ŷ������

Why seduce a duke the normal way, when you can accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?

Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable—a curse that gives her the ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she’s ever known makes a dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting, she’s the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects that in doing so, she’ll also abduct a handsome duke.

Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father’s mistakes. To repair his estate’s ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his family’s legacy to follow true love?

Meet the Wild Wynchesters: This fun-loving, caper-committing family of tight-knit siblings runs headlong into love and adventure!

“I want to be a Wynchester!��
�� Eloisa James

“Erica Ridley is a delight!��
�� Julia Quinn, author of BRIDGERTON

Happy 2021! Off to a bit of a rocky start, but overall I am much happier to be in 2021 than 2020. I hope things are looking up on your end, as well! Here is the latest news:

THE WILD WYNCHESTERS

The Governess Gambit is here and FREE! It is a prequel caper to The Duke Heist!

Get another free Wild Wynchesters caper, The Rake Mistake, when you register your purchase of The Duke Heist at !

DUKES OF WAR

We’re getting a new Dukes of War novella: A Match, Unmasked! It’ll be available to purchase as a standalone in 2022, but you can read it in just a couple of months if you preorder the A Midsummer Night’s Romance anthology, featuring fifteen never-before-seen romances, and on sale for 99c for a limited time!

12 DUKES OF CHRISTMAS

There are two ways to get the prequel bonus novella. You can preorder it at your favorite retailer (releasing December 2021) or you can and have it for free!

ROGUES TO RICHES

The rumors are true�� The Duke of Lambley is finally getting a story! ��’m working on writing his romance now, and will have a cover and a release date for you in an upcoming post.

Lawrence Gosling, eighth Duke of Faircliffe, was on the verge of achieving what had once seemed impossible: replenishing the dukedom’s empty coffers and restoring its tattered reputation.

His father had lived a charmed life on credit he had been unable to repay. And now, with the failure of their country estate’s crops, the situation was becoming dire. If Lawrence did not secure a bride with a significant dowry before the end of the season, he would have to send the last of his loyal servants to the streets.

He would not repay them so shabbily.

Lawrence leaned forward in his rented coach and opened the curtain to be able to address his driver. As with all of his father’s grievous missteps, each of Lawrence’s attempts to restore respect and prosperity had been won at great personal cost.

The sacrifice was worth it.

Lawrence’s reputation was spotless, his performance in Parliament impeccable. This season, marriage-minded mamas would have him at the top of their lists. For as long as Lawrence lived, the Gosling name and Faircliffe title would never again be spoken with derision. No heir of his would be dismissed, forced to shoulder ridicule and isolation.

Of course, that was because no one realized his shiny reputation hid a very empty pocketbook. The dukedom didn’t need a dowry. The dukedom needed the dowry to end all dowries. A sum so staggering, Lawrence could restore the half-abandoned entailed country estate, repay the last of his father’s debts, and have a respectable chunk left over to invest in a stable future.

The dukedom needed Miss Philippa York.

“The terrace house at the corner,�� Lawrence instructed the driver. “The one with yellow rosebushes.��

“As you please, Your Grace.��

Using a coach to travel from one end of Grosvenor Square to the other was a shameless display of pretension and excess…and the reason Miss York’s parents looked favorably on a courtship between Lawrence and their daughter.

Although he’d sold his last remaining carriage that morning—right down to his prized greys—Lawrence had rented this hack to keep up appearances.

Mr. York was one of the most powerful MPs in the House of Commons. Mrs. York was bosom friends with a patroness of Almack’s. They had wealth, status, everything they could ever want—except a title.

After the wedding, the Yorks�� daughter would be a duchess, their grandson a future duke. To them, such a jaw-dropping coup would be more than worth any dowry required.

For him it meant a new leaf. The Earl of Southerby was seeking partners for an investment opportunity with very attractive interest rates—if Lawrence came up with his portion before the earl quit London at the end of the season. It was not a flashy wager, like the sort his father had made at his gentlemen’s clubs, but the steady interest and future profit would provide a strong foundation for years to come.

To Lawrence, marriage to respectable Miss York meant far more than financial stability. His children could be children, without fear of mockery or poverty. It would give his sons and daughters the chance—no, the right—to be happy.

Everyone deserved as much, including his new bride. Lawrence could not afford to woo Miss York for an entire season, but he could give her a week or two to get to know him before the betrothal.

He reached for the framed canvas on the seat opposite. “Once the traffic clears, I’ll alight at the last house. I shan’t be more than half an hour.��

But the carriages crowding the Yorks�� side of the square did not move. The queue appeared to be idly awaiting passengers. One of the Yorks�� neighbors must be hosting a tea. He grimaced.

Lawrence hated tea. He would rather drink water from the Thames.

“Stop here.�� He reached for the door. “Find your way to the front of the queue so I know where to find you when I return.��

The driver nodded and allowed the curtain to fall closed.

Despite residing on opposite sides of Grosvenor Square, this was Lawrence’s first call at the York residence. The warm red brick and painted white columns of the impeccable terrace house were bright and clean. Every window glistened in the sunlight, reflecting the azure spring sky or the trim green grass in the square.

Jaw clenched, he strode down the pavement toward their front walk as elegantly as one could with a heavy, brown-paper-wrapped, framed painting clutched beneath one’s arm.

Lawrence could have brought his last remaining footman along to carry the painting, but he hoped a show of personal effort would add an extra touch of romance to his unusual gift. It was not what he would have picked, but the important thing was giving his future betrothed something she liked.

The finality of marriage prickled his skin with equal parts nervousness and excitement. A fortnight from now, when the contract was signed, he and Miss York would be saddled with each other. His palms felt clammy. Was it foolish to hope their union might be a pleasant one? He drew himself taller.

As with all duties, one did as one must.

The door was answered as soon as he touched the knocker. Lawrence presented his card at once.

“Your Grace,�� said the butler. “Do come in. Shall I ring for someone to take your package?��

“I’ll deliver it.�� Lawrence stepped over the threshold to wait for his hosts.

He and Mr. York had met in the House of Commons and enjoyed spirited debates for most of a decade. Last year, after the premature death of Lawrence’s father, he had moved from the House of Commons to the House of Lords. A partnership with Mr. York would ensure vital allies across the two Houses.

All he had to do was remain sparklingly unobjectionable until the banns were read. Once Miss York married him, her dowry would save the dukedom and secure a better future for his family and his tenants.

The plan had to work. It was Lawrence’s only shot.

Mrs. York bounded up to him, her hands clasped to her chest as if physically restraining a squeal of excitement. “Your Grace, such a pleasure, I do say!��

The unmistakable sound of female voices trickled from an open door halfway down the corridor straight ahead.

Lawrence’s skin went cold. This was supposed to be a private meeting. He hated surprises and was inept at impromptu conversations. He excelled in Parliament because he prepared his speeches in advance—just as he had done for today’s visit with Miss York and her parents.

Interacting with an unexpected crowd would ensure he made a hash out of his well-rehearsed lines. He stepped no farther.

“Did I mistake the date?�� he inquired carefully.

“No, no. Right on time, as always.�� Mr. York strode up to join his wife. “You’re a man who cleaves to duty. A fine trait, I daresay. Very little in common with your father.��

“Er…thank you. I should hope ��’m nothing like him.��

“Quite right, quite right. Your parliamentary speeches could rival Fox and Pitt. Your father, on the other hand, rarely left his club—or his cups. Indeed, there are many who say—�� Mr. York coughed and gave Lawrence a jovial clap on the shoulder. “’Tis no time for gossip, is it, my boy?��

Lawrence affected an affable smile. At least, he hoped that was what his face was doing. He was conscious every day that the Gosling name teetered on the edge of respectability. Mr. York’s unfinished intimation had been clear: there were still those who said Faircliffe dukes were a blight on society.

Duke or not, nothing was certain until the contract was signed.

���� is our honor, Your Grace,�� Mrs. York gushed as she fluttered her hands in excitement and impatience. “Is that the special gift for Philippa? Come, you must present it to her at once.��

“I admit I can’t fathom what beauty she sees in that painting,�� Mr. York murmured.

Lawrence held the frame a little tighter. Dancing hobgoblins were an unusual subject. He did not understand why anyone would want it.

What if, upon second inspection, the young lady realized her error in having expressed admiration for such questionable “art�� and laughed in his face when he presented it as a gift? Being able to give an item he already possessed had seemed like serendipity. Now he feared the omen might not be positive. His veins hummed with panic.

���� sounds as though Miss York is entertaining guests.�� He gripped the frame. “I should return when ��’m not interrupting.��

“Stuff and nonsense.�� Mrs. York looped her hand about the crook of Lawrence’s elbow and all but dragged him down the corridor. ����’s just a few of her bluestocking friends. ��’m certain they’ll all find it amusing to see what you’ve brought Philippa.��

Yes. Exactly what he was afraid of.

But there was no backing out now. His father’s word wasn’t worth the breath it floated on, but Lawrence had kept every vow for two and thirty years. Miss York liked the painting; he’d promised to give it to her. On this day. At this time. Nowhere to go but forward.

Besides, “a few bluestockings�� was hardly a lion’s den…was it?

“Philippa, my dear, look who’s arrived!�� Mrs. York sang out as they entered a grand parlor.

The room was enormous, with seats for over two dozen guests, and every chair was full.

Lawrence could feel the weight of too many gazes landing on him at once.

Half of them, he did not recognize—perhaps those were the “bluestockings”—but the other half were familiar faces from polite society. He swallowed hard. He didn’t merely need to impress Miss York and her parents; he needed to charm an entire room.

If only influencing a parlor full of women were as easy as debating customs and excise reform at Westminster with a few hundred of his peers. Quoting the latest committee findings was unlikely to gain him any points here.

He wouldn’t acknowledge any of them, Lawrence decided. The situation was too fraught and the chance for error too high. Missteps like smiling at or snubbing the wrong young lady. He would place all of his attention on Miss York. That could be interpreted as romantic, could it not? Here he was with a courting gift, a knight bearing a tapestry of dancing demons for his fair maiden.

Miss York, for her part, was enshrouded in her usual yards of voluminous lace. Only her pink cheeks and dimpled hands protruded from the delicate froth, lending her the appearance of a life-sized doll.

Her eternally blank expression made the resemblance uncanny.

“Miss York,�� Lawrence began, then paused. He could not kiss her hand with a painting in his arms, and setting it on the ground risked damage. Bowing would be just as unwieldy. He would have to skip the niceties and rush straight to the romance. “I’ve brought you a humble token of my admiration.��

“Ohhh,�� gasped one of her friends. “What could it be?��

“A painting my mother informed him I might enjoy.�� Miss York gestured toward a blank spot on the wall. “She intends to put it there.��

So. She was not impressed with his courtship gift. Lawrence forced himself to smile anyway.

Miss York didn’t smile back.

The rest of the room was alive with whispers.

“Is it a love match?��

“Why else would he wed beneath him? My father is a marquess.��

“What, did you think he was bringing the gift to you?��

“Do you think she loves him?��

“Who can ever tell what she’s thinking? I cannot wait to see the artwork he brought her.��

The back of Lawrence’s neck flushed with heat.

Yes, Miss York was marrying him for his title. Yes, he needed her dowry. But that didn’t have to be all they shared. Even a marriage of convenience could work with a modicum of effort.

But first he had to get rid of this bloody painting.

“Could someone ring for a pair of shears?�� he asked politely.

“Here!�� Mrs. York trilled.

Two wigged footmen, identical in height and elegant livery, glided into the room and relieved Lawrence of the canvas.

Now was his chance to kiss Miss York’s hand. Before he could do so, a maid handed her a sharp pair of metal shears.

Miss York rose to her feet in a rustle of lace.

A wave of whispers once again rushed through the parlor. Lawrence risked a subtle glance over his shoulder.

Every gaze was transfixed on Miss York…except for one. One woman’s dark brown eyes arrested him.

She did not seem curious about the gift. Her disconcertingly intense expression was shrewd, as if she could see through the brown paper package, see through his meticulously tailored layers of fashionable apparel, see through him to the nervousness and desperation beneath. But she did not look away. Her gaze only sharpened, as if she had stripped him bare and still wanted more.

His throat grew dry. He tried to swallow. An odd prickling sensation traveled up his spine as though the tips of her fingers had brushed against his skin.

He quickly turned back to Miss York. The delivery of the gift had stretched on long enough. If she didn’t cut through the paper soon, Lawrence would rip it apart with his bare hands, make his bow, and escape to his waiting carriage before he was forced to follow this performance with tea and small talk.

“If you’d be so kind?�� he murmured.

Miss York sliced through the brown paper as though she had little interest in safekeeping the art beneath.

The paper fell away. The painting was exposed. A gasp rippled through the crowd. Whether at the romance of the gesture or because the subject featured a family of mischievous sprites, Lawrence could not say.

“Thank you,�� Miss York said. “You are most kind.��

Was she smitten? Bored? She did not appear to be upset or in any danger of swooning. He gave a gift. She received the gift. Fin.

The back of his neck heated anew. He appreciated her extreme lack of drama, Lawrence told himself. After her dowry, her predictability was his favorite trait. A woman like Miss York would never muddy the Faircliffe title with scandal. She was exactly what he needed: no scrapes, no surprises.

Mrs. York burst into loud applause. “Huzzah!��

Everyone in the room followed suit. Everyone, that was, except Miss York and the oddly intense young woman with the mocking half smile.

Her gaze continued to track him, as though she could hear each overloud heartbeat and sense each shallow breath from across the room. He did not like the sensation at all. Despite the roomful of strangers, her regard felt strangely intimate and far too perceptive.

“As soon as the painting is hung,�� Mrs. York chirped, “we shall all remove to the dining room for a nice, leisurely tea.��

Good God, anything but that. Besides his distaste for tea, Lawrence could not court anyone properly while dodging the unsettling gaze of the woman with the pretty brown eyes. Even now, he was thinking of her instead of concentrating on Miss York. It would not do. Once the painting was hung, Lawrence would bolt out the door and into the sanctity of his carriage.

His driver had better be ready to fly.

“I want to be a Wynchester!��
�� Eloisa James

“Erica Ridley is a delight!��
�� Julia Quinn, author of BRIDGERTON

March 1817
London, England

Miss Chloe Wynchester burst through the door of her family’s sprawling residence in semi-fashionable Islington, followed closely behind by her sister Thomasina. Chloe’s pulse raced with excitement. His Arrogance, the Duke of Frosty Disapproval, didn’t have a chance.

Unable to keep her exuberance to herself, she yelled out, “I have news about the painting!��

In a more respectable household, a young lady might expect censure for being so vulgar as to shout, even within the confines of one’s own home. Such a young lady might also be rebuked for donning trousers and strolling about Westminster under an assumed identity.

Chloe was grateful every single day not to have such limitations.

Her roguish brother Graham appeared at the top of the marble stairs, delight and disbelief writ across his handsome face. He was used to being the one with shocking news to share. “Don’t stand about. Come up to the Planning Parlor at once! I’ll ring for tea.��

Exchanging grins, Chloe and Tommy dashed up the marble stairs, their gray cotton trousers allowing them to take the steps two at a time. In seconds they joined Graham in the Planning Parlor, the communal private sitting room the six siblings used for plotting their stratagems.

Chloe and Tommy tossed their matching beaver hats onto the long walnut-and-burl table in the center of the sound-dampened room.

Tommy rubbed a hand over her short brown hair, causing it to spring up at all angles. Graham moved a pile of scandal sheets from the table to the map case to make room for refreshments. Tommy and Graham launched themselves into their favorite needlepoint armchairs, between two large windows outfitted with heavy calico curtains of ruby and gold.

Chloe was far too excited to sit. Instead, she paced the black slate floor, which still contained traces of chalk from the last planning session. She paused before the unlit fireplace and lifted her chin.

For as long as she could remember, two paintings had always hung above the white marble mantel. One of them had been missing for the last eight months.

But it wouldn’t remain missing for much longer.

“The Planning Parlor feels doubly empty without our Puck,�� Graham said gruffly.

“Not just the Parlor,�� Tommy corrected. “Our entire house.��

Our lives.

No one said the words out loud, but they all knew it to be true. The house had belonged to Baron Vanderbean, but the beloved painting belonged to all of them.

Bean had rescued his motley brood of orphans over the course of a single summer. Six proud, frightened children between the ages of eight and eleven: Chloe, Tommy, Graham, Jacob, Marjorie, and Elizabeth. Life had taught them to be mistrustful and careful. Coming together as a family had been the most pivotal moment in their lives.

Chloe lifted her gaze to the portrait above the left side of the mantel. Bean’s fatherly visage bore a grin that crinkled the edges of his bright blue eyes. It was not at all the thing to smile in one’s portrait, which was probably why Bean had done so. Chloe was glad he did. His smile always made her feel loved.

A maid entered the room and began arranging the tea. Chloe tugged her cravat free, so as not to fill it with crumbs.

Tommy wiggled with excitement. “I can’t wait to hear your plan, Chloe. Once Puck comes home, it will feel like having a part of Bean back. Like being whole again.��

Chloe’s heart pounded in agreement. All six of the siblings would do anything in their power to bring Puck & Family home where it belonged.

Before they’d found each other, most of the siblings had never had anyone they could rely on or possessions to call their own. They’d learned the hard way not to develop emotional attachments to people or things.

Bean had offered permanence. A place to belong. A home. He told them they were the children he’d always wanted but never had. From the moment each had arrived on the doorstep, they’d felt loved and cherished in a way they had never known. The oil painting was their first purchase as a family. Their first decision as a family. For most of them, it was the first time their voices mattered.

The artist’s uncommon skill wasn’t why they’d chosen the unusual painting. It was the subject. A forest scene, featuring Robin Goodfellow—the mischievous demon-fairy sometimes known in folktales as Puck—and six fellow sprites of all sizes and hues, dancing about a fire with absolute freedom and joy.

It was the visual representation of what they’d found in each other. Happiness. Unconditional love. The ability to be oneself and to be bigger than oneself—to be a team, and a family. That was the most magical part of all. That painting was their soul on canvas.

To the Wynchesters, the painting was a family portrait…and their most cherished possession. It belonged to all of them. It was all of them.

“Once Puck comes home, we can get rid of that cherub.��

All three gazes swung to the fireplace. An angel-shaped vase stood on the mantel, right beneath the faded rectangle where Puck & Family should have been.

A blank spot that matched the empty space in their lives where Bean used to be.

Chloe swallowed hard at the injustice. Nineteen years earlier the prior Duke of Faircliffe had sold them the painting to pay one of his many gaming debts. Then, eight months ago, when he suddenly wanted it back, the family refused. Instead of honoring the original transaction, the duke stole the painting and left an ugly vase behind in its stead, as though that could possibly make up for their loss.

Neither they nor the old duke anticipated a carriage accident interrupting his journey home—or that he’d succumb to his injuries.

When Bean visited the heir to politely request the return of their painting, the newly crowned Duke of Faircliffe refused to see him.

Rebuff Baron Vanderbean! Chloe’s blood boiled. But that was hardly the first of the new duke’s endless slights and rejections. He’d always been too lofty and self-important to notice anyone of lesser rank, no matter the justification.

Later, when Bean caught smallpox, he refused to allow the children into his sickroom lest he expose them to the disease. They threw themselves into retrieving the painting, and cursed Faircliffe when Bean slowly slipped away, without the safe return of their heirloom . Then or now, the Wynchester family couldn’t command a single second of the new duke’s time. She ground her teeth.

According to the society papers, the Wynchester children were nothing more than a dead baron’s charity orphans—someone you might toss a coin to out of pity but never deign to speak to on purpose.

She didn’t care what Faircliffe thought of her. Chloe was glad to be a Wynchester. She wouldn’t trade a single moment for the boring, buttoned-up life of the beau monde.

Chloe was used to being invisible. It was her greatest talent and often the reason for the success of their clandestine missions. It had begun as a game.

When the six siblings were children, Bean taught them to play Three Impossible Things to give them skills and confidence. They gathered information, breached barriers, and performed feats of daring.

Later, their team became the specialists to turn to when the justice system failed those in need. The Wynchesters snuck food and medicine into prisons, exposed workhouses and orphanages with draconian practices, tracked down libertines who despoiled for sport, rescued women and children from abusers, delivered aid and supplies to those who needed it most. Bean had taught them nothing was impossible. Everyone deserved their best life.

Their missions gave them purpose and adventure. Chloe loved slipping about unseen, doing good works beneath people’s noses. But being overlooked on purpose was one thing. Being dismissed out of cruelty was far worse.

“We no longer have to beg,�� Chloe announced. “We can steal it back from Faircliffe, just as his father did to us.��

Graham added another tea cake to his plate. “How will we infiltrate the duke’s terraced fortress? That town house is as tightly locked down as His Loftiness himself. Do we even know where he’s keeping the painting?��

Chloe grinned at him. “We don’t have to. I know where it’s going to be.��

He set down his cake. “Where? How?��

She leaned back. “I sometimes watch parliamentary proceedings from the peephole in the attic—��

“Sometimes?�� Graham rolled his eyes. “When have you missed one? And what does your obsession with politics have to do with getting Puck back?��

“Well, if you would let me finish.�� Chloe pilfered her brother’s tea cake and took a bite from the corner, chewing with exaggerated slowness before swallowing. “As I was saying, today Tommy disguised us as journalists and we sneaked into the Strangers�� Gallery, where we sat behind Mr. York—��

“Wait,�� Graham interrupted, his brown eyes gleaming. “Mr. York, the MP whose daughter is rumored to have caught the Duke of Faircliffe’s eye?��

����’s more than a rumor,�� Chloe said sourly. “We overheard Faircliffe say he intends to give Puck & Family to Mr. York’s daughter Philippa as a courting gift.��

Graham’s face purpled. “Give away our painting? That knave. It’s not his to give!��

“That’s the bad news,�� Chloe agreed. She affected an innocent expression. “The good news is that my ‘Jane Brown�� alias has an invitation to Miss York’s weekly ladies�� reading circle. I met her when I was on that mission at the dreadful school for girls. Philippa was visiting with a charity group and—you know what? It ��DZ����’t matter. The important part is, I have access to the home where the painting will be. It’s our chance!��

Her brother pinned her with his too-perceptive gaze. “You accidentally bumped into the Duke of Faircliffe’s future intended and now have a standing invitation into her household? That’s a bit of good fortune.��

“Er…yes.�� Chloe became suddenly enthralled by her tea. “A very lucky, completely random coincidence.��

It was definitely not because she read the same gossip columns as her brother and wanted to see for herself what kind of woman attracted the Duke of Faircliffe’s attention.

Chloe had passed by him any number of times—not that he noticed. He didn’t even acknowledge her when she’d placed herself in his direct path to demand the return of her family portrait. Barely a syllable had escaped her lips before he strode right past her toward something or someone he actually cared about.

Blackguard.

“Now that we know when and where to act, we can play the game and get the painting.�� Chloe counted the Impossible Things on her fingers. “First, ingratiate myself with the reading circle. Achieved. Second, retrieve Puck & Family once Faircliffe delivers it. Third, replace it with a forgery so no one suspects a thing. It all happens on Thursday.��

Graham frowned. “Why would Faircliffe wish to interrupt a reading circle?��

“He ��DZ����’t know he’s going to.�� Chloe smirked. “The Yorks are surprisingly crafty.��

“Even a stiff, scowling duke like Faircliffe is a catch worth bragging about,�� Tommy explained. “Mrs. York will want witnesses.��

“We don’t want witnesses,�� Graham pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer to bump into Faircliffe on the street and ‘accidentally�� swap his rolled canvas for ours?��

���� would indeed,�� Chloe agreed, “if Faircliffe happened to stroll through Grosvenor Square with a rolled-up canvas. But the painting is framed, and the duke will arrive in a carriage where the York butler will be watching.��

Graham lifted his tea. “There aren’t a lighter set of fingers in all of London, so I’ve no doubt you can nick the canvas. And we’ll ask Marjorie to create the forgery.��

All six Wynchester siblings were talented in their own ways. Marjorie was an extraordinary painter who could replicate any artwork to match the original.

Chloe smiled. “Marjorie finished ages ago. I just needed an opportunity to exchange canvases. And some way to smuggle it out without anyone noticing.��

She swapped Graham’s spoon with Tommy’s fork as she thought. Coins and keys were easy objects to palm, but a rolled-up canvas was much too big.

“Could you strap a tube to your leg?�� Tommy asked.

“Perhaps if I walked very carefully…�� Chloe mused, then shook her head. “I would have to lift up my skirts to strap on the tube, and being caught like that would be worse. What I need is—��

“Kittens.�� Their rugged elder brother Jacob strolled into the Planning Parlor with a lopsided basket in his strong arms. “Most ladies love kittens almost as much as a good book. If you were showing off a new pet…��

Chloe tensed. Although hints of fur clung to Jacob’s ripped and patched waistcoat, she’d learned to be wary. The last time her brother had entered a room with a basket, he was trying his hand at snake charming. If she hadn’t been wearing her sturdiest boots�� “Do you really have a kitten in there?��

“Ferrets,�� he admitted, his dark brown eyes sparkling. “But I have the perfect solution out in the barn. Tiglet is the best of all the messenger kittens.��

“Messenger…kittens?�� she echoed faintly.

“Like pigeons, but terrestrial,�� Jacob explained earnestly. “More fur, less filth. The perfect cover. He can find his way home from anywhere. He’ll be a splendid distraction. Because where there’s chaos—��

“There’s opportunity,�� Tommy finished, eyes gleaming.

Chloe held up a finger. “First rule of Three Impossible Things: No plan without a contingency.��

Graham brightened. “May I suggest—��

“Your acrobatic skills are awe-inspiring, brother, but unnecessary in this instance.��

Graham’s shoulders caved. “When will it be my turn?��

“Whilst I don’t anticipate the need for trick riding on the back of a racing stallion,�� Chloe assured him, “a driver would not be amiss. Just in case I must flee in too much haste to flag down a hackney.��

“No hack required.�� Graham straightened. “We can’t risk one of our carriages being recognized, so I’ll drive a substitute that cannot be traced to the family.��

Tommy cocked her head. “If there is a queue of carriages awaiting their literary-minded mistresses, how will Chloe know which coach is the right one?��

“Mine will have red curtains…and a conspicuously displayed glove for good measure.�� Graham’s eyes lit up. “Better yet, I will not only be the first carriage you come to. I’ll be in the coachman’s perch. You shan’t miss me.��

“No plan without a contingency.�� Jacob’s curly black hair dipped as he peeked into the basket of ferrets. “What if the Yorks�� staff insist you move the carriage?��

Tommy clapped her hands. “Elizabeth will distract them.��

When Elizabeth threw her voice, no one could tell where it was coming from. Their sister could emulate an entire crowd of distractions. She was also handy with a sword stick. Either skill would do the trick.

Graham turned to Chloe, his eyes serious. “If we get separated for any reason, go somewhere safe. I’ll find you.��

She grinned back at him, exhilarated by the upcoming adventure. Puck was finally coming home. “The reading circle will have a wonderful afternoon. Other than a wee interlude with Tiglet, the most memorable event will be Miss York charming the Duke of Haughtiness.��

Graham lifted a broadsheet. “Their alliance will be the talk of the scandal columns. No one will remember anything else. Which is too bad, because I rather enjoy their wild conjecture about us. One of my favorite columns claims: ‘Such a large, isolated house could contain dozens of them!’��

Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Those gossips make us sound like bats.��

“I like bats.�� Jacob scratched beneath the chin of one of the ferrets. “Bats are fascinating. They have navels like humans and clean themselves like cats. I have thirteen of them out in the barn.��

“Please keep them there,�� Tommy murmured.

“Or give them to His Iciness,�� Chloe suggested.

“Faircliffe deserves as much.�� Graham moved the broadsheets in search of his spoon. “No doubt the duke’s interest in Philippa York is monetary. Although she has no title, she does possess the largest dowry on the marriage mart. I’ve been keeping a tally.��

“Poor Philippa.�� Tommy’s mouth tightened. “She deserves better.��

Chloe agreed. Faircliffe single-handedly lowered the temperature in every room he entered. The man was all sharp cheekbones and cutting remarks. That is, to everyone but her. She was invisible when right in front of him. Even when she was trying to be seen.

Graham made a face. “Can you imagine being wed to that block of ice?��

Chloe pushed her teacup away. “I cannot fathom a worse fate.��

“I want to be a Wynchester!��
�� Eloisa James

“Erica Ridley is a delight!��
�� Julia Quinn, author of BRIDGERTON

An exciting prequel to THE DUKE HEIST.

Years ago, Chloe Wynchester and five other uniquely talented orphans were adopted by a wealthy baron with a secret mission: The motley Wynchester family fights for justice from the margins of high society. And the handsome, clever duke Chloe has long admired proves to be her worst enemy��

An unscrupulous boarding school is exploiting orphans in a secret workhouse. Baron Vanderbean plots a daring rescue. When illness befalls him, Chloe must take the reins. But how can a lifelong wallflower lead the charge to save the children?

Meet the Wild Wynchesters: This fun-loving, caper-committing family of tight-knit siblings runs headlong into love and adventure!

“I want to be a Wynchester!��
�� Eloisa James

Why seduce a duke the normal way, when you can accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?

Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable—a curse that gives her the ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she’s ever known makes a dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting, she’s the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects that in doing so, she’ll also abduct a handsome duke.

Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father’s mistakes. To repair his estate’s ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his family’s legacy to follow true love?

Meet the Wild Wynchesters: This fun-loving, caper-committing family of tight-knit siblings runs headlong into love and adventure!

“I want to be a Wynchester!��
�� Eloisa James

“Erica Ridley is a delight!��
�� Julia Quinn, author of BRIDGERTON

12 Dukes of Christmas #12: Forever Your Duke!

From a New York Times bestselling author: A forbidden love, opposites attract romp between a meticulously proper duke and an impishly improper spinster in this witty, feel-good romance!

This year, the Duke of Nottingvale’s Christmastide house party doubles as a bride hunt. The handsome duke seeks a blue-blooded debutante as respectable as he is, and his parlor is brimming with paragons of propriety.

Inveterate spinster and unapologetic hoyden Miss Cynthia Louise Finch does not fit the mold. Any mold. Her younger cousin is perfect for the duke! By matchmaking the two, Cynthia will save her favorite cousin from a horrific fate. The only problem? Cynthia has always held a tendre for the duke. And for the first time, she seems to have caught his attention��

The Duke of Nottingvale knows his responsibilities: Duty and decorum above all else. A respectable lord would never sneak away for stolen moments with a fearless, audacious minx he cannot make his duchess. He definitely wouldn’t kiss her. Or fall in love��

Welcome to a heartwarming series of fun Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,
Forever Your Duke!

��

��

��

��

His Grace Alexander Borland, seventh Duke of Nottingvale, stalked from room to room, ensuring everything was in order. The month-long Christmastide party was an annual tradition, and this year it had to be perfect.

It was already a disaster.

A sudden snowstorm had halted all travel for the past fortnight, reducing Alexander’s party from four weeks to two. He himself had only arrived that morning, just in time to have a hurried meeting with business partners for a project they’d intended to complete last week, only for��

“Guests are arriving,�� announced Oswald, the butler.��

There was no need to adjust postures. Oswald was perpetually stoic and ramrod-straight. Respectable and proper at all times, just as Alexander liked.

The butler opened the door and the first team of liveried footmen rushed out into the cold, ready to bring in heavy trunks and hand guests down from carriages with all of the elegance and efficiency they deserved.

But they weren’t the first to arrive.

Alexander’s new business partners, Calvin and Jonathan, were staying through the grand Twelfth Night gala. Alexander had no idea where they were at this moment, which was just as well, because he did not have time to make dozens of introductions on top of ensuring the perfection of every detail of his party.��

The almost perfection.

As a consequence of the inconvenient snowstorm, the arrival of Alexander’s mother, the Duchess of Nottingvale, was also delayed.

No gentleman could host a house party on his own. A hostess must always play the lead role. As an impeccably dignified matriarch, his mother was perfect for the part.

In the meantime, Alexander’s younger sister Lady Isabelle would have to do.

Belle was�� no longer completely respectable.

While Alexander had spent the past fortnight burrowing north from London to distant Cressmouth, his sister Belle had apparently spent the past weeks in the arms of Alexander’s business partner Calvin, resulting in their betrothal.��

Alexander’s surprise at his sister’s impending marriage to a tailor would be nothing compared to the duchess’s reaction once Mother arrived.

Belle had fallen in love, not that romance would sway the matriarch’s opinion.

Alexander was dependable. He had never been in love, nor would he allow emotion to overtake him. A duke was logical, unemotional, and above all things: proper.��

There were rules.��

Alexander followed them.��

Strict adherence to expectations and station was the only way to ensure one’s life unfolded with clockwork precision.��

“Any further instructions, Your Grace?�� asked a footman.

“Be ready,�� Alexander replied.

The kitchen had been instructed to avoid strawberries, due to one of the guests�� adverse reactions to the fruit. The maids had replaced another guest’s feather pillows with soft wool stuffing, once Alexander learned downy feathers made her sneeze. He kept detailed notes so that returning guests�� experiences would be even better than the previous year.

He didn’t want his party to be good.

He needed it to be flawless.

This was the day before Christmas Eve. His friends were entrusting Alexander with their Yuletide. He wanted them all to have the best holiday possible.

“Here they come, Your Grace,�� said the butler.

Alexander’s sister Belle joined him in greeting the guests.��

He positioned himself a respectable distance from the open door and greeted each guest as they entered the cottage, before handing them off to a footman or maid to show them to their guest chambers.��

Alexander had assigned rooms with the same care he devoted to every aspect of his life. Windows with morning light for the early risers. Snorers grouped as far as possible from light sleepers. Extra blankets and fully stocked fireplaces for everyone.��

Locals began to fill the parlor as well, partaking of the strawberry-less refreshments and chatting with old friends they hadn’t seen since Alexander’s previous Christmastide party.

At a break in the tide, he turned to his sister. “As soon as Mother arrives, you can relax.��

��Can I?�� she said doubtfully, but her eyes twinkled with merriment.

Excellent point.

“As soon as Mother arrives, you can hide,�� he corrected. “I’ve given you and Calvin adjoining rooms on the opposite side of the house as hers. This is your Yuletide, too. I want you to enjoy it.��

She gave him an arch look. “Will you enjoy it?��

����’s not my duty to make merry,�� he reminded her firmly. ����’s my duty to ensure everyone else does.��

She didn’t look convinced. “When was the last time you enjoyed anything, even when other people’s happiness wasn’t riding on the outcome?��

����’s not my purpose to—��

“You’re a duke, not a gear in a pocket watch. You can change the pace once in a while. Not everything has to be controlled down to the second.��

It was Alexander’s turn to look appalled.

Belle burst out laughing. “I suppose that snowstorm had you in a tizzy.��

“Dukes don’t tizzy,�� he informed her.

“Mm-hm. You probably stalked out-of-doors and commanded the snow to stop falling in that imperious all-things-must-go-according-to-plan way you have.��

He lifted a shoulder. ���� stopped snowing, did it not?��

“��’m surprised you didn’t pull your hair out in panic.�� She tilted her head. “Never mind. You would never allow a hair on your head to be out of place, no matter the wind’s wishes. You’d command the clouds if you could.��

“You’re hilarious,�� he told her. “No one has ever had a wittier sister. Your jests warm my heart.��

“You don’t let anything near your heart,�� she said. “You’re too busy being perfect to enjoy your own parties. You could be replaced with an automaton and I’d be the only one to notice.”��

That was hardly fair.

“You used to be straitlaced too,�� he reminded her.

“And look how much better my life is now,�� Belle shot back. “Particularly compared to yours.�� She crooked her elbows at ninety-degree angles and made stiff, choppy motions whilst speaking in monotone. “‘I am a clockwork duke. Tick tock, I love rules.’��

Alexander lifted his nose.

Life would be easier if everyone followed rules.

He was grateful to have them. Rules let him know what to do and what to expect. Rules were what guided him when he’d inherited the title as an adolescent. He’d felt lost without his father, but the rules had given him a path to follow to succeed.

What Alexander wanted to do didn’t signify in the least. A duke did what must be done, and refrained from all activities not befitting his station.

Especially a respectable duke on the hunt for an equally proper bride.

He was glad that his sister had found love, but there would be scandal when the gossips heard the news. Any latitude Alexander might have had before was now gone. It was up to him to salvage the family’s reputation.

With luck, it would all be over soon.��

He and Belle turned back to the doorway as a new wave of guests splashed inside.

This would be the biggest crush yet. With Alexander’s permission, his mother had let it be known that her son was finally seeking a duchess.��

Hopeful young misses flooded his cottage. They might be in competition with each other, but Alexander knew his own behavior was now under a microscope as well.��

Not only did mothers and chaperones want their charges to make a splendid match�� Those spurned would be happy to spread gossip of any of the duke’s faults.

His duty was not to have any.

He and his party must be perfect.

“Of course,�� his sister assured a highly respected society matron, all traces of her earlier irreverence gone. “I would be honored to show you and your daughter to your chambers. Follow me, please.��

Alexander was glad for Belle’s presence.��

She was a meddlesome sister, but a wonderful hostess. For all her teasing, she would help ensure no unwelcome surprises happened to��

Miss Cynthia Louise Finch stood on his front step, holding a mongrel puppy aloft to his impressively stoic butler.

His heart stopped, then raced faster.

Miss Finch was the opposite of proper.��

She was a firework in a box of candles.��

Everything about her was significantly more than necessary. She had two names when one would suffice. She brought a dog to a house party. She was tall, with abundant curves. She had apple cheeks and plump rosy lips and big blue eyes.��

Her excessiveness ought to be overwhelming, but instead made him feel as though he stood dizzyingly close to a statue of a Grecian goddess come to life.

“Is that a dog?�� called out one of the locals.

���� is. Meet Max!�� She swept into the room brandishing the wiggling puppy in front of her chest, passing the mongrel off to the first taker.

It was not at all how a proper young lady would enter the home of a duke—or anywhere.

It was not done.��

Which made it classic Cynthia Louise Finch.

“Who wants to go ice racing later?�� she asked her friends at the refreshment table.

“Do you mean ice skating?�� asked one.

“She means ice racing,�� said another. “I lost ten quid to her last December.��

Miss Finch laughed in delight. “Want to lose another ten?��

Had the audacious hoyden failed to notice his receiving party of one?��

He hoped she hadn’t glimpsed the Duke of Nottingvale ducking ignominiously into the closest shadow rather than greet Miss Cynthia Louise without the protective buffer of his sister at his side.

Belle was the reason Miss Finch was here.��

Belle had been bashful during her come-out. Her first season had not gone as planned. At the time, Miss Finch was on her sixth unsuccessful season. She’d been extraordinarily kind to Belle, and earned a lifelong friend in the process.

And by extension, an open invitation to Alexander’s famous Christmastide house parties. How he had railed against the suggestion!

Alexander had been certain Miss Finch would not get on with any of his guests.

He had been wrong.

She lived an hour away in Houville. Miss Finch visited Cressmouth so often, she’d been on a first-name basis with every soul in the village long before Alexander ever built his cottage.

She might have fizzled out of Polite Society after six years, but here in Cressmouth, she was celebrated like family.

He watched in horror.

Whilst her puppy was humping the leg to Alexander’s refreshment table, Miss Finch linked arms with her cousin, a terrified-looking waif of eighteen years, and began introducing the chit to everyone in sight.

No amount of shadow could save him now.

It was only a matter of time before Miss Finch started toward Alexander.

His muscles tightened. The last thing he needed at a party as important as this was a dare-devil spinster causing trouble.��

Alexander was in search of an aristocratic young lady who would bring honor and continued decorum to the esteemed Nottingvale dukedom.

Miss Finch’s only connection to the aristocracy was an aunt who had married a second son, who decades later inherited an earldom. The waif at her side was the earl’s youngest daughter, Lady Gertrude, whose come-out had occurred scant months earlier.

Miss Finch’s come-out had been twelve long years ago. She’d had no dowry, no connections, and no luck. By society’s standards, now she was simply old.

Yet it was difficult to think of Miss Finch as “on the shelf�� when she never stood still.

Her brand of beauty was like a summer storm rising over the horizon. Fascinating to watch from a safe distance, but dangerous to go anywhere near.

And she was coming toward him.

��There you are,�� Miss Finch said as though Alexander had been hiding from her, which he absolutely had been. “Lady Gertrude, this is His Grace, the Duke of Nottingvale.��

Despite the obvious terror on her face, Lady Gertrude dipped in an exquisite curtsey.

Alexander made an extravagant leg in response. “How do you do?��

Lady Gertrude swung panicked eyes toward Miss Finch.

“She’s fine, thank you,�� Miss Finch said with good cheer, as though her mongrel were not currently climbing up the silk stocking of Alexander’s footman. “We’re both fine. Gertie made the journey up from London before the snow fell, and we’ve spent the past fortnight in Houville having a brilliant time of it. Haven’t we, Gertie?��

Lady Gertrude’s eyes grew even wider, her face worryingly pale.

“The carriage ride was quick enough,�� Miss Finch continued, “and your refreshment table as outstanding as I remembered. Why should drinking chocolate only be served at breakfast, I always say. Gertie loves chocolate, don’t you, Gertie?��

Lady Gertrude blanched further.

“She is also an accomplished pianist, capable of the finest embroidery I have ever seen, and is well-versed in the minute details of managing the staff of a large estate. Now that her elder sisters have married, Gertie frequently steers the household of the country pile whilst her parents are in London. Don’t let her young age fool you. If I had a dukedom, I would feel absolutely confident with Lady Gertrude at the helm.��

“If you had a…�� What the devil was Miss Finch talking about?

Dukedoms. His dukedom.

Lady Gertrude.

Miss Finch was matchmaking. Or at least, attempting to, her charge’s frozen demeanor notwithstanding.��

Alexander cleared his throat. “She certainly sounds…”��

What was he doing, talking about Lady Gertrude in third person as though she weren’t standing right in front of him?��

He turned to Lady Gertrude and smiled.

She looked like a puff of air could knock her over.

“You certainly sound like a capable young lady.�� Capable of disappearing through the floorboards before allowing her eyes to meet his. “I look forward to speaking more with you—�� Or hearing her speak at all, rather. “—over the course of the party.��

There.��

That was polite and true, and more than welcoming. Surely he could now extricate himself from Miss Finch’s radiating energy, and slip off to��

A tiny bark sounded from beneath the biscuit table. A blur of brown fur shot out from under the tablecloth, only to launch itself up through the air in the direction of Alexander’s freshly pressed and starched cravat.

Lady Gertrude’s arms flashed out, snatching the puppy from thin air with lightning reflexes, only to toss the mongrel up over her shoulder in the direction of Miss Finch.

Miss Finch not only intercepted the puppy smoothly, as though this were a maneuver they’d practiced for months, she rubbed between his ears and continued talking as if nothing at all had occurred.

“Gertie is very organized,�� she was saying. “You have never seen a more orderly kitchen or library than the ones on the earl’s estate. The household is gallingly neat. If you leave her alone too long near your refreshment table, you’ll return to find every item in alphabetical order.��

����’s already in alphabetical order,�� Alexander said.��

He wasn’t thinking about the refreshment table or Lady Gertrude.

The puppy had flopped belly-up against Miss Finch’s bodice, all four paws with their tiny little pads pointing in four different directions. Alexander could swear the mongrel smiled as Miss Finch rubbed its belly, his little pink tongue hanging from his mouth in obvious ecstasy. His fur looked ridiculously soft.

Miss Finch lifted her arms in Alexander’s direction. “Want to touch?��

He was now looking at her bare arms instead of the puppy.��

Of course he was.

Alexander’s footmen relieved guests of their winter hats and coats as they entered the cottage. It should not surprise him at all to discover Miss Finch clothed in a highly impractical lightweight frock with short puffed sleeves rather than the more sensible long-sleeved velvet-and-sarcenet of her young charge’s gown.

Miss Finch’s bare arms were completely exposed to the air�� and to Alexander’s gaze.��

Her skin looked just as soft as the puppy snuggling into her arms. Soft and warm, for there was no sign of gooseflesh upon her skin.��

Until she noticed him looking. Goosebumps rippled down her arm as a flush raced up her cheeks.

Alexander’s own neck was uncomfortably warm as he broke his gaze and began mumbling incoherently.��

“A basket,�� he said. ����’ll be sent to your room at once. And a small blanket to put in the basket. And a bowl of water. And a bone—��

At the word bone, the puppy leapt from Miss Finch’s arms and darted off through the well-dressed crowd.

Lady Gertrude vanished after him, with Miss Finch right on her heels, leaving Alexander babbling about his supply of bones to the empty air.

He closed his mouth with a click just as Oswald swung the front door back open.

Her Grace, the Duchess of Nottingvale swept into the cottage.

“Thank God,�� Alexander said.��

His mother exuded proper decorum from every pores. Her presence would ensure respectable comportment by all parties.

“Oh, Vale,�� she said as they exchanged cheek kisses. “How I apologize for the horrid delay.��

“Perfectly understandable,�� he assured her. “I arrived this morning, and we’re still missing half of the guests.��

Three-eighths of the guests, to be exact. He’d been checking them off in his head as they crossed the threshold.

“And your sister?�� his mother asked. “I presume she’s been an exemplary hostess in my stead.��

“Yes,�� he replied without elaborating.��

There would be plenty of time later for and she had a torrid affair with my tailor, to whom she’s now betrothed.��

Much, much later.

At least, he hoped there was time to find a bride and prove himself utterly above reproach before the scandal sheets tore his family apart.��

Mother would appalled when she learned Belle had prioritized love over her reputation. Mother was the one who had taught Alexander the trick of following society’s rules, no matter what. It was how she had learned to be a duchess, and how he had learned to be a duke.��

Entire books had been written on proper comportment, and Alexander had memorized every one. He expected no less from his future duchess.

Mother surveyed the growing crowd. “I suppose you think a fortnight won’t be long enough.��

Yes. That was exactly what he thought.��

It was like having to select the right goldfish from a fishbowl of identical goldfish. There was nothing wrong with any of the goldfish, which wasn’t the point at all. A duke was meant to select the best.

Somehow.

By observing two dozen polite, pretty debutantes in an unnatural environment over the course of fourteen days.

����’ll be easy,�� Mother assured him. “You’ll know by Epiphany.��

He certainly prayed for an epiphany.��

“They know I intend to announce the betrothal at the Twelfth Night gala?”��

“Yes. Choosing your young lady for the first dance will make a lovely statement,�� Mother agreed. “She can spend the rest of the ball by your side, as your hostess. Have you anyone in mind?��

“The first carriage just arrived an hour ago.��

“Plenty of time to whittle down the choices.�� Mother narrowed her eyes at the milling crowd. “The Twittington girl is slouching. You don’t want a slouchy duchess. The Whittleburr chit won’t stop twirling her hair. I absolutely cannot abide a hair-twirler at the dinner table. And that one over there…�� Mother frowned. “Who is she?��

He turned to look. “That’s Lady Gertrude.��

“Excellent posture,�� Mother said, impressed. “She’s neither twirling her hair, nor running on at the mouth like some of these vapid chatterboxes.��

No, Lady Gertrude did not seem the sort to talk a man’s ear off.

“We’ll see,�� said the duchess. “Whomever you choose—��

“—must be a credit to the title,�� he finished. “I know my duty.��

Alexander had many privileges, but a love match was not one of them. He had a dukedom to consider. A family, whose reputations would be impacted by his choice. Heirs of his own one day, who should be afforded every advantage Alexander could provide.

If having a sister had taught him anything, it was that women could be as strong and as stubborn as any man�� and just as scandalous. Alexander had to take great care.

He needed a nice, safe, sweet, predictable bride. A wife he need never worry about, because she would always do the right thing.

“Who is Lady Gertrude with?�� asked his mother. “Good heavens! Please tell me the poor dear’s ‘chaperone�� isn’t Miss Cynthia Louise Finch.��

“For the next fortnight,�� he answered bleakly.��

Or weakly.

He was looking at Miss Finch’s bare arms again and trying not to wonder what her skin would feel like beneath his fingertips.

All he had to do was avoid her.

It shouldn’t be a difficult task. Miss Finch had a long history of sneaking off from his party after Christmas Day to take part in the village’s many festive activities. She appeared to believe no one ever noticed her sly absences.

Mayhap no one did.

No one except Alexander.

He was glad she was such a rude guest. Her disinterest in his company was a boon to them both.��

While she was ice-racing or setting off fireworks from the castle turrets, he would be right here selecting the perfect future duchess.

��

��

��

Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,

Forever Your Duke!

| | | | ###

As her cousin’s carriage rounded another hairpin turn up the snow-covered mountain, Miss Cynthia Louise Finch did her best to keep the playing cards and gambling chips from sliding off the squab in front of them.

Gertie flashed out an arm to block her puppy from tumbling off of the seat beside her. Her other hand gripped two playing cards tight enough to dent the stiff paper.

“Are two Jacks good enough?�� she asked in a tiny, hesitant voice.

They had been playing vingt-et-un for the entire hour’s ride north from Houville. So far, Gertie was afraid of winning, losing, and wagering.

“Two Jacks are wonderful,�� Cynthia Louise assured her cousin for the third time since she’d dealt the cards. “Remember, you’re not supposed to let me know that you have two Jacks. I can see them from here, and even if I couldn’t, you’ve dented the bottoms in such a way that I’ll be able to recognize those cards as Jacks in all future deals.��

Gertie lay the Jacks face-up on her primrose velvet pelisse and attempted to smooth the crinkles from the cards.

“Face-down,�� Cynthia whispered.

Gertie flipped the cards over. “You already knew I had two Jacks.��

“I didn’t know it was the Jack of Diamonds and Jack of Clubs,�� Cynthia pointed out.

Gertie looked horrified. “You didn’t say suit mattered!��

���� ��DZ����’t matter in vingt-et-un,�� Cynthia tried to explain. “But if we were playing whist or—��

The terrified look in Gertie’s eyes indicated she’d throw herself from the moving carriage before attempting something as complex and ruinous as whist.

“Try to remember,�� Cynthia said gently. ����’s a good habit never to show your cards.��

����’s hopeless. ��’m hopeless.�� Gertie threw her wrinkled cards atop the deck and dropped her last remaining buttons onto the wagering pile in defeat. “How can Father expect me to win a duke if I can’t even manage vingt-et-un?��

“You’re a sweet, beautiful, well-bred young lady,�� Cynthia answered. “And if for some reason that isn’t enough, you also have me. I am the wild card who will help you win Nottingvale’s favor.��

Gertie’s delicate face lost some of its pallor, and she gave a tremulous smile. “You can do anything. That’s why Father sent you with me.��

This was partly true.

Cynthia liked to believe she could do almost anything—which was what made her a terrible choice in chaperone. She was more likely to play skittles at the Frost Fair as to stay home embroidering handkerchiefs.��

According to anyone who had ever read a scandal column, Cynthia’s irrepressible hoydenish ways were the reason she was destined to remain a spinster for the rest of her days.

To her uncle the earl, Cynthia’s spinsterness was what recommended her most as chaperone. At the ungodly advanced age of thirty, she wouldn’t be attracting the Duke of Nottingvale’s romantic attentions.��

Because she was the sole unmarried adult female in the extended family, Cynthia was also the only woman with no other responsibilities during the festive season.��

As a native of the closest village to Cressmouth, Cynthia had attended the Duke of Nottingvale’s annual Christmastide party for years.��

This year, His Grace intended to select a bride from his Yuletide guests.��

Cynthia’s role was to make certain that bride was Gertie.

“But, Cynthia Louise…�� Gertie whispered. “What if he hates me?��

“He won’t hate you. No one hates you.�� Cynthia tucked the cards back into their box. “No one knows you, darling. You don’t talk to anyone. You’re going to have to speak to Nottingvale on occasion so that he notices you’re there.��

Gertie looked as though Cynthia had just suggested performing a naked trapeze act at the circus.

“I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anyone. I never know what to say.�� Gertie pulled Max onto her lap and gripped him tight. “Can’t you do the talking for me? You always know what to do.��

“I rarely know what to do,�� Cynthia corrected. “I just pick something and do it.��

��Yes.�� Gertie’s eyes shone as if Cynthia had just confessed to dark magic. “You weren’t the least bit shy when you begged cousin Olaf to show you how to use his skis.��

Cynthia scooped the gambling buttons back into their bag. “��’m not certain that skis—��

“You weren’t timid at all when those fops challenged you to a bout of fencing,�� Gertie continued.

“You definitely shouldn’t copy that,�� Cynthia said firmly. “Fops can be dangerous.��

“And I’ve never seen anything so brave as the time you climbed up the tallest tree in Hyde Park to rescue a little girl’s kite,�� Gertie finished dreamily. “I can’t even climb a small �ٰ����.��

“You’re not supposed to climb trees,�� Cynthia reminded her cousin. “The duke’s primary requirement is a proper young lady, and you’re the properest young lady I know. That’s your trump card.��

Gertie frowned. “What’s a trump card again?��

“Your advantage,�� Cynthia explained. “The thing that makes you better than all of the other choices.��

“But ��’m not better.�� Gertie’s face was pale. “All of the young ladies will be well-mannered debutantes from good families, just like me. And they won’t turn into a potato with all eyes and no mouth if the duke happens to glance in their direction.��

“You’ll be the prettiest potato the duke has ever seen,�� Cynthia assured her. “If you can’t think of anything to say, nod and look interested. That will get you through more conversations than you might expect. It’s how Barbara landed her ��ܲ������Ի�.��

Gertie brightened. “Barbara is very happy. You did a splendid job with both of my sisters.��

Cynthia had become the de facto companion for her younger, prettier cousins after her sixth and final Season passed without a peep of interest from anyone. There hadn’t even been a bad proposal to turn down.��

She was glad of it. Who needed a husband?��

With a high-in-the-instep duke like Nottingvale glowering down his patrician nose at her, there would be no trees or skis or skittles.��

Cynthia was much happier as a spinster. Her life had become exponentially easier the moment she decided to abandon high society’s stifling rules in favor of having none at all. Without having to worry about attracting potential suitors, she was free to live as she pleased.

She was never going back.

“Max, no!�� Gertie scolded. “You’ll muss my traveling dress!��

See? Cynthia didn’t give two figs about wrinkled muslin. Being unmarriageable was so much better than trying to be presentable all of the time.

“I’ll take him.��

The puppy was already leaping from Gertie’s bodice to Cynthia’s lap before she finished the sentence.

“He’s impossible,�� Gertie said fondly. “You’re certain the duke won’t mind that we’ve brought him?��

“If he does, we’ll say Max is my dog.�� Scrunching up her face, Cynthia tried not to laugh as the small, wiggly brown puppy licked her face exuberantly.��

See? Canine saliva glistening on one’s cheeks was no problem at all when one was an unmarriageable spinster.

“What if the duke does pick me?�� Gertie said in horror. “Will I have to give up Max?��

“Of course not.�� Cynthia rubbed between his ears. “I’ll ‘give�� Max back to you as an early wedding present. It would be rude of the duke not to accept a family member’s wedding present, and the Duke of Nottingvale is never rude. He’s always perfectly proper. It’s in his blood.��

“He frightens me,�� Gertie whispered. “He’s so big.��

“Well, he is tall,�� Cynthia admitted. “And those wide shoulders are difficult to miss. But try to concentrate on the other details. He has very long eyelashes for a duke. They’re the same deep brown as his eyes. The left side of his mouth turns up a little more than the right when he smiles. That’s a flaw, isn’t it? One can barely tear one’s gaze away. As for all of those trim muscles from boxing and swimming…��

Wait.��

What was she supposed to be talking about?��

Cynthia busied herself balancing Max upside-down on her lap in order to rub his soft belly and thereby avoid meeting her cousin’s eyes.

Cynthia did not fancy the Duke of Nottingvale.

She did not.

Gertie depended on Cynthia—the entire family depended upon her—and she was going to deliver. Nottingvale would be smitten with Gertie at first sight. This would be the easiest matchmaking mission of Cynthia’s life.

She just had to survive a fortnight of other people’s flirtations.

“Look!�� Cynthia pointed out of the window at a bright red wooden sign rising from the snow.

Welcome to Christmas!

Gertie’s eyes widened. “Is it really Christmastide here all year round?��

Unlike Cynthia, Gertie was not from the northernmost corner of England. Gertie and her family spent half of the year in London, and the other half near Southampton, where Gertie’s father had a seaside manor.

���� really is,�� Cynthia said with a grin. “Marlowe Castle sits atop the highest point, overlooking the cheerful little village. Despite its small size, Cressmouth has dozens of entertainments at any moment. What happened to this month’s timetable?��

“Here it is!�� Gertie pulled a battered copy of the Cressmouth Gazette out from under Max’s basket, and turned to the long lists of December activities beginning on page four.

Cynthia didn’t need to review the newspaper to know what delights it contained. Accommodations in Cressmouth were expensive, but most of the entertainments were free. Since she lived only an hour’s drive away—an hour and a half, perhaps, in snowy conditions such as these—Cynthia came up to spend the day whenever the Christmas spirit struck her.

In addition to being an absolute paradise for all things Yuletide, Cressmouth’s coziness would be another advantage over the London season.��

Cynthia hoped.

Gertie’s come-out earlier that year had been a middling success.��

Despite failing to mumble a shy response to any of her many smitten suitors, Gertie’s dance card remained full and her father’s mantel fairly sagged under the weight of so many calling cards.

None of the interested parties was good enough for the daughter of an earl, however. Gertie might not speak to strangers, but Lady Gertrude would be a disappointment to her family if she landed anything less than a wealthy aristocrat.

Cynthia knew exactly what it felt like to be a disappointment to one’s family. Now she did it on purpose, but once upon a time she had tried to fit in and to be chosen.��

It hadn’t worked.��

Her dance card, like the visitor dish upon her mantel, had remained empty.

Gertie, on the other hand, had a fighting chance. Cynthia considered this a rescue mission as much as a matchmaking one. Despite Gertie being all of eighteen years old, her father was planning to betroth her to one of his ancient, lecherous peers as part of a political alliance. Gertie would be miserable.

Cynthia liked Nottingvale. Any woman would be lucky to have him.

Cynthia loved her cousin Gertie. She truly believed the duke wouldn’t be able to help falling in love�� if Cynthia could convince Gertie to speak in a voice loud enough to be heard, and to show the duke who she really was.

That was the best part of a Christmastide house party. Intimate close quarters where Nottingvale and Gertie would run into each other a dozen times a day. Even for shy Gertie, It would be impossible to avoid the duke.

“Here we are,�� Cynthia said briskly as the carriage pulled up in front of the duke’s so-called cottage.��

The only larger residence in Cressmouth was the castle itself.��

Smart black carriages stretched down the long winding driveway up to Nottingvale’s cheerful brick façade.��

Exquisitely dressed young ladies stepped onto the shoveled path, accompanied by equally proper-looking matrons ranging from hired companions to marriage-minded mothers.

Cynthia recognized most of them. Not the debutantes—she’d been out of society far too long for that. Many of the older ladies had either been in London the same time Cynthia was, or lived near enough to this area that they’d crossed paths in Cressmouth before, perhaps even at one of Nottingvale’s previous parties.

“Ready?�� she murmured to Gertie.

Her cousin looked like she was going to be ill. ��No.��

The carriage door swung open. A pair of gorgeously liveried footmen Cynthia recognized as Horace and Morris appeared at the opening to hand her and her cousin out of the coach.

“Pluck up, darling.�� She dug her elbow into Gertie’s side. “You’re the swan following the ugly duckling into the water. There’s no need for speeches. You smile and curtsey and say ‘How do you do?�� just like we practiced.��

“Can we practice some more?�� Gertie whispered. “Maybe we should come back next year.��

“He’s picking a bride this year,�� Cynthia reminded her. “This is the only opportunity. If you’re not inside that house when the Duke of Nottingvale…��

There he was.

Right there in the doorway.

He’d only been visible for a brief moment. Half in shadow behind his stoic butler Oswald, a shaft of sunlight had fallen onto the Duke of Nottingvale’s absurdly handsome face and touchably tousled soft brown hair whilst he passed from one side of the entryway to another.

A second or two. The space of a heartbeat.��

Cynthia’s breath froze solid in her lungs. She had become as stiff and silent as an icicle, teetering precipitously before a fall.

“All right.�� Gertie’s voice was brave as she looped her arm trustingly through Cynthia’s. “I can survive it with you at my side.��

“Wonderful,�� Cynthia croaked. Absolutely marvelous. The moment they’d both been waiting for.

It was time to matchmake Nottingvale to her cousin.

### | | | |

12 Dukes of Christmas #11: Ten Days with a Duke!

From a New York Times bestselling author: a second chances, enemies-while-lovers reunion romance where nothing is as it first appears, and everyone’s motives are suspect��

Olive Harper's family has been feuding with the Westons for decades. The Westons�� stud farm is the biggest, but the Harpers�� is the most famous�� and she's the sole heiress. Or was, until her father brokers a truce by offering the Weston heir the Harper farm. The only way to get it back is to marry the knave who kissed her and humiliated her, twice—or prove to her father that some rifts can never be healed.

Scholar and botanist Elijah Weston is dreadful at feuding. For one, he prefers horticulture to horses. For two, he's been desperately in love with his mortal enemy ever since he kissed her—and, yes, publicly destroyed her—all those years ago. When he's given ten days to win Olive's heart, he arrives with marriage license in hand. But where lies and double-crosses abound, how can lifelong rivals learn to trust their hearts?

The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

###

Get yours: | | | |