The Third Duke's the Charm

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE THIRD DUKE’S THE CHARM

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / August 2012

Excerpt from
Ruined by Moonlight
copyright © 2012 by Katherine Smith.

Excerpt from
A Most Improper Rumor
copyright © 2013 by Katherine Smith.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-54823-3

INTERMIX

InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Chapter O
ne

Vivian Lacrosse rose to her feet and ineffectually brushed at the dirt on her skirts, only making the situation worse. Her smile was rueful. “I suppose I should go change.”

“I will send up your maid at once.” White, as usual, was immaculate, not a single graying hair out of place, his expression neutral. If he disapproved of the daughter of a baronet digging through a flower bed, it didn’t show in his austere features. He was used to her eccentric habits. “Your father requests you join him in the formal drawing room, my lady. I will inform him you will be there shortly.”

The drawing room? That was a bit of a surprise. Not the summons—she’d known that was coming, but the location. Usually when the Duke of Sanford called on her father, they disappeared into his study to drink brandy and smoke tobacco, no formality involved. She’d expected a conference between the two of them, and then later an interview to inform her of the impending scandal.

She didn’t follow the butler into the house immediately, but stood there, taking in a deep breath. It was a beautiful day, cloudless, the arch of azure sky above, perfection. The gardens were showing promise in the way she loved: the roses sporting tiny green leaves, the rhododendrons glossy with tiny buds beginning to appear, and the lilacs in bloom, the branches laden with fragrant delicate blossoms. Birds twittered in the background.

It had been much easier to distract herself by doing a little weeding than to sit in her room and await the storm she knew was about to break in the wake of Charles’s impetuous actions. Impetuous described her fiancé very well.

Perhaps they thought it would be only proper to give the bad news to her in a more refined setting, though she hadn’t really counted on having to face the duke. She assumed her father would be informed of the disastrous event, and he, in turn, would inform her.

“No use for it,” she muttered out loud and squared her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, in an ivory muslin day dress trimmed with pale green ribbon, her hair simply twisted into a chignon, hands meticulously washed of all garden soil, she stood in the doorway momentarily arrested as the men in the drawing room rose politely to their feet at her appearance. Not two, but
three
men. To say she was surprised was an understatement.

This made it all worse, she thought morosely, hoping her features were schooled to mild curiosity and showed nothing else. She dropped into a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. My lord Marquess.”

“Vivian.” The duke was an older version of his sons, tall, chestnut-haired but with traces of silver at his temples, his features aristocratic and classically handsome, though he lacked Charles’s joie de vivre approach to life, and had none of his oldest son Lucien’s polished reserve.

What is Charles’s older brother doing here
?

“Please, my dear, sit down.” Vivian’s father gestured at a silk-covered chair.

She obediently sank into it, finding her heart beating a little fast. There was no doubt about it; Charles had put her in one devil of a position.

The duke and her father sat down. Lucien Caverleigh, Marquess of Stockton, chose to remain standing, watching her from his pose near the fireplace, one shoulder negligently propped against the Italian marble mantel, a glass of claret in one long-fingered hand. He was dressed with careless elegance in a dark coat fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders, a sapphire waistcoat that exactly matched the unusual color of his eyes, buff breeches, and polished Hessians. She briefly glanced at him, still wondering why he was there, when the corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction in an ironic half smile.

Lucien’s presence really didn’t help matters. The fewer people there were to see her reaction the better—and certainly not
him
.

Lucien had always been an enigma. In his early thirties, he was a decade older than Vivian, serious almost to a fault in contrast with Charles’s lighthearted approach to life. The role of ducal heir suited him well, but he was entirely too discerning. When they were young, she and Charles had rarely gotten away with an escapade that he didn’t seem know about. Would she be able to slide this past him? Vivian wondered. The blasted man could read minds.
How should she play this?

A wave of panic rose and she squelched it as quickly as possible. She’d already decided to act as if she knew nothing. It would save at least a lecture about her part in the drama, but she wasn’t at all sure she could do it convincingly, and that was before Lucien appeared at the scene of the crime, as it were.

How deuced awkward.

“We have a bit of a situation, I’m afraid.” Her father was the antithesis of the duke in appearance. His fair hair was thinning back from his forehead, he had the green eyes Vivian had inherited, and he usually wore spectacles though he was constantly taking them on and off and misplacing them. But he and the duke had the same disposition as far as she could tell, which might be why they got on so well. Self-absorbed, they were only interested in their obsession with botany and travels. They’d been friends as long as she could remember, which was the problem—her problem—especially at the moment. Recently they had abandoned their hobby long enough to conceive a plan of marrying their children off to each other.

She waited, her gaze innocently inquiring, or so she hoped.

The duke himself told her with a slight, apologetic cough, “I’m afraid Charles has eloped.”

It was silent except for the tick of the case clock in the corner of the beautiful room. Vivian wasn’t sure she was a good enough actress to properly gasp and act distraught with three men observing the performance and trying to gauge her level of distress. After all, she’d supposedly just learned that her fiancé had deserted her for someone else. So she merely looked down at her clasped hands and mumbled, “I . . . see.”

No doubt not an applause-provoking performance, but adequate, she hoped.

“I don’t,” the duke muttered. “The irresponsible fool.”

“We are all grateful your engagement announcement has not yet been formally put in the paper, nor have the invitations to the upcoming celebration been sent. At least we will be spared that awkwardness.” Her father spoke with pragmatic briskness, probably grateful she hadn’t broken down in tears at the news.

Little did he know she had helped Charles arrange not only his hasty trip to Scotland, but also encouraged his secret courtship of another woman. After all, she’d hardly be a friend if she didn’t want to see him happy. And she would hardly be a woman if she didn’t have the same dream for herself.

“Naturally, I apologize for my son’s actions and any pain or embarrassment he will cause you, my dear Vivian.” The duke also looked relieved she wasn’t having a fit of hysterics.

Yes, it would be a trifle humiliating to be the abandoned would-be bride, but she’d come to terms with the idea weeks ago, when she first realized Charles had a penchant for the young, pretty Miss Clifton. At the best, the daughter of a vicar was highly unsuitable on a social level for the son of a duke, and there was little doubt his father would never approve of her. Vivian had been friends with Charles ever since she could remember and she understood his dilemma.

Their recent engagement had not been by choice for either of them. It had forced his hand, and truthfully, Vivian had been there to encourage him to follow his heart. Perhaps for the first time in his life Charles had been serious about something. When he’d come to her and confessed his infatuation with Miss Clifton, he’d also declared he knew the romance was hopeless and would go through with their arranged marriage.

That
was hardly what she wanted. Vivian hadn’t been all that enthused about the marriage anyway, but Charles was a known quantity and at least they knew each other well. After four unsuccessful seasons, she was just grateful not to have to endure another excruciating ball or even worse, the courtship of men who were willing to overlook her unfashionable reputation as an eccentric bluestocking because of her dowry or her appearance.

But . . . marriage to a man in love with someone else? No. For that matter, she wasn’t in love with Charles either. She
loved
him, but only because they’d been friends since childhood. His unexpected infatuation with the vicar’s daughter offered a way out of an arrangement that had never been her choice in the first place. Being a spinster—she was, after all, twenty-two—and then jilted in the eyes of society wasn’t all that pleasant of a notion, but compared to a lifetime with someone who wanted someone else . . . she declined that dubious honor. So it seemed the best course to suggest he just endure his father’s wrath and elope.

It was all quite like a romantic novel in some ways, but unfortunately her character was that of the unwanted fiancée. Then again, if she was happier it had turned out this way, so be it.

“There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace.” She offered the duke a tremulous smile that wasn’t at all an act, for if her mother ever found out she had helped Charles and Louisa Clifton clandestinely meet, there would be a hair-raising scene she preferred to avoid and she might get packed back off to London after all. “I have known Charles all my life. He can be a bit impulsive now and then.”

“I’m glad you are being sensible about this, Vivian.” Her father looked at her with warm approval, which was a bit surprising under the circumstances. Her mother had been delighted—beyond delighted, actually—with the betrothal and would be bitterly disappointed with this setback.

Then it struck her. Considering this thwarted marriage was something both their families had wanted, no one seemed as upset as she expected. In fact, the atmosphere of the room was odd. And Lucien hadn’t yet said a word; he just stood there sipping his wine with an enigmatic expression on his handsome face.

“Nor, thanks to Lord Stockton, is it a disaster either,” her father went on, almost sounding cheerful. “He has offered a perfect solution to this small dilemma.”

So now it was small? She anticipated a far more volatile reaction from everyone.

“He has?” she said faintly, wondering what on earth that could be. Surely Charles had too much of a head start to be stopped now.

Her father actually smiled. “Indeed, he has offered for you himself.”

***

The last he knew, despite his reputation as a reclusive and dull ducal heir, he was still considered one of the most eligible bachelors of the
haut ton
. After all, Lucien Caverleigh mused, he had a fortune, a title, and was going to inherit a dukedom, and his family lineage was impeccable. Apparently Vivian wasn’t impressed with titles or wealth, he thought in wry amusement, taking in the stunned expression on the lovely face of the young woman sitting only a few feet away. Her reaction to her father’s revelation was not all that flattering. She looked, in short, appalled.

“What?” She stared at her father, her slender shoulders rigid, her long-lashed eyes an unusual green to complement to her vivid coloring. Her hands, which had been clasped primly in her lap since she’d sat down, tightened together until her knuckles went white. In her pale gown, her glossy dark hair coiled simply at her nape, she no longer resembled the gawky child he remembered, but had blossomed into an unconventional beauty, her delicate features and shapely form enough to capture any man’s eye.

It had certainly captured his. This was a gamble. So far, before her engagement to Charles, she’d declined to accept every single offer for her hand. For someone who normally disdained gossip, when it came to the delectable Miss Lacrosse, he paid attention and he’d made note of each refusal.

Was he about to be one of those dismissed?

Her father said calmly, “He wishes to marry you.”

“No.” She shook her head. Vehemently, with a slightly panicked look on her face.

No
? Not exactly the reaction Lucien hoped for, but then again, he wasn’t sure just what he expected from this moment.

“The marquess understands the importance of family obligation.”

What the marquess understood was the singularity of her unique appeal. Lucien never had any use for superficial beauties, lighthearted flirtations, and meaningless assignations. Vivian wasn’t superficial, flirtatious, nor would she ever consider a meaningless relationship.

She swallowed hard enough that he, who was paying very close attention, could see the muscles ripple in her slender throat. After a moment, she stammered, “No. Yes, I . . . I . . . am . . . sure . . . he does value family obligation. I meant no, he should not feel the need to offer simply because Charles has . . . run off. I am two and twenty, not a weeping young miss. There
is
no obligation.”

But yet, here I am, Lucien thought, his gaze focused on the graceful line of her neck, the hint of swelling ivory flesh at her bodice, the way her feathery lashes threw soft shadows on her cheekbones. He understood full well why she hadn’t yet married, but paradoxically didn’t understand at all. Yes, she was interested in some very unladylike pursuits of an intellectual nature, but physically she was very appealing. Not in a conventional way, true, but beauty was not necessarily defined by symmetry of features or the color of a woman’s hair. In Vivian’s case, it was an inherent femininity despite her unorthodox hobbies.

“I beg to differ.” Lucien’s father’s voice was brittle. It wasn’t a secret that Charles’s defection was not just a betrayal but a source of personal embarrassment. “My youngest son rarely displays responsible behavior, but at least my oldest has a sense of honor.”

He was not exactly a saint either and there had been quite a number of women in his past, but he was more discreet by nature than Charles ever dreamed of being, not to mention being a ducal heir inspired a certain level of caution when it came to the opposite sex.

Maybe that was part of Vivian’s appeal. She would never marry his title or his fortune. Actually, he thought wryly, she might not marry him at all the way it stood at the moment.

Vivian seemed at a loss more than ever and perhaps it was time to come to her rescue and employ a little persuasion. He’d stayed quiet long enough. He drawled in a detached voice, “Is it possible Vivian and I could discuss this alone?”

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