At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Read online

  Caroline Linden, Katharine Ashe, Miranda Neville & Maya Rodale cordially invite you to join them for romance, mayhem, true love, and happily ever afters.

  At the Duke’s Wedding

  A collection of romance novellas

  The festivities are about to commence, and you have a front row seat ...

  That Rogue Jack © 2013 by Maya Rodale

  P.S. I Love You © 2013 by Miranda Neville

  When I Met My Duchess © 2013 by P. F. Belsley

  How Angela Got Her Rogue Back © 2013 by Katharine Brophy Dubois

  Cover copyright © 2013 P. F Belsley

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication: To Gillian and Jon. May you both live happily ever after.

  That Rogue Jack

  By Maya Rodale

  Chapter One

  “I’m off to Dorset for the duke’s leg shackling. But first I am to collect the ring from Gold & Son’s. Can’t believe my cousin the duke trusts me with his wedding ring.”

  —Jack, Lord Willoughby, with laughter, to the crowd at large in White’s. Or was it Tattersall’s?

  Twelve days before the wedding

  Kingstag Castle

  The sound of carriage wheels on gravel captured the attention of the ancient Lady Sophronia where she reclined in her apartments on the third floor of the east wing of the Duke of Wessex’s vast residence. Miss Henrietta Black, her loyal companion, was with her.

  Henrietta was always with her.

  “That must be another arrival for the duke’s wedding,” Sophronia said. For his upcoming wedding to the lovely Miss Helen Grey, the Duke of Wessex had invited dozens and dozens of guests to his estate Kingstag, for a celebratory house party. “Go see who it is,” Sophronia said. “I am perishing of curiosity.”

  Lady Sophronia wasn’t perishing of anything; she was in remarkably good health. But when she issued a command, Henrietta obliged. No matter how inane or pointless, or how little enthusiasm Henrietta had for the task. When one was a poor orphan utterly dependent upon the goodwill of affluent elder relations, one wished for nothing so much as security.

  Security was to be found in being useful, dependable, essential, and never, ever, ever the cause of any trouble.

  Thus, ever obliging to Sophronia’s curiosity, Henrietta crossed the large sitting room and peered out the windows overlooking the drive. She expected many such journeys across the carpet in the coming days. While the bride had already arrived with her sister, Mrs. Cleopatra Barrows, and their parents, most of the guests were expected to begin arriving today.

  Looking out the window, Henrietta spied the high perch phaeton first. It was painted a glossy black, with wheels in a stunning shade of yellow, like a bee in a bonnet or spiked lemonade at a ball. Or so she presumed, having no firsthand knowledge of bees in bonnets or spiked lemonade at a ball.

  This phaeton in the first stare of fashion must surely be a London carriage. Surely it was the leading contender for the most impractical conveyance ever created.

  It was drawn by a pair of enormous, perfectly matched stallions. Midnight black they were, right from the high tips of their ears down to the hooves pawing impatiently on the gravel drive.

  Only one man could be the owner of such a flashy carriage. Henrietta had her suspicions, which were confirmed when he stepped down. Black glossy boots. Fitted breeches. A bottle green jacket that clung to broad shoulders. Tousled hair the color of wheat, streaked with gold. And that infamous smile.

  It was none other than Henrietta’s least favorite person in Christendom.

  Jack, Lord Willoughby.

  Wessex had invited his cousin to be his best man. They were an unlikely pair, for the duke was steadfast, responsible, and admirable. And Jack was...

  Jack was the most utterly reckless and reliably unreliable person ever to wake in the morning and sleep at night. If breathing were a task under his command, Jack would probably forget to draw breath. Should he be responsible for the beating of his heart, the thing would skid to a stop. Distractions were aplenty with Jack—there wasn’t a woman, wager, or some manner of trouble that didn’t catch his fancy.

  Every twenty seconds.

  Henrietta supposed he could not help his devilish nature. From a young age, he’d caused trouble and wreaked havoc that she could ill afford to indulge in and was obliged to frown upon. Poor, orphaned girl children had to earn their keep with excellent behavior.

  What made Jack truly despicable was his smile. Perfectly white and straight teeth. A dimple in his left cheek. So rakish. And then his eyes! When he smiled, they sparkled like sapphires in sunlight. It had been said upon more than one occasion that his smile could free a man from the hangman’s noose or seduce a woman in a second.

  When an apothecary let it be known that his special formulation of smelling salts was inspired by Willoughby’s infamous smile—and the swooning ladies left his wake—sales of Smythson’s Smelling Salts exploded. No lady’s reticule was complete without a small bottle.

  Jack just smiled. Henrietta scowled just thinking about it.

  “Well, girl, quit your fawning!” Lady Sophronia barked. “I can hear your tragically heartfelt sighs from the far side of the room. Before I expire, you might tell me who has arrived, though I daresay I know who is it.”

  Henrietta turned away from the window to face Lady Sophronia.

  “It is Lord Willoughby.”

  “I like that one,” Sophronia said in manner that gave one to understand that she really liked him.

  “All the ladies do,” Henrietta said. Every single one of them. Except me.

  “He’s a tremendous flirt.” Sophronia stated the obvious. “If he’s ever used his brain for anything other than that, I don’t know of it.”

  “Agreed, my lady,” Henrietta said. She fought the urge to take another look out the window at ... that phaeton.

  “Well, except for you,” Sophronia said pointedly. “He never flirts with you.”

  Because I’m the devoted caretaker to a recluse.

  “I appreciate the notice you have bestowed upon me,” Henrietta replied demurely.

  “I think he can tell you dislike him. You ought to be nicer.”

  “But I don’t like him,” Henrietta pointed out. As a child, he stayed often at Kingstag and regularly led everyone into troubling escapades, except for her, and he teased her mercilessly for it. “Nevertheless, I am perfectly civil to him. Furthermore, I see no purpose in earning his favor. He is a reckless scoundrel who causes nothing but trouble with his every step.”

  “I don’t think it’s his steps that cause trouble,” the old lady cackled.

  “Sophronia!”

  Henrietta found the urge to take another peek out the window. Was his smile so very captivating from three stories up?

  “I think he needs a wife like you. Proper, organized, bossy. You’ll keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Wife? Straight and narrow?” Henrietta was incredulous. It was either that or be devastated that she’d been described as proper, organized, and bossy. “Are you not acquainted with him?”
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br />   “Not nearly as much as I would like to be.” Her wicked grin elicited another protest from the “proper” Henrietta.

  “Lady Sophronia!”

  “I’m not dead yet! Neither are you, for that matter.”

  “I do not know the appropriate response to that,” Henrietta mumbled.

  “How about an inappropriate one?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Poor, orphaned relations could not afford to be inappropriate. Sophronia might claim not to mind, but surely the duke would, especially if his new duchess took issue with the outspoken old woman and her troublesome companion. No, if they were to keep their place, reliant on the duke and duchess’s charity, they would have to be no trouble at all. Whatsoever.

  “Oh my dear Henrietta,” Sophronia sighed. “I do fear your youth is wasted on you.”

  “My youth has long since passed.”

  “Nonsense. You are just four-and-twenty years of age. As a person of five-and-forty years of age, I may say my youth has passed.”

  “Five-and-forty?” Henrietta echoed. And then, because she couldn’t restrain herself all the time, she asked, “Do you not mean five-and-seventy?”

  “Ha! Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “The birthday candles on your cake gave sufficient light to read by.”

  “I knew you had some spark in you.”

  Henrietta murmured something about fire hazards and ensuring safety first.

  “Are you going to avoid him the whole week, then?” Sophronia asked.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  “Alas, I cannot.” Henrietta heaved a sigh. She had quite the task before her—but one she hoped would be concluded before nightfall. “At the duke’s request, Lord Willoughby brought the wedding ring for Miss Grey down from London after having it reset. The duchess has asked that I fetch it from him immediately, for she will be too busy greeting guests. That is, if he has even managed to procure it and bring it safely! We all know he is completely irresponsible. After that, I hope to have nothing to do with him.”

  “Well you’d better chase after him,” Lady Sophronia said. Then with a dismissive wave of her hands she added, “Be off with you. Go get a betrothal ring from that rogue.”

  Henrietta’s plans were immediately thwarted. She took a moment to fix her hair, which she kept secured in a bun atop her head and not in the two braids Jack had always delighted in tugging as a child. Then she pinched her cheeks to bring out some color and made her way downstairs.

  But Lord Willoughby had already taken his shiny new phaeton around to the stables. Then she was pressed into performing other duties as more and more guests arrived and had to be entertained. At mealtime, she found herself seated far from Willoughby and far too occupied with ensuring that Lady Sophronia didn’t insult the other guests too badly with her bluntness.

  Hours passed—increasingly anxious, vexing, and maddening hours—before she had a chance to speak with him.

  Chapter Two

  Jack pocketed the ring and whistled a merry tune as he strolled out of Gold & Son’s jewelry shop on Bond Street. He glanced around to see if there were any beautiful women requiring his flirtations. But no, just bustling pedestrians and one shiftless wretch wearing a vile purple waistcoat skulking in the doorway of the shop next door. His carriage awaited. As did the duke’s wedding.

  The stables

  The following day

  Eleven days before the wedding

  Hippolyta was a beauty. On that, all men agreed. Her curves were so perfectly defined they just begged for a man’s possessive caress. She was smooth to the touch—God, so smooth. She was immensely pleasing to the eye—he couldn’t wrench his gaze away. Riding her was a pleasure like nothing else. And if he were so inclined, Jack knew Hippolyta wouldn’t refuse another man or another woman in addition to him. She was obliging like that. His latest partner in trouble was dangerously tempting and the envy of everyone who laid eyes on her.

  Hippolyta was his new phaeton.

  The new carriage also provided an excellent excuse to avoid the horrors of the house, which began and ended with a plethora of women hysterical over things he could not care less about. Wedding things. Dresses and ribbons and bonnets, and something or other—Jack was very, very easily distracted when it came to such matters.

  A pack of the younger girls mainly comprising Wessex’s sisters had formed a terrifying mob—a ghastly, ghostly bunch of white dresses, giggles, and the occasional shriek. The White Muslin Crew, the gents had taken to calling them. They skulked through corridors and lurked around corners. They took to the gardens and drawing rooms. Jack knew for a fact he was not the only man who broke out in a cold sweat when they approached.

  On the other end of the spectrum, there was that sharp-tongued old harpy, Lady Sophronia, and her upright companion, Henrietta Black. She was neither old nor sharp tongued, but the two women were never apart.

  He’d known her for an age. Even as a child, Henrietta had been far too proper for her own good. He recalled her two braids and how badly he always wanted to pull them. Of course, he gave in to the temptation constantly. One day she’d had enough and walloped him with china breakfast plate, which had shattered after connecting with his thick skull. Damn, had they both gotten in trouble!

  Jacks thoughts strayed, as they were wont to do, toward the seduction of a prim miss such as Miss Henrietta Black. Underneath her proper exterior there was surely a passionate minx. He considered the seduction in exquisite detail.

  For about twenty seconds.

  Then Mr. Blair, a very distant cousin and secretary to the duke, inquired about Hippolyta’s speed. Jack obliged him with the information but was interrupted when a footman refilled his glass—and everyone else’s—with more ale, which led to a rousing toast.

  “To Hippolyta!”

  “Hear, hear!” the gents called out.

  Even Trent “Crash” Ascot, Viscount Everett, raised his glass slightly in tribute to his beauty of a carriage. After what he’d suffered, a slight acknowledgment to Hippolyta was high praise indeed.

  “To Watson!” The footman who had been installed to attend to the gentlemen blushed from the attentions.

  The first night they’d sipped whiskey from a flask in the darkened stables. But already, more items had arrived to increase their comfort, such as cards, spirits, and cigars. At this rate, Jack expected they’d all be bunking here by the wedding.

  “To Wessex! And his bride!” Jack called out.

  “Hurrah! Hurrah!” everyone shouted. Everyone except Mr. Blair. And the groom. Jack frowned, finding that odd.

  “Thank you gentlemen,” Wessex said. “Now do shut up. We don’t want the ladies to hear.”

  Quietly the gentlemen raised their glasses in a silent tribute. They definitely did not want the ladies to hear and get wind of this haven they’d created.

  Then the gentlemen drank. Admired Hippolyta. Made wagers. Played cards. And drank some more.

  Later with the dinner hour approaching, they returned to the house one by one while the ladies were sure to be tightening their corsets, curling and cajoling their hair into intricate arrangements, fussing with stays, shimmying into silk gowns, agonizing over the pearls or the rubies, and generally overthinking everything regarding their appearance.

  Except for Miss Black, who must have been watching for his arrival from the house.

  “Lord Willoughby.”

  He stifled a shout. She had surprised him, waiting in the servants’ entrance and only making herself known as the door shut behind him. Escape was impossible. He would have to brazen it out.

  Because she stood on the steps, Jack had to tilt his head back and peer up at her.

  Her complexion was pale—probably because she spent too long indoors with old Sophronia. Her dark hair was in a spinsterish bun atop her head, with not even a tendril for him to tug for old times’ sake. Her eyes were dark and intriguing, and he detected sparks of anger in contrast
to the set of her lips, which might have been lovely but were currently pressed in a firm line.

  He thought about teasing her lips apart with his tongue and kissing her until the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile.

  Then he thought, best not.

  “Good evening, Hen.” He gave her the Grin. The one that inspired the formulation of Smythson’s Smelling Salts. The one all the ladies loved.

  “Miss Black,” she corrected.

  “Good evening, Miss Black,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow.

  The lady remained unmoved.

  Given the solitude of the servants’ stairs and the dim lighting, many women would have thrust their bosom up against him, twined his hair through their fingers, and murmured all sorts of invitations. He was a bit taken aback and more than a bit intrigued when she did no such thing. Speaking of bosoms...

  “I have no wish to bother you, Lord Willoughby. The duchess has charged me with obtaining the wedding ring from you, which I’ve been trying to do ever since you arrived yesterday.”

  “Is that so?” Jack supposed he had caught her looking at him as if she wanted to speak to him desperately. But then someone had asked him a question or the footman poured more wine, and he had found his attentions engaged elsewhere.

  “If you just hand it over, I shall cease plaguing you about it.”

  “The ring...” he echoed.

  His damned brainbox hadn’t registered a word she’d said because he had noticed that her breasts were exactly at his eye level. Her very fine, full, and pert breasts. Most of his memories of her were from their days as children. There was nothing childish about her now.

  “Lord Willoughby!”

  “Yes,” he said, snapping to attention. He took a step up so he might avoid gazing upon her breasts. For his own good. But then his eyes settled upon her lips, which had parted at his forward step. Nothing childish about her mouth, either.

  And it was dark. They were alone. And he was the sort of man who enjoyed a damn good kiss. Especially when the woman was a challenge and her mouth was plump, pink perfection.