by Darcy Burke
Joy to the Duke
Darcy Burke
Contents
Joy to the Duke
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Author Note
Books by Darcy Burke
The Jewels of Historical Romance
About the Author
Joy to the Duke
Denied the woman of his dreams by his father’s meddling, Calder Stafford, has spent the last decade proving himself to be self-sufficient, austere, and utterly uninterested in joy. Now that he is the Duke of Hartwell, he’ll enact his revenge by abolishing the holiday traditions his father loved so well. His sisters will not sway him and neither will the woman—newly returned to town—who was stolen from him.
* * *
Returning to Hartwell to care for her mother, widow Felicity Garland is delighted to be back home, especially for the holidays. However, the jolly festivities she expects are nowhere to be found. When she goes to the source of the problem—the duke—she’s astonished to see how much the young man she once loved has hardened. It’s up to her to break through the impenetrable fortress around his heart—not just to save Christmas, but to save him.
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Joy to the Duke
Copyright © 2019 Darcy Burke
All rights reserved.
* * *
ISBN: 1944576673
ISBN-13: 9781944576677
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Book design: © Darcy Burke.
Book Cover Design © The Midnight Muse Designs.
Cover image © Period Images.
Darcy Burke Font Design © Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs
Editing: Linda Ingmanson.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Created with Vellum
For my children, who are the very definition of joy
Chapter 1
County Durham, England
December 1811
* * *
Felicity was back.
Calder strode from the drawing room at his estate, Hartwood, via the same doorway his younger sisters had just used to depart. But he didn’t follow them. He went in search of a footman and sent him to the stables to see that a groom saddled his horse. After sending another footman to fetch his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, Calder made his way outside. A short while later, he raced toward the village of Hartwell.
Founded in the Middle Ages, Hartwell was built around a center market square. The spire of St. Cuthbert’s, the twelfth-century church, stood sentinel over the quaint gathering of shops and cottages.
With the holiday season upon them, doors and windows were decorated with festive greenery. There was, all around, an aura of good cheer. It did not, however, permeate Calder’s carefully constructed exterior. Words such as “quaint” and “festive” and “joy” had no place in his heart.
The mere thought of that organ made his squeeze. Or, more likely, it was the knowledge that Felicity Templeton—no, she was Felicity Garland now—was near.
Calder knew her mother had returned to Hartwell last year, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid her. Even so, he was aware of precisely where she lived. How else could he be certain to steer clear of her?
Turning his horse down Kingston Street, he eyed Mrs. Templeton’s cottage farther down the road. Like its neighbors, the home was festooned with pine boughs. Smoke wafted from the chimney, rising above the thatched roof.
Now what?
He realized he didn’t know what he meant to do. Speak to her? He shuddered inwardly at the thought. Felicity had run off over a decade ago, breaking his heart.
Yet, he had plenty he wanted to say to her. His mind raged with questions and anger. Why had she left without a word?
Except he knew why. His father had paid her family, securing their future so that marriage to the heir to a dukedom wasn’t necessary. It appeared that had been her only motivation in attaching herself to him in courtship. Not love or attraction or affection of any kind—she’d been driven purely by avarice.
Calder took a deep breath. Cold winter air filled his lungs, freezing his insides the way everyone presumed they were. He had a heart of ice and a hollow soul. So they said.
And they weren’t wrong.
A figure stepped out of the cottage, followed by another. Calder moved his horse to a side lane, positioning himself behind a tree.
The two women passed through the gate into the street and linked arms. Even from this distance, Felicity was precisely as he remembered. Tall and graced with curves that could make a man weep with want, her features were so finely honed, surely every artist in the kingdom should want to paint her. Blonde curls peeked from beneath the rim of her bonnet. She laughed at something her mother said, the lilting song of her voice somehow easing the ache inside him.
Only for a moment. As she moved along the street on the other side, he saw her face more clearly—the delicate arch of her brows, the gentle sweep of her nose, the sculpted beauty of her cheekbones and jawline. But his gaze settled on her mouth, with its lush pink lips that could kiss and seduce him like no one else.
Not that she’d actually seduced him, not completely. He’d anticipated taking her to bed when they wed. That dream had died. Or, perhaps more accurately, had been stolen.
Still, he feasted on her, his gaze moving hungrily over her to memorize every new detail—the crinkles around her eyes when she smiled, the air of confidence and perhaps wisdom, the smart way she surveyed her surroundings.
Bloody hell. She was looking this way.
Calder turned his horse and cantered down the lane toward Shield Street, the main thoroughfare that cut through the village. His heart beat quickly, and, if he were honest, he would realize it wasn’t due to the ride. But he refused to allow it to be because of Felicity. He’d seen her, and that was enough.
Except, knowing she was near was likely to be a fracture in his mind.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Calder had slowed his mount as he’d turned onto Shield Street. Blinking, he pulled himself from the dark pit of his thoughts and focused on the man addressing him. Alfie Tucket, the cabinetmaker, stood outside his shop. He bowed, bending his tall form before straightening once more.
“Good afternoon,” Calder said. He might be a blackguard, but he was also polite. Sometimes.
“On your way to Shield’s End?” Tucket asked, blinking as he looked up at Calder on his horse.
Calder realized he’d been riding in that direction—the old house stood at the end of Shield Street, hence
its name. Rather, it had stood. The structure had burned over a week ago.
“No,” he answered, even as he considered going to see it. Beyond his curiosity, he should care about the destruction since the property belonged to his brother-in-law. The man he’d forbidden his sister to marry.
And whom she’d wed last week.
Tucket shifted his weight, looking slightly uncomfortable. His father was the caretaker at Shield’s End. It was possible, if not likely, that Tucket knew that Calder hadn’t visited the damaged house and that he hadn’t attended his sister’s wedding.
There it was again. That sharp, brief twinge in his chest. Though he didn’t react, Calder never failed to register the sensation.
Calder turned his horse once more and rode in the opposite direction from Shield’s End, toward Hartwood, which stood atop a hill that overlooked the village. The dukes of Hartwell had lived there for centuries. Would they still?
Only if Calder married, and though he was now thirty, he couldn’t be moved to take a wife. Not when Felicity still lived in the recesses of his mind.
Time to evict her, his mind chided.
He thought he had, but now that she was here… He shook his head. Perhaps he could find a way to make her leave again. Or, if he were lucky, her stay would only be temporary.
Arriving at the Hartwood stable, Calder turned the care of his horse, something he typically saw to himself, over to a groom. A ripple of unease ran through him. He needed to walk. Curling his tongue, he whistled. A moment later, his dark red-brown greyhound bounded to his side.
Calder stroked the dog’s head, scratching her behind the ears. As Calder set off from the stable yard, Isis fell in beside him. They walked past the gardens to where the hill began to slope. Nestled at the base was the family crypt, a place Calder never went.
There lay tragedy and pain—a parent he missed with every fiber of his being and another he loathed with equal vehemence.
The question that had come to his mind earlier returned: would there be any more dukes of Hartwell? He ought to ensure there weren’t, at least not from his line. There had to be a cousin somewhere who would inherit. It would serve Calder’s father right to have the title pass to some distant relative. Or to pass to no one at all.
The chill in Calder’s heart hardened to stone as he thought of the man who’d raised him. The man everyone else remembered fondly, particularly his sisters. They hadn’t been subjected to his high expectations, his ruthless demands for perfection at all costs. He hadn’t paid the men they’d fallen in love with to leave and then crowed about how right he’d been about them all along.
The twinge pinched his chest again. Perhaps he should have supported his sister’s marriage. He barely knew her husband, the Earl of Buckleigh, but from what he’d seen, the man was a volatile fighter, a pugilist regarded for his efficient brutality in the ring. And yet, he couldn’t see his sweet, fierce youngest sister, Bianca, marrying someone like that.
Calder ran his gloved fingers over Isis’s head. “It doesn’t matter, does it, girl?” he asked softly. “He wanted me to be a beast, and so I am.”
Isis nudged his hand in response then sat down beside him, content just to be next to him. She might be the actual beast, but she was far kinder and more loving than he.
“I don’t really deserve you,” he murmured.
He looked down into her large brown eyes that gazed at him so adoringly. Squatting, he stroked her neck and sides with both hands. Then he looked back toward the crypt and spoke to the man he despised.
“I am alone, and I shall probably remain that way. I hope that taunts you for an eternity.”
Calder rose and turned, striding back toward the house with Isis trotting alongside him.
Yes, his father had raised him to be ruthless and unyielding. And since Calder strove to excel in everything, that meant he was as cold and unforgiving as one could be.
“You look lovely, dear.”
Felicity donned her cloak just before opening the door for her mother. “Thank you, as do you, Mama.” She picked up the small bag, which held her dancing slippers—Mama wouldn’t be dancing since she was still somewhat recovering from her illness—and followed her mother out into the cold, dark evening.
“I’m so looking forward to the assembly,” Mama said as Felicity linked arms with her. “How many years has it been?”
“Ten.” Felicity recalled the last assembly she’d attended in Hartwell. She’d been eighteen and so eager to see her love when he came home from Oxford for the holiday. They’d spent the prior summer together, enjoying every moment possible in each other’s company, dreaming of the future in the warmth from the sun and from the passion of their stolen kisses.
Only, he hadn’t come. His father had explained that he wouldn’t be returning for the holidays, and he’d given her a letter. Brief and cold, the words written by her love had stated in plain terms that they had no future together.
When her father had suggested they move to York where her older brother would be practicing law, she’d leapt at the chance to leave Hartwell—and her broken heart—behind. She hadn’t been back since.
“You came last year, didn’t you?” Felicity glanced over at her mother, whose white-blonde hair was swept into a fashionable style, though it was partially obscured by the hood of her cloak, which she’d pulled up as they’d left the house. It was important she keep warm after having been ill. Her ailment had been the only thing that could draw Felicity back, and so here she was. She had to admit she’d missed the village and its people, especially at this time of year. Christmas in York couldn’t come close to the charm and tradition of Hartwell.
“I did, but it wasn’t the same without your father.” She summoned a smile as she looked at Felicity. “And you.” Mama reached over and patted Felicity’s hand.
Papa had died last fall—it was hard to believe it had been over a year already. Awash in grief, Mama had wanted to escape from the house she’d shared with her husband for the past decade, where he’d fallen ill and died. Coming back to Hartwell, where she still had friends and a cousin, had made sense despite Felicity trying to dissuade her.
But that had been selfishness on Felicity’s part. Hartwell, for all the good memories it held, would always be the place where she’d lost her innocence, where she’d been a fool to give her heart so completely.
“I’m so glad you’re with me this year,” Mama said, smiling. “And I do hope you’re here to stay.”
That was an ongoing debate. Felicity had a home and friends back in York. Yet, it was hard to deny her mother’s request. Felicity had begun to hope she could talk her into returning to York and living with Felicity.
“Or you’re going to come back to York with me. I know you miss your friends.” Felicity flashed her a smile, and her mother laughed.
“Don’t try to sway me with your father’s charm. I am immune.”
She wasn’t either, but Felicity only chuckled in response.
Mama slid her a probing look. “Are you looking forward to seeing anyone in particular? You’ve kept to yourself for the most part since returning.”
It had only been a handful of weeks, really. “I’ve been busy helping you.”
“Yes, and I’m delighted to have you here with me. I know you are the reason for my recovery.”
“Not entirely.” Felicity knew her presence had helped. “Dr. Fisk had a great deal to do with it.”
“You’re right, of course. In fact, I wonder if he might have been able to help your father.” Her voice turned sad. “We should have returned to Hartwell when he became sick.”
Felicity squeezed her mother’s arm gently. “You mustn’t think like that. You told Dr. Fisk about Papa’s illness, and he said there was likely nothing he could do, that you’d done your best to care for him.”
“It’s hard not to feel regret,” Mama said softly. “But then you seem to be unaffected by that emotion.”
Hardly. Felicity regretted more than
she admitted, all of it to do with Calder Stafford. She’d almost thought of him as “Chill,” the nickname from his youth when he’d been the Earl of Chilton. Now, however, he was the Duke of Hartwood. She’d never liked calling him Chill—the cool moniker hadn’t made sense to her, not when she thought of him as so warm and caring.
How wrong she’d been.
They reached the assembly hall, where a line of carriages dropped off elegantly clad attendees. Light and conversation poured from the building, lending a festive air. A tremor of anxiousness rippled across Felicity’s shoulders. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face Calder.
She chided herself internally. She refused to be intimidated by him or the prospect of seeing him again. She was ten years older, widowed, and she’d lived on her own the past two years. The young girl he’d so callously hurt was long gone.
Holding her head high, she escorted her mother into the hall. In the vestibule, a footman took their outer garments, and Felicity swapped her boots for her dancing slippers.
They strolled into the ballroom, which was already quite full. Young ladies giggled in the corner, while a group of young bucks tried to appear composed as they surveyed the room, their gazes continually returning to the young ladies.
Felicity smiled to herself. She remembered what it felt like to be youthful and excited, anticipation for the future—the unknown—coursing through her.