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.

The Duke Always Wins

Dueling for Dukes Book 2

Lady Anna Elmont, the dowager Countess of Wexford, has only one wish: to remain safely a widow. Having spent two years under the control of her manipulative husband, Annie plans to enjoy widowhood and discover who she might have been had she not wed.

If the Duke of Grimsby will let her.

Despite their difference in age or perhaps because of it, Gabriel Phelps, the Duke of Grimsby is compelled to protect his best friend’s widow. After witnessing his mother fall victim to a man with dishonorable intentions after she was widowed, Gabriel will not allow the same thing to happen to Annie and so he proposes only to be flatly refused.

But when a compromising situation forces Gabriel to act, Annie must submit if only to save her family’s reputation and her sister’s hope for a future.

Will she be trapped in another cold and controlling marriage? Or will the unexpected spark of attraction between them lead to something of which she’d never dared dream?

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.

A Duke Won’t Do

Dueling for Dukes Book 1

Lady Gwendolyn Bounds survived smallpox at the age of eight to go on to do…nothing.

Outcast by society because of the scars that mark her face, Gwen has convinced herself that a future as a spinster spent aiding her mother in her doddering years will be enough even as her heart knows it is not. Somewhere there is a second chance out there.

She just never thought it would be with a sheep farmer from Yorkshire.

Logan Bender, the Earl of Gracey, doesn’t want a wife, but when his plans for the generational building of his sheep flock requires an heir, he has no choice but to find one. Haunted by the cruelty of his first wife and desperate to repair the damage she did to the title, Logan is determined to find a plain, biddable second wife who will represent the title with respect and cause him no trouble. So when he finds an earl desperate to marry off his unattractive, spinster daughter, Logan thinks he’s found the answer to all his problems.

Except his problems have only just begun when he finds himself falling in love with a wife who is anything but biddable.

A Duke Won’t Do is the first book in the steamy, heart-stopping historical romance series, Dueling for Dukes. 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 A Duke Won’t Do today.