake.

  Saber glanced at the girls. Four of them stood w
ith their heads down. One, the middle girl, stood with her hands clasped at her skinny chest, staring at him, and when their eyes met, her lips moved in appeal. “Please.”

  He looked back at Grimsborough. This man who was his father scared him—and he wasn’t afraid of anything. But he couldn’t give in. Not quite. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “I hate you, sir, but my grandfather told me I had to come to this damp, cold island and learn everything I could in your savage schools about mathematics and languages and statesmanship so I could go back to Moricadia to free my people from cruel oppression.”

  The oldest girl stepped forward as if he interested her. “If you want to free your people, shouldn’t you learn how to fight?”

  He swung a contemptuous glare on her. “I already know how to fight.”

  “You’ll need an army. Do you know how to lead an army?” She looked him right in the eyes, not at all impressed with his bravado.

  “I know how to lead,” he retorted; then grudgingly he added, “But I will have to learn military tactics.”

  “Then we are in accord in one thing—you will cease to be a little beast and become a civilized gentleman.” Grimsborough gestured to the servants. “Take him away. Clean him. Give him over to the tutors, and tell them to use any means necessary to teach him what he needs to know. I will see him here in six months. Please note, I expect an improvement, or I will be unhappy.”

  Saber felt the little shiver that raced through the room at the idea of incurring Grimsborough’s displeasure.

  Picking up his quill, Grimsborough turned back to his desk and his papers, and ignored the servants, his wife, his daughters, and Saber.

  “We will begin with a bath,” Lady Grimsborough said decisively.

  At the mere idea of this woman seeing his naked body, Saber struggled, lunging against the grips of the servants.

  The second to the oldest girl, a pale, soft, silly thing dressed in pink and ruffles, begged, “Mama, he’s so skinny. Please, can we feed him first?”

  “Do you not have a nose? Can you not smell him?” Lady Grimsborough waved her lace handkerchief before her face.

  Saber had learned to fight in a hard school, and he swung on one servant’s arm, knocked the feet out from beneath the other, broke free and raced toward the door.