Excerpt: The Duke's Scandalous Kisses

Chapter One

April 1816
Lake District, England

With a powerful shiver, Lorna Chatburn pulled her knitted wool shawl tighter and rose to scoot her chair closer to the fire, while remaining close enough to the table overflowing with hat-making goodies where she and her friends were passing the afternoon. “Will we ever see the sun?” she asked no one in particular.

Their hostess, Mrs. Dixon, also sat at the hearth and sipped from her delicate china teacup. “Don’t concern yourself overmuch. I have many activities you can do in the snow, as well as household entertainments. I’m counting on you ladies to delight us at our little musicale this evening.”

Lorna held back her groan. She couldn’t carry a tune if she had three servants to bear the load. Her fingers were too clumsy to play the pianoforte with any finesse. Her only hope was to join the other ladies in a chorale and mouth the words silently. Her friend, Lady Phoebe Basingstoke, and her aunt Julia happily sang a touch louder in such situations to help Lorna save face, but with only six young women to perform together, their subterfuge might not go unnoticed.

“Arabella, hand me the pink ribbon,” CeCe Dixon said to her sister, holding out her hand. “No, that’s rose. Pink, I said. Pink.” As the eldest of three sisters and one brother, CeCe seemed to laud her extra two years as though it meant she knew so much more than her siblings, none of whom were fools.

Arabella reached for the hank of narrow silk ribbon with a huff. “I planned to use that myself. It matches the poppies, you see?” She held up the white muslin bonnet she was decorating with lace, flowers and ribbon.

Their middle sister, Minnie, was the peacekeeper. “Consider the ivory, Bella. You could dye that lace you have to match the poppies, and the ivory would be the perfect contrast.”

Lorna watched the interchange, for a moment wondering why she and her Aunt Julia, who was a year younger than Lorna, had never fought over anything as children. They were as close as sisters yet more concerned with the other girl having what she wanted, content to take what remained just as long as the other was happy. She glanced at Julia across the pile of bonnets and trim, needles and thread.

Julia smiled, clearly having the same thoughts. As if to confirm that, she held up a spool of pale-yellow thread. “Would you prefer this shade to white?”

Grinning back, Lorna said, “Why yes, thank you.” She took the spool, bit off a length and threaded a needle, then set it aside while she tested several layouts of the trims she’d chosen.

“I don’t understand why we’re making bonnets,” Arabella said, her voice close to the whine her mother harped about constantly. “It’s not as though we’ll be able to show them off to any of the gentlemen here this week. Besides, they’re spring colors. We can’t wear pastels when there is snow on the ground.”

“It’s mid-April,” Minnie said. “Well past time to put away our dark fashions regardless of the weather.”

“I hear it’s even colder in London,” Julia commented. “My nephew Jacob wrote and mentioned this odd weather we’re having.”

“I had hoped Jacob was joining us this week.” Arabella pushed away her bonnet and stretched her arms.

“He had business to attend to,” Lorna said. Jacob, her cousin, would be glad to hear he’d missed out on some unwanted attention. None of the Chatburns was in the market for marriage, although their incomes made them attractive prospects. Their appearances, even more so. While Lorna would never speak of it aloud, because she felt herself rather plain, the men and women they mingled with praised the Chatburns constantly.

“Doesn’t Jacob have the finest pair of eyes? What color would you call them? They’re too brown to be hazel.” CeCe met each young woman’s eyes around the table, looking for a response.

Minnie blushed as she spoke. “More amber, I’d say.”

“You’re both wrong,” insisted Arabella. “They are hazel fading to jade when the sunlight hits them just right.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Lorna smiled. She’d grown up with cousin Jacob and his brothers Tristan and Declan and yet she couldn’t describe either man’s eyes in that sort of detail. If she had to guess, she’d say hazel.

Julia’s features took on a blasé appearance. “I’ve always thought them hazel, myself, but he’s usually laughing at me with narrowed eyelids, so I couldn’t say for certain.”

“Tristan is here, though, which is just as promising as having Jacob among us,” Minnie pointed out. “He’s just as pleasant to look at. Won’t you please say a good word about me to him, Julia? Lorna? Marrying him would be a dream come true.”

Minnie’s full cheeks glowed with happiness, or some such emotion, and her eyes were bright. Lorna couldn’t say for certain what caused the expression, since she’d never felt that way toward a man. She considered her cousins’ schoolmates to be her friends and had met a few men in London during past Seasons, but not once had she been swept breathlessly away at the thought of a man paying her special attention. She’d never longed for a kiss—although she would enjoy experiencing one with a handsome man to see if it was as life-changing as her friends insisted.

Julia had talked about her late husband in those enthralled terms before they married. In the year after their wedding, she’d blushed and turned away when Lorna asked about kissing, or any of the other delights young ladies hinted at but never expressed. Then Ned, her husband, had taken ill and three months later he died. There were no more blushes, no giggles at having been caught staring dreamily out a window. In the two years since, Julia’s smile had returned, a softer, more poignant version, but the laughter in her eyes was gone.

The pain Lorna had seen there frightened the desire for love out of her. She couldn’t bear to suffer a loss like that, so she would never fall in love. Her heart was safer that way.

***

William Foster, 8th Duke of Everleigh, imagined a line extending from the end of his cue stick, past the cue ball and onto the spot on the cushion where he calculated the ball must strike to knock the red ball into the side pocket.

Their young host Barney Dixon chose that moment to hack up a loud, phlegmy cough. “Forgive me, old man,” he said to Everleigh when he saw the duke’s expression, as if they were equals.

Ignoring him, Everleigh once again planned his shot, struck, and enjoyed the crack of the wooden balls colliding just before the red ball fell into the desired pocket. He gave a slight nod in no one’s direction to acknowledge his success, then set toward planning the next shot.

“Must you beat us at every game we play?” Tristan Chatburn, Earl of Margrave, asked evenly. “Doesn’t it grow dull after the first dozen or so wins?”

“Winning only grows old if there’s no money riding on the win. Like now. I’ve only won the last four, though, so the elation is only slightly muddy. I still have another half-dozen wins to achieve before I beg to play something else.” Everleigh chuckled at his own humor. He did hate to lose, and he truly enjoyed winning a bet—perhaps a little too much, he’d admit only to himself. But what he liked most about billiards was challenging himself to find the most elaborate succession of ricochets off the cushions and other balls before sinking into the correct pocket. He didn’t actually need an opponent to play against, but he humored them in believing he did.

Aside from mastering a skill, he enjoyed winning for the money—not that he needed more blunt. His reputation as a card player was well-known in London, so any man who’d continue to wager against Everleigh at a club, or in the smoky card room filled with men escaping the dancing upstairs, deserved to go home with empty pockets.

He missed the next shot to set up a future play, then stood back while Tristan took his turn.

“I must admit to my surprise, your grace, when Mother told me you’d accepted her invitation,” Barney said before gulping whatever he had in his mug.

“Go easy on that, young man. The afternoon is young. What would your dear mama say if you arrived in the dining room boshed this evening?”

Everleigh smiled to showed he meant the warning good-naturedly. Young Dixon was a good sort, if a bit naive. How could he be anything but with such an overbearing mother and three flighty sisters? “Tristan mentioned that he was planning to come, and since I also had an invitation, I agreed to join him. Do you expect more guests to arrive?”

“Mother has a long list of invitations she sent, but with the weather, most wrote notes of their change in plans.”

In Everleigh and Tristan’s minds the weather made the thought of a week with the Dixons only slightly more unpleasant, but their trip was necessary. They’d heard Victor Barrington would also be attending. If they were snowed in with him, they’d have the chance to discretely learn the truth about a matter haunting Tristan’s younger brother, Declan. For that reason, they’d insisted Declan remain at home. Victor wouldn’t spill what he knew if Declan was present. The likelihood Victor would talk at all was slim, but Everleigh was concerned he might recognize Tristan and Jacob, so he intended to do most of his questioning before Victor knew of the Chatburns’ attendance.

But for any of this to happen, Victor needed to be present. With the state of the roads, chances were too strong he wouldn’t come, and their visit would be for naught. Everleigh wouldn’t allow worry to slip into his plans just yet, though. If he didn’t speak to Barrington here, he’d find the man in Invernochty. Either way, he’d find the answer Declan sought.

***

Later that afternoon, after growing bored with winning, Everleigh explored the upper floors of the large house in search of a good hiding place. Somewhere he could disappear to when he didn’t want to participate in the current entertainment offered by Mrs. Dixon. Such as now, when the young people were performing a game of charades in the drawing room. Everleigh loathed play-acting, preferring to leave it to the professionals on stage.

To be honest, he was quite fond of watching the lovely and curvaceous Mademoiselle Angelique du Bois perform both on and off stage, but their friendship had changed when she fell in love with a fellow actor. Everleigh didn’t believe in love, but he wasn’t one to ridicule those who did, and he wished her well.

A burst of laughter from the drawing room below made him question if he’d wandered far enough to avoid discovery. He feared becoming lost if he went farther down the hallway with its polished woodwork and golden sconces, and into one of the wings most likely reserved for the family’s bedchambers. He’d passed a set of double doors that likely opened onto the ballroom, not the ideal place to go unnoticed as it probably lacked a comfortable chair in which to read the book he’d borrowed from the small library, yet he had few options, it seemed. Opening one of the doors, he stood in the doorway and glanced about the room, considering its suitability for his needs. He was correct about the lack of furniture—not even a column or large fern to hide behind should someone come. When he entered, the polished wood floor echoed with his soft footsteps, so he stopped walking but continued his perusal. Then he saw an alcove high above the dance floor––the minstrel’s gallery.

Perfect.

He absently tapped the book in his hand, returned to the hallway, and searched for the door to the gallery stairs. Finding it, he trod softly up, although he didn’t believe anyone was around to hear him. But just in case a servant had too sharp hearing, he kept his steps light and listened for any squeaking boards.

The room was dark, only the light from the windows in the ballroom before filtered through the arched opening where the musicians would play. He hadn’t considered the possible lack of light when he found the book. He should have brought a candle.

Turning, he looked for a chair to drag close to the opening, he found only one, nestled in a dark corner with a pretty young lady nestled in the deep red wing chair. She looked familiar, so he walked into the shadows around her.

He’d been correct—the lady was the widowed Julia Tilney, a good friend of his and a cousin to the Chatburns. She slept soundly, long dark eyelashes fanned out on her pale cheeks. Her pink lips twitched as if to smile. Was she pretending to sleep? He bent and pressed his lips to her. The scent of lavender filled the air around her, its perfume contrasted with a sharp herb he couldn’t name.

What was meant to be a brief buss lengthened as he was unable to pull away when her mouth softened beneath his and offered more. Did Julia know who she was kissing, or did she have a lover staying at the Dixons’ home? She’d never shown a marked attraction to him, so he assumed the latter.

She smiled and purred, stretching her arms over head and he straightened. Her eyelids fluttered open, then widened as her jaw dropped and she gasped. “Who are you?” She clutched the upholstered arms and pushed herself into the slight padding the chair offered.

“Everleigh, as you can plainly see.”

“I see you well enough and I do not know you. Why did you kiss me?” She looked like a cornered rabbit who’d run as soon as she saw her chance.

He stepped back, hoping she didn’t leave but not wanting her to be uncomfortable. “Your lips were so tempting, I couldn’t resist.” He offered her his best flirtatious smile, but it appeared to have no effect on her.

Her shoulders dropped slightly as she relaxed, but she held tight to the chair. Her eyebrows drew together as she glared up at him. “Do you make it a habit to accost sleeping women?”

“Forgive me, Julia. I didn’t think you’d object to an innocent little peck between friends.”

Huffing out a breath, she crossed her arms and thinned her lips, quite clearly piqued and not in a good way. “That explains it. I am not Julia. And that was more than a peck. You missed my cheek entirely.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Is this a new game we’re to play? Charades, I suppose. Am I to guess who you are portraying?” He chuckled. “How many chances do I have? What do I forfeit if I lose, another kiss?”

“Ooh, I’m not toying with you. I’m Lorna Chatburn, Julia’s niece.”

“Come now, you’ll have to do better than that. Julia’s not old enough to have a niece your age, and I don’t recall her mentioning any siblings.”

“Our fathers are brothers, obviously, given we have the same surname, or she did until she married.” She looked away, licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. When she met his gaze again, she asked softly, “Julia has kissed you?”

Her expression was earnest, and Everleigh felt a twinge of concern. She was Julia, there was no question. “You don’t recall my kisses? I’m wounded.” He winked and clutched his hands to his chest.

“I tell you I’m not Julia, I’m Lorna.”

“You cannot fool a friend. Your hair, the shape of your face, even the tone of your voice tells me who you are.”

She shook her head and parted her lips to reply but was interrupted when a voice spoke from the doorway. “Lorna, Everleigh, what are you doing here alone?”