The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Page 10
January 22, 1816
Dismissing their new butler and footman, Bee waited until the servant had closed the breakfast room doors upon them before rising. She ran her gaze over the cheery golden room, cozy from the fire blazing behind the grate. Kingston Manor House was a sprawling beauty of ivory Portland stone, Ionic columns and an interior of twenty-two rooms in subtle blues, peaches and yellows. They'd traveled here in a hired coach the day after all Aunt Gertrude’s guests had departed the morning of December twenty-eighth. Those happy people had declared the events most extraordinary, including one attempted kidnapping, two arrests, a fire in one of the bedrooms and three weddings of all Aunt’s nieces.
Bee and Alastair’s marriage ceremony had been the first on December twenty-six. But they had stayed on to witness Griff’s marriage to Marjorie the next day and Bromley’s to Delphine the following day. As those two couples departed Marsden Manor for London and Paris the twenty-ninth, Bee and Alastair left for Alastair’s new estate north. There in the comfort of their new home and between hours in their bedroom suite, they'd begun to familiarize themselves with the staff, their tenants and their land. Bee could not believe her good fortune to enjoy such luxury with the man she always yearned for and had never hoped to have.
Celebrating her luck, as was her habit at this hour each day, she decided to entice her bridegroom back to their bedroom and took Alastair's London newspaper from his hand.
"But I must finish reading that," Alastair said with more insistence than was usual.
"Later," she said as she swept aside his arm and situated herself firmly on his lap. "It's snowing again this morning. And blustery outside. Cold."
"I dislike it." These past few weeks, he'd learned that in warmth, he did not suffer so deeply his bouts of blankness or headaches. Bee had ordered fires in every room, burning high throughout the day.
"I do, too." She shivered dramatically. "To cure my ills, I need a kiss."
"If you squirm about like that, I'd say you're in need of more than a kiss." He arched his golden brows at her in mock reprimand.
"What can I say if I'm so demanding?" She gave him her best moue.
He pointed a finger to his paper. "I must have it back."
"But we have much to do today. The Moores will walk up from the cottages, wanting to discuss how to enlarge the pigsty. And Raymond Appleby wants you to reexamine his calculations on the estate records."
"But that is vital." He nodded at the papers. "You'll find them amusing."
She ran her fingers through the thick silk strands of his hair and cupped his handsome jaw. "Not as intriguing as you," she breathed.
"Hmm. On one condition." He began to relent, his masculine nature firmly responding to her amorous pursuit. "First, I insist you read one article before we adjourn to our bedroom."
"No wonder we won the war against Bonaparte," she complained, capitulating to his demands as she reached around to snatch up the paper. "Which article?"
"There," he said, pointing to the column at the top left of the page, then dipping his head to trail kisses down her throat. "Read it aloud, please."
"Oh," she breathed, quite enthralled with his attention to the hollow between her breasts. "Very well. Um. There, just there. Yesss. So..."
“Read.” He chuckled.
She pulled the paper closer. The print was small and the ink seemed faded. She checked the date. A week ago.
"This paper is old," she complained. “Why am I—?”
“Read.” He hummed as he pulled open the ribbon holding closed her morning robe and dragged down the muslin bodice of her gown.
"Why didn't you show it to me before now?" she asked as he bent to kiss the top of one breast.
"Too busy, darling." He lifted out her breast and fastened his lips around her nipple. "My priority was to keep my bride happy."
She sighed in delight and dropped the paper.
"No, no," he said, pulling away so quickly she felt the lack of him in her very blood. "Read it to me or I stop."
"Terrible man," she complained, hooked one hand around his neck and arched to give up both breasts to his ardor.
"Mmm. Hurry."
"'On Monday sen'night, as a painter was decorating the house of—'"
"Not that entry, darling. The next."
She gave him a jaundiced eye, then cleared her throat. "'Last Thursday, the Revenue Officers of Shoreham and Brighton seized upwards of seventy tubs of contraband spirits and foreign fabrics, and safely logged them in the Custom-house at Shoreham. This is more evidence seized by William Godley and William Majuit, Mariners, belonging to the Hound Cutter, in the Service of the Customs in the County of Sussex. The Commissioners of His Majesty's Customs, in order to bring justice to the offenders, are hereby pleased to award the Duchess of Kingston—'" She gaped at her husband. "'The Duchess of Kingston a reward of six hundred pounds.'"
She cast about, examining the ceiling a moment, then returned to the paper. "Six hundred. That is what it says. Six. Hundred. Alastair?”
“Yes, my darling?” He stroked one breast with deft fingers as he sucked the other deeply into his hot wet mouth.
“What will we do with six hundred pounds?"
He laughed against her breast, the sound of his joy reverberating through her skin. "We decide later. Go on, my love."
"But six hundred pounds! Oh, Alastair, that would pay to build two pigsties!"
"Indeed.” He stripped her gown down to her belly and splayed his fingers over her nakedness. “Or more. Read on."
She cleared her throat, the need to read as great as the desire to have her husband possess her. Perhaps here on the table?
"'Her Grace was instrumental in identifying the smugglers known as those of Ben Hagen, aided and abetted by two men, Edward Finch, Lord Carlson and Reginald Winslow, third, Lord Hallerton, the last formerly a member of Parliament for Brighton.'"
She shot from his lap. "Oh, Alastair. What has happened to them?"
A smile curving the corner of his mouth, he devoured her nakedness with his appreciative gaze, then inhaled, shook his head and said, "Read that other newspaper."
She picked it up. "The date. It's January tenth."
"So it is."
Heart pounding, she focused on the page. "'Bow Street. The government has been induced, by recent outrages of smugglers, to make the most active exertions for the apprehension and conviction of the most daring of them. On Tuesday last, Reginald Winslow, Lord Hallerton, and Edward Finch, Lord Carlton, were brought before the judge and accused of customs violations along with their accomplice, Ben Hagen, all of Brighton, Sussex.'"
She turned to Alastair, stunned they would publish this.
He nodded, all humor drained from his features. "Go on, darling."
"'The prisoners made a confession. Their lordships shall be tried by their peers. Hagen is committed to Newgate.'" The papers drifted to the carpet.
He stood and took her stiff body in his arms. "None will ply the seas again and you, my darling, are responsible for their capture."
"And everyone knows," she uttered in disbelief.
"They do. Her Grace, the Duchess of Kingston, is responsible." He leaned over and fished from his pile of papers another. "Finally, do read this."
"There is more?"
"Just so."
"'Her Grace, the Duchess of Kingston, with that loyalty and benevolence which is so inherent in Her Grace's family, has saved His Majesty's Realm from the deprivation of goods most necessary to our mutual welfare. Rumors abound that she may be called to Court to receive the personal gratitude of the Prince of Wales, His Royal Highness.'"
"Oh, Alastair. 'That loyalty and...and benevolence inherent in her family?'"
He grinned at the joy he saw on her face. Caring not a whit for the fact she might be summoned to meet His Royal Highness, she focused on that element she had always most desired. Her family's good name. "You've more than done your duty to society and to the country, my darling.”
Free of her fath
er's failings, having helped restore her family reputation, she might have shed tears.
But no. True to her fortitude, she flung her arms around him and kissed him with her unfailing gusto. "Come upstairs now?"
"I think I should," he told her. "What Her Grace wishes, I wish to provide."
She giggled and led him toward the hall, their bedroom and their never-ending pleasure.
A Nibble of a New Cherry, Coming Soon!
HER IRRESISTIBLE STABLE BOY, In my Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent series!
Number 6,
Dudley Crescent
London
July 15, 1821
Dearest Lucinda,
I write to you today to share my outrage at occurrences in Dudley Crescent. I simply cannot abide the recent changes and must have your advice.
Two years ago, a murder occurred at Number 10. The horrid matter was quickly resolved when the culprit was identified and put away from fine society. But the greater scandal was that the widowed lady of the house had intimate relations with her butler! Then last year, a noted member of society hired a young woman as ward to his child…and later, did marry the woman! She was far below his station, though, I do understand, an heiress of considerable worth. I must tell you the man is one of our finest gentlemen with a spotless reputation and high military honors.
Yet, I worry. Another event occurring last week causes me to question my presence here!
I understand that another noble gentleman has paid attentions to one of his servants! This time, said woman is not a governess. No, indeed, she is his maid-of-all-work! Can you imagine? I’ve been inconsolable, riddled with a nervous stomach and headaches. My usual little dose of laudanum is simply not enough to calm me.
This causes me to ask you if you think I should move to a better part of town. Is there a curse on the Crescent? Must I expect more servants who will climb above their station to enthrall their masters or mistresses? Worse, will such an affliction affect my own house? I must tell you, quite confidentially, that my only daughter, Lady Mary, seems far too taken with one of our own servants. The new…dear me, I can barely write this…stable boy. Yes! He is most definitely not a boy. Not by any means. He is thirty years of age or more! Tall! Taller than my dear departed husband. In strapping good health with arms a woman could…well, you understand. Worse, he is devilishly handsome with hair the color of coal and eyes like lavender. He is quite ethereal.
I do rattle on!
Advise me, please!
Most sincerely,
Catherine
Viscountess of Trelawny
Who is Cerise DeLand?
Cerise DeLand
Cerise DeLand loves to write about dashing heroes and the sassy women they adore. Whether she’s penning historical romances or contemporaries, she has received praise for her poetic elegance and accuracy of detail.
An award-winning author of more than 50 novels, she’s been published since 1991 by Pocket Books, St. Martin’s Press, Kensington and independent presses. Her books have been monthly selections of the Doubleday Book Club and the Mystery Guild. Plus she’s won nominations and awards for Best Historical of the Year, Best Regency and scores of rave reviews from Romantic Times, Affair de Coeur, Publisher’s Weekly and more.
To research, she’s dived into the oldest texts and dustiest library shelves. She’s also traveled abroad, trusty notebook and pen in hand, to visit the chateaux and country homes she loves to people with her own imaginary characters.
And at home every day? She loves to cook, hates to dust, goes swimming at least once a week and tries (desperately) to grow vegetables in her arid backyard in south Texas!
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