A Duke in the Night Read online

  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 © 2018 by Kelly Bowen

  Excerpt from Last Night with the Earl copyright © 2018 by Kelly Bowen

  Cover design by Elizabeth Stokes

  Cover photography by Period Images

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: February 2018

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  ISBN: 978-1-4789-1856-1 (mass market), 978-1-4789-1855-4 (ebook)

  E3-20171211-DA-PC

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  An Excerpt from LAST NIGHT WITH THE EARL

  About The Author

  Also by Kelly Bowen

  Acclaim for Kelly Bowen

  Fall in Love with Forever Romance

  Newsletters

  To all the strong women in my life who have gifted me with the courage to believe that I always could.

  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thanks to my editor, Alex Logan, for unerring insight that makes each story better, and to the entire team at Forever, who work so hard on my behalf. Thanks to my agent, Stefanie Lieberman, who has been unfailingly supportive. To my family and friends, who have cheered me on every step of the way. And last but not least, a huge thank-you to the entire romance community—readers and writers. You have made this an unforgettable journey.

  Chapter 1

  London, July 1819

  He had danced with her on a dare.

  Childish, certainly. Boorish, most definitely. But it was easier to critique such behaviors when one was no longer in the throes of obnoxious youth, surrounded by arrogant acquaintances who snickered and leered and sought entertainment at the expense of others. And to this day, August Faulkner, the twelfth Duke of Holloway, had never forgotten it.

  He hadn’t been duke of anything then. Though his bravado and self-importance had seemed to make up for that shortcoming. At the time he’d thought Clara Hayward, the eldest daughter of the charismatic and wildly popular Baron Strathmore, would simply be a means to an end.

  She had been pretty—flawless fair skin framed by lustrous mahogany tresses shot through with rich ruby highlights. Dark eyes ringed by darker lashes, set into a face that smiled often. An elegant figure displayed by tasteful gowns and a graceful poise that was remarked upon often. All that combined with the staggering wealth of her family meant there should have been earls and dukes and princes falling all over themselves begging for her attention.

  Instead her dance card remained empty despite a flurry of proper introductions. And those earls and dukes and princes kept a wary distance—held at bay by the single flaw that illustrious lords could simply not tolerate in a potential wife: an education and an intelligence greater than their own.

  August hadn’t understood that then. Instead he had foolishly put Clara Hayward in a box labeled Wallflower, confident in his superiority. And with the snickers and guffaws of his companions echoing in his ears, he had sauntered up to where she stood at the edge of the dance floor that night and offered her the privilege of his presence.

  Miss Hayward had gazed upon him with what looked like bemused tolerance when he had bowed dramatically over her hand. Her dark eyes had flickered over his shoulder to where his cronies watched, waiting for her to stammer or stumble. Instead her full lips had curled only a little further, and her eyes had returned to his, a single brow cocked in clear, knowing amusement, and he knew then that she had heard every crass, careless word. And it had been August who had stammered and stumbled as she took his arm.

  He had led her out on the dance floor, appalled at the way his heart was hammering in his chest. She had placed one steady hand in his, another on the sleeve of his coat, and met his eyes directly as the first strains of music floated through the ballroom. August had tried then to recoup the advantage he seemed to have lost and used every ounce of his considerable prowess on the dance floor, leading her in a sweeping, reckless waltz that should have wilted a wallflower into a blushing mess.

  But Clara Hayward had only matched him step for step, never once looking away. And by the time the waltz had concluded, the conversation in the room had faltered, every damn guest was staring at them, and August was experiencing a horrifying shortness of breath that had nothing to do with his exertions.

  “Good heavens,” she had murmured, not sounding nearly as breathless as he. “I was told that you were daring, Mr. Faulkner. And you do not disappoint. You are exactly as advertised.”

  “And you, Miss Hayward, are not.” He’d blurted it before he could stop himself, unsure if her words were a compliment or a criticism. And unsure what to do with either.

  She’d grinned then—an honest-to-goodness grin that suggested they were collaborators, complicit in something deliciously wicked. “Good” was all she had said, and his world had tilted. He had found himself grinning foolishly back, disoriented as all hell.

  August had left Miss Hayward in the care of her brother after that, and Harland Hayward had gazed upon him with the reproach and pity that August both deserved and hated. He’d not danced with her again, a fact that evoked a peculiar regret if he thought about it for too long. In fact, he had never spoken to Miss Hayward since that night, their paths having seemingly diverged in two completely opposite directions.

  He to a duchy he’d never expected to inherit. She to a life of refined academia she’d undoubtedly planned as the headmistress of the most elite finishing school in Britain.

  That was, until August had bought that school yesterday. A property he’d had his solicitors anonymously offer to purchase at least thrice in the past decade.

  He glanced down at the papers his solicitors had left on his desk. “Miss Clara Hayward” was written in neat letters on the previous deed of ownership, and the sight of her name still jolted him even now. Which was absu
rd, because it mattered not which Hayward actually owned the damn school, only that they were finally willing to sell. But seeing her name had triggered a flood of memories and somehow undermined the fierce satisfaction that he should have felt at the prospect of the Haverhall School for Young Ladies becoming part of his vast holdings.

  August had made the unforgivable mistake of assuming that the current baron owned Haverhall, along with the shipping empire that had given rise to the Haywards’ extensive fortune. But now August was left contemplating why, in a world where women very rarely owned a freehold property that hadn’t been conveyed to trustees, Clara Hayward would let it slip away from her.

  To anyone else, the why probably wouldn’t matter. Not when one had gotten what one wanted. There was a whole slew of advice that involved gift horses and mouths that most individuals would heed. But August was not most individuals. He despised questions that did not have answers. He abhorred not knowing what motivated people to act as they did. His sister, Anne, often told him that it was an unhealthy compulsion, his need to pry into the dark corners of other people’s lives for profit. But he hadn’t become as wealthy as he had by simply accepting what was on the surface. There was something more to this that he wasn’t seeing. Information was power, and he could never have enough.

  August frowned and reached for his knife, trimming the end of a quill absently. It was ironic, really, that he knew so little about a woman he’d been unable to forget, even after all these years. He knew Miss Clara Hayward had a reputation for graciousness, propriety, and common sense—by all reports she was a damn paragon of politesse. The ton, while unsure what to make of her as a debutante, seemed to have embraced the idea that the woman guiding their young charges was one of their social class—what else could be expected of an otherwise lovely girl with an upbringing and excessive education that had severely limited her prospects?

  A headmistress of quality, combined with the limited admission and exorbitant fees of the school itself, had made Haverhall as popular with the most elite of London society as with those young ladies on the fringes of the upper crust who possessed dowries large enough to buy all of Westminster. Even peers with staunch traditionalist views, who closeted their daughters or sisters with governesses, had weakened at the opportunity for their female relations to take painting instruction from Thomas Lawrence or to be coached in the cotillion or quadrille by Thomas Wilson. One did not have to enroll in the entire curriculum to participate in individual classes. An unorthodox system to be sure, but one that had proved shockingly successful. August had to admit he admired Miss Hayward’s business model. It was the sort of thing he looked for in the many acquisitions he made.

  It was almost unfortunate that none of that would be enough to save the school. Which also evoked a peculiar feeling of regret if he thought about it for too long. And that was utterly unacceptable because inane emotion had no place in lucrative business, no matter how unforgettable Clara Hayward might be.

  A hesitant knock on the door of his study interrupted his musings. “Yes?”

  The heavy door swung open, and August was not a little startled to see his sister standing in the frame. He could probably count on one hand the number of times she had ever sought him out like this, and her presence sent a rush of pleasure through him. “Anne.” He set the quill and knife aside and pushed himself to his feet. “Come in.”

  She was dressed in a simple, soft blue day dress, which matched her eyes almost perfectly. Her hair, the same shade as his, was pulled back neatly to frame her round face. She advanced into the room, clutching what looked like a small ledger against her chest.

  “To what do I owe the good fortune of your company?” August asked with genuine happiness.

  “I came to thank you,” she said politely.

  “Ah, was your new gown delivered?” He had seen the fabric on display in a draper’s window on Bond Street, and the brilliant cerulean color had stopped him in his tracks. He had known instantly that Anne would look stunning in the shimmering silk. He’d taken it at once to the modiste who crafted all Anne’s clothing, and the woman had turned the silk into an exquisite ball gown worthy of royalty. It was to have been delivered this morning. “Do you like it?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, thank you. The gown is lovely.” She adjusted her grip on her sketchbook.

  “Is something wrong with it?” He frowned at her hesitation.

  “It’s just…Honestly, it’s too much. August, I already have more gowns than I can possibly wear.”

  “You can never have enough. You deserve it. You saw the necklace that goes with it?” He had found the exotic, smoke-colored pearls the day after he had found the fabric.

  “Yes, the pearls were lovely too. I don’t think a princess could find fault. Thank you, August.”

  August smiled. They were indeed fit for a princess. Or his sister. “Wear them as often as you like. Or put them in your trousseau. Though when you’re wed, I’ll make sure your husband buys you more.”

  Anne bit her lip and looked away. August stifled a sigh. He shouldn’t have brought that up. The topic of marriage always seemed to be a prickly one with Anne, but it was his duty as her brother and as her guardian to make sure she found a man worthy of her. “You’re almost nineteen. You’ll be married in a couple of years. I know I’ve said it before, and you probably don’t want to hear it again, but you need to consider your future.”

  “The future that you’re planning.” It came out dully.

  August shook his head. He had seen firsthand exactly what happened when a good woman married a wastrel. He would not allow his sister to make their mother’s mistakes. “The future that I care about,” he corrected her. “The gentlemen I suggested to you are good men, Anne. Kind, loyal, wise, and decent men. Any one of them would make an excellent husband.”

  Anne’s lips thinned even more. “They’re old.”

  “Hardly. But they are titled and have the respect of the ton.”

  “And do I get a say in whom you marry?” Anne snapped.

  “I am well aware of my own responsibilities to the duchy, Anne. Responsibilities that I will meet at the appropriate time. You do not need to remind me.” He could see the stubborn tilt of her chin and tried to rein in his frustration. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

  His sister looked away, her knuckles going white where they gripped her book. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I did it for years, if you recall.”

  Old guilt needled, and August shoved it aside. He did not have the power to remedy the past, but he certainly had the power to dictate the future. “I know. But you don’t have to anymore. I’m here now.”

  Anne’s eyes snapped back to him, sparking with irritation. Her cheeks reddened, and she opened her mouth to say something before seeming to reconsider. “I don’t wish to fight with you, August.”

  “Nor do I wish to fight with you. But you have to trust that I know what’s best for you.”

  “What’s best for me?” she repeated softly, shaking her head. “Or best for you?”

  “Anne—”

  “I came to see you because I had some ideas for the Trenton,” she said abruptly, opening the book she carried to where a strip of satin ribbon had been laid to mark the page.

  August blinked at the sudden change of topic. “The Trenton?”

  “Yes. The hotel you own on Bond Street?”

  “I am familiar with it,” August replied succinctly, trying to keep from frowning. What did Anne care about the hotel? “What sort of ideas?”

  Anne looked down at the pages of her book. “Well, for one, our fresh fish supplier has increased his prices by almost fifty percent over the last ten months. Unless he is gifting us with the golden nets he must be using, I think we should look for a different vendor.” She flipped a page. “Also,” she continued, “there is a small laundry a street over from the hotel that has come for sale. It’s already proven itself extremely profitable. I think we should buy it, not only fo
r its existing business, but we could add complimentary laundry to Trenton’s guest services. Most of our hotel’s patrons are officers and military sorts, and we are in direct competition with Stephen’s Hotel. I think this might give us an edge—”

  “Anne,” August interrupted her, “where is all this coming from?”

  She looked up at him earnestly. “Mr. Down had the books out yesterday, and I just took a small peek. I think that—”

  “You don’t have to concern yourself with these things, Anne,” he said firmly. “I will take care of those sorts of details, or I will instruct my very capable man of business to do so.” And he would instruct Duncan Down to keep the books away from Anne in the future. She didn’t need to worry about money. She would never, ever need to worry about money again. August had made sure of that.

  “But I just—”

  “I want you to enjoy whatever it is that you wish to amuse yourself with. Music, reading, riding. Anything you like.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t argue about this with you, Anne.” His eyes fell on the book she still held and the loose piece of foolscap tucked into it. “Is that a sketch?”

  Anne’s expression had become tight. “It’s nothing.”

  “May I see it?” August ignored the harshness of her words.

  Anne’s fingers tightened on the edges of the pages, and her forehead creased before she loosened her grasp and handed him the book. “If you must.”

  August took the book from her hands and studied the drawing, realizing it wasn’t really a drawing at all but a mock-up of a tavern sign. He recognized the name and the graceful swan that dominated the center instantly, because he owned that tavern too. If a sign were to be crafted the way this one was drawn, he had to admit that it would be a vast improvement over the one that currently hung above the tavern’s entrance.

  It had been a while since he had looked at Anne’s work, and the precision and detail of the drawing jumped off the page at him. Each line was deliberate and sure, perfectly executed perspective giving it a three-dimensional appearance that almost made him believe he could touch the object. He frowned slightly.