The Duke's Scandalous Kisses: Once Upon a Duke

CHAPTER 1

April 1816

Lake District, England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hear it’s even colder in London, Julia commented. My nephew, Margrave, wrote and mentioned this odd weather we’re having. It would seem this is a good year to miss the Season.

I had hoped the earl was joining us this week. Arabella pushed away her unfinished bonnet and stretched her arms. Margrave is so handsome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aside from mastering a skill, he enjoyed winning for the money—not that he needed more blunt. His reputation as a card player