Only a Duke Will Do Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more historical romance… A Knight of Her Own

  My Rogue, My Ruin

  A Duke’s Wicked Kiss

  Captured Heart

  Discover the To Marry a Rogue series… Only an Earl Will Do

  A Stolen Season

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Tamara Gill. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Period Images, iStock, and Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-869-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2017

  To my beautiful, sweet, and loving daughter, Lily.

  I knew I would make a lady out of you one day.

  Love you, darling girl.

  Mum xo

  Chapter One

  Mountshaw Estate, Wiltshire 1805

  Isolde Worthingham, the second eldest daughter of the Duke of Penworth, spooned syllabub into her mouth and grinned at her betrothed, a man she had known for only one year, yet it felt like she’d known him her entire life. Merrick Mountshaw, the fourth Duke of Moore, was a gentle soul, much like herself, and suited her more than she’d ever dreamed. So much so it was almost like they’d been made for each other.

  He smiled back, his eyes sparkling with humor. How was it that in only a few hours they would be married, finally promised to each other before God and all those they cared for most in the world.

  Excitement thrummed through Isolde’s veins. She’d waited for what seemed forever for this day to arrive. How lucky she was to be marrying for love, something that she and her sisters had promised to uphold after witnessing such a union from their parents’ own match.

  And she had found it with Merrick. The last dinner together as an unmarried couple carried on around them, and was enjoyable and hearty. The conversation was of nothing but the forthcoming nuptials and the joining of two great families of southern England. The event of the Season some said.

  It did not surprise her that the wedding was titled as such, with half of London having traveled to Mountshaw, Merrick’s ancestral home, to attend. Everyone who was anyone would see them state their vows, their promises to each other, tomorrow. She couldn’t wait.

  Merrick took her hand, pulling her from her thoughts, placing a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist. Warmth spread across her cheeks, and she bit her lip.

  “I cannot concentrate on this dessert when there is something all the more delectable at table,” he whispered, leaning close.

  She laughed, looking about and hoping no one heard his words. “You tease, Your Grace.”

  “With you, I tell only the absolute truth.” He smiled and answered a question from her brother Josh across from her. It was always pleasant sitting next to Merrick. In fact, she preferred it to the other end of the table, where she would hardly be able to see him between all the fruit and flower arrangements lining the great expanse. And if she sat away from him from tomorrow onward, she wouldn’t have the delightful feeling of his boot rubbing up against her silk slipper.

  There is no hope for the man. I’ve ruined him.

  She inwardly chuckled at the thought. Once one of Town’s most-loved rogues, Merrick had been quite a sought-after gentleman, not that Isolde had known anything about him until last year, when they’d met. She watched as he spoke with her brother about having some celebratory drinks after the women retired. Merrick was animated in conversation; his strong jaw teased her to stroke it, to drag him down for a kiss by lips that still distracted her when she looked at him. He was, in her estimation, perfect.

  And she loved him so very much. He enjoyed life and all it offered, always imagined the best of any bad situation. The duke cared for his friends as much as his tenant farmers and staff. He was unlike anyone she’d ever known. The best of men.

  Isolde sipped her champagne, the bubbles tickling her tongue, and the day’s tension slipped away as the dinner progressed. Everything was ready for the wedding. The flowers were set, the trestle tables were on the lawn, waiting for the servants to set them for the wedding breakfast tomorrow morning. Her trunks sat packed in the entrance foyer for their trip to the Continent, and her wedding gown hung against her armoire. All Isolde had to do was try not to blubber uncontrollably as she promised her heart and soul to the man beside her, something she would absolutely fail at.

  Isolde leaned over toward him, gaining his attention. “Must you, Merrick? I can hardly concentrate on this meal as it is, never mind having your foot dancing along my leg.”

  “It is only fair, as I’ve not been able to concentrate for months.” He winked, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. She watched him, entranced when he licked a droplet of the drink off his lips. He caught her watching him, and understanding dawned in his gaze, hot and full of promises.

  He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers, paying homage to the square diamond he’d given her in celebration of their betrothal. The ring had been his grandmother’s, and now it was hers, and God willing, their son’s wife, one day.

  Heat pooled in her belly with the tantalizing stroke of his mouth against her body. The thought of the wedding night left her breathless, and she took a fortifying sip of champagne.

  “I love you,” he said, loud enough for all to hear the endearment.

  “And I you.” Her response was automatic, natural, and she blessed the day her best friend, Miss Hart, had introduced them at a country dance one year earlier. From that day forward, Merrick had been attentive and unrelenting in his pursuit of her, and she reveled in the fact she’d brought to heel one of London’s devilish rogues.

  Her father, the Duke of Penworth, cleared his throat, watching them with mirth. Her dearest papa all but glowed with pride. “I would like to propose a toast to the Duke and the future Duchess of Moore. May your life be full of love, good health, and happiness.”

  Her father smiled, and she noted the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. He’d always been an emotional man, and they loved him all the more for it. “Moore has proven himself this past year to be a determined and honorable young man, and was I not assured he’ll do nothing but strive to make my beautiful daughter happy, I would not have allowed the union to go on. But tonight my heart is full and joyful. Isolde has chosen well. It fills me with contented pleasure knowing you will foreve
r be safe and blissful. So please raise your glass to the future Duke and Duchess of Moore.”

  The chorus of cheers burst from the table, and Isolde smiled at Merrick when he kissed her hand a second time. She looked around the long, marvelously decorated table, smiling her thanks to all her family and the few close friends who were present.

  Her gaze halted on her best friend, Miss Leonora Hart—Letty to her. A frown marred her usually perfect forehead, and her lips were thin with displeasure. Letty looked distracted, worried even, and Isolde paused, promising to find out what ill her friend was feeling before the night came to an end.

  Perhaps it was because Isolde was about to be married and Letty wasn’t going to have a Season in Town due to finances at home. Her father, the local vicar back in Surrey, was not fluid in funds, and had refused the Duke of Penworth’s offer to give his daughter a Season. Isolde had thought his decision very unkind, and unfair for Letty, and not being able to help had made the situation even more frustrating. And Letty’s father’s decision was final. He was not a vicar swayed by persuasion.

  She would speak to her father again about the situation before she left for her wedding trip to Paris and Switzerland. Letty was practically her sister, after all, having known each other since they’d been in braids. There was nothing Isolde didn’t want more for her friend than to have the happiness she herself had right at this moment with Merrick.

  Finally, the dinner came to an end and the men stayed behind for their port and cheroots. Isolde made her way to the withdrawing room, ready for the night to be over so the next day could finally begin. Her wedding day…

  How amazing that sounded.

  Chapter Two

  One year earlier, Cranleigh Country Dance

  Merrick, the Duke of Moore, leaned against the wall of the assembly rooms in Cranleigh and watched his life turn upside down before his eyes. What a marvelous creature the woman with dark-as-night hair was—a town beauty, probably of modest fortune from the look of her gown, but captivating in every sense of the word.

  She will be mine…

  For the past fortnight he’d been staying with his good friend from Cambridge, the Marquess Wardoor, and had agreed to attend the country dance as a bit of a lark. But who’s laughing now? Certainly not I.

  He walked toward the door that opened onto the front gravel drive, the rooms claustrophobically hot. Was it only he who was afflicted with this prickling heat? Surely not. He pulled at his cravat, though his gaze never left the woman who seemed to have captured his soul in mere minutes.

  She was the most breathtaking angel in the world.

  The lady laughed, a rich, intoxicating sound, not a frivolous giggle. Her plain friend joined in her mirth, and his heart stuttered to a stop in his chest. He frowned, not fully at ease with the way his body responded to the woman. Yes, she was pretty, but modestly dressed, not his usual type of dark-haired beauty who wore silk of rich colors and deep shades.

  This woman’s gown was a light blue muslin, her hair pulled back into a style he’d seen about Town, but without the adorning jewels or hair combs. She needed no ornaments to accentuate what was there for all to see.

  Beauty personified.

  I must meet her.

  Walking through the crowd, he stopped to speak to people, not wanting to look too desperate. Slowly he edged his way to her side, but if he was expecting a warm welcome—the honor of his presence with gushing statements and breathlessness—he was sadly mistaken.

  He received none of those.

  In fact, he received no welcome whatsoever.

  Merrick frowned. The angel continued to speak to her friend, completely unaware that he stood beside her, all but begging her to forget Society’s rules and turn to greet him—allow him to introduce himself.

  It was a novel experience, being ignored, and not one he was comfortable with. Most people cared to know what he thought of different subjects. They wanted to know if he was attending an event, and if not, what were his reasons and should they follow his lead? They clamored for his opinion on the latest on-dit and such, but it would seem, not this country miss.

  If her ignorance of him was anything to go by, she didn’t give a fig as to his opinion, or his presence.

  His friend, Lord Wardoor, caught his eye and walked over, bowing before the two women. “Miss Hart, Lady Isolde Worthingham, may I introduce you to my friend from Cambridge, His Grace the Duke of Moore.”

  Merrick snapped his mouth shut. She was the Duke of Penworth’s daughter! The women curtsied, both casting speculative glances at him, and, for the first time in his life he couldn’t form words.

  His angel spoke first. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice was articulate and clear.

  He cleared his throat. “My lady, Miss Hart.” He bowed, clearing his throat yet again. “Are you enjoying your time in Cranleigh?”

  “We are, Your Grace. Our time here has been the best of fun.”

  He nodded, unable to tear his gaze from her. She blushed, and his heart thumped loud enough he was sure she would hear. How awkward. “Will you dance with me, Lady Isolde?”

  She cast a knowing look to her friend and nodded. “Why thank you, yes.”

  He led her onto the floor, her perfect hand resting delicately upon his arm. Even through the material he could feel her touch. It marked him, burned a brand into his soul that he was sure would never be replaced by another.

  He pulled her into the dance, taking delight at her gasp that turned into a laugh. “Do you like to dance, Lady Isolde?”

  She met his gaze, her eyes bright with mischief. “Isolde, please. And yes I do, when one’s partner is affable and pleasant. What about you, Your Grace. Do you like to dance?”

  They were pulled away for a moment by the steps of the dance before they were reacquainted again. “My name is Merrick. And yes, I do now.”

  She grinned up at him, a rose-color blush making her more delightful by the minute. The feeling that he should never let this woman go thrummed through his veins. “May I call on you when you return to Town?”

  “I’m not returning to Town immediately, but home before the Season starts in earnest. When I do, I would like for you to call.”

  He twirled her, the hem of her gown brushing the tops of his boots. He could smell roses and leaned close, wishing he could kiss the little freckle that sat against her neck—a tempting morsel if ever he saw one. “It is done then.”

  “What is?” She smiled up at him, her gaze flicking to his lips. The air between them thickened with unsated desire. Yes, it was desire he felt for this woman, since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Had Wardoor not urged him to attend this fete, he would never have met this delightful creature.

  Fate…

  “My life.” He pulled her closer than was necessary, wanted her to see, to read in his gaze what he could not voice at this time, no matter how much he wanted to.

  “Your life, sir?” She smiled, and he was lost. “How can your life be done?”

  “No, you’re right,” he said. “Not done at all, but only beginning. With you.”

  For the remainder of the night Merrick did not leave her side. For a daughter of a duke she held no guile, did not lift her nose before the gathered throng and throw her wealth and powerful family against their modest means. If anything, he thought she was trying to fit in more, be another one of the guests, a country miss out for a country dance.

  And he adored her for it.

  …

  From the moment he’d seen her he’d known she was extraordinary, and he’d wanted her. The dance had marked the start of their courtship, and he had not ceased until she’d agreed to be his wife.

  And now, in only a few hours, that wish would come to fruition.

  It could not come soon enough.

  The touch of a silk glove on his arm pulled him from his musings. Isolde wrapped her arm about his and pulled him close to her side. “What are you thinking about? You have the oddest look on you
r face.” She smiled up at him, and he wanted to lean down and kiss her. Hated that propriety refused to allow open displays of affection. Once they were married, he would let Society go hang and kiss her whenever and wherever he wished.

  “I was thinking about the night we met. Do you remember?”

  She chuckled, taking a sip of champagne. “I do. It was the best day of my life. Well…” She paused, meeting his gaze. “It was the best day, but something tells me tomorrow will surpass it.”

  Unable to keep from touching her, he kissed her hand. “I love you so very much. I promise to be the best husband I can be and make everything you ever wanted come true.” Tears pooled in her eyes, and he wiped one away that dared to mar her beautiful face. “I hope they’re happy tears.”

  “You’re incapable of creating any other type.”

  …

  Later that evening, after all the ladies had taken themselves off to bed, Merrick, along with the Duke of Penworth and Isolde’s brother, the Marquess of Worth, partook in a few celebratory drinks. More than Merrick should have had if his uneven vision of the staircase was anything to go by. He was foxed, well and truly foxed. He clutched the banister and staggered to the second floor landing. That he made the floor, without toppling backward and breaking his neck, was a marvel.

  The house was quiet as he made his way past Isolde’s bedchamber—an overwhelming urge to cross the threshold ran through his mind, but the sound of a footman downstairs, sliding the bolt across the front door, kept him from diverting his course.

  This time tomorrow night she would be his, and he pacified himself with that thought. They had the rest of their lives to be together. He could wait another few hours.

  Making his suite, he noted his bed had been pulled down for the night by his ever faithful valet. The fire had long burned down to nothing but ash, and a chill marred the air. Stripping quickly, he staggered, falling over, and with a crack, his head hit the edge of his bed. Merrick swore, rubbing his skull, his head now thumping. The room spun, and he blinked, trying to focus his vision. It didn’t work, but he dragged himself into bed, not bothering to climb under the sheets.