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Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S EMBRACE!

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Monsieur Sébastien le Duc, known to his family as Bastien and to the rest of the village as the most fashionable man north of London, strolled through the public park adjoining Marlowe Castle, deep in conversation with his elder brother Lucien.

Lucien refused to speak anything but French, which meant most of the passers-by wandering these same paths had little comprehension of the brothers�� conversation. This did not bother Bastien in the least. He had not come to a public park to be listened to. He was here to be looked at.

For too many long, unendurable years, he had been forced to stitch every item of his clothing by hand. Just because a gentleman could not afford a tailor was no excuse for slovenly appearance. Bastien had become an expert at little tricks, like only using expensive fabric in areas where it would be seen, and designing garments in such a way as to make them easily alterable to fool the casual eye into believing that one jacket or waistcoat was actually multiple items.

Today, he had not needed to resort to any such tricks. Today, he had money. Today, every single item clinging and sparkling upon his person had been sewn by someone else to Bastien’s exact specifications.

He felt just as magnificent as he looked.

“Are you even listening to me?�� Lucien demanded.

��Oui,�� Bastien answered automatically.

He was not listening. After nine-and-twenty years of brotherhood, Lucien likely knew this. But the only other person who lent half an ear to their brother’s stern sermons was their younger sister Désirée, who had just that morning wed a father of two, and now had other things to do with her time.

A flock of whispering, blushing young ladies flitted toward them with a flurry of painted fans and feathered bonnets.

“Good afternoon, Beau,�� they called out as one, fluttering their eyelashes and flushing prettily.

Bastien preened.

“Oh, for the love of…�� Lucien rolled his eyes. “Tell them you shall never be their ‘beau.’��

“Let me have this,�� Bastien reproached him. “Six days a week, I toil in our smithy from dawn to dusk without complaint. Why do you begrudge every harmless flirtation?��

“T����’r�� English.�� Lucien shuddered as though the affliction might be contagious. “One cannot trust unmarried young ladies. They all have an ulterior motive.��

“Can marriage truly be considered an ‘ulterior�� motive?�� Bastien inquired reasonably.

Besides, his brother was wrong. These ladies wanted a turn in his embrace, not a trip to the altar. He knew that from experience. Although Bastien had not been saving himself for France, the women who gave him the time of day were only interested in sharing a night. It was the sort of “ulterior�� motive any self-respecting rake would be honored to indulge.

Lucien sent the ladies his customary all-smiting glower.

They wilted and scurried away.

“You are incorrigible,�� Bastien informed his brother. “A cad amongst cads. I will find each one of those young women later, and personally make up for your mortifying rudeness.��

“At least I won’t have to see it.�� Lucien shrugged. “And soon, you will not have to bother. Now that Uncle Jasper owns his property free and clear, we have nothing tying us to England.�� His dark eyes shone. “We can finally retake the life we left behind. Finalement!��

Bastien could not help but grin. “Returning home to France has been our one overriding aim for so long, I’ve no idea what I’ll do when we get there.��

“You’ll meet French girls,�� his brother said pointedly.

Bastien brightened. “And shop!��

“And never again step foot in a smithy,�� Lucien said with a fervent sigh.

A trio of sisters waved as they strolled past. “Good afternoon, Beau!��

Lucien’s face turned red. “You are not Beau Brummell. Even Beau Brummell should not be ‘Beau�� Brummell. He is not French. We ������.��

“They don’t think I’m Beau Brummell,�� Bastien whispered back. “They think I’m Beau le Duc.��

“Even worse,�� Lucien growled. “Now you will wish to be friends with Prinny.��

“What is he saying?�� one of the girls asked with curiosity.

Bastien gave them a friendly wave. “That he wishes you ladies a very lovely afternoon.��

Lucien’s jaw clenched. Although no one but their sister had ever witnessed Lucien attempt to speak a single syllable of English, Bastien had no doubt that his brother understood almost every word.

Not an easy feat. Even after Bastien had become reasonably conversational in English, it had at first been very hard to switch between languages. Now that he was used to doing so all day every day, the right language usually came flying out of his mouth without thinking.

He nudged his brother off the walking path and onto the decorative iron pedestrian bridge that crossed the castle pond. Here, at least, there would be fewer pretty young ladies to vex his brother with their appalling English beauty. 

In fact, only one other person stood atop the narrow bridge. Well, two if you counted her dog.

Miss Eve Shelling scowled at the sparkling pond from beneath a drooping straw bonnet. Glossy black tendrils tugged and tumbled with the autumn breeze. Although he could not see her eyes from here, he knew them to be a bright, arresting green, and full of intelligence. Her cloak listed to one side, giving the impression of being tossed over her shoulders more out of habit than respect for fashion, and managed to accentuate, rather than hide, the curves of her silhouette.

At her feet, a large bullmastiff that nearly outweighed her flashed its canines at the swans fluffing their soft white tailfeathers on the water below.

“That is one odd woman,�� Lucien muttered. “Even for the English.��

Bastien liked odd. Why else would he have added blue and green spangles to his waistcoat? Odd made life more interesting. He could gaze at Miss Shelling’s carelessly beautiful oddness all day.

“This way.�� Lucien turned away from the bridge.

Bastien glanced over his shoulder at Miss Shelling. “But—��

“That one definitely has ulterior motives,�� Lucien assured him. “And if she has not, her pet certainly does. Do you know why those are called ‘gamekeepers�� night-dogs?�� Because they are strong enough and swift enough to knock armed poachers to the ground, pinning them immobile and helpless until the trespassers can be hanged as a public example.��

None of this was making Bastien any less intrigued by Miss Shelling.

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Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S EMBRACE !

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Miss Eve Shelling plastered herself between the smothering red damask of the parlor curtains and the freezing glass panes of the front windows. From the outside, this likely made her look like a madwoman. Eve �徱���’t mind. She wasn’t hiding from the outside. 

She was hiding from her father.

Eve was also simultaneously keeping an eye out for Wilson, who delivered the afternoon post.

The post was the main reason Eve was avoiding her father. Not their endless rows about rule-following or eternal Christmas or journalistic integrity. She could hold her own on any of those topics. But if he caught her intercepting the afternoon post�� Or, worse, if he happened to discover what the letters said��

Just as her cheek was about to go numb from pressing so hard against the breath-fogged glass, Eve glimpsed Wilson’s jaunty green woolen hat heading in her direction.

She slipped out from the curtains, tossed a furtive glance over both shoulders, then cracked open the front door just as Wilson reached the front step.

“Good afternoon, Miss Shelling.��

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson.��

She eased her fingers through the crack just long enough to feel the early winter chill and snatch the thick pile of letters. Eve latched the door as quickly as possible. Father’s study might be on the opposite side of the cottage, but he sensed the presence of the slightest draft like a human barometer.

“Damn it, Anderson,�� Father roared from his office. “You’re letting all the warm air out!��

Eve mentally apologized to the very innocent Anderson. As the sole male member of the household staff, Anderson was butler, footman, valet, and anything else that might be needed. At this moment, Anderson was out collecting firewood, but he could return at any time.

All Eve had to do was shove the letters inside her sewing basket and make her way past the open door of her father’s study to the privacy of her bedroom without him registering her presence or questioning her motives.

It might have worked, too, if Father hadn’t chosen that exact moment to step out of his study with a walking stick in his hand. He was coming her way.

“What are you doing?�� he asked suspiciously.

He was always suspicious of her these days. Mostly with good reason.

“Nothing.�� She tried to look innocent.

There was no time to shove the stack of letters into her sewing basket. Any such movement would only call undue attention to their presence.

It was too late. “Is that the afternoon post?��

“It’s for me.”��

Sort of. She hoped. There hadn’t actually been an opportunity to sift through the pile to check names, but if the past four weeks were any indication�� every single item would be addressed to the Cressmouth Gazette.

Which was mostly her. In spirit, if not legally. 

Although her father owned the Gazette, Eve was the one who ran virtually every aspect. It wasn’t even unusual for her to handle the correspondence which, historically, consisted of one letter per quarter: The curmudgeonly Duke of Silkridge, begging for his name to be removed from the subscriber list. 

Eve �徱���’t think anyone else had even noticed the Gazette, much less bothered to peruse its contents.

Until now.

��All of that is the afternoon post?�� His eyes widened with obvious incredulity.

Eve gave a weak smile.

No doubt a dozen letters seemed like a proper blizzard of correspondence. Father would be horrified to learn that this was the smallest amount yet. The autumn issue’s infamy appeared to finally be dying down.

He clomped forward, placing most of his weight on his walking stick, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “If that’s because of that libelous—��

“It wasn’t libelous,�� she interrupted hotly. “Every single word was true.��

“�Ĕs�����Ի岹���dzܲ�—���

“Reporting the truth isn’t scandalous. That’s what real newspapers do.��

“—foolhardy nonsense you slipped into the paper without my knowledge or consent—��

“Yes,�� she burst out. “The increased reaction from our readers is the direct result of my exposé on our village’s founder. Mr. Marlowe was a man, not a myth. He was a wonderful visionary and a terrible grandfather to the poor Duke of Silkridge, who—��

“No need to summarize the bloody article. I read it. The whole village read it.�� He shook the eagle claw of his walking stick at her face. “How many times do I have to tell you that the Cressmouth Gazette only publishes positive coverage of positive things that happen in our community?��

“It was our biggest seller ever!�� Eve flung out her arms in frustration. “We had to go back to press three times. Usually issues only go out to people with subscriptions, but this time locals purchased copies, subscribers actually read ����—���

“You shouldn’t have written it.�� He pointed at the stack of letters wrinkling in her sweaty hand. “That proves it.��

“This?�� She lifted the letters high. “Nobody cared about the paper before. This proves I was right. Some people speak of Marlowe as though he were the King of England, but others have sent in stories that paint a completely different picture.��

Father’s gaze was cold. “We don’t want to paint a different picture. Our village is known as ‘Christmas�� and that is the only picture we shall paint. Sleigh rides. Wassailing. Sprigs of holly.��

“We write that in every paper.�� She curled her fingers, every muscle in her body tense. “I’m not suggesting we stop writing about Christmas. I’m suggesting our village is more than just Christmas. We could include a selection of reader responses in the opinion columns—��

“The Cressmouth Gazette doesn’t have an opinion column. We are Christmas. We write about Christmas. That’s all our audience wants. The legend of the twelve dukes, casting for The Winter’s Tale, the latest biscuit flavors seen in the castle’s public buffet. Those are the rules. Follow them.��

“Those are your rules,�� she gritted out. “You invented them; you can change them. I want to be a real journalist who writes real stories.��

He grimaced in exasperation. “W���?��

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12 Dukes of Christmas #6: The Duke’s Bride!

Single father and confirmed bachelor Jack Skeffington is the mastermind behind an international smuggling ring, yet unable to control his rambunctious ten-year-old twins. What he needs is a stern, experienced, no-nonsense governess. What he gets is his business partner’s untouchable sister, whose delectable body Jack yearns to pull close.

Mademoiselle Désirée le Duc cannot wait to return to France and regain her lost vineyard. But to do so, she must repay crippling debt. Determined to buy freedom, she accepts temporary employment from an Englishman with a wicked smile and a big�� wine cellar. His kisses taste like heaven and his arms feel like home. How can she choose between two families separated by the sea?

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!

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Get yours: | | | |

Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S BRIDE!

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Mademoiselle Désirée le Duc lay her head on her elder brother’s shoulder.

For years, returning home had been couched in one day and when the war ends. But ever since the Treaty of Fontainebleau in April, one day had suddenly become today. Napoleon Bonaparte had been captured. The war was over. The day they’d been dreaming of was finally here.

France was where they had lost everything, and where Lucien believed they would find it again. They could return home whenever they liked.

Or at least, as soon as they repaid an exorbitant loan and saved up enough extra coin for both the journey, and a new life. You know. Just that, nothing more.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. It was their footman, Pinfield.

��Excusez-moi, monsieur, madame.�� He cleared his throat. Although he tried, Pinfield was not French. They did not hold it against him. “Mr. Skeffington has arrived.��

“He’s early!�� Lucien leapt up from the sofa with comical alacrity, leaving his English books where they lay. “Has the baize been ironed?��

At the rapid-fire French, Pinfield paled and sent a beseeching look toward Désirée.

“The billiard table,�� she said in English. “Has the baize been ironed?��

The footman’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Yes, mademoiselle. Everything is in order.��

“Thank you, Pinfield.�� She turned to scowl at her brother. “Don’t tease him so. Your billiards vocabulary in English is as good as mine.��

His hazel eyes widened innocently. ��Moi? Mais, je suis français.��

Yes, Lucien was a Frenchman, and the le Ducs possessed the only pocketless French-style billiards table in Cressmouth. Carambole had been the last treat Uncle Jasper bought them before his health kept him out of the smithy.

“Ladies take the first shot.�� Désirée raced her brother out of the parlor, knocking against him when they both tried to cram through the doorway at the same time.

When they reached the billiards room, the others were there waiting. Uncle Jasper was seated in the far corner, his heavy feet propped up high atop a stool. Her middle brother was handing him a glass of brandy, no doubt courtesy of their guest.

Rakish Sébastien was the fashionable le Duc sibling. Men called him Bastien, but the ladies called him Beau because they considered him the equal to Beau Brummell. Without the profligacy, of course.

Désirée tweaked Bastien’s cravat—not because it was imperfect, but because touching its immaculate folds would vex her brother—and retrieved a cue from the closet. She busied herself with chalking the tip before turning to face Jack. She needed something in her shaking hands to belie how much he affected her.

Not because she cared what Jack Skeffington thought. Lucien would throttle her if he believed she fancied an Englishman.

Jack was, naturally, just as dashing tonight as he was on every other occasion in which she’d glimpsed him. Soulful dark eyes the color of fine chocolate. Too-long black-brown hair, a carelessly shaven jaw, a scar that drew her attention right back to those gorgeous, thick-lashed eyes��

“Good afternoon,�� he said in English.

Jack was Lucien’s antithesis. Regardless of the language spoken to him, Lucien replied in French. And regardless of the language spoken to him, Jack replied in English. Somehow they managed to become the best of friends; thick as thieves.

Perhaps because they �徱���’t speak the same language.

Or perhaps because they were, in fact, thieves.

In town, Jack was renowned for his impressive wine cellar. What the villagers did not know was that les messieurs le Duc aided Jack in his dealings with their countrymen in exchange for a percentage of the profits. In fact, if it weren’t for Jack Skeffington, Désirée’s family would not have held a prayer of paying off the loan in time to keep their property. He kept them informed during their monthly billiard matches, and each time their portion was even greater than the month before.

“There’s brandy,�� he said.

“There’s always brandy,�� she replied in French.

She suspected Jack understood French every bit as well as Lucien understood English, but refused to speak a word of it just to annoy her brothers. Désirée approved.

“There’s also champagne, if you prefer.�� He gestured to a side table. ��1811 Veuve Clicquot, if you’re choosy about your vintage.��

Désirée was not choosy. She also could not have asked for better champagne, as he well knew.

“You are hoping that if I drink enough of this, you will finally win a game.�� But she poured herself a glass anyway. She loved champagne. This was what France would taste like when she returned home. Crisp and dry and bubbly.

“Teams,�� Bastien commanded in French.

Carom billiards was not properly played in teams, but because all four of them were formidable players, they had developed a way to stretch out the fun and make the scoring fairer. Four games, each played with two players, until each player from the first team had played both players from the second team.

Since all four of them were occasionally known to accumulate the required ten points to win the game on their first turn at the table, even this method did not last as long as some of the English games with pocket tables Désirée had witnessed at the castle.

But their way was more fun.

She bit her lip. It was time to choose a partner. “I choose…��

“Me,�� Lucien said. “Bastien, you’re with Jack. Désirée, you take the first shot.��

She downed her champagne before setting the empty glass aside and settling into position. Going first was her favorite. If she was playing her brother, she would have finished in one turn. If she was playing Jack, she would take her time.

��Qui m’oppose? Jack? Bastien?��

“Me.�� Jack’s dark eyes grinned at her above his glass of brandy. “Should I bother selecting a cue, or are you going to finish the game before I take a single shot?��

“Have a seat.�� She lined up her cue, then narrowed her eyes. “Where are your children?��

“Out in the garden with Chef.��

“Poor Chef,�� Lucien murmured. “He wishes we’d cut him into côtes de porc after all.��

“Don’t worry,�� Jack assured him. “That’s probably what the twins are doing.��

See? Both obstinate ��ê�ٳܲ� understood each other far better than they liked to let on.

Désirée rolled her eyes. “Pay attention to the table, please. Prepare to be amazed and astounded.��

Jack leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What do you think about children?��

She missed her shot.

“I am amazed,�� said Lucien, deadpan.

Bastien nodded. “I am astounded.��

Uncle Jasper, however, was fast asleep.

Désirée ignored all three and turned to face Jack. “What do you mean, what do I think about children?��

“Mine,�� he clarified quickly. “Their education.��

She frowned. “What’s wrong with their education?��

“They haven’t got one.��

“Take your shot,�� Bastien called out.

Jack brandished his cue. And missed. Possibly because his eyes were on Désirée, rather than the table.

“You are seeking advice?�� she asked. “From someone who has never birthed nor raised a child?��

��Take your shot,�� Bastien groaned.

She did. Perfect point.

Jack’s gaze was still on her. “I’m seeking advice from a young lady who I assume knows other young ladies. Do you know anyone with experience teaching children?��

Tutoring. She imagined any number of young women would leap at the chance to tutor Jack’s children—if only because it brought them closer to Cressmouth’s most eligible resident bachelor. But did she know anyone with actual experience teaching children?

“Désirée…�� Lucien warned.

She took another shot. Another point.

Désirée had the same amount of child tutoring experience her friends did—which was to say, none at all. What she did have was a family in desperate need of money, and years of practice wrangling the three biggest enfants of all—Lucien, Bastien, and Uncle Jasper.

An idea tickled her skin. If she could cram English conjugation down Lucien’s stubborn throat, certainly she could tutor Annie and Frederick in�� whatever ten-year-olds needed tutoring in.

“You don’t know anyone capable of teaching children?�� she asked carefully.

Bastien leaned a hip against the table. “Désirée has plenty of experience with children. She tutors Lucien all the time. Weren’t you saying you wished those lessons would stop? Here’s your chance.��

“The only thing I recall wishing to say,�� Lucien gritted out, “is that you can take this bright red ball and shove—��

“I’ll do it,�� Désirée said decisively.

Jack startled backward. “You’ll be their governess?��

“Their�� what?�� she stammered. Governess sounded significantly more involved than tutor. Then again, money was money. The faster they earned it, the sooner they could leave. “What kind of governess?��

Bastien poured himself a fresh glass of brandy. “The ‘teaches children�� sort of governess, genius.��

“No,�� said Lucien. “Absolutely not.��

“It isn’t manual labor,�� she pointed out. “Governesses are genteel.��

“Not that it matters,�� Jack said with obvious confusion. “There aren’t too many blacksmiths in High Society, either.��

“Not helping,�� Désirée hissed.

“Whose shot is it?�� Bastien asked.

Lucien glared at him. “Désirée’s.��

She pointed her cue. Another point. “Lucien, calm down and think rationally. It would not be ‘real�� work.��

“Er…�� Jack cleared his throat. “I feel I should disclose that my children are absolutely an enormous amount of work.��

“No,�� Lucien said again.

“Ladies can do favors, can they not?�� Désirée coaxed. “Perhaps volunteer, in exchange for pay?��

Bastien snorted. “That’s not what ‘volunteer�� means.��

“See?�� Lucien pointed at Désirée. “Terrible governess. The answer is no.��

Jack stepped so close she could smell the sandalwood at his throat. “So you’re saying, in theory, that you might voluntarily donate some of your time, in exchange for me voluntarily donating some of my money?��

Lucien leapt to his feet. “You are not paying my sister for any favors!��

The insinuation should make her blush. Instead, she eyed Jack with interest. He might not think of her in that way, but she had on several occasions wondered what it would be like to��

“Désirée,�� Bastien barked. “Your turn.��

This time, she blushed. And won another point. “Yes, to being a governess. I suggest a temporary arrangement in which—��

“Désirée will not accept work of any kind from any man.�� Lucien’s eyes were thunderous. “She is a lady.��

Bastien tilted his hand back and forth. “Or would be. Except she’s not.��

��Will be,�� Lucien enunciated. “After we return to France.��

“Where they will have no idea whether I did or �徱���’t tutor anyone’s children whilst in England,�� Désirée pointed out. She made a pointed face that she hoped said, Stop being arrogant. We need this money.

Lucien’s intractable expression said, Over my dead body. “This isn’t one of your ����è���� ��é������é��.��

Jack blinked. ��������?��

Bastien puffed up his chest with pride. “Her ����è���� are second to none. Our sister could find a way to make a bomb out of a fur muff and a hat pin.��

Jack blinked a few more times. “Why would she need a grenade?��

“The grenade isn’t the point,�� Désirée said quickly. “Resourcefulness is the point.��

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Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S BRIDE!

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“This way, if you please.”��

Jack Skeffington—genteel landowner, eligible widower, and exhausted father of indefatigable twins—led his business associate through a hidden panel behind his office escritoire to a secret room lined with shelves of mementos from various exploits of days long past.

Redmire gave a knowing smile. “Walls have ears, do they?”��

At first glance, one would not guess Redmire to be a pirate-for-hire. Of the two men, Jack was the one with a jagged scar down one cheek and the tip of one ear missing, giving his left side a somewhat elfish appearance. A piratical elf with a terrifying dimple. Who had ignored his wounds and won the fight, thank you very much. 

In contrast, Redmire practically looked like a country vicar.

Jack lit several candles and threw himself into the closer of two plush leather chairs. “Who cares what the walls hear? My staff keeps secrets very well. It’s my offspring who cannot grant a moment’s clemency.��

“You’re hiding from�� ten-year-olds?�� Redmire asked politely.

“I’m shielding innocent children from the mundane drudgery of balancing smuggling routes with cargo manifests in order to refine transportation timetables.�� Jack flapped a hand at the box in Redmire’s arms. “Is there brandy in there or not?��

“B�����Ի�� and champagne.�� Redmire set his pistol on the tea table next to a pair of empty wine glasses and knelt upon the Axminster carpet to pry open the wooden box. He handed two lovingly packed bottles to Jack, then settled in the chair opposite.

Jack grinned. “I was right?��

“You’re always right�� when it comes to people’s taste for illegal wine.�� Redmire crossed his boots atop the wooden box. “Although it required a wee bit of finesse. I reminded the distributors that our soldiers and the Prussians drank champagne from this very vineyard to celebrate Bonaparte’s defeat in April.��

“Did you do the bit about taxes?��

“I did.�� Redmire’s smile widened, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “‘Bypassing French export taxes’—and English import tax, but who’s counting?—‘means each sip is like defeating Boney anew.’��

“And it worked every �پ�����?��

��Every time.�� Redmire motioned to the bottles in Jack’s lap. “Don’t be churlish. Open it.��

“With pleasure.�� Jack placed the brandy on the floor and set about uncorking the bottle of Madame Clicquot’s legendary champagne. He filled Redmire’s glass first, then his own.

Closing his eyes in pleasure, Jack lifted his glass to his nose and inhaled. The piquant effervescence masked some of the subtle aroma, but the slightly mineral, fruity taste transported him at once to the Reims vineyards in the east of France, where the grapes for Veuve Clicquot went from tiny buds in the fields to racks of bottles on the riddling table where sediment was removed from the necks before shipping. 

“Are you playing your game?�� Redmire asked drolly.

“It’s not a game. It’s a�� daydream,�� Jack admitted. “And, yes. I was imagining what it would be like to own and manage a vineyard like Clicquot’s.��

“Rather than financing certain distribution channels from afar? A lot of work, I’d wager. Stick with your little village of perpetual Christmastide.�� Redmire pantomimed a chill. “I glimpsed a dozen parked sleighs as I crested the mountain.��

“Likely queued for annual maintenance at the le Duc smithy. Autumn comes early in Cressmouth, and so does winter. We’ll have snow before you know it, and those sleighs will be the only hacks worth hiring.��

Redmire shuddered. “I prefer the sea, if you please. Don’t you miss the days when we used to—��

The hidden panel leading to Jack’s office swung open, and a four-and-a-half foot tall replica of Jack himself burst through the door. Overlong dark brown hair, thickly lashed dark brown eyes, but high spots of color on his flushed cheeks instead of the mark of a sword.

“Frederick,�� said Jack with well-practiced patience, “I am in the midst of an important meeting.��

Sometimes, saying Frederick in a stern tone of voice was enough to stem the tide.

Not today.

“I’m trying to trundle hoops with the lads,�� Frederick burst out in wounded glory, “but Annie insists on trundling hers right where we’re racing ours, and she’s ruining everything!��

Redmire leaned over, one hand covering his mouth. “Last I recall, your Annie was a hoyden more than capable of keeping her own with the neighborhood lads.��

“That’s no doubt the problem,�� Jack murmured back. “I bet she’s winning.��

“It’s not fair!�� Frederick’s arms stiffened with indignation. “We’re twins and she’s taller and I told her to go and play with flowers but she said she’s tired of flowers and I said to go and trundle hoops with her own friends and she said my friends were her friends and I said they weren’t, that’s why they’re called my friends, and she said, ‘Piffle, one needn’t be friends with a lad to best him at hoops,�� and then she—��

“Frederick,�� Jack interrupted, keeping his tone calm and modulated. “I promise I will speak to your sister. After my meeting. In the meantime, you must try to get along, even if that means letting her trundle hoops with you.��

“But,�� Frederick spluttered, “but she doesn’t listen to me!��

“Women never do,�� Redmire said sagely. “Now, go on lad, your papa’s busy paying a pirate for smuggled goods.��

��Aargh.�� Frederick spun on muddy heels and stalked out the door.

“What is wrong with ��dz�?�� Jack hissed at Redmire in exasperation. “You can’t say �ٳ󲹳�.��

“What does he think we’re doing?��

“B�����첵�������Dz�?��

Redmire arched his brows at the tea table. “With pistols?��

“I don’t know how to play backgammon!”��

“It’s lovely,�� Redmire said. “You should try it.��

Jack leaned to one side to peer out the open doorway. “Frederick, the secret panel?��

A pregnant pause, then stomping boots, a huff of martyrdom, and a slam of the door.

“Thank you, my son.�� Jack refilled the wine glasses. “Where were we?��

“Champagne. Our orders have tripled, and we need new routes.�� Redmire dug a map out of the wooden box and shook out the folds. “This was our best harbor, but the government now has a blockade. What do you think if we…��

Jack might dream of owning a small vineyard one day, but his true forte lay in logistics. He compared Redmire’s map to several of his own, cross-checking each with coded journals containing details of each port, route, and shipment. Before they’d even drunk half the bubbly Veuve Clicquot, new passages had been routed, along with contingency plans in case additional blockades sprung up without warning.

“Magnificent.�� Redmire tucked the new maps into his greatcoat and handed Jack a scrap of parchment. “This is your slice after commissions are deducted. The deposits will be made across the usual channels.��

Jack’s chest lightened and he let out a slow whistle. “With this, I’ll finally be able to—��

The secret door bounced open and a coltish virago burst into the room. 

“See this?�� Annie jabbed a finger at three ragged rapeseed flowers caught in her tangled brown hair. “A moment ago, this was a crown of yellow flowers.��

“It looks like a bird’s nest,�� Redmire said helpfully. “An ugly one.��

“Exactly.�� Annie turned her scowl toward Jack and waited expectantly.

He sighed. “Do you need me to do the crown?��

“No.�� She stomped over to his chair, spun around, and dropped to her knees. “I need you to do my hair.��

Redmire choked on his champagne. “Never say you’re too miserly to hire a maid.��

“We have scores of maids,�� Annie informed him loftily. “But Papa can do it faster.��

Jack placed his glass of champagne on the tea table next to Redmire’s pistol and plucked the wilted flowers from Annie’s hair. When she’d left the house an hour ago, her unruly brown curls had been corralled into a thick plait. Now, she sported�� well, a bird’s nest. Redmire was right.

With nimble fingers, Jack loosened the tangles and set about putting things to rights. “It’s not kind of you to tease your brother.��

“He’s not vexed because I teased him,�� Annie grumbled. “He’s vexed because I beat him at his own game.��

“Everybody knows that. You don’t have to prove it all the time.�� Jack reached the end of the plait and looped it back to her nape to secure it with a ribbon. “Besides, is it even fun anymore if you win every �پ�����?��

“Yes,�� Annie and Redmire answered in unison.

Jack patted her shoulder to let her know the plait was done. “I’m not asking you to lose on purpose. I’m asking you to give him some time to be with his friends once in a while. You have many interests. I’m sure you can find something else to entertain you for an hour or two.��

She glanced at the tea tray. “Can I have a pistol?��

“No,�� Jack said firmly.

Annie sighed. “Not until I’m fifteen?��

“Knives at fifteen,�� he reminded her. “Pistols when I say so, which might be never.��

She scowled. “I can do what I want when I’m one-and-twenty.��

“God help us all.�� He motioned toward the door. “Find something to do besides tormenting your brother. We’ve almost finished our meeting. Afterward, Redmire will teach us all how to play backgammon.��

Annie brightened. “Maybe I’ll best Fred at that, too.��

She skipped from the room, closing the hidden panel on her way out.

Redmire swung a disbelieving glance toward Jack. “What is the point of a secret room if everyone knows about it?��

“The government doesn’t know about it,�� he pointed out. “It’s still a valid hiding spot.��

“For what?�� Redmire asked. “You don’t keep contraband in here. You keep it in your cellar with the rest of your enormous wine collection.��

“It’d be like finding a specific strand of hay in a haystack.�� Jack finished his glass of champagne. “Besides, the good stuff doesn’t stay long enough to become evidence.��

“Liar. With twins like yours, I’d wager it takes all day to finish a glass of wine. You need a wife.��

Jack crossed his arms. “I do not.��

“You are the very definition of a man in want of a wife. Wealthy, unmarried, in possession of two incorrigible brats—��

��Adorable �������ٲ�.��

“—a large home in need of a mistress—��

“I have a housekeeper.��

“—and perhaps a few more maids capable of plaiting hair—��

“My entire staff can plait hair, from the cook to the butler,�� Jack informed him imperiously. “I taught them myself.��

��Wife,�� Redmire repeated. “Get one.��

“I had one.�� Jack’s throat was suddenly too tight. “That’s how I ended up with twins. She’s gone. We’re not going through that again.��

He hadn’t married her so she could manage his household. He’d married her for love. The only reason he’d marry anyone.

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12 Dukes of Christmas #5: Dukes, Actually!

The Duke of Azureford isn’t the arrogant, aloof lord his peers perceive him to be. Yes, he’s awkward, but he has a plan to fix it. In order to woo a respectable lady, he must learn how to flirt. The completely inappropriate girl next door would make a perfect instructor, but a terrible duchess. So why can’t he walk away?

Incorrigible hoyden Miss Carole Quincy likes fast carriages, carom billiards, and the beautiful, buttoned-up Duke of Azureford. She’d be delighted to help him out of his shell and into her arms. Who cares if they’re just pretending to flirt? The heady, breath-taking, soul-consuming feeling inside her runaway heart surely can’t be love��

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!

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Get yours: | | | |

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

Dukes Actually!

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Spirits rising, Adam Farland, the sixth Duke of Azureford, returned his gaze to the view outside his carriage window. There went the smithy, which meant at any moment, they’d be passing Adam’s cottage�� Aha! There it was. Warm red brick, wide windows, a welcoming stone path to the front door.

Although there was just one road up the mountain to the castle, shops and cottages lined a half dozen narrow off-shoots. In no time at all, the cozy little homes vanished as the coach rolled to a stop before Marlow Castle’s imposing front doors.

“Shall I accompany you, Your Grace?��

“Stay with the coach, please.�� Adam leapt to the ground. “I’ll only be a moment.��

Inside was an immediate assault to the senses—in the pleasantest way possible. Crackling fires, smiling faces, rows of biscuits, the low roar of conversation spiked with laughter, the sweet scent of cinnamon and nutmeg in the air. He could do this. He just needed to find someone to explain his donation to.

The only other time he’d walked through these doors had been on his first visit, just before he purchased his cottage. The welcome in the great hall was as he remembered it, but the castle was enormous. Adam knew how to find the circulating library, and that was about it.

As he glanced around, he noticed a woman just as alone as he was. She sat at a small table in the far corner beneath a sign simply reading:

FORTUNES

No one queued up, or even looked in the fortune-teller’s direction. Adam’s stomach twisted in empathy. He �徱���’t believe in psychic nonsense, but he knew what it felt like to be alone in a crowd, unable to fit in.

Striking up a conversation with a turbaned fortune teller would be the perfect way to ease into being New Adam. Nothing hinged on the outcome. She would move on and he would never see her again. The meaningless exchange would be a forgettable, but important, first attempt at practicing his social skills.

Besides, how hard could it be? He’d give her a shilling, she’d give him some twaddle about luck crossing his path, and that would be that.

“No half-measures,�� he reminded himself. He was New Adam. This would be easy. He rolled back his shoulders and strode straight to her table.

Her turban slipped sideways as she glanced up from her glass ball.

“Sit.�� One long fingernail pointed at a bronze basin. “One bob for fortune.��

He sat.

She stared at him without comment.

He dropped a shilling in the bronze basin.

The wrinkled, gray-haired woman continued to stare without blinking.

He shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair. “Er�� aren’t you supposed to say something like ‘love and luck will find me, thanks to the moon?’��

“Dukes, actually. Thank them.��

She tapped a fingernail on the glass ball. It �徱���’t change.

Adam refrained from informing her that she was talking to a duke at this very moment. There was no point. She likely gave the same nonsensical fortune to everyone foolish enough to hand over a shilling.

She placed both hands on the glass ball and widened her eyes dramatically. “Follow the five golden rings. They lead to your heart.��

His brow furrowed. “What does that even mean?��

She covered the glass ball with a square of black silk. “It is up to you to find out.��

He couldn’t believe it. “I thought a fortune teller’s job was to tell fortunes.��

“Your job is to listen, which you are not doing,�� she scolded.

“Five golden rings. My heart. Dukes, actually,�� he parroted politely. “None of that makes sense.��

“Does anything make sense? You surround yourself with fictional companions because you are afraid to make real friends.��

He reeled back. “I’m not afraid! I—��

“You are comfortable before a podium because it is easier to speak to hundreds of your peers than to converse alone with just one person.��

“That’s not a ‘fortune,’�� he spluttered. “That’s my current life. I �徱���’t give you a shilling to tell me things I already know.��

“Didn’t ��dz�?�� She inspected her fingernails. “Tell me, why did you invite your pretty neighbor to your party and then do nothing but stare, because your tongue is useless as wet towel?��

He stared at her in disbelief. “Do I know ��dz�?��

She straightened her turban. “Have you been to the old country?��

“What country are you from?��

“This one. I was born in Essex.�� Her accent disappeared. “If you were in search of science, you should have attended the Royal Society of Gentlemen Geologists�� symposium.��

He blinked. ��Is there a Royal Society of Gentlemen Geologists symposium?��

“You want another fortune?�� She pointed at the brass basin. “Two bob.��

“What happened to one bob?��

“Economic instability.�� She tapped the basin. “Take that up with your committee when Parliament reconvenes.��

“How did you know I—��

“Madame Edna knows all.�� She rubbed her palms over the glass sphere. “You don’t wish to be seen as aloof. You are lonely. You seek the missing piece.��

He dropped coins into the basin. “Two bob more. Now, how do I do it?��

Madame Edna leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Share your balls.��

“Share my what?��

“And your table.�� She placed the glass sphere inside a wooden box and removed her turban. “The rest will become clear.��

“Where are you going?�� He placed his hands on the table. “I thought you were going to tell my fortune.��

“I did.�� She tugged down her sign. “The rest is up to you.��

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| | | |

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

Dukes Actually!

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Could it truly be considered theft, if the object Miss Carole Quincy intended to filch from the Duke of Azureford’s summer cottage had belonged to her all along?

Carole sat on the edge of her fourposter bed to tug off her worn leather slippers. It was a brisk, late spring day with no clouds in sight, but in a mountaintop village nicknamed Christmas, ’twas best not to venture out-of-doors without sturdy boots.

Not that she was going far. Last summer, the Duke of Azureford had purchased the adjoining property. He’d be her next-door neighbor�� if he were here. She was glad he wasn’t. Dark tousled hair and deep brown eyes were all well and good on most occasions, but she needed to be in and out without anybody paying too much attention. She reached for a boot and yanked on the laces.

She would have retrieved her sketchbook by now, but until recently, the duke’s normally vacant cottage had been housing a recovering soldier. The soldier was gone, the house was empty, the neighbors were all indoors enjoying afternoon tea�� There wouldn’t be a better time, but she had to act quickly.

No one knew about the sketchbook. It was the most private thing she owned. It wasn’t a collection of bad poetry or “Carole + His Grace�� curlicue doodles, but something even closer to her heart:

Architecture.

Painstakingly precise recreations of her house, her street, the castle upon the hill�� reimagined to reflect the world she really wished she lived in. Happy families gathered about a supper table. The assembly rooms decorated not for lackluster “marriage mart�� dances, but as a place where Carole and her friends could drink brandy and play billiards and wager their future trousseau on the turn of a card.

How she wished she could draw herself into a place where she could be herself without judgment! As talented as Carole was with architectural sketches, she was positively dreadful at capturing realistic likenesses. Instead, she copied figures from fashion plates as best she could, and outfitted each elegant lady with additional props, like flying rapiers or frothy tankards of ale.

Men enjoyed their gentlemen’s clubs. Why shouldn’t women enjoy equally hedonistic ladies�� clubs?

“Yes, yes, because of the scandal,�� Carole muttered as she finished tying her second boot.

Drawing such forbidden activities was not the same as actually performing them, but try telling that to the gleefully shocked gossips if a single page of that sketchbook ever came to light. The moment Carole had it back in her possession, that sketchbook was never leaving her bedchamber again.

Boots on, she hopped off the edge of her bed and strode to her dressing table.

Now where were those earrings? She shoved aside a tin of pencils and a stack of tomes on geometry and mathematics until she found the little pouch she’d been saving for just this occasion.

Two delicate gold-and-citrine earrings. She hadn’t worn them in months—not since the day of the party. How could she, when she planned to say she’d lost one of the pair in the Duke of Azureford’s cottage? When his butler let her in to search, she would slip her missing sketchbook back into her reticule, secure the blasted thing with a dozen sturdy knots, “find�� her lost earring, and be on her way.

All she had to do was get inside.

After dropping one earring into her empty reticule, Carole flung open her bedchamber door and stepped into the corridor.

She almost made it to the front door before her elderly lady’s maid inserted herself between Carole and the door.

“Where are you going? Would you like me to plait your hair?��

Judith had been Carole’s companion since birth. For as long as Carole could remember, the grandmotherly woman’s favorite activity had always been braiding hair. Her own silver curls were fashioned into a crown of looping plaits.

“No need,�� Carole assured her. “It’s not a social call. I’m just going to pop over to the Duke of Azureford’s cottage for a quick moment in order to—��

��Azureford,�� Judith breathed, with the sort of giddy sigh some women used to say Beau Brummel. “I’m coming with you.��

“He’s not there. I don’t need a chaperone.��

More importantly, why was her sixty-year-old maid suddenly breathless over a duke half her age? Judith hadn’t shown any interest in Azureford when he had first purchased the cottage. She hadn’t even asked to come along as companion when His Grace had hosted his first and only soirée.

“Please?�� Judith batted her bright blue eyes.

Something was clearly afoot, but Carole did not have time to waste ferreting out answers to mysteries. She had a sketchbook to recover.

“Fine.�� She shooed Judith out of the way in order to open the door. “We won’t be gone five minutes. It’s just a quick errand.��

Carole let out a breath when she finally stepped out of her doorway and into the afternoon sun. The welcome warmth on her face perfectly complemented the scent of springtime as a cool breeze rustled the trees. It was a gorgeous day. No wonder the neighborhood children were out in the streets kicking balls and trundling hoops.

She waved at the children, but hurried down her walk without stopping to chat or play. Once her sketchbook was safely under lock and key, then she could take advantage of the fine weather. As soon as she reached the street, she quickly turned toward the duke’s cottage.

Before he had come to town, she’d heard the same rumors as everyone else: His Grace was cold, aloof, judgmental—and handsome as sin.

She hadn’t paid much attention to the gossips, but when she happened to spy the duke alighting from his stately coach�� good heavens, had she paid attention! Dark hair, dark eyes, dark lashes, strong jaw, broad shoulders, impeccable everything. The entire village had skipped a collective heartbeat.

Not that Carole would indulge such twaddle. Whatever her lady’s maid might dream, Carole was no future duchess. In large part because she did not plan to marry�� and in equally large part because the Duke of Azureford was patently uninterested. He had thrown precisely one party and �徱���’t speak to Carole the entire time.

His obliviousness to her presence hadn’t stopped her from surreptitiously gazing at him. From her window, from their adjoining gardens, from across his mahogany supper table. Carole sighed. Dreaming about how different her life might have been was the whole reason she’d snuck off to sketch in her book in the first place. She hated feeling invisible.

As she was returning from the retiring room, someone bumped into her and she dropped her reticule. Carole had been the only one who saw her sketchbook fly out to skid across the ridiculously polished floor and into Azureford’s library.

Before she could recover it, Swinton the helpful butler “returned�� the fallen volume to the appropriately color-coded section of the duke’s library shelves. Carole clenched her teeth as she turned up the duke’s front path. Why had his butler even been away from his post? She should’ve known right then that retrieving her book wouldn’t be easy.

At first it had seemed like a little luck was on her side. Azureford was leaving the next morning, thereby making it unlikely for him to stumble across her sketches. Particularly the brand new one of his front drawing room.

She couldn’t dart into the library and retrieve her book in front of so many witnesses without making it look like she was nicking one of the duke’s books in the middle of a party. Nor could she explain page after page of town landmarks populated by ale-swilling, cheroot-smoking ladies with snuffboxes and fashionable bonnets.

The only choice was to come back for it later. Thanks to the library’s helpful color-coding, she knew exactly which shelf housed her sketchbook. She could have it tucked in her reticule in sixty seconds.

If only she could get inside.

Carole motioned for Judith to stand behind her, then gave a sharp rap with the pristine brass knocker.

The door immediately opened to reveal an older gentleman with crafty blue eyes and a tuft of white hair. Azureford’s butler, Swinton.

“Good afternoon,�� she began brightly. “I’ve come to—��

Judith elbowed her way up onto the front step with almost enough force to send Carole flying into the hedges.

Swinton �徱���’t blink.

Carole sent her lady’s maid a stern glare.

Judith made no response. Her attention was completely focused on the butler.

Carole rolled back her shoulders and tried again. “I may have lost an earring in the duke’s library during his soiree. Might I take a quick peek to see if I can find it?��

Swinton’s blue gaze slid from Judith to Carole. “His Grace’s party did not take place in the library.��

True. Carole swallowed hard. Blast it.

“Perhaps it wasn’t the library,�� she said quickly. “Perhaps it was near the library. Perhaps—��

“Perhaps you believe His Grace’s household staff to be so incompetent in their posts that a lost earring would remain untouched upon the floor month after month?�� Swinton inquired politely.

Carole swallowed. “I…��

…could not retrieve my sketchbook while the duke or his friend were occupying the cottage because I cannot risk witnesses.

“Miss Quincy abhors jewelry,�� Judith giggled. Actually giggled. “Such a bear when it comes to dressing up at all. I cannot let her gad about town with one earring, can I? Surely a man like you wouldn’t wish such mortification on a girl like me.��

What in the completely-frozen-over hell was that about? Carole turned to her lady’s maid in disbelief. Judith could not possibly expect a breathy little voice and schoolgirl giggles would make the duke’s intractable butler��

“Very well,�� Swinton said briskly. “Miss Quincy has five minutes.��

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Wicked Dukes Club #1: One Night to Remember!

Meet the unforgettable men of London’s most notorious tavern, The Wicked Duke. Seductively handsome, with charm and wit to spare, one night with these rakes and rogues will never be enough��

Notorious whip Giles Langford is surprised to learn his blacksmith is a girl, shocked to realize she’s the out-of-his-league sister of a duke, and horrified to discover he’s fallen in love with the impossible-to-tame woman anyway. With no money and no title, Giles has nothing to offer but his heart��

Felicity Sutton knows poverty firsthand, and she’s never going back. She might miss the smithy, but not the relentless desperation of no home and an empty belly. Of course she’ll accept the stability of a wealthy ton suitor. As for the penniless daredevil she loves, well�� At least they’ll have one night to remember.

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