скачать книгу бесплатно
An Unsuitable Duchess
Laurie Benson
The scandal of the season!For American Katrina Vandenberg, the rules of London society are stifling. So, when a rare moment of solitude at a particularly tedious ball is interrupted, she’s disappointed…until she lays eyes on a very handsome stranger!Julian Carlisle, Duke of Lyonsdale, is destined for a dull marriage of convenience, and Katrina couldn’t be further from the docile, blue-blooded bride he needs. An affair would be scandalous, but could there be a way for this highly unsuitable woman to become Julian’s perfect duchess after all?
Secret Lives of the Ton (#uaefd87d0-5f23-5068-96d5-feea56dac816)
What Society doesn’t know …
Meet Julian Carlisle, the Duke of Lyonsdale, Gabriel Pearce, the Duke of Winterbourne, and Phineas Attwood, the Earl of Hartwick.
In the eyes of the Ton, these three gentlemen are handsome, upstanding men who—mostly!—play by the rules. But what Society doesn’t know is that behind closed doors these three men are living scandalous lives and conducting sinfully scandalous affairs!
Read Julian’s story first in An Unsuitable Duchess
Available now
And look for Gabriel and Hart’s stories, coming soon!
Author Note (#uaefd87d0-5f23-5068-96d5-feea56dac816)
I’ve been interested in history since I was young, and that interest was fuelled by visits to many museums.
The idea for this story came to me while I was visiting Washington Irving’s home in Tarrytown, New York. I confess I have a bit of a historical crush on Irving, who was one of America’s first internationally acclaimed authors. For a time he lived in London, during the Regency era, and also served as a diplomat there in the last few years of the reign of George IV. While hearing about Irving’s time in London I began to imagine what life might have been like for the daughter of such a man. I’d also often wondered about the courtship of the first American woman to breach the walls of the English aristocracy. With these two thoughts in my head, this story was born.
While writing this book I used some creative licence, and I changed the name of the United States Minister to Britain who served in 1818 from Richard Rush to the fictitious Mr Forrester.
If you’re interested in learning more about some of the historical details in this book, please visit my website at lauriebenson.net and click on the link to my blog. You can search An Unsuitable Duchess for relevant articles. And while you’re there please subscribe to my newsletter for information about forthcoming books.
I hope you enjoy An Unsuitable Duchess, which is the first book in my Secret Lives of the Ton series.
An Unsuitable Duchess
Laurie Benson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAURIE BENSON is an award-winning historical romance author and Golden Heart® finalist. She began her writing career as an advertising copywriter, where she learned more than anyone could ever want to know about hot dogs and credit score reports. When she isn’t at her laptop, avoiding laundry, Laurie can be found browsing in museums or taking ridiculously long hikes with her husband and two sons. You can visit her at lauriebenson.net (http://lauriebenson.net).
Acknowledgements (#uaefd87d0-5f23-5068-96d5-feea56dac816)
I’ll always be grateful to my wonderful editor, Kathryn Cheshire, for giving me this opportunity and for helping me bring Julian and Katrina into the world. Thanks for your guidance and support. You’re the best! And thank you to everyone at Mills & Boon Historical, especially Linda Fildew, Nic Caws and Krista Oliver, for all that you’ve done for me.
Thanks, Courtney Miller-Callihan, for having my back and for just being you.
To the history bloggers and the people who answered my historical questions—thanks for making research fun.
Lori V. and Lisa D.—this book might not have been written if it weren’t for the two of you. Thanks for encouraging me to put this story to paper and for not running the other way when I asked you to read it—a number of times. I love you both!
To Jen, Mia, Marnee and Teri—thanks for riding this rollercoaster with me and for being such great friends.
Thanks, Mom, for teaching me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. To my boys—you mean the world to me. Thanks for never complaining when deadlines have had me ordering takeout for dinner. And thank you to my husband for always believing in me and for proving that love at first sight really is possible.
Finally, thank you, kind reader, for picking up this book. I hope this story makes you smile, and that you enjoy this brief armchair vacation in Regency era London.
Contents
Cover (#u87a145d3-9723-5981-a805-e1507914af76)
Secret Lives of the Ton
Author Note
Title Page (#u6f1556ea-e842-5b68-bcff-aae0c340f8ee)
About the Author (#ue836e79c-63e9-5a61-9c28-3b1717699e74)
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uaefd87d0-5f23-5068-96d5-feea56dac816)
Mayfair, London, 1818.
Katrina Vandenberg had come to the conclusion that the ballrooms of London were rather dangerous places.
As she stood under a glittering chandelier in the Russian Ambassador’s ornate drawing room she rotated her sore foot beneath her gown. It didn’t help. Anticipating its tenderness, she held her breath and gingerly lowered her slipper to the red and gold rug.
‘Why does Lord Boreham continue to ask me to dance?’ she groaned as her foot began to throb. ‘Each time we do he stumbles through the steps and blames it on me being American and not knowing the movements. This time he stepped on my foot so many times I stopped counting.’
‘Perhaps he is enamoured with you,’ replied Sarah Forrester, the daughter of the American Minister to the Court of St. James.
‘Perhaps he’s waiting for me to issue a war cry in the middle of the dance floor and wishes to have an excellent view.’
The friends laughed and a number of the finely dressed gentlemen and ladies looked their way. One of them was their hostess, the Russian Ambassador’s wife, Madame de Lieven.
‘I suppose you could wear boots under your gown to protect your feet from clumsy partners,’ Sarah whispered, hiding her amusement behind her fan. ‘Although it would not be very fashionable.’
‘I do not believe even that would help. But perhaps I could pretend the orchestra is too loud and I cannot hear them speak. Then maybe I could avoid listening to them boast about how important they are or prattle on about some ancient relative’s great accomplishment.’ Katrina nodded towards a group of gentlemen. ‘One day I wager one of them will show me his teeth in an attempt to impress me. London would be lovely if it weren’t for the men.’
When they laughed again Madame de Lieven narrowed her eyes and gave them a chastising shake of her head.
Katrina took a deep breath and shifted her gaze. ‘I do believe our hostess is attempting to inform us that ladies in London do not laugh out loud during entertainments such as this.’
How she wished there was somewhere she could go to avoid the constant scrutiny. And that smell! Had someone forgot to bathe?
She rubbed her forehead and a drop of wax hit the embroidered forget-me-nots on her white silk glove.
Evenings like this were always so tedious.
* * *
This evening could not become any more tedious.
Julian Carlisle, the Duke of Lyonsdale, didn’t know how Lady Morley and her daughter Lady Mary had cornered him. And that bloody chandelier! He was certain his valet would have an apoplexy when he saw how much wax was falling onto his new black tailcoat.
Tonight’s crush was so great it had become difficult to raise his glass of the Russian Ambassador’s fine champagne to his lips. If he tried he might inadvertently brush his hand over the front of Lady Mary’s dress. It would be interesting to see her mother’s reaction to that. Most likely Julian would find himself embroiled in the scandal of the evening, with a wife he did not want.
He would stay thirsty.
‘And so I told her,’ continued Lady Morley, ‘that if Madame Devy moved back to Paris we simply would not know what to do. She is the best in London. She makes all of Mary’s dresses. Not that she needs any help to show as well as she does. Has the bearing of a duchess, I always hear.’
Thirty-three. Thirty-four. The peacock feather in Lady Morley’s turban bobbed with every nod of her head. Julian continued counting. The unique sound of soft feminine laughter floated from behind him and he wished he were part of that conversation instead of this one. He made a conscious effort not to sigh.
Before he could school his features into his usual bored expression he wrinkled his nose. What was that smell? It reminded him of his gardeners in the heat of summer. A man’s sweat should not be mixed with an abundance of flowers and sold in a bottle.
Julian managed to down the remainder of his champagne in one gulp. The bubbles tickling his throat were a welcome distraction. ‘I understand cards are being played across the hall. Is that where your husband is this evening?’ he asked, with no real interest.
Lady Morley blinked at his sudden interruption. ‘Oh—oh, yes, I believe it is.’
‘I’ll be off, then.’
Both ladies curtsied to Julian, and he began to attempt a shallow bow. He bumped into something soft. As he turned to excuse himself high, soft breasts met his hard male chest.
A startled woman with pleasant features and a pair of deep blue eyes looked up at him. Then her gaze travelled slowly down to his waistcoat and back up to his face. When her white teeth tugged at her lower lip, he had a strong urge to lick and soothe that lip. Mentally shaking himself, he tried to gain control of this unexpected yearning.
Her eyes widened, and a faint blush swept across her cheeks. ‘Please forgive me, my lord,’ she murmured.
Nine years had passed since anyone had addressed him simply as ‘my lord’. Everyone knew he was the Duke of Lyonsdale and should be addressed as ‘Your Grace’—even if he didn’t care to know them. ‘I assure you no apology is necessary. I believe the fault is mine.’
She bobbed a shallow curtsey and turned away from him. As he watched her make her way through the crowd something inside him shifted. Suddenly he was striding across the room, not even aware of the parting of finely dressed people before him.
* * *
Stepping onto the terrace, Katrina closed her eyes and filled her lungs with fresh night air. For a brief time, at least, she would not have to be conscious of her every action.
The amber glow of candlelight, shining through the tall windows and doors of the large brick house, streaked this outdoor haven. In the far corner was an unoccupied area that called to her. It would be an ideal place to escape inquisitive stares and pointed whispers.
The stone of the marble balustrade felt cool against her gloved hands and was a welcome contrast to the warm crush inside. Peering out into the dimly lit garden, she gradually began to relax, enjoying her first bit of solitude all evening. It was wonderful to finally be alone.
‘We are fortunate the evening air is so pleasant and there’s no rain,’ rumbled a deep voice to her right.
Resisting the urge to push the intruder over the railing, Katrina held back a sigh. ‘Yes, we are quite fortunate,’ she said, in what she was certain was a bored tone. She kept her eyes fixed on the landscape below, hoping it would discourage further conversation.
‘The quality of the Ambassador’s garden is well noted. Have you walked through it yet?’
