Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess
A Steamy Regency Romance
Violet Hamers
Contents
A Thank You Gift
Prologue
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Preview: Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Also by Violet Hamers
About the Author
A Thank You Gift
Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.
As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called The Duke she Desires. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.
Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
With love and appreciation,
Olivia Bennet
About the book
She is ice and fire. The touch of her burns his hands like snow...
Though raised like every other well-bred Lady of the ton, Arabella Foster is certainly not one of them. And her unwavering determination to be involved in her father's ducal duties leads her straight into the path of one charming barrister...
Of common birth but with an ingenious mind, Charles Connolly has established his professional reign as London's most sought-after barrister. And yet, there's something that eludes him. His heart's greatest desire: Arabella Foster's hand.
A series of suspicious deaths of prominent noblemen shakes the foundations of London's high society. When Arabella's father receives a threatening note, all clues point to a single common thread: Charles Connolly.
With more than just his reputation on the line, Charles is determined to clear his name and win the favor of Arabella's father.
However, the world is a scary place when darkness falls, and unbeknownst to him, Charles just put himself in the gravest danger of them all...
Prologue
Ten-year-old Charles Conolly sat, staring into the fire. The flames danced and crackled before his eyes. If he closed them, their dance would penetrate the darkness that dwelt there. Eyes closed, eyes open, it didn’t matter—his father was still dead.
His feet hung out into space, as they did on every chair. He kicked them a little bit. He was frightened that the constable was there to take his mother from him, too. He’d had nightmares about it, ever since his father had been taken away. He was learning that nightmares were real. Even when he was awake, the horrible reality was still there.
Behind him, in the other room, his mother and the constable were talking in low voices. He tried to listen, closely.
“How is your son?” Constable Barnes asked. This was a trap—they pretended to be kind. Then, when a person relaxed…that was when they accused that person of something you hadn’t done.
“He’s stopped speaking, since…” his mother trailed off. She sighed. “Since the hanging. I shouldn’t have taken him, but I wanted him to see us, right before…”
Just the mention of it caused Charles to begin to shake. He’d closed his eyes, so he hadn’t seen the awful moment, or what came after. He’d heard someone, screaming. It had taken him a while before he’d realized that it was actually him.
“I have news, Ma’am,” the constable said. Charles’s small heartbeat quickened in fear. So, he was there to take Charles’s mother. His body tensed. What should he do? What could he do?
“Yes?” his mother said. Charles listened, even closer. He waited for the constable to deliver the bad news. Then, he would go in, do something to protect her.
“Another murder has occurred,” the constable began. “We were able to catch the true perpetrator. A man, who looks very much like your husband.”
“Oh, Oh God,” his mother gasped, bursting into sobs.
Charles’s stomach dropped. His small hands were tight fists at his sides. They had killed his father. He thought of his father, then—he had the same dark hair and blue eyes as Charles. Theodore Conolly had been a kind, gentle person. Someone who would have never hurt anyone. The constable kept talking.
“I’m sorry to say that your husband has been cleared of any wrongdoing in the whole affair,” the constable said. “We are…we are so sorry, Madam.”
A tear trailed down Charles’s cheek as he listened to his mother, crying in the other room. Charles stood up, then stalked angrily into the living room, where Constable Barnes was seated at the worn settee with his mother.
“You come to tell us this now?” Charles demanded. He might have been ten years old, but he had the full weight of righteous anger on his side. “You come to tell us that you hanged the wrong man?”
Charles was shaking, and he felt sick to his stomach. The constable looked at him with droopy eyes.
“I’m so very sorry—” he began.
“No, you’re not,” Charles snapped, cutting him off. “What are you going to do? Take my mother from me, too?”
“Charles!” his mother said.
He turned to his mother. She looked pale, faded, as if the life had been sucked out of her since his father’s arrest. Her cheeks were glistening with tears. “What? What is he going to do?” Charles demanded. “He’s taken Father from us! Because he made a mistake!” He turned toward Constable Barnes, who looked like he’d been slapped. “How are we supposed to live?”
“We’ve…we’ve raised some money,” Constable Barnes said. “To ensure that you are both taken care of. So that the boy can go to school.”
“Money? What good is money?” Charles snapped. “I want my father back! You took him from me!”
He glared at the constable, then turned and stormed out through the back door, letting it slam behind him. Charles stood on the back step, breathing heavily. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go. His mother would worry if he disappeared. Charles wasn’t allowed to go far. He sat down heavily on the back step.
His father, a good man, had been wrongly accused of murder. No matter how hard they had tried to convince anyone of his innocence, no one had listened. And they hadn’t been able to afford a barrister.
If only they’d had the money to afford one then. He decided in that moment, that he would become a barrister, himself. Then, he could help people like his father.
Chapter One
Seventeen Years Later
&nb
sp; Now that Nemesis had gotten a taste for killing, a plan had begun to form. The list of names, upon whom the murderer wished to get revenge was long. Five gentlemen, all of whom had wronged the murderer over the past few years.
Since most of the gentlemen on the list were comfortably ensconced at their country estates for the summer, the murderer planned. No one had reported the first gentleman even missing, much less dead.
The murderer had spent the last few hours of dwindling light, scrawling letters to all of them. Threats, which would soon prove to be more than idle. The murderer wanted them all to be afraid, knowing that they were targeted.
My Lord,
You know who I am. You wronged me, severely. You will not see me coming, but you will feel my breath on the back of your neck, cold as January wind.
By winter’s end, you will be dead.
Regards,
It was easy enough to send a letter by post. Then, when winter came, all of the gentlemen would be there, in London—where the murderer would hunt them down, picking them off one by one.
The murderer wrote the letter’s recipient, Robert Follett. Duke of Tiverwell.
A butler stepped forward, to open the door to the carriage. Charles stepped out, looking around at the grand façade of Tiverwell Manor. It was a large country estate, with a massive, multi-story house of sandstone.
He was dressed in his best suit—he wanted to make a good impression on the Duke. He straightened his dark blue jacket, then pushed his top hat back a little. Charles had been invited out to the country by the Duke of Tiverwell, in order to arrange his affairs. Since he had never before worked for a gentleman of this caliber, he had agreed immediately.
The family stood out in front of the house, awaiting his arrival. Charles beamed at them as he stepped forward—Robert Follett, the Duke of Tiverwell cut a rather imposing figure. He was a gentleman of fifty, with salt and pepper hair.
“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, bowing a little. Charles bowed low.
“Your Grace. Thank you for sending the barouche-landau,” he said. “It was most kind of you.”
“It was the least that I could do, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, “since you agreed to come all the way out here to help me with my estate planning.” Charles had been referred to the Duke by the Earl of Danbury, another of his clients, who were mostly members of the ton.
The Duke turned to the lady at his side. “This is my wife, the Duchess of Tiverwell.”
She curtsied—she was an elegant lady, with her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a low chignon. She was dressed simply, in a cream and blue striped silk dress.
“Welcome to Tiverwell Manor, Mr. Conolly,” she said.
“You are most kind, Your Grace,” Charles replied, bowing again.
“And this is our daughter, Lady Arabella,” the Duke said. The Duchess moved, and then Charles saw her. He had heard much about Lady Arabella of late. She had debuted just the past winter. When it was found out that she rode astride, like a gentleman, and participated in archery and fencing, the whole of London had been talking about it.
“Please to make your acquaintance, My Lady,” he said. She was dressed in fencing gear, and was, at that moment, tugging off her gloves. A fencing foil—a sabre, to be exact, was tucked under her arm. She regarded him with intelligent honey-toned eyes.
“Pleased to make yours, as well,” she said, curtsying.
He bowed. When he raised his eyes, she was studying him closely, her head tilted to the side. She smiled.
“I imagine that you’re wondering why a lady is dressed in breeches?”
“Not at all, My Lady,” he replied, taking in her brown curls that framed her face, the freckles—cinnamon flecks across the cream of her skin. “I’m wondering at your use of the sabre over an epée, actually.”
“It’s a more solid weapon,” she replied, a look of pleasure crossing her pink, bow-shaped lips. “An epée is too flimsy for my taste.”
“It’s certainly a different fighting style,” he agreed.
“Do you fence, sir?” she asked.
“I do, My Lady,” he said. “I was captain of the fencing team while I was in school.”
“She wants to challenge you to a duel, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke of Tiverwell said, a note of extreme pride and fondness in his tone. “This is how she measures up all of her potential opponents.”
“I would be happy to accept, My Lady,” Charles said.
She beamed, with genuine delight. “Then I will hold you to your word, Mr. Conolly. I always fence at eight of the clock, nearly every morning.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Charles said.
After they had greeted Mr. Conolly, Arabella returned to her room, where her lady’s maid, Annette, helped her to change quickly. She always sat in on her father’s business meetings, and she was interested to hear what Mr. Conolly would have to say in regards to her father’s proposed plan.
Arabella had been pleasantly surprised by Mr. Conolly. It was rare for any male person, aside from her instructor, to fence against her. There was often a lot of hemming and hawing, and then a soft denial. They all found the prospect of being beaten by a lady daunting, even though they always proclaimed that they were being “chivalrous.” Mr. Conolly had seemed pleased by her offer.
Dressed in a yellow silk gown, she walked straight to her father’s study. On the other side of the door, she could hear her father’s booming voice, then listened as Mr. Conolly answered.
He seemed to be an intelligent and confident man. He interested her immensely. She had never met anyone of his like. That is, she had never met anyone who hadn’t been scandalized by her wearing breeches. She was curious to see if he was merely able to hide his shock better than everyone else.
She knocked on the smooth cherry wood door. “Yes?” her father called out. She opened the door, peering inside. Her father and Mr. Conolly were both sitting across from each other at the desk, which was a riot of papers and ledgers.
“It’s just me,” she said.
“Come in,” her father replied. He turned to Mr. Conolly—who did not miss a beat, Arabella noticed. “My daughter always sits in on my business,” he explained.
“Very good, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly said, turning to Arabella. “We were just discussing the estate planning that His Grace had in mind.”
“Ah, yes,” Arabella said, sitting down in a chair. “He’s told me all about it.”
“I ran it all by her before I enlisted your services, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke explained.
“Excellent,” Mr. Conolly said. “It’s all rather simple to do—however, it involves filling out and filing certain documents. That will take time. Particularly since the first version of your will seems to be incomplete.”
Arabella hadn’t known this. She frowned at her father.
“Never to worry,” her father said, waving her off before she began to ask questions. “We hope that you will enjoy your stay at Tiverwell. The country has its benefits.”
“This is the first time that I’ve been fortunate enough to stay out in the country,” Mr. Conolly said. “I’ve always lived in the city, myself.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Conolly,” Arabella said. “We will make sure that you don’t spend the entire time in my father’s dusty study.”
“That’s very kind of you, My Lady.”
Her father cleared his throat. “My one question is, Mr. Conolly—will we have any pushback from my cousin?” He was, of course, talking about Lord Farley Milton, the Viscount of Landsdale, who would, upon her father’s death, receive the lion’s share of her father’s estate, as well as the title of Duke of Tiverwell.
“I will do my best to—ease the way, so to speak,” Mr. Conolly replied. “If he’s to inherit the title and the county seat, then that may be all of the incentive that he needs to remain quiet. Certainly, I can point out the benefits of allowing Lady Arabella and the Duchess to inherit the funds as well as the London townhome, as you propose.”
“The
re are also certain—priceless objects—which must remain with my daughter and wife,” her father explained. Arabella, cursed with being born female, would be nearly penniless. Unless she married well, or Mr. Conolly was able to change the will, specifically the entail which took away the lion’s share of the money.
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