Read Mad About the Duke Online
Authors: Elizabeth Boyle
One of the maids began to cry, and all looked downcast at the floor.
“All done with one intention in mind,” he said, commanding their gazes back up and on him as they fully expected the worst: to be sacked without references. “To keep me safe. And I thank you for it. Because if I haven't ever thanked you before, I want to do so now. Your service, each and every one of you, has always been exemplary, and I have been neglect
ful in not telling you so. Each and every one of you has done your part in this mad business because you are devoted to my family and my good name, and I see that now. I see that because I have finally discovered what it means to fall in love and want nothing but the best for someone else.”
There wasn't a jaw that didn't drop, including Elinor's.
He continued on, “So I would ask you, all of you, to help me in making our home welcome for my new duchess. She may not come willingly, for I have deceived her unabashedly, and if she never forgives me, it is my own fault. My only explanation, my only excuse, is that I was struck mad the moment I met her, and I did what I had to do because I had her best interests at heart.” Parkerton paused and smiled at his staff. “Now, do you think you can help me gain her favor? Gain Lady Standon's love?”
Mrs. Oxton, her face alight with tears, burst out, “Oh, you blessed man, I think you've done it all on your own.”
And he had, for when he turned around and found Elinor standing in his doorway, his eyes widened. Then he smiled at her, a lopsided grin, his eyes alight with mischief, so full of ducal pride that however could she not forgive him?
So Elinor did what any woman who was mad about a duke would do.
She rushed into his arms and began a life of utter madness.
Which means, she was happy ever after.
Turn the page for a sneak peek
into the world of
the Bachelor Chronicles
from author Elizabeth Boyle!
T
here is much made in
Mad About the Duke
as to what exactly is inside the Duchess of Hollindrake's
Bachelor Chronicles
, and I would like share with you a peek inside this infamous journal.
Begun by Felicity Langley while she was attending Miss Emery's Establishment for the Education of Genteel Young Ladies (with the help of her twin sister, Thalia, and their cousin, Lady Philippa Knolles), the
Bachelor Chronicles
was at first supposed to contain only the names and relevant information of the eligible dukes in England. But being an industrious sort, Felicity continued compiling information and soliciting tidbits from anyone willing to correspond with her, gleaning gossip from the newspapers and cornering unsuspecting dukes, until eventually, Felicity's
Bachelor Chronicles
catalogued the particulars of nearly every eligible duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baron, and even a few baronetsâbecause Felicity determined that there was a need to find even a baronet a wifeâmaking her volume perhaps the most valuable book in London.
Inside these pages, she wasn't just recording the pertinent facts about a gentleman (his date of birth, his holdings, and a listing of his lesser titles) but the truly interesting particulars about a man that made him either an eligible
parti
or a scandalous rake to be avoided. Here is a peek inside at the noblemen and rogues who grace the pages of her catalogue, as well as a glimpse at Felicity's none-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking.
From the
Bachelor Chronicles
:
Tremont, Lord John
B. 1772.
Third son of the 8
th
Duke of Parkerton. (See also, James Tremont, 9
th
Duke of Parkerton; Tremont, Lord Michael).
Current residence: Thistleton Park.
Having disgraced Miss Miranda Mabberly, a former student of Miss Emery's, Lord John has been given the cut direct by all Society. His income, if rumor is to be trusted, is nonexistent and is supplemented by gambling and other reckless pursuits. He is a rake in all the worst ways.
Lord John, while ancient by the exacting standards of these
Chronicles,
has left behind the fashions of Town and now maintains a pirate look about him that some ladies claim is intriguing.
While his age and lack of a title relinquish him to the lower rungs of eligibility, it has been noted that he admits to a fondness for red hair and appeared quite taken with Miss Porter this afternoon in the downstairs foyer. As a respectable lady with excellent manners and now a good inheritance (if Sarah Browne's maid is to be believed), Miss Porter would be the perfect bride for a former rake of limited means like Lord John.
Stranded at the mysterious Thistleton Park during a raging storm, the former Miss Miranda Mabberly is shocked to discover her host is none other than the nefarious Mad Jack Tremont. But where else is she to goâwith her three school-age charges in towâin this deserted part of the Kent coastline, where smugglers and ne'er-do-wells are said to frequent? Making the best of a terrible situation, she and the girls lock themselves in their bedchambers until they are awakened in the middle of the night by the horrible cries of man who sounds as if he is in his last throes. Taking up a candle and mustering every bit of courage she possesses, Miranda sets out to confront their host.
“Miss Porter?” Jack said, trying his best to sound surprised. “What are you doing lurking about? Hardly proper, is it? Why, I thought you and your charges had sought your beds hours ago.”
She held her candle up high and gave him a searching glance, seeking answers and suspecting everything.
“So it seemed. Until we were awakened by a most grievous noiseâ” She arched a brow and awaited his explanation.
“Awakened? How unfortunate.” He used every ounce of aristocratic nerve he had gained from watching his brother, the Duke of Parkerton, snub any and all who expected him to be forthcoming. “My apologies, Miss Porter. Now if you will excuse meâ”
He tried to leave, but she wasn't about to be dismissed so easily.
“Sir, I heard, I mean, we
all
heard, a most dreadful cry. Several of them.”
Jack shook his head. “Nothing more than a man complaining when he's on a losing streak. 'Tis just me and a few acquaintances playing a little too deep. Drinking a little too much.” He stepped closer until her nose wrinkled at the convincing smell of brandy that surrounded him.
“Sir, that is not what I heard. I heard a man in pain. In agony, and not from losing his last quid,” she insisted. Once again, she shot a glance over his shoulder at the door behind him. “If there is someone hurt, perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Demmit.
They had heard too much. But he couldn't confess the truth. Not to anyone. Not now that another of England's agents had been murdered.
“Cries of agony?” Jack shook his head. “Really, Miss Porter, I didn't take you for the fanciful sortâ¦this is twice in as many nights you've come down here with these strange assertions. Have you always been prone to nightmares?”
Her brow arched in defiance, a defiance that he'd certainly never seen in a mere schoolteacher. Why, she had the look of Boadicea, standing there in her night-rail, her candle held like a sword ready for battle.
“Lord John, I am not a woman prone to flights of fancy. Nor am I to be naysaid, especially when I have the welfare of those girls to consider. If there is anything improper going on, I insistâ”
Improper
. His friend had just died and she was out here nattering on about proprietyâas if it mattered.
He'd like to tell her what improper was. Improper was good men like Malcolm Grey lost forever. Improper was enemies who would go to any means to see England fall.
He'd like nothing more than to show her what was improper and unjust about the world outside of Miss
Emery's hallowed walls, outside the protective shell of London society. The devil take herâdidn't she know it wasn't proper for a lady, an unmarried one at that, to go wandering about a man's house in the middle of the night?
Highly improper.
He snatched the candleholder from her hand and stuck it on a nearby table. With barely a pause, he caught her in his arms and hauled her closeâright up to his chest, his hands taking every liberty that the freedom of being in one's own home, in the middle of the night, allowed him.
This wasn't right, this was so very wrong. But this night had seemed to be cast by a very different set of rules.
And there was Miss Porter.
A woman was a woman, he reasoned, and after so long of being away from the blessed sanctuary they offered a man, he was like one starving as he nuzzled her neck, inhaled her innocent perfume.
His grief pushed him well past proper. Past nobility and honor. Tonight, he was no gentleman.
From the
Bachelor Chronicles
:
Aubrey Michael Thomas Sterling,
Marquess of Standon
B. 1772, third son of Lord Charles Sterling.
Current residence: Believed to be Bythorne Castle.
Notes: Lord Standon poses a dilemma, for very little is known of him (though there are persistent and unsubstantiated rumors of youthful and rakish indiscretions). However, he must have reformed upon his elevation to the marquisate, for he is never mentioned in the Society columns, the
Gentleman's Magazine,
or any other reliable form of gossip. As such there is very little to recommend him other than the indisputable fact that he is the Duke of Hollindrake's heir.
And being the Duke of Hollindrake's heir was enough for Felicity, who began a correspondence with the Marquess of Standon to determine if he was a suitable prospect for her future marital plans. Over the years, Felicity traded letters with the man she thought was Winston Sterling, but in reality was his grandfather, the Duke of Hollindrake. The fierce old duke rather liked Felicity's straightforward manners and suspected that this bit of muslin would be the perfect duchess for his ne'er-do-well grandson.
Now all that was left was to inform the Marquess of Standonâwho had run off to join Wellington's army years agoâabout these unusual arrangements. And when that does happen, the new Duke of Hollindrake sets out for London to inform Miss Langley that he has no intention of marrying herâonly to be confronted at her front door by the stunning lady herself.
Aubrey Michael Thomas Sterling, the tenth Duke of Hollingdrake, eyed the damage to his boots first, then looked back up at the pair of young ladies before him. Twins, he guessed, though not identical. The one catching up the mutt of a dog in her arms was a lithe beauty, but it was the one still holding the door latch who caught and held his attention.
Her hair held that elusive color of caramel, something to tempt and tease a man. Especially one like himself who'd been gone too long from the company of good societyâand young women especially.
Twelve years at war. Three months on a transport sailing back from Portugal. A month of riding from one end of England to nearly the other, with enough snow in between to make him wonder if he'd been dropped off in Russia instead of Sussex. Then the shock of arriving home and finding himself not just his grandfather's heir, but the duke.
The Duke of Hollindrake.
Gone in an instant was Captain Thatcher, the
nom de plume
he'd taken that long ago night when he'd disavowed the future his grandfather had cast for him. Instead he'd used the winnings from a night of gambling to buy a commission under a false name and fled to the far corners of the world where no one would interfere with his life.
The Duke of Hollindrake. He shuddered. It wasn't the mountain of responsibilities and the management of all of it that bothered him. He'd shouldered that and more getting his troops back and forth across the Peninsula. No, it was the title that had him in the crosshairs. He wasn't a duke. Not in the mold his grandfather and eight generations of Sterlings before had set down. Stuffy and lofty, and trained from birth for the imperious role that was theirs by some divine ordinance.
Oh, to be Thatcher still. For even with his arse freezing, his nose nearly frostbit, and his fingers stiff from cold, his blood suddenly ran hot at the sight before him. And Thatcher would have stolen a sweet kiss from her pert lips, while the Duke of Hollindrake, well, he had to assume a more,
shudder
, proper manner.
Too bad this fetching little minx wasn't the miss his grandfather had wooed on his behalf. No chance that, certainly not the social climbing bit of muslin who'd written quite plainly of her intentions to attain the loftiest of marriagesâwell, shy of a royal one.
“I'm here to see Felicity Langley,” he repeated.
By the way this miss was eyeing himâas if he were some ancient marauder, having arrived on their front steps to pillage and plunderâhe realized that perhaps his aunt had been right. He should have made himself presentable before arriving on the lady's doorstep.
Well, perhaps he would, as Aunt Geneva had declared, send Miss Langley running back to Almack's at the sight of him.
“I'm Miss Langley,” she said, pert nose rising slightly.
This was his betrothed? Since his grandfather had had a hand in all this, he'd expected some snaggle-
toothed harridan or some mousy bit without a hint of color. Not one who'd answer the door wearing bright red socks.
“Miss
Felicity
Langley?” he probed. Certainly there had to be a mistake. His grandfather would never have chosen such a pretty chit. Breathtaking, really.
But to his shock, she nodded.
Fine. So this was Felicity Langley
. He took a deep breath and consigned himself to the fact that while she hadn't the dental afflictions he'd imagined, given time she'd most likely prove him correct about the harridan part.
“My apologies, miss,” he said, bowing slightly. “I've come toâ” But before he could say anything further, the lady found her tongue.
“Heavens, sir, what are you thinking?” she scolded. “Arriving at the front door? Hardly a recommendation, I daresay. Speaks more of your cheek than your experience.” She paused for a moment, and glanced at him, as if inspecting him forâ¦well, he didn't know what. He'd never had a woman look at him in quite this way. Or scold him in such a fashion. At least not since he'd stopped wearing short coats.
Certainly he'd had his fair share of women casting glances in his direction, but this imperious Bath miss had the audacity of giving him a once over as if she were measuring him for a suitâ¦or shackles.
“Now that we've settled the fact that I am Miss Langley,” she was saying, “may I introduce my sister, Miss Thalia Langley.”
Thatcher bowed slightly to the girl who thankfully still held her vermin of a dog, for he was wearing his only pair of boots. At least until Aunt Geneva could order up twenty or thirty new pairs. Enough to keep
a room full of valets fully employed just with the task of polishing and shining them.
Miss Langley opened the door all the way, and eyed him again. “Are you coming in or are you going to stand there and let that draught chill the entire house?” One hand rested now on her hip and the other one pointed the way inside. “Or worse, you catch your death out there before we can come to some arrangement and I'll have to start this process all over.”
Arrangement?
Start this process all over? Well, there was arrogance if he'd ever heard it. She might be a pretty little thing, but he was beginning to see that she was also mad as Dick's hatband.
She huffed a sigh. “Now are you coming in or must I assume that you are as witless as the last one?”
He wasn't sure if it was the authority behind her orderâer, requestâor the draught of wind that blew up the street that finally propelled him into the house. “Yes, oh, so sorry,” he said.
Then it struck him.
The last one?
Wait just a demmed moment. She had more than one ducal prospect?
And she had the nerve to call him
cheeky
?
Miss Langley closed the door, shivered, and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, then turned and led the way up the stairs. Her sister flashed him a saucy grin, while the oversized rat in her arms continued to look down at his boots with an eager eye. “Come along then,” Miss Langley told him. “As you can see, we need your services.”
His what?