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  Copyright © 2016 by Christy English

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Paul Stinson

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  An Excerpt from How to Tame a Willful Wife

  One

  Two

  Back Cover

  For Maizie and Emma

  Beauty and Grace combined, with just a little Fierceness

  One

  Northumberland, 1820

  Mary Elizabeth’s sojourn in England could not end soon enough.

  She and her brother Robbie had borrowed the duchess’s carriage on their journey from London to Northumberland, and arrived in sartorial splendor on the white-graveled drive of the pristine estate. The lines of topiaries were as clean and well matched as any in England. The flowers that flanked the front of the grand mansion made her want to rifle them and plant some decent heather, but as she climbed from the traveling chaise she could hear the distant sound of the sea.

  Mary Elizabeth took comfort in the sound, though she could not see the sea itself. She would hare off and find it as soon as she might.

  As she raised her eyes from the graveled ground, she thought to find her mother’s tiresome friend among those who greeted them. Instead her gaze fell on a boy from the stables, a boy with ice-blue eyes and large, competent hands.

  He was not a boy, of course, though for some reason the English called their stable hands boys long into their dotage. This fair-haired stable boy was tall—taller than all her brothers save for Ian—and his shoulders were wide, as if he might carry the burden of the world on them and not notice the weight.

  Atlas did not shrug as he greeted her. Indeed, he did not greet her at all. Nor did he start to unhitch the horses from their traces. Instead, he simply stared at her, as she stared at him.

  “Hello,” she said at last, remembering that he was English and, as such, had no manners to speak of.

  “Hello.” He answered her in the posh tones of the English gentry, and she wondered why the duchess would allow such a man to work with her horses. The English were usually mad about class distinction and would not even allow their stable hands to read, if the boys were ever so inclined. But this stable hand seemed not to care a fig for any of his so-called betters, including her, and that made her smile.

  “Here,” she said, handing him her favorite bag in all the world.

  He accepted the soft leather satchel that held her tartan and fishing lures, as well as her throwing knives. Her best-used knives were on her person, but these were the pearl-handled knives her father had given her before she was sent away. The bag held all that was dear to her in the world, save her home and family.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, “would you see to it that this bag goes into whatever room I’m bound for? If I know the duchess—and I do know her, as I know my own mother—I’ll be shuttled off to tea without time to turn around twice. She’ll want to chat about London and look me over as she might a bit of good horseflesh, and there’ll be no time for me to put this bag away.”

  Atlas’s blue eyes lit up, as if he somehow understood her trust in him and honored her for it. He bowed almost like a gentleman and would have spoken had Mrs. Prudence, Mary Elizabeth’s companion and almost-governess, not intervened.

  “Now, Mary, this fine man must see to the horses.” Mrs. Prudence plucked the leather satchel from Atlas’s hands and passed it to a waiting footman, who kept a poker face like any true Englishman and did not even blink.

  Mary Elizabeth loved Mrs. Prudence as she loved her brothers, but she wondered if the lot of them would ever cease to bother her about her own life, and mind their own.

  “My friend here looks sensible enough to see to my favorite bag,” she said, certain that she sounded like a petulant child but not sure how else to deal with high-handed interference.

  Mrs. Prudence was the soul of courtesy, but as always, she was implacable, a woman to be reckoned with, which was why Mary Elizabeth’s brother Robbie loved her. “Mary, each person here has his role in the household, and that hierarchy must be respected.”

  “But why?” Mary Elizabeth asked. She could feel herself digging in, even though she knew she was wasting valuable breath. The English had their system, and they would not change it for the likes of her. “Why should the groom not handle my favorite bag? I like the look of him. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “No,” Mrs. Prudence answered. “This is the duchess’s household, and we must respect her wishes.”

  Mary Elizabeth met the eyes of Atlas, feeling her embarrassment rise from the ground as if to strangle her. She wished for the hundredth time that day that her family would mind their own affairs and leave her in peace. She felt humiliation threaten, but then she saw the gleam of humor in Atlas’s eyes and knew, the way she understood the minds of horses and kittens, that he was not laughing at her.

  She caught sight of a great fat man dressed in formal wear peering out from the curtains of a third-story window. She let all thoughts for her bag and of her humiliation go as she stared into the man’s cold, blue eyes. In the next moment, the curtain fell over his face, blocking him from view.

  The man had looked down on her and hers as if they were dirt beneath his feet, as if they might have come from the midden heap and not out of the ducal carriage after a long ride North. The man in formal blacks, d
isgusted with all he surveyed, could only be the duke himself.

  Mary Elizabeth wondered for half a moment if her mother and the duchess had lured her to Northumberland to foist her off on the older, balding man, both to amuse themselves and to settle the question of her future and the succession of the dukedom all in one clean sweep. She dismissed the dismal thought at once. Even if her mother were to stoop so low, which she doubted, Mary Elizabeth would not fall to a duke for any reason. To make her stay more pleasant, perhaps if she were quick, and quick-witted, she could avoid meeting the Recluse Duke altogether.

  She listened with half an ear as Mrs. Prudence clucked like a broody hen, maneuvering her to the front steps. She watched as some English footman whisked her favorite bag away in a trice. She vowed to let all thoughts of the duke and his bald pate go, and reminded herself that knives and fishing lures—or even her bit of family tartan—were only things, and that things could be replaced.

  This logic was not what comforted her as she went to meet her mother’s friend in the splendid mansion before her. It was the blue eyes of Atlas and his last surreptitious wink.

  * * *

  Harry—Harold Charles Percy, Duke of Northumberland—was not a man to listen to gossip, especially gossip that found its way so far North, but he knew as he watched his mother’s guests climb out of his own carriage from Town that barbarians were upon them.

  He wondered to himself which of the girls was the famous Hellion of Hyde Park, the young lady who had wrestled with the Earl of Grathton in the grass and who had almost cut the man in two with a great steel blade. Neither of the women in view looked capable of such violence, and Harry was about to remove himself and hide among the horses in the stable until it was safe to go back to his work in the garden again when he caught the eye of the slight blonde girl with a voice like a siren’s call.

  The girl was a mere slip of a thing, but she was well-rounded, which suited his taste. Harry knew he was a cad for noticing that, but he dismissed his own scruples for the moment; he would take himself to task later for his irreverence toward a lady. As it was, he simply stared at her, taking in the maple brown of her eyes—staring so long that he soon found that her pupils were rimmed with a bit of green.

  He had seen many women in his thirty years, but there was something about this one that fair took his breath away.

  He stood, staring still, trying to discern what it was about her that held him, as her governess—a lady doing a terrible job of hiding her good looks behind an ugly gown, oversized spectacles, and a lace cap—shuffled his prize off into the house.

  Harry made it his life’s mission to avoid all women of good birth save for the occasional merry widow. All women born in the British Isles, some in the Americas, and more than a few in farthest India wanted to marry a duke. And he, God help him, had held that title for the last five years.

  But as he watched the little blonde go, he knew that he would make certain to see her again. Surely he might prevail upon her to speak with him without revealing who he was. He did not like the thought of her knowing his title and curbing her intriguing tongue. He wanted to enjoy frank speech with her for just a while longer.

  Being a duke must hold some privileges, after all, or what was an august title for?

  The large barbarian man who had left the carriage behind the women stepped forward then, placing a gold sovereign in his hand. The Highland Scot handed one to the footman standing by as well, and Harry watched as Charlie slipped the barbarian’s coin into his pocket without a blink.

  Harry fingered his own sovereign, trying to remember the last time he had actually held money in his hand. He had an army of stewards and lawyers who dealt with his funds. If he needed something, he asked for it, and it was brought to him forthwith. Money was not something that figured heavily in the daily life of a duke. He raised the coin to the light and watched it gleam in the slanting sun. There was something about the gleam that pleased him. Harry suddenly wished he had earned it.

  Before the Highlander could speak to tell him what the coin was for, the lovely woman dressed as a dowd came to his side. She spoke not to Harry, as anyone sane might have done, but addressed herself to the Scot. The two continued their conversation as if Harry were a deaf and blind mule who had simply wandered into the yard.

  “Robbie, you can’t tip the duchess’s household,” the pretty woman said.

  “Why not?” the Scot asked.

  “It simply isn’t done.”

  “Yes, it is,” the barbarian insisted. “I just did it.”

  Harry stood in silence, listening to their conversation, staring beyond them to the house, where the little blonde had gone. He felt a bizarre and almost overwhelming desire to present himself at tea, and to eat scones among these people who clearly had no idea who he was.

  The Scot and his lady bantered on, as if Harry was not even there.

  “The duchess pays her own people. It is not for us to pay them twice,” the lovely woman said.

  “Northumberland is close enough to the border for these people to know the value of a pound,” the Scot answered her. “If a man, even a Lowlander, is given a piece of gold, he takes it and says thank you.”

  The barbarian turned to Harry expectantly. Harry swallowed a smile, for dukes did not smile in company, even among those who did not realize that they were addressing a duke. He pocketed the sovereign.

  “Thank you,” Harry said at last, fingering the coin in his waistcoat pocket. He remembered the semblance of his manners and bowed once to the lady before he walked away.

  He did not bother with the stables, but went straight to the garden, hoping that some time with his roses might chase the sight of the little blonde from his mind, but it only reminded him of the scent of flowers on her skin. He had taken in a bit of it when she had stood close and handed him her bag.

  He pushed the girl from his mind, but her scent would not leave him. His mother had gathered a house party to marry him off. He might, God help him, have to marry one of the ladies on offer. But the party did not start for three more days. He had three more days to live his life in peace and bucolic harmony. He was not going to let even one moment of those three days of peace go to waste, for they might be the only peace he ever had again.

  Harry took up the shovel Martin had left for him and went at the bush that needed transplanting along the eastern wall. He got his hands in good solid earth, but still he could smell blooms warmed not by sun but by skin, and he could see the little blonde standing before him, her leather satchel in her hand.

  Two

  Mary Elizabeth was right, as she always was. She barely had time to smooth her curls and wash her hands in the retiring room before she was ushered in to see the Duchess of Northumberland by the great ducal butler.

  She winked at the man, just to see what he might do. Billings did not blink in response, nor did he smile, but she thought she saw a gleam of amusement in his dark-brown eyes, which was more than she had bargained for. Pleased with this small inroad, she presented herself to her mother’s closest living friend and made her curtsy as gracefully as if her mother were in the room watching her. For all Mary knew, she might well be hiding behind the screen in the corner.

  Mary Elizabeth did take the time to make certain that the fat duke was not lurking about. As soon as she saw that he, too, was absent, she relaxed.

  The soft light filtered in from the closed French doors, and Mary found herself thinking that with fewer pillows, and a great deal less gilt, the room might even be pleasant. She did not have long to muse to herself, however, for Mrs. Prudence was on her heels, and the duchess had raised her quizzing glass to get a better view.

  “You have finally arrived, I see. And none the worse for wear for the abysmal North Road,” the old lady said, still peering at Mary as if she might find the family’s lost jewels somewhere about her person.

  If she had lea
rned one thing in the last three months, it was how to be polite even when faced with the impoliteness of Southerners. Mary Elizabeth managed to smile, wishing for her own granny, who was no doubt sewing a new shawl of hunting plaid for her even as they spoke. Her granny was the one among the family who knew that, one day, Mary Elizabeth would be coming home.

  “And good day to you as well, Your Worship,” Mary Elizabeth said at last. “I see that you’ve an eye for a fine-looking woman. I suspect you were a good-looking girl yourself, once upon a time.”

  The blue-haired duchess dropped her quizzing glass at that bit of impertinence, and it swung down on its gold chain, only to rest against her large bosom. She stared down Mary Elizabeth in the lengthening silence, and Mary knew that it fell to her as the guest to put the moment to rights.

  She heard the sound of birdsong, faint from beyond the window, and longed with a depth of feeling that surprised her to be anywhere but there. She breathed once and took herself to task. She was where she was, and she had best face it, until she could manage to be somewhere else.

  Mary Elizabeth offered an olive branch. “I must thank you for opening your home to us, both here and in London. You are very kind.”

  “Hardly.”

  Mary Elizabeth wondered why Robbie—for it seemed that he had finally wandered indoors—didn’t speak up from his stance beside the parlor door. Robbie was a good soul, but not always willing to step up and speak with a lady when it was needed. That had always been her brother David’s job, and he was home, in the Highlands.

  Mrs. Prudence, for her part, was quiet as a mouse, as she sometimes was when intimidated. Mary Elizabeth was not sure why anyone would be afraid of this old besom. No doubt, sitting alone in the midst of all that gilt, the Duchess of Northumberland was lonely, too.

  When neither Mrs. Prudence nor Robbie said anything, the duchess continued. “And how did you find the town house, girl?”

  “Large, Your Worship. And a bit drafty.”

  Robbie had the good grace to shift on his feet, while Pru cringed and twisted her gloves between her hands. Mary Elizabeth was about to apologize for her blunt speech, in case she might have hurt the old lady’s feelings, but before she could offer another olive branch, the duchess laughed—a keen sound, like the honking of a goose.