All duke and bothered, p.1
All Duke and Bothered, page 1
ALL DUKE AND BOTHERED
DUKES AND SECRETS
BOOK ONE
MARIAH STONE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
© 2023 Mariah Stone. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Qamber Designs and Media
Editing by Beth Attwood
Proofreading by Laura La Tulipa
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, contact the publisher at http://mariahstone.com
CONTENTS
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
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CALLED BY A PIRATE SERIES (TIME TRAVEL):
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A CHRISTMAS REGENCY ROMANCE:
Her Christmas Prince
1
London, 1813
“The first Almack’s ball of the Season,” declared Miss Penelope Beckett’s father as they entered the grand ballroom together. “Aren’t you glad your old papa managed to get you the voucher?”
Penelope clutched her skirts, her hands sweaty inside her elbow-length gloves. “Indeed, Papa,” she said, striving to keep her tone even. “The most exclusive ball in London.”
The expansive room bustled with a crowd of hundreds of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. Ladies’ feathered hair accessories swayed as they moved, while the light from countless candles and two-tiered crystal chandeliers shimmered on the dark glass panes of six round-arched windows. Pale blue swagged draperies framed the windows beneath elegant, scrolled pelmet heads.
The long walls featured pale blue bays separated by pink marble columns adorned with scroll-like spiral ornaments. Some bays displayed Roman-style sculptures of striking half-naked men. Penelope longed for a pen and paper to sketch them. Others featured rococo mirrors, creating the illusion of an even grander space. Friezes, festoons, and paterae—shallow dishes used in ancient Rome—decorated sections of the walls.
The twelve Almack’s balls held each Season were not only the most exclusive, but also the most significant events in an unmarried lady’s quest for a husband. However, Penelope had a different goal in mind.
She fidgeted with her earlobe, attempting to calm her nerves. After three unsuccessful Seasons, she had undoubtedly been cast aside as a spinster, unfashionable and unwanted. A different path lay before her. The Duchess of Ashton, London’s most ardent patroness of female artists, would be present. An introduction to the duchess might afford Penelope the opportunity to showcase her art and perhaps embark on her career as an artist. Who needed a husband for that?
Beside her stood her cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett, who observed everything with the same wide-eyed fascination as Penelope. Alexandria was a beautiful young woman with sweet, well-defined features, her hair styled in small curls. She looked striking in her pale lilac ball gown.
“Yes, I am glad to be here, Papa,” Penelope said as they walked deeper into the ballroom. Her father remained oblivious to the true reason for her enthusiasm. Her eyes scanned the guests, searching for a lady in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes, whom she had occasionally glimpsed at other social gatherings, but to whom she had never been formally introduced.
A band played an English country dance tune from the musicians’ gallery above. The room was full of humming conversation and the mingled scents of wine, perfume, and perspiration.
“Though, how did you manage to obtain the voucher?” Penelope added. “And why now, when I’ve been out for three Seasons already?”
Despite her being considered a spinster, he must still be thinking of marrying her off.
Her father, a short, paunchy man in his fifties, pursed his lips, causing wrinkles to form on his cheeks. He had lost some of his handsomeness since her mother’s passing. Perhaps it was due to his reddened, puffy face, a consequence of excessive port and brandy consumption, as well as his sleepless nights spent away from home. His pale blue eyes with yellowish whites narrowed at her. His powdered wig, a fashion from the previous century, quivered as it always did when he became angry.
“Aren’t you grateful that I managed to get you in at all?” he said. “I daresay it took quite a few favors. But I did it.”
Penelope’s chest tightened. How she wished Mama were still alive. Papa had always been a better man with her around. Since Mama’s passing, it seemed as though Papa barely acknowledged Penelope’s existence. He had forbidden her from pursuing art some time ago, insisting that a woman’s duty was to raise children, nothing more. However, his frequent absences allowed her to continue painting and drawing against his wishes.
“Where’s your dance card?” he asked. “I see the Viscount of Bridgemere approaching.”
A sinking feeling settled in Penelope’s stomach. Not this again, she pleaded silently. If Papa had gone to such lengths to bring her to Almack’s, he must be truly determined to find her a match. Yet, chances were that her future husband, like most men of the time, would share Papa’s opinion and forbid her from seriously pursuing art.
A tall man with a round belly and narrow shoulders greeted them. As a well-bred lady, Penelope flashed a bright smile—one she often wore at these balls, leaving her face feeling wooden by the end of the evening. She was her mother’s daughter, after all, and she wouldn’t embarrass her papa or tarnish the family name.
“Bridgemere,” said Papa, his face adopting a broad smile that Penelope hardly ever saw. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Penelope Beckett, and my niece, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”
Bridgemere looked her over from head to toe with his large, wide-set eyes and nodded. The strange glossiness of his eyes made her want to shudder. “Miss Beckett, Miss Beckett,” he acknowledged Alex with a slight nod. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He turned to Papa. “Lord Beckett, your daughter is, as they say, a true beauty.”
Penelope shot Alex a brief, puzzled glance, and her cousin widened her eyes in response. As they say? Hadn’t Penelope been dismissed by the ton as an unfashionable, unsuccessful bride?
Confused but wanting to be polite, she broadened her smile until the corners of her mouth ached. “How do you find the ball, Viscount Bridgemere?” she asked.
“I daresay I’ve had the privilege of attending better ones,” he replied, his gaze drifting elsewhere. “The bread slices are too thin and the butter too thick for my liking. And dry cake always gives me heartburn.”
His voice was slow and monotonous, and Penelope’s jaw tightened as she suppressed a yawn. She glanced at Alex again, who subtly raised her eyebrows and hid a smile.
“Quite,” agreed Penelope. “I do hope you feel better.” Struggling to find a topic of conversation, she suggested, “Perhaps some weak tea might help.”
“Perhaps,” he said, looking her over once more as she maintained her bright smile. “My, my, you have the most charming smile, Miss Beckett. May I have the honor of the next dance?”
Penelope opened her mouth, hoping to quickly think of a reason to refuse him, but moments passed, and she found none. “Of course, I would be delighted.”
After that, they mostly stood in silence. Viscount Bridgemere, for some reason, seemed unwilling to leave her side. More men approached her, encouraged by Papa. Within ten minutes, she had three dances filled. As she looked through the ballroom for some excuse to leave his side, she froze.
Only ten feet away, the Duchess of Ashton talked to the Duchess of Grandhampton, a wonderfully pleasant lady. She was the grandmother of Spencer, the deceased Duke of Grandhampton, one of the best friends she had had in the ton.
Spencer…the thought of the wonderfully kind man was a heavy sadness weighing in her chest. The news of his death had reached her last September, and she couldn’t believe her ears. She missed her conversations with the duke. They had similar tastes in art, and he encouraged her greatly to pursue her goal. He was the only one she had confided in about her ambition, and he’d supported her. It had seemed as if they could talk about anything. He’d told her how admirable her independent views were, that a woman didn’t need to get married, and that he thought a woman should enjoy the same privileges as a man.
Of course, she knew he’d never been interested in her beyond that. He was a known rake, and the women he’d pursued were much more experienced than she. But Papa didn’t like her talking to and spending time with him. He had lied at least twice when the duke had come calling on her, telling him she wasn’t at home.
The duke had introduced his grandmama to her, and if only she had a chance to free herself from the circle of men that now surrounded her like flies, she could take those ten steps and greet her. The Duchess of Grandhampton would surely introduce her to the Duchess of Ashton.
She was forced to dance the three dances she had promised. As she danced, she noticed that almost every man stared at her—old and young. Talking to each other. Eyes glistening with something. Staring at her chest, at her legs moving under her ball gown as she danced.
What had happened? During the previous two Seasons, she had done her best to avoid any romantic connections because she was afraid a husband would forbid her from painting like her papa did. How could she have turned from one of the most insignificant young ladies on the marriage mart to the very center of attention?
Finally, her last dance ended. Thanking her partner, she applauded the band of musicians while scanning the guests for any sight of the Duchess of Grandhampton.
Alex came to join her. “How was it?” she asked softly, leaning close.
Before Penelope could answer, the applause died and every person in the ballroom stilled, staring towards the doors.
The crowd separated in front of a man like the sea before Moses, and a shiver went through Penelope. He was tall, and so handsome it was hard to look at him. Hair as dark as Spencer’s, cut in a fashionable, windblown style with short sideburns. He had chiseled features, a square jaw, and a straight nose. Under a high forehead, strong brows swept low over beautiful deep-set onyx eyes with long, curly eyelashes that any lady would die for. His mouth was straight and wide, with full lips and a prominent chin.
The hostesses, Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, and Countess Lieven, the patronesses of Almack’s, rushed towards him.
“The new Duke of Grandhampton,” whispered Alex as she and Penelope watched the three ladies greet and bustle about the duke. “The richest man in England. The biggest rake.”
Not as terrible as his older brother was. Spencer had told her about his brother Preston. And she’d seen him at balls. Seaton was a highly respected name, a noble line dating back to the War of the Roses. Arrogant and gorgeous, all three brothers had notorious reputations. Although everyone wanted their daughter to marry into a duke’s family, these men were considered more likely to ruin daughters than marry them.
And yet, at the back of their minds, every matchmaking mama no doubt dreamed of her daughter taming one of the rakes and becoming the wife a duke.
“I know,” said Penelope, her heart drumming in her ears so loudly she could hardly hear her own voice.
He barely acknowledged the women around him, looking over the crowd and making his way through the people.
When his eyes landed on Penelope, her heart trembled in her chest like a rabbit before a cobra. She’d always found him mysterious, brooding, and intimidating. It seemed he held a deep dislike for her. Whenever their gazes met, she felt as though the flames of his hatred were burning her to cinders. Though she could not understand why he despised her so.
As the duke approached her, Papa appeared next to her as though out of thin air. People threw odd glances at the duke and at Penelope, making unease crawl down her spine.
“Lord Beckett,” said the duke when he stood in front of her papa.
“Your Grace,” said Papa in a strange crackling voice. His foot tapped nervously against the floor, one knee shaking. He seemed to avoid looking straight into the duke’s eyes. Penelope could understand why. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
The duke was at least a head taller than her, looming over her like a dark tower. “Hm” was the duke’s reply, and then his black eyes found her again.
There it was—the strange, cold fury at the depths of his eyes. She felt like she needed to run away from him but stood transfixed. The vast, glistening, sparkling ballroom suddenly seemed like a shrinking cage around her, and it became difficult to breathe.
“Would you not introduce me to the two young ladies, Lord Beckett?” he said, still trapping her with his gaze.
Papa’s jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth.
“My daughter, Miss Penelope Beckett. My niece, Miss Alexandria Beckett. Duke of Grandhampton.” Papa took her by the elbow and tugged. “Forgive me, Duke, I have to introduce my daughter to—”
But the duke interrupted. “May I have the honor of your next dance, Miss Beckett?”
Penelope swallowed. Every instinct screamed for her to run. But if she said no to him, she’d have to say no to everyone else. And she’d offend him. She couldn’t offend Spencer’s brother.
Sadness over Spencer’s absence was like the stab of a needle deep in her heart.
It would be fine. She’d just get through the dance, and then it would be over. Then she’d return to her mission: to try to talk to the Duchess of Ashton.
And so, once again, she put her social smile back on. “I should be delighted.”
He nodded and finally tore his gaze away from her. “Ah, Grandmama,” he said, and for the first time since he’d come inside, his gaze warmed. “You’re here.”
“I am,” said the Duchess of Grandhampton, coming to stand by their side. Her silvery-gray hair was done in an old-fashioned, high updo with many curls. She was dressed in a violet sack-back gown and supported herself with a walking stick. She had the gracefully aging face of a woman who had been beautiful when she was young. “Miss Beckett, you look lovely tonight. Ah, this is my old friend, the Duchess of Ashton.”
Penelope’s head swam as she stared into the kind, sad, chocolate-brown eyes of the duchess. She was stunning in her fashionable scarlet gown with a high waist and puffed sleeves, which complemented her flawless complexion.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess,” Penelope breathed out. “This is my father, Lord Beckett, and my cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”
