Always a Gentleman, Never a Duke

By Jessie Clever

Lady Eloise Bounds wanted to say something achingly romantic about the night they first met, something about how they were drawn together by moonlight. And while they did, in fact, meet under the moon, she was fairly certain at the time he was a ghoul come to steal her soul, and there was nothing at all romantic about that.

She grabbed a branch of the nearest bush, as if its beleaguered limbs held impenetrable power, and pulled it in front of her to shield her body.

“Stop!” Her voice was loud in the quiet of the night, and she cringed, her eyes going up to the empty and dark windows that surrounded the Mayfair courtyard into which she had slipped only minutes before, certain at any moment that light would appear in one of them and she would be caught. She had gone to so much trouble to escape the house without raising alarm, and now she had nearly given herself away with a cry of fright. For she was frightened.

The creature that stood in front of her appeared to have the qualities of a man, but his eyes glowed red like a demon. She was not of the spiritual sort and hardly of the religious sort, so for her mind to instantly assume the creature in front of her to be of demonic origin spoke to just how ghoulish he appeared.

He held up his hands then, hands that looked perfectly human. She could tell because he wasn’t wearing gloves, and the moonlight traced each curve of finger as an artist might use a brush against the canvas, highlighting just the right bits for maximum effect. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her arms shook so that the leaves of the limb she still held clenched in her hands rustled, and yet she felt the odd romantic stirring at the sight of his long fingers.

“I won’t hurt you.” His voice was soft, much calmer than hers had been, and he kept his hands pushed out in front of him as though to reassure her.

“That’s precisely what someone with nefarious intent would say.”

His hands faltered, and there was the suggestion of a smile in his voice, but the shadows around him were too thick for her to be certain if he did indeed smile. “Do you often encounter gentleman with nefarious intent at midnight in a Mayfair courtyard?”

“I don’t know that you’re a gentleman.” She pulled the limb closer to her chest, bracing it just beneath her chin.

His head tilted ever so much before he began to lower his hands. “If I may,” he said, but his hands kept moving before she gave permission, and she watched him carefully.

He took a step toward her, and she pushed the limb away from her like a sword. He stopped immediately, hands once more in the air, and silence vibrated between them. He didn’t advance though, and after a moment, his hands started to lower again.

Her heart pounded, but the limb had stopped shaking, and she wondered why. Why did this stranger with demon eyes cause such calm to wash over her?

She realized then that he wasn’t coming at her, but rather shifting so he was in moonlight instead of shadow, and finally she saw the truth of it.

“Oh.” The word was sad and hollow, and she felt just a little repulsed at her disappointment. Had she been hoping the man was a ghoul?

Instead he was incredibly ordinary, and the demon eyes were merely a pair of railway spectacles in which the lenses had been swapped for what appeared to be red glass.

She could see his smile now, and she found it to be absurdly boyish. Something hiccupped inside of her, and she pressed a hand to her stomach in surprise.

No. No, it couldn’t be happening. Not like this. The thing for which she had endured two painfully boring seasons couldn’t come now. Not when she had resigned herself to her fate.

“I feel as though I’ve disappointed you somehow.” His voice was boyish to match his smile, and she wished she could see his face more clearly, but the spectacles obstructed her view. “I’m usually in a person’s presence for quite a great deal longer before I do that.”

She tried to stop her own smile, suddenly worried she would give too much of herself away, but she didn’t know why she would think that. This man was a perfect stranger.

She pointed to the railway spectacles. “May I ask what those are for? You’re not precisely on a train at the moment.”

He made a self-deprecating noise then and pulled the spectacles from his face.

Oh lud. His face was boyish too.

His features were clear in the moonlight, but somehow she knew her heart would recognize him even if her eyes could not. He had light brown hair that stuck up haphazardly around the crown of his head as though he had spent a great deal of time adjusting the spectacles, and he hadn’t bothered to fix the damage they’d done to his hair. His forehead was high, his eyes twinkling with mirth much as his boyish smile suggested a private joke, and his jaw was surprisingly firm, almost chiseled. While the man oozed the suggestion of fun, she sensed something strong beneath the surface, and it called to her.

She heard a strange rustling noise in her ears and realized her hand had started to shake once more, and as she still held the limb, it gave her away. She noticed his eyes fall to the limb the moment hers did, and she snatched her hand back, putting it behind her as if to hide it.

He held up the spectacles and thankfully answered her question without mention of the shaking limb. “It’s a new design I had hoped to test tonight, but the clouds keep getting in my way.” He held the spectacles across one open palm as he pointed to the sides of the lens where normally there would have been mesh to protect the wearer’s eyes from flying hot coals and found the mesh had been replaced by cut tin. “I’ve modified the typical railway spectacle to better shelter the eye from outside light and focus the eye’s attention on what’s in front of the viewer.” Now he pointed to the red lenses. “The red is a theory of mine. I propose red light helps sustain a person’s night vision, allowing them to take in the night sky.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “You’re stargazing.”

It wasn’t a question, and she wondered why her voice sounded so breathless.

He blinked, his lips moving without sound for a moment. “I suppose I am. Although rather inadvertently. The main purpose of my excursion tonight is to test the red glass.” He held the spectacles aloft. “Should you like to try them? I would value your input.”

She was momentarily startled by the forward gesture, but if she’d had presence of mind, she’d realize everything about their encounter was forward. Her hand was already reaching for the spectacles when she snatched it back.

“I don’t even know your name.” The words left her lips in a kind of shocked whisper as she momentarily realized what was happening.

She was alone with a gentleman in the dark of a midnight courtyard. It was utterly scandalous, and should they be caught, everything would be ruined. Her mother—Oh God, Eloise’s mother would be lost to hysterics. So much planning had gone into this season, and they’d even managed to arrive in town early, and here Eloise was, cavorting with a stranger in the dark.

“It’s Tuck.” He said it so casually she almost missed it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tuck,” he repeated and then smiled sheepishly. “Short for Tucker.”

It wasn’t proper. The way he said his name and the introduction. The whole thing should have been conducted by a mutual acquaintance in public with lots of prying eyes that would keep everything in check.

But then she found herself saying, “Eloise.”

Tuck smiled that heart-tugging smile and said, “Eloise. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you won’t mind very much playing the part of my research assistant.”

She snatched up the spectacles before she could think about the way her stomach fluttered when he looked at her like that. She pushed the spectacles onto her nose, hooking the bent arms around her ears, and peered skyward.

“I can’t see anything.” It was true. The light of the gas lamp above the door she had slipped out of not minutes before obstructed the view of the night sky.

“Allow me.”

He touched her before she knew what he was about. He gripped her elbows through the heavy weight of her cloak and drew her back into the darkness along the path where she had first discovered him lingering. The heat that seared through so many layers was startling, but it hardly compared to the heat that coursed through her body when her back met his chest as he stopped abruptly.

He was much taller than she had first thought, and she found herself tucked neatly against him. Her eyes widened behind the glass lenses, but she saw nothing, her mind too clouded with the sudden realization of her dangerous position. Oh God, it felt incredible. The whole length of his body was pressed against hers, and suddenly her heart thudded with something too perilous to name.

This.

This was why she hadn’t accepted a single proposal in her two seasons. This was why she had held out. This was why her mother was so horribly frustrated with her. Tears sprang to her eyes at the terribleness of it, and she was glad for the spectacles. Tears because it was too late. She had already resigned herself to what lay ahead of her, finally abandoning her notion that her marriage might be different. That she might obtain the rarest of things among society.

A love match.

Loving the Duke

By Jessie Clever

Instead of proposing marriage to the woman he loved, Stephen Marley was hiding in an apple orchard.

To any onlooker, he would appear consumed by his task, diligent even, in his assessment of the trees he had carefully nurtured over the past seven years in the sweeping plain of coastal soil, rich in nutrients from the sea and the wind.

But anyone with a keen eye would quickly realize Stephen had conducted the same inspection the previous day whilst also avoiding proposing to the woman he loved.

Dinsmore Castle and the dukedom of Greyfair would be known for their exquisite apple crops, and Stephen Marley would die a bachelor.

He made his way down the row of Sweet Alford until he reached the cross section where they’d planted a row of Backwell Red in experimentation. This type of apple had quickly become their most sought after crop, and they’d been forced to find another portion of the coastal plain in which to plant. He turned left, heading deeper inland and to the heart of the orchard where if he stood perfectly still, he heard only the sound of the distant sea, the rustle of the apple trees around him, and the beat of his own heart.

He walked quickly, moving deeper into the trees. As the muscles in his right foot tightened with each step, he marveled at how quickly the orchards had grown. What had started as a few trees planted within the sheltering walls of Dinsmore Castle had soon expanded beyond anything he could have imagined.

When he’d first had the idea to increase their apple yield, he had pictured it as another revenue source for the estate, jobs for the villagers and tradesmen. He’d never imagined Dinsmore Castle and the dukedom of Greyfair would become the largest supplier of apples to the nation’s cider industry.

He paused briefly, fingering the delicate leaf of a Crimson King, remembering that day when he’d approached his cousin with his idea. Lucas, as usual, had been open to the plan, but he’d had one caveat. He wanted Stephen to take sixty-percent of the profits.

Stephen had rejected it, of course, The apple orchards were for the estate, but Lucas had insisted. At the time the new railroad spur line had just become operational, and the farmers on the estate were rushing to get their goods to the London markets. Revenue was up, farmers were thriving, which in turn boosted the economy in the village and the need for tradesmen to keep the farms running. Lucas was content to accept forty-percent of whatever the orchards brought in.

It came to be that forty-percent was a small fortune, and sixty percent fell somewhere between greed and gluttony. Even now Stephen couldn’t quite wrap his head around what had transpired. He’d been the cast off relation, the burden to the dukedom of Greyfair. Although his uncle and Lucas had never made him feel like a burden. It was simply hard not to when one had been sent from one’s home because of the unfortunate circumstance of being born with a twisted foot. How could Stephen have not thought of himself as a burden?

Until now.

Stephen’s head turned unconsciously to the north. Even from where he stood, he could see the open gable of the cottage, its three dormers standing guard along the prow.

Cottage.

He ran a hand over his face and looked away, a maelstrom of emotions coursing through him. Guilt, shame, unease.

He wasn’t yet comfortable in his own newly established role as the orchardist on the estate, and he certainly wasn’t used to the salary he brought in. He was suddenly a man of means and…house. He stared through the trees at the the dormers as if they mocked him. If he wasn’t comfortable with who he was now, how could he possibly expect the woman he loved to be as well?

He knew perfectly well why he was hiding, and it wasn’t because of the thought of proposing. He had already proposed three times after all. It was because every time he proposed, Ethel Jones gave him another reason for refusing him. And as he gazed at the open gable protruding along the tops of the trees, he wondered if he was headed toward yet another refusal, another excuse, and the worst part was, he really couldn’t blame her if she did.

Their courtship had always seemed impossible and yet inevitable at the same time. He could understand her reservations. She was a respected lady maid’s while he was the once impoverished and still disowned distant cousin to a duke. What had he to offer her? Any status he held now was made from trade, and while that wasn’t as frowned upon as it used to be, it wasn’t the same as being born with privilege or earning it through respectable work.

Of course, she made excuses. She had her future to worry about. Love could only take a person so far, and in the end, it was money and position that kept a person fed and warm. He had plenty of one and absolutely nothing of the other.

He gripped his crutch with resolve and headed in the direction of the house. He passed several grazing sheep along the way. The animals fed on the undergrowth in the orchards, keeping the trees healthy and prosperous. He was prone to stopping and admiring them at their work, how carefully they moved between rows, eating only what was necessary. But this time he didn’t linger.

When he stepped from between the rows of trees, the cottage soared up in front of him. The manifestation of Ethel’s last excuse for refusing him: where would they live?

It had been the gamekeeper’s cottage in another life of the estate, and Lucas had bade him use it when they’d first arrived at Dinsmore Castle so many years ago. Stephen had never taken his cousin up on the offer, preferring instead the room he’d found tucked under the eaves on the third floor of the newer portion of the castle. It was enough for a single man, and it had suited him well for years, but now…

His room under the eaves was no place for a wife, and it was certainly not a place where he could start a family. He’d approached the gamekeeper’s cottage after Ethel’s last refusal, intent to see just what sort of work it would need to be habitable again. Only a handful of months ago, it had been overgrown with ivy, shrinking into the forest around it so it seemed like nothing more than the cottage it was purported to be.

Using the wealth he had accumulated over the years from the apple harvests, he had hired a crew to restore it. The damn thing had turned out to be a palace. Once the ivy was removed, the bricks repointed, the shutters repaired, the glass replaced in the windows, and a fresh coat of paint slapped on the front door, the cottage turned out to be a three-story Federal style house with those three proud dormers reaching from its roof. It was breathtaking and beautiful. It radiated with splendor sending his gut into a spiral.

It was far more than he deserved.

Now he not only avoided proposing again, he avoided moving into the thing. Like everything else about him now, it just didn’t feel right.

His eyes dropped to the stone foundation, unease settling in his gut.

He didn’t deserve this. No matter that he’d lived his life with the Bennetts since he’d been discarded by his father, Stephen had never quite settled with the family. Despite their love and care, he still felt like an outsider, and now looking at that stone foundation of his cottage, he felt like a farce. For Stephen Marley didn’t have a foundation on which to stand. How could he ever think of marrying a woman like Ethel?

This grand house with its fine features and facade. Four whole bedrooms on the second floor without a slanted roof in sight. No cramped quarters here. No ducking under the eaves to retrieve the baby in its crib. No knocking his head against the rafters on his way to bed after a long day in the fields.

This was fine living, and he wondered what Ethel’s next excuse would be, unable to fight the feeling that she may be right.

“Even if you keep staring at it, it won’t get any bigger.”

When his cousin Lucas stepped up beside him, Stephen said, “I wager that’s not the first time you’ve said that.”

Lucas’s expression was nonplussed. “Amelia is looking for you,” he said.

Stephen couldn’t stop the flinch. Amelia, Lucas’s wife, had devised a scheme of exercises she forced Stephen to complete three times a week followed by a torturous administration of salve that left the twisted muscles of his right foot tingling and warm. The worst part about it was the regimen worked. In the three years she’d been forcing him to it, his foot had relaxed in some places and grown stronger in others. There was no cure, of course, but the appendage no longer pained him the way it once had. On his good days, he walked with only a cane, and if he didn’t plan on having to traverse the craggy orchards, he chose the cane instead because it gave him better freedom of movement.

His life had improved dramatically since Amelia had come to Dinsmore, but he wasn’t about to tell the Duchess of Greyfair that. He had a curmudgeonly reputation to uphold.

“And you are playing the role of her messenger boy, is that it?”

Lucas looked down, and Stephen’s entire body went rigid, like an involuntary response meant to keep him alive, his body reacted to his cousin in a supernatural way.

“Lucas?” Stephen prodded when his cousin didn’t answer immediately.

Finally Lucas raised his head. “No, not Amelia’s messenger boy. I’ve come with a message of my own.” He gestured back toward the causeway that led to the castle proper. “I thought it would be best if we spoke here where we’re less likely to be overheard.”

Stephen’s chest tightened. “Why is it that we shouldn’t be overheard?”

His cousin was dangerously transparent, and for him to seek subterfuge indicated a serious matter indeed.

But Lucas didn’t answer. Instead, he reached inside his coat, pulling a folded piece of paper from a pocket there. He extended it to Stephen, turning the paper over in his hand until it caught the light.

Stephen froze. His fingers clenched at his side, his crutch caught between his arm and his torso, unwilling to touch the letter offered him. For it was a letter. He knew that at once when his eyes fell on the familiar wax seal still clinging to the paper even though Lucas had pried it open to read the letter inside.

The seal depicted a shield and cross flanked by a pair of lions. Stephen had thought it too simple of a design for the title it represented, that of the Duke of Norfolk, the cousin to the very Queen of England herself.

Once, when Stephen was still quite young but old enough to have learned from his uncle where he had come from, Stephen had stolen into the library of their home in the middle of the night, not wishing for anyone to see what he was about, not wanting them to discover his weakness, and there he pulled down the tome that held all of the insignia of the titles of Great Britain. He looked up this very seal, wondering at its parts, wondering if he could ever belong to it.

He swallowed down the memory of the little boy looking for clues of his family in a darkened library and faced his cousin.

“Do you wish to read it or would you like me to tell you what it says?”

Stephen shook his head. “Just tell me what it says.”

Lucas swallowed, pulling back his hand and tucking the offending letter back into the pocket where he’d taken it from. “The duke is coming to Dinsmore. He claims to have heard of our success with the orchards and wishes to see it for himself.”

“Lies.” Stephen whispered the word in reaction more so than in thought.

Lucas nodded. “I know. The letter is only a guise. Stephen…” But his voice trailed off, so much left unsaid between them.

There was only one reason the Duke of Norfolk would travel all the way to the coast for a small estate like Dinsmore Castle, and it was a reason for which Stephen did not care. But what he hated more was the sudden surge of hope inside of him, the one he had thought long defeated. The hope that one day his family would come back for him.

Lucas waited a beat before saying, “You must tell her.” He patted his coat where the troublesome letter now rested once more inside his pocket. “Before the duke gets here. She’ll figure it out then for herself.” He waited another beat, licked his lips nervously. “Everyone will figure it out.”

Stephen stared at his cousin’s hand resting against his coat and that damn letter. Everyone would figure it out, and yet his jaw remained clenched shut against his secrets.

“When is he coming?” Stephen finally asked after some time.

“Within the fortnight,” Lucas said.

Stephen swore softly and looked away, back up at the cottage, which until a few moments ago had been the only obstacle standing between him and the woman he loved.

But now…

“A fortnight doesn’t give us much time to prepare. We’ll want to have the estate in pristine shape for a visit from the Queen’s cousin.” He was adept at telling his own lies.

Lucas didn’t speak, but then he would know not to. Stephen would string together as many words as possible if only to lengthen the distance between him and the truth.

The truth that revealed his greatest weakness. That he still longed for the family that abandoned him.

Stephen turned and studied the orchards behind him, listened to the birds and the breeze and the sound of his heart, thumping in his chest as every possibility thundered through his mind.

He would need to tell her. But how? A glance at the cottage reminded him of just how much stood between them, and he would be forced to add something else. Something they might not overcome.

“Does Amelia know?” He didn’t know why he asked the question. It was thinking of Ethel that overwhelmed him, and somehow he thought Amelia knowing the truth would help him.

But Lucas shook his head. “It’s not my secret to tell, cousin.”

No, it wasn’t. Only a handful of people knew the truth, and as the years went on, that number dwindled until now there were only three people who knew. Lucas, Stephen, and the Duke of Norfolk.

But when the man arrived at Dinsmore, suddenly everyone would know. It couldn’t be helped.

And with this thought came another. What did the Duke of Norfolk desire so badly that he would risk such an exposure of the greatest secret of the dukedom?

Lucas tapped his pocket again. “I’m sure he would have written directly to you, but you know how that would have complicated matters.” There was a pause, a heavy one, and then, “If anyone had found out.”

His cousin always had a polite way of saying things, and Stephen smiled now. “I know,” he said and gestured to the castle. “Tell Amelia I’ll be along shortly. I just want to wander through my trees for a bit longer.”

Lucas waited, but Stephen didn’t say anything more. Finally, his cousin reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You know Norfolk wouldn’t be coming here unless it was for good reason.”

Stephen met his gaze. “That’s the more worrisome part of it.”

Lucas’s eyes were clear and understanding, and Stephen knew no matter what, he’d have an ally in his cousin. He always had.

Lucas nodded, squeezed Stephen’s shoulder, and turned away, weaving through the trees in the direction of the castle.

Stephen stood there for some time, his fingers working the wood of his crutch absently. Lucas was right. Norfolk couldn’t have written Stephen directly with the news of his impending visit.

He couldn’t have because Stephen Marley didn’t exist.

The Duke Always Wins

By Jessie Clever

On Sale 14 September 2023

Lady Anna Elmont, the dowager Countess of Wexford, did not mourn her dead husband.

She didn’t celebrate the fact that he was dead though. There was something wrong about that, but she did start each day by expressing her gratitude for the fact that her life had taken an unexpected turn.

When Gabriel Phelps, the Duke of Grimsby and Roger’s close friend, had come to tell her her husband was dead, Annie had thought it a dream. Roger couldn’t be dead. She wasn’t that lucky.

But then Gabriel had explained, and it all made a perfect kind of sense.

Roger had died in an illicit boxing match. One blow had been all it had taken. They had thought him fine at first. He had fallen to the mat and got back up. It was all terribly normal. But then he’d staggered against the ropes and slumped. A doctor had been called, something about swelling of the brain, and that was it.

Lady Anna Bounds was a widow.

That was how she thought of herself, as still a Bounds. Roger’s name had never settled quite right on her, feeling not like a union of two people but rather one branding the other as property.

Because she had been his property. He’d always been careful to remind her of that.

She preferred it when people addressed her as Annie when their relationship allowed for it, and then when something more proper was called upon, she insisted on Lady Anna even though it wasn’t correct. She just couldn’t bear her title, the one she had been given when she married. It was worse when it was extended to include dowager.

Roger’s heir had moved into the Wexford London townhouse before she’d even had time to pack her trunks, and this finally had caused the scandal Gabriel had feared, the one he had worked so tirelessly to prevent.

The boxing match in which Roger had died had not been sanctioned by the gentlemen’s club where it was staged, and the entire thing contained the volatile nature of a bomb. But Gabriel had hushed it up, and suddenly her husband had died of nothing more extraordinary than a fall from his horse.

But then the heir had moved in, a second cousin to Roger, and ordered her from the house. Her parents had been waiting for her, of course, their arms open and ready to comfort her when really she wanted nothing more than to bask in the sudden peace she found inside her childhood home. But it didn’t matter how she felt about it. It was still a scandal, and it had taken months to die down.

Still, she heard the whispers.

The poor widow Elmont, the poor dowager countess.

It made her sick every time.

There was nothing poor about Annie’s situation. In fact, she’d never been happier. Finally she had the chance to discover who she might have been had she not married Roger. That was the thing people didn’t understand. She had more advantage as Roger’s widow than as his wife, and she planned to embrace every minute of it.

Finally she would know who she really was.

Her sister Gwen had given her the idea. Annie could admit that the shock of suddenly being a widow, of being free of Roger, had left her numb for the better part of a year. It had taken something her sister had said, an off-hand comment about how once Annie had been the strong one of the three Bounds sisters, that had reminded Annie of the truth.

She had been the strong one.

This then had led to another, far more worrying thought.

How had she let Roger defeat her?

The answer was swift, of course. As his wife, Roger held complete power over her. It didn’t matter how strong she was. Roger had had the law, society, and custom on his side. But not any longer, and never again. Annie would remain a widow for the rest of her life. Anything else was unimaginable.

But then the unimaginable had happened. Two dukes were looking for wives that season. Two dukes. In the same season. It was unheard of. Annie’s mother had clapped with glee—clapped—when the day marking the formal end of Annie’s year of mourning had arrived, releasing Annie from its clutches. Annie had never seen the woman more excited than when she’d faced the season with three eligible daughters for two eligible dukes.

Then their father had married off Gwen, and that had left only Annie and Eloise, the youngest Bounds daughter. It had been easier to deflect their mother’s whims when there had been three of them, but now Annie could feel the noose tightening.

Nancy Bounds, the Countess Stoke Bruerne, mother to Annie and Eloise, was determined to have a duchess for a daughter, and Annie was determined to remain a widow.

But she would never disappoint her mother, and so she went along with it. She allowed her mother to order new gowns for half mourning and accepted invitations on her behalf. Annie was once again out in society, and she felt the bristle of it at every function.

She hated lying to her mother, although she hadn’t technically lied. She had just let her mother believe she would remarry. When in reality, Annie had every intention of getting Eloise hitched to one of the dukes. Poor Eloise. No, Annie couldn’t think like that. Her widowhood was too precious for such sentimentality.

If only her mother was the single problem she had that season, but she wasn’t. Annie had a far worse problem.

She wasn’t a debutante.

She was something much more terrible. An unencumbered widow with a title of her own, social standing, and experience as the wife of a peer.

Annie had the power to stop a conversation dead by merely entering a room, the Marrying Mamas flinging daggers of envy at her with their stares. A game of croquet was suddenly over when she stepped up to the pitch, the participating ladies just as suddenly requiring a bit of refreshment in the shade. A buzzing conversation about fashion and embroidery ceased when Annie wandered by.

No one wished to consort with the enemy, and there was no enemy greater than a woman with much to commend her.

Being a widow was absolutely the best and the worst.

Annie hoped with everything she had left in her that her sister Eloise would snare the Duke of Ardley, one of the dukes on the market that season. With a duke in tow, perhaps their mother would relinquish Annie to the throes of widowhood.

No, it was only Eloise that could save Annie now. Or at least, that had been her hope up until approximately seventeen seconds ago.

Because seventeen seconds ago their butler, Hickinbottom, had presented Annie with a pristine white calling card on a silver tray. It was calling hours, but Mother and Eloise were out. Mother had secured an emergency session with the modiste to fix Eloise’s gown as she’d torn it the other night at Gwen’s ball. It was only Annie and her chaperone receiving visitors that day, and Annie hadn’t expected any at all.

Annie looked up from the card that had so unsettled her to eye her chaperone. Grandmother Bitsy was hardly more than five feet tall, weighed more than seven stones only with her knitting in her lap, and was currently snoring in her chair by the fire. It was nearly June, and the fire was not necessary except Grandmother Bitsy was always cold. Annie had had the windows at the front of the room opened, and that was where she sat with her embroidery hoop, allowing what little breeze there was that day to keep her from wilting like a plucked flower.

She looked back down at the calling card, her heart thumping so loudly it echoed in her ears until a rustling sound broke through the pounding, and she glanced to the side to find her hands shaking, her embroidery needle still clutched in her fingers. She swallowed and stuck the needle into the linen stretched in the hoop before she could injure herself.

“Please tell the duke I am in,” she said and pushed to her feet as Hickinbottom left to escort their guest to the drawing room.

Gabriel Phelps, the Duke of Grimsby, had come calling.

A Duke Won’t Do

Dueling for Dukes Book 1

By Jessie Clever

Lady Gwendolyn Bounds had just taken a bite of her eggs when she learned her father had sold her to a sheep farmer.

That wasn’t precisely how it went, but that was certainly how it seemed.

Because it wasn’t only her father’s news that was so unsettling but also the fact that Gwen and the word marriage had never been uttered in the same sentence before. In fact, it took all her strength not to involuntarily touch the smallpox scars that marred her cheek the moment her father spoke the very word.

Marriage.

Impossible.

It was enough that it felt as though everyone’s eyes drifted to her, that briefest of moments when their faces registered disbelief and not a small degree of pity—for Gwen or for her prospective husband, should he be saddled with a disfigured wife, she couldn’t be sure.

When it had become apparent that people of society were repulsed by Gwen’s scars, her family had closed ranks around her, protecting her from the outside world, and assuring her she would always have a safe place within the family. Although no one ever spoke of it aloud, it was a tacit understanding in the family that Gwen would remain unwed, a spinster and comfort to her mother in later years. Even though she understood and appreciated her family’s protection, she couldn’t help but feel as though she were missing something important. She had not even had a season, and now at the age of six and twenty, only extraordinary circumstances had led Gwen’s mother, Nancy Bounds, Countess Stoke Bruerne, to consider presenting Gwen to the ton.

Because if the gossip were true, there was not one but two dukes looking for a bride that season.

As the mother of three unwed daughters, Countess Stoke Bruerne would have been branded an utter failure as a matriarch had she not immediately decamped the family from their country home in West Northamptonshire and proceeded directly to their London townhome to begin preparations. But now, it seemed, it didn’t matter so much as far as Gwen was concerned.

This was probably why Gwen’s mother spluttered in her tea when her father made the announcement of Gwen’s impending marriage over breakfast. Because if a Bounds daughter should marry anyone that season, it was going to be one of the dukes on the Marriage Mart and certainly not some obscure sheep farmer in the far-flung regions of England.

“Henry, you cannot mean it. You’ve signed a wedding contract for Gwen?” Nancy asked as if her husband had just announced his intentions to join a Bavarian circus.

Henry Bounds, Gwen’s father and Earl Stoke Bruerne, was unfazed as he spread marmalade on a piece of toast. “Yes, it’s all settled. You needn’t thank me, Nancy. The opportunity arose, and I took advantage of the situation.” Stoke Bruerne had just passed his sixtieth year, but his dark hair remained largely untouched by gray, and he still wore it in a severe style, swept back from his forehead where two horizontal creases appeared every time he made a pronouncement such as this one. Today the creases might have been a pair of moats protecting a medieval castle.

Gwen set down her fork and looked across the table to where her youngest sister, Eloise, sat, hoping to gain comfort from her sister’s ubiquitous smile, but Eloise was looking at their mother, her face decidedly drawn.

Gwen shifted her gaze and felt an immediate spike of concern. Her mother’s mouth was open, her jam knife forgotten in her hand, her eyes huge pools of disbelief. Horribly, Gwen was fairly sure her mother wasn’t breathing.

She reached out a hand. “Mother,” she said softly, placing her fingers against her mother’s wrist.

The woman jerked, and Gwen was only too glad she hadn’t been touching the wrist of the hand that held the jam knife.

“Henry, what have you done?”

Gwen turned, casting her gaze down the length of the breakfast table to where her father sat at the opposite end. This afforded her a view of her other sister, Annie, who poked at her sausages, clearly hoping not to be noticed and drawn into the conversation at hand, and Grandmother Bitsy who continued to shovel clotted cream on her scone as if the conversation around her had nothing to do with her. Which perhaps it didn’t, but at least the woman could show some support.

Henry touched his napkin delicately to his lips although Gwen was certain the man never allowed a crumb to stray into his bristly mustache. “What have I done?” He gestured vaguely in Gwen’s direction. “I’ve reduced the number of daughters for whom you must find husbands from three to two. I am sure you will appreciate the effort.”

Finally Nancy set down her jam knife. “I certainly will not appreciate the effort.”

Henry Bounds was not one to react to such an affront, but at his wife’s words, he set down his napkin beside his clean plate with the precision of a naval captain plotting a defensive maneuver. “I beg your pardon, Nancy.”

“She said she doesn’t appreciate your meddling, Henny.” Grandmother Bitsy didn’t look up from her plate as she scolded her son. “If you pulled your head out of your newspapers for once in your life, you would know what’s going on this season.” She stuck a fork in the direction of the Bounds daughters. “There are two dukes on the auction block this season, and you’ve just reduced Nancy’s chances of securing a duke by ninety percent.” Bitsy waved her fork in triumph and returned to her sausages.

“I’m not sure that’s correct, Mother,” Henry stated in a low voice as he adjusted the placement of his knife and fork at the rim of his plate. His careful movements and casual tone revealed just how timid he was when it came to his formidable mother.

Even at eight and eighty, Bitsy Bounds was still prone to pinch her son’s ear.

But this wasn’t what had Gwen’s attention then. It was the slight tremor in Annie’s hand as she moved her fork amongst the sausages on her plate, the way the silver cut across the porcelain and made an unbearable sound should anyone have been listening. Gwen wanted to reach out and take her sister’s hand into her own, assure her that their mother wouldn’t force Annie to marry when she was still grieving for the husband she had lost the previous year, but Gwen couldn’t make that promise. Her mother was on the hunt, and Gwen feared no one would be spared.

Henry looked down the table at his wife again. “I am sorry if I meddled, Nancy,” he said, his mustache twitching. “I was unaware of the possibility of one of our daughters courting a duke this season.” He gestured again at Gwen. “At least I’ve had the presence of mind to secure a match for the unattractive daughter.”

Gwen didn’t flinch at her father’s words. It wasn’t as though she were unaware of her scars. But her physical appearance hardly mattered. She had no say in what had happened when she was only eight years old, and the physical scars were hardly the ones that still plagued her. Besides, there were far worse fates than an arranged marriage.

Her eyes drifted to Annie again and away, suddenly feeling as though her gaze itself intruded on Annie’s grief.

Nancy closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, the heat there matched the firmness of her jawline. “What’s done is done. When can we expect the wedding, Henry? Perhaps I can use this to our advantage. A wedding so early in the season will get us unparalleled attention. That will put a bee in Rosemary Hayes-Martin’s bonnet,” Nancy said with far too much relish as she spoke of her nemesis, Viscountess Bowes.

The last time Nancy had gone toe to toe with Viscountess Bowes, the Bounds women had been banned from Spalding’s on Marlborough for three years.

“Excuse me,” Gwen managed to find her voice. “I should like to know who it is I’m to wed.” It was funny to hear the objectiveness in her voice, as though she were speaking of someone else’s impending marriage, as if all of this wasn’t happening to her. As if her entire life hadn’t changed with a single statement from her father.

As if her stomach weren’t at that very moment fluttering with anticipation. No, no. She mustn’t get her hopes up. Not yet.

Her father blinked as though her question were unexpected. “Oh, right. Logan Bender, the Earl of Gracey.”

Bitsy’s fork clattered against her plate. “Henny, no,” she breathed.

Gwen’s momentary bubble of hope dissolved at the stricken look on her grandmother’s face. She had been right not to let her hope grow. Life had taught her not to have such expectations, and suddenly learning she was to be a countess when only minutes before she had fully expected to remain alone for the rest of her life was a far too beautiful thing for Gwendolyn Bounds.

But then as Bitsy continued to stare at her son, her lips parted and her eyes narrowed in something akin to real sadness, Gwen felt something different flutter in her stomach, something very much like fear, and when Annie took her hand beneath the table, she jolted in her seat.

Henry picked up his napkin only to set it down again. “Lord Gracey is a respectable member of the ton and checks into his background and financial standings show a man of character and sound investment. Gwen should be thankful for such a match.” Only then did he finally look at her and even then, it was only a sideways glance as if he knew how hurtful his words might seem, but he was only speaking the truth.

And he was speaking the truth. That was probably what hurt the most. Gwen should be thankful for any kind of match. Her father was correct on that point.

Gwen had already resigned herself to remaining her mother’s companion. It wasn’t bad really. She would have pin money and still come into town every season when her father was required at Parliament. There were worse lives to live. She had even nearly convinced herself it was what was meant for her. That her mother should never be alone in her old age.

Her heart pinched though, just the tiniest bit, every time she thought about it, how boring and small her life would be. After surviving smallpox, she had always believed she should live a life of purpose and meaning. After all, why had she been spared otherwise? It turned out such grandness was denied to an outcast like her. It made her feel as though she had squandered the second chance she had been given.

But now that she might actually have a chance, her grandmother’s concern had her worried.

“An earl?” Her mother’s eyebrows disappeared into her auburn fringe. “Why, Henry.” Her eyes narrowed much like Grandmother Bitsy’s. “What’s wrong with him?”

Gwen didn’t know how it was possible, but this hurt more than her father’s statement. To infer that something should be wrong with the man for him to accept Gwen as his wife. It hurt. It hurt deeply.

“Do you know the earl, Grandmother Bitsy?” It was Eloise who spoke, her tone direct and accompanied with a glare in her mother’s direction.

“I know the family, dear,” Bitsy said as she sank back in her chair. The old woman looked like she’d wrestled a bull instead of simply having broken her fast. “They hail from Yorkshire, I’m afraid.” She turned her head then, meeting Gwen’s gaze directly. “They’re sheep farmers.”

Nancy knocked over her teacup, brown liquid sloshing across the pristine linen tablecloth as Eloise jumped to her feet to staunch the flow with her napkin. It was several seconds before Gwen realized what was happening and rose to add her own napkin to the pool of spilled tea.

She looked over her shoulder at her grandmother even as she helped Eloise gather the sodden napkins onto a discarded plate. “Why do you say it like that, Grandmother Bitsy?”

Bitsy had closed her eyes, and Gwen worried the woman had fallen asleep at the table again. But then she said, “Just that, shortcake.” She shrugged, her crocheted shawl riding up against the back of her chair. “They farm sheep. Dedicated bunch they are. I’ve never known a person to carry on so about wool.” She opened her eyes then and found Gwen’s gaze. “At least you won’t have to worry about the man mistreating you. You’ll likely never see him. Sheep farmers rarely leave their herd.”

“Mother.” The word was quickly spoken but hardly of a harsh tone. Still, it was the closest thing to a reprimand Gwen’s father had ever said to his mother, and for that, Gwen felt a modicum of warmth for her usually distant father.

“Surely you exaggerate, Bitsy,” Nancy said then, fanning herself with one hand as though the revelation that her daughter was to marry a sheep farmer had elevated the temperature in the room. “A sheep farmer is not what I would have chosen for my daughter, but he is an earl. We must take comfort in that.”

Grandmother Bitsy’s eyes sharpened. “I had a friend once. Lilith. I thought her a spinster until I met her husband one day. I asked him where he’d been, and he said he couldn’t leave his flock.” Shakily Grandmother Bitsy leaned forward. “Do you know when it was that I met him? What extraordinary reason could pull him from the flock?”

Gwen watched her mother swallow. “No, Bitsy. I can’t imagine. What was it?”

“His wife’s funeral,” Grandmother Bitsy uttered and collapsed back against the chair, deflated.

When the Lady Must Wed

The Secret Matchmaker Series Book 3

On Sale January 26, 2023

Lady Winnaretta Lowe felt sick to her stomach when people praised her, as they often did, for helping her sister appear at her best in society.

Because she wasn’t helping her sister out of the goodness of her heart. Not at all.

Lady Winnaretta Lowe was paying for her sins.

Sins that would have sent any proper society matron to her knees. Sins that had tarnished her family’s reputation so badly it was all Winnie could do to prop it back up again.

Sins that required a penance so great she was giving her life for it.

In the form of marriage.

To the vilest man in society.

“Is Chichester coming today?” her mother said as if listening to the litany of Winnie’s disparaging thoughts.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, her eyes never straying from the spectacle on the Thames below. “I believe he had some gentlemen he wished to see here.”

When Miles Creedmoor, the Marquess of Chichester, had first suggested they attend today’s presentation, he had not mentioned a desire to see her. He had only mentioned a group of gentlemen he had been considering as potential investors for one of his real estate endeavors. It was no surprise that she hadn’t seen him yet.

Her mother lazily fanned herself and pressed the backs of her fingers of her free hand to her forehead. It wasn’t overly warm as it was only the middle of June, but the viewing platform on which they stood was crowded, verging on uncomfortable.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” her mother said without feeling. “He was so kind to secure us our places here.” The older woman slid her a weighty look as it was no secret what Winnie was doing. Well, not the intent of it anyway. Her own reasons for doing it were very much a secret.

No, her family understood her pursuit of the Marquess of Chichester even if her father disagreed with it entirely, and her mother condoned it only so far as it aided the other Lowe daughter in securing a match. The same Lowe daughter who gave a soft snort to her left.

Winnie finally looked away from the parade of boats below them to find her sister hiding a derisive expression behind her own fan.

“Is it really so awful he’s not here yet?” she murmured. Judging by the stricken look that came over her little sister’s features when she found Winnie gazing at her, Ingrid had probably thought the comment would be lost in the cacophony of celebration.

Winnie frowned firmly enough to correct her sister, even though Winnie agreed with her comment. It was rather a relief that Chichester was not there yet. Perhaps for a little while longer Winnie wouldn’t be reminded of her impending life sentence as Lady Winnaretta Creedmoor, the Marchioness of Chichester.

“Why is it that they’re calling it the Strand Bridge? I thought we were commemorating our victory at Waterloo.”

Winnie turned back to her mother. “You know how it is, Mother. The government does what it can to bolster morale.”

Her mother turned then, and Winnie caught the line of perspiration burrowed in the rivets of face powder still visible across her forehead. Her mother still wore the stuff, in effusive layers no less, even when it had become less fashionable. “Bolster morale? We won, didn’t we?”

Her mother meant no harm, but Winnie couldn’t stop the sharp stab of memory that pierced her.

“Mother,” Ingrid said sharply, leaning forward to peer around Winnie to give their mother a scathing glare.

“What?” her mother asked innocently enough, and Ingrid did little more than move her eyes in Winnie’s direction.

Winnie shifted from foot to foot, curling her toes in her slippers as the wooden boards beneath her feet grew tiresome, hoping the movement would distract her from the exchange taking place in front of her.

Her mother made a dismissive snort. “It’s been five years since he died. She can’t possibly—”

“William.” The name sprang from her lips no matter how she tried to blank her mind against it, to steel herself from the torment it brought with it, but it couldn’t be stopped. The turmoil that brewed inside of her, the turmoil stoked by her sins, would not let William’s death go unmarked even when it cost her to speak his name.

Because when she spoke the name of her dead lover, her heart beat with the name of someone else.

Philip.

The Earl She Ruined

The Atwood Sisters Book 3

On Sale October 20, 2022

She had never kidnapped an earl before.

She had never kidnapped anyone before for that matter, and she wasn’t sure if it were exhilarating or appallingly untidy. She leaned toward the latter especially after she’d tossed the pitcher of water on him.

He came up spluttering, which was to be expected. Getting doused with water had such an effect on a person. His reaction was likely amplified, however, as he wasn’t expecting a pitcher of water to be thrown on him when he entered his carriage, but it couldn’t have been helped. She needed him to be coherent when she stated her demands.

“What in God’s—” He stopped as he wiped the water from his eyes, blinking into the near darkness of their surroundings. “Lady Alice?” He spoke her name more softly, curiously. And then— “No.” He turned to the door, water spraying from his chin as he scrambled to catch hold of the handle, but the carriage was already in motion, and his hasty movements were futile.

“Lord Knighton, you have nothing to fear from me, I promise you.”

He gave up on the door and sat back, pressing himself against the opposite bench, arms splayed as if preparing for the rapture. “I think we may have differing viewpoints on that matter, my lady.”

“You have my word, my lord. I have no ill intentions. It’s only I have a proposition for you, and as an unwed lady, I was forced to take such extreme measures in order to have this conversation with you.” She set the empty pitcher aside and folded her hands delicately in her lap as if such a reasonable gesture might calm him. “If society didn’t insist on such arcane rules, I wouldn’t have resorted to such barbarity.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression not losing its wariness even as he surveyed her with obvious curiosity. “And I suppose the water was necessary as well?”

She glanced at the pitcher on the bench beside her. “I couldn’t have known whether or not you were inebriated, and I need your full attention for this conversation. The water was to rouse you to your senses.”

“I am not in the least inebriated, Lady Alice, but I’m rather regretting that now.”

She flexed her hands together and apart, willing her courage to hold. “I promise to be swift, my lord, and then you may return to your social schedule. I presume you’re on your way to a dalliance of some sort?” She could feel the muscles in her hands had begun to twitch, her fingers pulsing with the need to fidget, and she willed herself to hold still.

It had taken sheer bravado to steal into his carriage, and she was quickly learning bravado was an ephemeral creature, prone to flight at a moment’s notice. She swallowed and took a measured breath, willing her nerves to calm. She couldn’t give up now, and besides, emotion had nothing to do with this encounter. It was merely science which brought her to this man’s carriage in the middle of the night, and science was comfortingly cold and analytical.

His expression didn’t change at her words, but his eyes searched her face, the hint of curiosity remaining in his gaze. “I don’t believe my social schedule is any of your concern, my lady.”

His words stung, but he was right. She had no claim on this man. In fact, she’d only met him the week previous at her sister’s wedding. It wasn’t even as though he were an old friend of the family, which would have served to alleviate the oddness of the situation.

He was only Ransom Shepard, the Earl of Knighton, London’s most notorious rogue. A designation that made him perfect for her endeavors.

She straightened her shoulders against the bench at her back, her nerves settling as she remembered the reason she was there.

“You’re quite right. I do apologize. I’ve come to ask for your assistance, my lord.”

“I have no intention of marrying any time soon, Lady Alice, so if you believe by trapping me—”

She wrinkled her nose. “Who said anything about marriage?” She couldn’t think of a more appalling idea. It was all perfectly well for her sisters to wed, and really, it was most advantageous for them, and Alice wished them all the happiness they might find there. But no, marriage was not for her. It never had been.

Knighton’s death grip on the carriage eased, and his hands slipped from the upholstery to fall at his sides. “Isn’t that what this is about?”

“Good heavens, no. I have no intention of marrying as well. On that, we are agreed.”

His stricken expression dissolved then, his brow furrowing. “Then why on earth are you in my carriage? Tossing water on me no less.”

She tilted her head as if she were dealing with an unruly experiment. “I’ve already explained the water, my lord. As to the other, I should like your assistance with a matter that your reputation would suggest you have a great deal of experience in. As this endeavor is very important to me, I should only like the best in the field.”

“And what would this endeavor be?” “I should like you to seduce me.”

The Marquess She Loved

The Atwood Sisters Book 2

On Sale June 16, 2022

Adaline Atwood knew the difference between beauty and money.

The difference being that beauty was a luxury and money was a necessity. It was unfortunate that of the two she had been gifted the luxury.

This imbalance was the reason she stood with the wallflowers by the refreshment tables at every ball. She didn’t mind really. The thing about wallflowers was they didn’t miss a moment of what happened in any ballroom.

After her first awkward year of standing on the periphery, she had grown accustomed to it and almost looked forward to her chats with the spinsters, matrons, and wallflowers that littered the edges of society.

Only sometimes she wished her years of seeing and never being seen hadn’t cultivated quite such a skill in detection.

Because for four years she had watched the man she loved fawn over a woman who gave him no more thought than she did the dust on her slippers.

And it hurt.

It hurt Adaline to see it because while she stood and watched the man she loved be humiliated, she harbored in her a wealth of adoration and respect that she would happily shower upon him if only he turned in her direction.

But he never did. At least, not in the way she had always hoped.

And so she hurt even more for the obvious disdain the woman showed him, disdain he seemed destined to remain oblivious to.

Some nights she made an attempt to ignore him. She would turn to her companions, keeping her back to the ballroom so as to avoid any accidental sighting of him. It hurt less that way.

But tonight she deliberately sought him out at the Fairfield ball. She must because Ashfield Riggs, the newly minted Marquess of Aylesford, had recently traveled to Kent. He had told her that he would need to return to London by this week, and she had searched every ball for the past three days for him for surely he must return soon.

She knew such intimate detail of his travel plans because not only was she madly in love with the man, but she had, as previously mentioned, the absolute worst luck imaginable.

Ashfield Riggs was also her best friend.

That was why she stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the gentlemen who had congregated in front of her. She had to know if Ash was there. It was quite possible he had seen her sister in his travels to Kent, and she must know what he had thought of her.

Amelia sent letters, of course, but they were not enough. The written word could so easily hide the true state of one’s life, and Adaline had feared the worst for her little sister since she had left their home two months earlier to marry the Ghoul of Greyfair.

She closed her eyes, inwardly chastising herself for thinking of her new brother-in-law in those terms. Amelia had said time and again in her letters that the duke was no ghoul, and yet Adaline couldn’t bring herself to believe such.

Because Adaline was drowning in guilt, and as anyone who had the occasion to feel guilty would know, it was terribly difficult to extricate oneself from the mire.

Adaline’s guilt had come on like a wind across the moor, sharp and cutting and unexpected. Unexpected quite simply because she had been blind to what was happening around her. It wasn’t until her mother was dead and her father had left that she realized what had happened to Amelia. What had happened to her dear little sister right under her nose.

And then Amelia had been sacrificed to the ghoul.

Er, the duke.

The homelife of the Atwood sisters had not been the rosiest. It had not been gloomy either though. Ruth Atwood was an exacting woman, however, and she paid particular attention to her daughters. Namely in how they continued to fail her.

Adaline had learned early on to avoid the woman, and she believed, this was the reason for her fast and lasting friendship with Ash. She avoided her home at all costs, preferring to visit with friends, and Ash had been among them. But it was Ash’s own struggles at home that had bonded the pair.

It was only later when Ash returned from Eton late one spring, coming to see her first before returning home, that she realized her mistake.

While her childhood friend had left for school, a man had returned in his place. A man with broad shoulders and a deep voice and warm eyes and a quick smile.

She’d fallen in love with him as he’d dismounted in front of her house. She could remember the day clearly. She’d run to the front door at the first sound of hooves on the cobblestones on the square, and so she’d been standing on the stoop when he’d arrived.

She’d clutched at the wrought iron railing, dazed by what she had seen, confused by what was happening. Her childhood friend was gone, and suddenly she felt a surge of feelings so foreign to her they were frightening.

She knew in an instant feelings so scary could only be love.

And only too quickly did she realize he didn’t return those feelings.

It was obvious because the first words he’d said in greeting to her that day were to ask if she was acquainted with Lady Valerie Lattimer and could she arrange an introduction for him.

Lady Valerie Lattimer.

Of course Adaline knew her. Everyone of their age knew her. Lady Valerie Lattimer had beauty and money and charisma and connections. It was a combination any debutante would envy. And at the time, Lady Valerie hadn’t even been out.

It didn’t matter. Any lady nearing the marriage market knew there was no defeating Lady Valerie Lattimer, and every girl had lowered her expectations for a match. For surely all the good ones would gravitate toward Lady Valerie like a hound to a fox.

Adaline only wished Ash would eventually see the truth.

Lady Valerie Lattimer was the worst person Adaline had ever met.

The woman was petty and selfish, cruel and unkind. But her ability to convince a man he was the center of the universe kept the male of the species in the dark.

Including Ash.

Adaline had thought now that she was four and twenty and firmly on the shelf, she would forget about her love for Ash. She could tuck it away like an old, beloved heirloom that one took out from time to time to admire and remember when things were simple.

Because nothing was simple anymore.

Her mother was dead, her father lost at sea, and her sister sacrificed to a ghoul. Sorry, a duke. And it was all Adaline’s fault.

She should have been there to protect Amelia from their mother’s scorn. She should have seen what was happening instead of assuming her sisters knew to keep out of their mother’s line of sight.

But Adaline knew Amelia hadn’t. She was quite certain Alice, the youngest Atwood sister, had survived their mother without too many scars because Alice was largely oblivious to the world around her, her books and her experiments occupying her attention. But not Amelia. Poor quiet Amelia, lost somewhere in the middle of her sisters, had taken the brunt of their mother’s scorn.

That was why she had so readily sacrificed herself to the Ghoul of Greyfair.

Uh, Duke of Greyfair.

Where was Ash?

She craned her neck around the side of the matrons who had now approached the gentleman to discuss the quality of the champagne being served.

She wasn’t paying attention to how she was leaning until her elbow struck the cut crystal of the punch bowl on the table beside her. She watched, unable to move, as the bowl rocked ominously before a hand shot out, stopping her humiliation in a single motion.

“I’m gone no more than a fortnight, and you start assaulting punch bowls.”

“Ash.” She hated how his name came out like an oath, but she couldn’t help it. “You’ve returned.”

“Of course, I returned. You didn’t think I was going to stay in Kent forever.”

He was handsome tonight. He was always handsome with his almost boyish features, his quick smile, and warm eyes. When she looked at him, she couldn’t help the feeling of happiness that bubbled up inside of her.

“I’ve heard Kent is quite lovely.”

He laughed. “I would say it’s rather empty.” He paused as if thinking. “And there are an extraordinary number of cows. I felt rather outnumbered.”

“By cows?” She couldn’t stop the disbelief from entering her tone.

His expression folded until she almost believed she’d actually wounded him.

“Have you ever seen a cow? Menacing creatures. I shouldn’t like to be left alone with one.”

She smiled, and it was only then that she realized that was his intent.

She wasn’t sure how many exchanges they had had like this. Standing at the edge of society functions. Attuned to only each other and how they didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the ton.

Only now Ash did fit in. He was a marquess. She took an involuntary step back. It was another change, one she hadn’t realized until it stood directly in front of her. Her chest squeezed uncomfortably, and she turned away from him on the pretense of adjusting her dance card along the folds of her elbow-length gloves.

“I trust your travels went well.”

“It was terribly dull.”

She looked sharply at him. “You’ve always enjoyed a good jaunt. What was so different this time?” His gaze scanned the crowds, a gesture painfully familiar, and loss radiated through her. He had been standing next to her for mere seconds and already he was looking for someone else.

The Marquess She Loved

The Atwood Sisters Book 2

On Sale June 16, 2022

Lady Adaline Atwood is the most beautiful wallflower in London. Cursed with beauty but no dowry, she has remained on the fringes of every ball for the four seasons she’s been out. It needn’t matter though as she has loved her best friend, Ashfield Riggs, since she can remember. The problem is Ash only has eyes for another.

The son of a judge, Ash is relegated to the lowest rung of genteel society until he unexpectedly inherits the title of Marquess of Aylesford. Determined to find a wife now that he’s a titled gentleman, he sets his cap for the only woman he’s ever sought: Lady Valerie Lattimer. Falsely believing he is now worthy of her hand, he proposes marriage only to be shot down in the most humiliating way. Wounded, he turns to his best friend, Adaline, only to discover she has been the sensible choice for a wife all along.

But when the demands of the impoverished estate require him to accept help from his wife, the forced closeness turns their arranged marriage into something more and ignites a desire he never expected.

The Marquess She Loved is the second book in the steamy, heart-stopping historical romance series, The Atwood Sisters. If you love sexy, spellbinding romance and heartwarming humor, don’t miss this captivating series from bestselling author Jessie Clever. Discover adventure and romance when you download The Marquess She Loved today.

The Duke She Married

The Atwood Sisters Book 1

By Jessie Clever

She knew what she was supposed to fear.

But as she huddled inside the carriage, rocked by the ferocious storm that had set upon them some miles back, she knew she didn’t fear what everyone might assume.

She didn’t fear the rumors about her soon-to-be husband, the ones that called him the Ghoul of Greyfair.

It was marriage itself she feared because the neglect and criticism she had faced in her childhood had taught her that relationships of any kind were not safe, and she was about to enter into the most perilous one of all.

Marriage.

She had left her family’s home in Mayfair three days previously, knowing she must journey to the outermost reaches of Kent, but never suspecting the weather would turn so foul so near her journey’s end as if sensing her fear and attempting to compound it.

Now as the carriage rattled with achingly slow progress over the uneven roads, rutted now as everything turned to mud in the deluge, she tried to recall the feel of each of her sisters’ hugs. Their sturdy arms wrapped around her, their familiar scents. The feel of Alice’s spectacles pressed against her cheek. The crackle of Adaline’s braid along her ear.

She kept her eyes shut, recalling the moment with painful clarity so she could never forget why she was doing this. She had to save her sisters and poor Uncle Herman.

Her eyes popped open at the thought of her uncle, the poor man upon whom so much had fallen in the past several days. When their father had been lost at sea in his final attempt to acquire funds to save the family and free Amelia from the marriage contract that was their only hope, Uncle Herman had unexpectedly become the fifth Earl of Biggleswade and the Atwood sisters’ new guardian.

The bumbling, forgetful bear of a man had taken to his duty with stunning fierceness, and closing her eyes once more, Amelia could feel the bristle of his whiskers against her forehead as he bent to kiss her goodbye.

She swallowed and threw out her hands to catch herself as the carriage rocked ominously. Fear and apprehension roared up inside of her, but she only tightened her grip on the bench beneath her and stared purposefully out the window.

But even as she was consumed by fear, she felt the lick of something else, something secret and forbidden deep inside of her. It happened every time something changed in her life. This little spark of something that scared her even more than anything else ever had. The hope that things might change. Even now, knowing the grim rumors that surrounded her future husband, knowing the danger such an attachment involved, she felt it. The hope that perhaps finally she would be enough.

She couldn’t help but think of the rumors then, sorting through the stories for the facts on which they were based. They were rumors after all. At the heart of it was a man who had suffered great tragedy. The Greyfair title’s country seat, Lagameer Hall, had burned to ashes, and the duke’s wife had perished in the fire. The rumors, however, suggested it was the Duke of Greyfair himself who had set fire to his estate in a jealous rage, killing his wife. Only in his wrath, he’d been unable to escape, and the fire had left him horribly disfigured.

Somehow the idea that she might be marrying a wife-killer was less terrifying than the idea of marrying at all.

It was at that moment that the carriage came to a spectacular, crashing halt, tossing Amelia against the opposite bench as though she were weightless. The storm pounded against the carriage, and for a moment, her ears rang with it, drowning out the sound of her own heartbeat. She struggled to right herself, but the carriage had tipped to an extreme angle, and it was all she could do to wedge herself in one corner, giving herself time to regain her senses.

Her hands went to the door automatically, scrambling to get the thing open, but her efforts were useless. The handle wouldn’t turn. She threw herself against the door, but the way the carriage listed to that side, her efforts were futile. Again, the door did nothing more than rattle at her impact.

In the near blackness, she tried to make out the shape of the opposite door, but it floated somewhere above her, far too high for her to even hope of reaching it.

She was trapped.

She swallowed down her panic. This was not the time to let her imagination wander. There had simply been some trouble. Surely the coachman would come to her aid.

Unless he had been injured in the wreck.

The panic was real now, gripping her lungs as if to keep her from breathing. Her chest heaved, and she closed her eyes.

What would Adaline do?

She would tell Amelia to remain calm and wait for help.

It was then she noticed the wetness that grew along her back. Fumbling in the dark, her fingers encountered a thick, gritty substance spread over the length of her already sodden cloak. She pulled her fingers away and studied them in the darkness, but all she could see was a viscous substance dripping from her fingers. Cautiously she held her hand up to her nose, inhaling the unmistakable odor of wet earth with a salty tang she thought might be the ocean.

She jerked away from the corner, trying to pivot to see behind her. A flash of lightning lit the small space as if knowing her intention, and there it was.

The carriage had tipped entirely on its side, and mud seeped through the spaces around the door. Another flash of light. There was nothing visible through the window except the shifting earth below them and water.

Water everywhere, pouring through the cracks of the door and around the windowpane.

Dear God, the whole cabin would fill and drown her.

Panic turned to resolution.

She fumbled in the darkness, her hands searching the tufted ceiling. She found the leather strap used to help ladies gain the carriage. She slipped onto her backside, raising her leg. It took all her effort to lift it, dredging it from the folds of her ruined cloak, her wet skirts. Finally she managed to slip her foot inside of it. She tested it with her weight, feeling a spike of hope when it held.

She reached above her, her fingers finding purchase in the seam of the bench. She worked her fingers into the cushions until they collided with the wooden framework beneath. She was glad for her gloves, no matter how soaked they had become, because the wood below the bench was rough, and splinters tore at the cotton.

She started to move.

Inch by painful inch, she climbed the wooden framework of the bench like a ladder, but the slim frame only allowed her fingertips to gain a hold, and soon her hands throbbed with the effort.

She was nearly to the top when her foot slipped in the harness. She made a valiant leap, reaching blindly for the strap on the ceiling on the opposite side of the carriage. If only she could catch it, she could haul herself up to the other door.

Her fingers only met air. She was suspended for but an instant, her body hanging, her fingers outstretched for one last hope. Her breath caught and with it the knowledge that she would soon fall, trapped in the bottom of the overturned carriage.

And then someone grabbed her arm.

When the Lady Takes a Lover

by Jessie Clever

It was while she was drowning that she realized how much she hated Hawkins Savage, the Earl of Stonegate. Because just then, confronted with imminent death, she knew she’d rather die than face a lifetime of having to be grateful to the man for saving her.

But as her mouth and nose were full of water, she could not voice these concerns as he seemed to do little more than pluck her from the water. She heaved as soon as her head was free of the pond, her body rejecting the liquid as she struggled to draw a breath. It did little good.

The storm that had caused her current predicament had strengthened in the few seconds she had been in the water, and when she opened her mouth to suck in air, a gust of wind shot more water into it. She choked and coughed, spluttering to catch her breath as Hawk set her down on the bank, her feet slipping in the mud that had caused her perilous spill into the water feature in the first place.

He didn’t relinquish his hold on her as she stood on unsteady feet, but worse, she gripped the front of his shirt as though it held her to this earth.

It was only then she realized how terrified she was. Still. The memory of the water closing over her was just as fresh as when it was happening seconds earlier. Only now, her traitorous brain wondered what would have happened had Hawk not seen her deadly plunge.

She’d slipped sideways into the pond, and her skirts had tangled about her legs. She was disoriented and trapped and would have drowned in four feet of water had he not seen her and plucked her from danger.

Vaguely she wondered what Hawk was even doing there, out in the storm. She had been caught in it on her way back to the house after touring the gardens with the rest of the house-party guests, traipsing after an overeager Lady Sherrill, Hawk’s grandmother. She hadn’t wanted to leave the house in the first place, wishing to stay where she could keep an eye on her brother and Hawk. But Audrey had insisted, and so they had gone.

Oh God, Audrey. Her cousin was still out there somewhere in the storm.

With the battering rush of wind and rain, she couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Hawk swore then, a guttural sound that cut through the disturbance around her. She’d never heard Hawk swear. His choice of weapon against her was always flattery and teasing. 

She blamed this momentary confusion for what happened next. Hawk picked her up unceremoniously and strode in the direction of the house, his long legs devouring the distance and the stairs up to the terrace as if it were little more than a stroll in the gardens. She didn’t even protest, and blast if she didn’t hang on to the man like some simpering debutante.