The Duke of Christmas Past (8 page)

Tess lifted her brows. "Yes…"

"Will… will Delia be there?"

Tess furrowed her brow. "Of course not."

Grief exploded in his heart. Donovan stumbled
backward. His hand grazed the edge of the desk, and he sank to the
floor. Dread seeped into the pit of his stomach. Bile rose in his
throat. He wanted to rip the traitorous heart from his chest. How
could he be so happy, even overjoyed, when Delia's fate hadn't
changed? She'd still died.

"Donovan!" Tess dropped to her knees in front of him,
took his face in her hands. "What's happened? Are you unwell?
Should I send for the doctor?"

He stared, unseeing. Her voice was no more than a
faint whisper. How could this be? It had all been for naught. How
could he be happy when Delia had still died? How could he—

"…Delia and Henry tomorrow. They can make our excuses
to John and Elizabeth Dickens. I'll send word we must delay—"

Donovan grabbed her hands. "What did you just
say?"

"I said we can't possibly make the trip to Guildford
if you've taken ill."

Memories rushed back to him so quickly he became
lightheaded. The room started spinning, blurring everything. Delia
was alive and well and living in Guildford, awaiting the arrival of
her third child. And she was happy. Deliriously so. Almost as happy
as he and Tess. Their son was in Guildford with Delia and Henry. He
had a son. The lad had fair hair and blue eyes like his mother.
Donovan Henry would be six this year.

He jumped to his feet and swung her up into his arms,
laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. It seemed even his
heart chuckled.

She squealed. "Put me down this instant."

"Never."

She scowled. "You
are
foxed!"

"I'm only drunk on you." With that he headed out the
study door and up the stairs.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm taking my wife to bed."

Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. "What
about Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve Ball?"

"I've attended enough of Lord and Lady Kringle's
balls tonight."

"I beg your pardon? Are you quite certain you don't
need me to send for the doctor?"

"I've never been better. I'll tell you everything on
the way to Guildford. Right now, I want to hold you."

How would he explain to her how he knew what it would
be like to live without her and how he couldn't bear it? How did
one explain that he'd gotten a second chance and now he intended to
make the most of every single second? Perhaps not the real truth
then, but just how much he loved her. He'd think of something. She
wouldn't believe the truth anyway. He hardly believed it
himself.

Once in their room, he set Tess on her feet and shut
the door. She eyed him suspiciously. He starting toward her,
pulling his cravat loose and unbuttoning his shirt.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm taking my shirt off, then I'm going to help you
out of that beautiful gown, then I'm going to make love to my
wife." He removed his shirt and tossed it on the settee at the foot
of the bed.

He took Tess's face in his hands. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"No, I really love you. I'm a better person because
of you. You breathe the life into me."

Donovan turned her around and loosened the buttons of
her dress. With a gentle tug, the gown slid down her shoulders and
dropped to the floor. Goose flesh covered her ivory skin around her
chemise. He leaned close, breathed her in. Honeysuckle and
rosewater. Lips barely touching her, he placed feather-light kisses
on her shoulder, up her neck, stopping behind her ear. The tiny
bumps spread, and she shivered.

"Donovan…" Tess leaned into him, let her head fall
back against his chest.

He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and placed
her in the center of the bed. Her breath came in tiny pants.
Passion shone bright in her sapphire eyes.

Never letting his eyes leave hers, he joined her,
covering her body with his. "Merry Christmas, my love."

Her only answer was to pull his mouth down to hers
for a sensual kiss.

I so hope you enjoyed
The Duke of Christmas
Past
. I assure you, it was made much better by the imaginations
and some of the characters from the Regency Christmas stories of
several of my fellow Astraea Press authors.

Thank you so much, J. Gunnar Grey, for allowing me
the honor of mentioning Ernst Anton Oldenburg, the Duke of
Cumberland, and the Honorable Anne Kirkhoven from
Scandal on
Half Moon Street
. And a special "thank you" for allowing me to
mention Captain Alexander Fleming from
A Different Sort of
Perfect
. You are a dear and I can't say how much I appreciate
your help. Believe me, this story wouldn't be near as good without
your advice, editing, and willingness to share your vast knowledge
of the writing craft and Regency period with me. My hat is off to
you, lady!

As in J. Gunnar Grey's story, I, too, have "borrowed"
Lady Ivy Plumthorne and Roland Melwyn, Fourth Earl of Norcross,
from Kay Springsteen's
The Toymaker
. Kay, I had so much fun
allowing my duke the privilege of punching your earl in the nose.
And any time I can combine my writing with yours, mine is better
for it.

I couldn't resist the humor behind Ruth Hartman's
character Lord Stanchbach in
Time for a Duke
, and I'm very
happy that she let me jab fun at him as well. Charles Hamilton
Douglas Wade, the Fourth Duke of Bramblewood Green, created quite a
stir in Ruth's story by bringing Isabella Hodgkin, an American
(gasp!), to the Kringles' ball. So of course, I had to mention the
scandal in my book as well! Thank you so much, Ruth.

Leah Sanders, I so appreciate you letting me make fun
of Paisley from your Christmas story
Two Turtledoves
. The
man simply asked for it, letting his fists fly the way he did!

A special thank you goes to Rachel Van Dyken for
graciously writing the Prologue to my story. The witty, eagle-eyed
Mrs. Peabody's Society Paper was the perfect addition and an
ingenious way to poke fun at my characters with gossip from Lord
and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve ball. It was greatly appreciated!
I also want to extend a huge "THANK YOU" for your graciousness in
adding your voice and charm via the wonderful Mrs. Peabody to all
of Astraea Press's Regency Christmas stories. Your kindness and
willingness to help your fellow authors never ceases to amaze
me.

Kim Bowman
lives in Indiana, where she was
born and raised. For the past thirteen years, she has been married
to her best friend, Tony. She has four wonderful, awesome children.
Three she was lucky enough to inherit from her husband and one she
was given by the grace of God. They live on a small farm with two
of their four kids, five horses, and Lex the lovable pit bull.

Although she has notebooks full of songs, poems, and
short stories she has composed, it wasn't until she started doing
technical writing for her job that she really got the bug and
decided to take her English professor's advice and write novels for
a living. Find Kim on Facebook and at her blog:
http://kimbowmanauthor.blogspot.com/

Chapter One

Tuesday, December 8, 1812

The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the
windowed front of the linen draper's shop, and there stood sweet
Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he'd ever chewed. A
stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden
curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the
many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed
with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of
recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally
brilliant smile flashed a moment later.

An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of
her new husband beside her.

And of course their swift, smiling recognition had
been spotted. Dear Lady Gower's hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath
an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them
from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance
swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the
twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The
matched greys smacked the phaeton's front wheel against the
sidewalk's edge before she returned to her own affairs.

And of course, by then the new husband had whisked
sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant's wife
now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all
that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred
to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her
husband's arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again
into a dull winter's day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the
Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn't bother to hide his satisfied
smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with
her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her
complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her
shoulder.

Well, he'd done what he'd intended for her. His Grace
could honestly say, he'd made sweet Dorcas' dream come true.

Leaving him free for a new adventure.

Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across
the way.

In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne
Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of
Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her
cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect rose-hued
flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid's-bow mouth curved
in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton
chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons
claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as
their daughters' mischievous innocence allowed.

And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room's
corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton's sight, sat the young solicitor
the daughter admired and the mother scorned.

Time to play.

His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between
carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he
could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere,
bowed, and opened the door for him.

Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the
vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set
less from the quality of the conversation and more from the
strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the
frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed
little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters
had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be
the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.

As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele,
conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual
murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in
London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted
them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and
with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.

And let the mothers hide their daughters if they
didn't.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.

Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed,
his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded
eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still
appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better
described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans
permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the
dead. And kept them that way.

Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside
toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a
delightful surprise."

In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games
of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an
"unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of
his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss
Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl
into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I
can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of
blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His
smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."

Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower
lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not
before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.

She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from
the wrong side of the blanket.

And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam,
neither would he.