Dating The Duke, page 1
part #1 of Twickenham Regency Romance Series
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Jen’s other published books
Back To His Lordship
Regency Time Travel
The Nobleman’s Daughter
Two lovers in disguise
Scarlet
The Pimpernel retold
A Lady’s Maid
Can she love again?
Spun of Gold
Rumplestilskin Retold
Dating the Duke
Time Travel: Regency man in NYC
Charmed by His Lordship
The antics of a fake friendship
Tabitha’s Folly
Four over protective Brothers
To read Damen’s Secret
The Villain’s Romance
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Dating the Duke
Jen Geigle Johnson
Contents
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
Epilogue
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
1
Jane Sullivan stretched her arms up over her head, the words, ‘Find your Darcy’ tweaked in a wonky distorted fold across her chest. She pulled her T-shirt tight again, tucking the ends into her jeans.
Abby, the girl at her neighboring cubicle, peeked over the top. “Hurry! Bring up the next one.” She checked to make sure their supervisor wasn’t watching and then motioned that Jane move faster.
Jane laughed and clicked on The Twickenham Regency Reenactment House Party.
Male Guests.
Across her screen scrolled one man in Regency breeches after another, this year’s guests. Ever since she’d read Austenland by Shannon Hale, she’d been dreaming of this particular vacation. Two weeks, pretending to live in Regency England, a reenactment even her active imagination couldn’t dream up better than it sounded. Her Jane Austen heart danced a quadrille at the thought. She recognized the rhythm. She’d spent hours learning all the dances from the time period.
Jane was named after Miss Austen, well versed in all her books, her journals, her life story, her home; Jane Austen’s very thoughts, were they available, would have been memorized. Jane Sullivan loved her Jane Austen. She owned a pair of Colin Firth earrings, frequently asked herself, “What would Jane say?” and was determined--forced herself--to like tea. She just couldn’t do the watered down variety. Every cup had to have three tea bags or it had no kick. She didn’t know how anyone could handle it any other way. Surely no one liked hot water with a mild taste of dirt. Tea must taste like something.
She reached for her certificate on the wall of her cubicle, the one listing her Masters in British History. Jane Sullivan was now a touted expert on Jane Austen. People sought her opinion about all things Jane, and she happily obliged them. In fact, she was well into her doctorate work and had outlined a thesis, of course, Jane Austen related.
She clicked on the next set of men who would be in attendance.
The ladies from the office crowded around her cubicle. “OOH… MMM… Hmm. He’s your guy.”
“No, did you see that last one? The red head has my vote.”
“Are these the men who will be there for sure or just hired models to advertise the place?” The entire office of twelve simmered with jealousy. They would. Because they all worked at the Jane Austen Center for Historical Studies, New York office. But no one was as dedicated to the subject as Jane Sullivan.
“Yes, that’s what the site says, and the women too. Everyone you see here is an attendee, this year.” Jane clicked on the next man and even she felt her breathing pick up. She had been saving for a year and had purchased the tickets months ago. Then the center had offered to sponsor some of the trip if she used the time for research.
They would all live on an estate in England and participate in an authentic house party, just like they used to hold in the nineteenth century. The site boasted a team of regular actors. They were the staff, the butler, the servants and occasionally a participant to even out numbers. But the vacation asked for singles only and was an effective matchmaking event. Each guest posted their picture online in historical clothing, and they all communicated with each other with fake names and titles ahead of time. What kind of man would agree to such a vacation? Willingly go? She wanted that kind of man.
She clicked on the newest attendee to post a picture of himself in Regency attire.
The ladies shouted, “What! Tell me you’re not gonna be all over that one.”
Jane shook her head. “It’s the breeches. Look. Imagine him in gym shorts. Not the same effect.” But as she scrutinized his broad shoulders and scruffy chin, she knew he’d be hot in any clothing. She was counting down the hours until her flight left for England in the morning.
Her boss peeked around the corner of the cubicle. “Jane, can I have a word?” Her amused glance at everyone told them she would forgive the break from work, but they knew they had better return to their own desks.
Jane followed Chelsea to her office. They’d been friends for ten years, went to undergrad together and both majored in the same program, history.
Once Chelsea shut the door, she turned and squealed. “I’m so excited for you. You have to tell me everything.”
“I wish you were coming.”
“We can’t very well send two of us on this trip.” She sat down and motioned for Jane to do the same. “Take all sorts of pictures. And remember your research.”
Jane nodded. “Believe it or not, I am most excited about the research.” This particular house neighbored one that preserved a rare set of old documents, journals, and artwork that could lend support to the group’s research and also to Jane’s dissertation. Chatwick Manor was the home of a family of daughters for many years. And it was their journals Jane was after. And, for personal reasons, one particular painting.
“Is Trent okay with all this?” Chelsea’s eyes held concern, and Jane knew she wanted the two of them to get back together, but Jane had given up on Trent a month ago. “We broke up. You know that. He doesn’t get to have an opinion.”
Chelsea sighed. “I know. I thought for sure you guys would make it.”
“You just like him with his shirt off.” She laughed. “He’s getting way too big.” At first as a hobby, Trent had started entering body building contests and weight lifting exhibitions. He took up modeling and continued to work on his physique, until Jane looked at him and all she saw were huge defined muscles, even in places she didn’t know had actual muscle tissue. The hobby became an obsession and took over his life like it did his body.
“Then you’re free! Get over Trent in the arms of a hottie in Regency costume.”
Jane grinned. “You know I will!” Was it normal to wish you lived in a different age? Jane did, or rather, she wished men and women behaved together now, more like they did back then. She could certainly do without the chamber pots and leeches, but she loved the genteel way they behaved and the lovely manner in which they treated each other.
After work, Jane hurried home so that she could finish packing. When she walked in the door to her apartment, the cat rubbed her ankles and the fish aquarium bubbled, but everything was too quiet. As always, she wished for her fictional lady’s maid to appear and pack her trunk. Procrastinating, she pulled a book off her shelf. Her guilty pleasure. Some women did online dating, read romance novels, hung out in bars, but Jane, she kept going back to one picture in an old historical book on artwork in the regency time period. Was she insane? Who knew, but she wanted to look at him again, her authentic regency man.
Page 42. The book fell open to the spot. 1817. A painting of two people, in a crowded room where others are dancing. They are dressed in regency attire. But the woman is not looking at her partner. Her neck is craned to check out another man, standing in the corner with a smug look on his face. He knows something. The woman clutches a piece of paper to her breast. No historian had been able to determine the message in the painting, nor the identity of the man in the corner.
The woman craning her neck was likely one of the sisters in the house near where Jane would be staying in a few days. Jane ran a hand down the page, stopping on the man in the corner. “Who are you?” Something about his face. She was drawn to him, pulled into their story, and she hoped she could find out just what he was thinking. Of course he was also handsome. She was first drawn to his sharp jawline, his thick dark hair, his broad shoulders. He looked like the football player of regency men. But the longer she stared at his image, the more she wanted to know what went on behind those blue eyes. What would they look like if staring into her own?
He was akin to the Mona Lisa of the Regency historical world. His smug smile, his secretive glance, the note in the woman’s hand. She wasn’t the only person fascinated with the mystery. What makes this man smile? Her finger lingered on his face. Was she nuts to find him attractive? How often
Her phone dinged. A Facebook message from the new guy coming to Twickenham.
What? Her fingers shook as she slid open the notification.
I think, of everyone, you and I are uniquely participating for research purposes. Look forward to exchanging ideas.
MMM. Now that was the perfect opening. She typed back. I as well. I arrive tomorrow. Lunch the following?
Meet outside the event? She wasn’t sure of the rules, but she suspected they were supposed to meet for the first time in character and in costume.
Three dots indicated he was typing a response. After many minutes, he said, going rogue?
She laughed. No, just intrigued by your research.
Ah, a fellow curious mind.
They made all the arrangements for meeting, and set up lunch for when she arrived. She couldn’t resist and added, breeches welcome but not required. She hit send and then cringed. That could be taken many ways… How could she be making breeches comments to a stranger? She was hanging out with her office mates too often.
But he immediately sent a laughing emoji and said, breeches for enactment ONLY.
She breathed out in relief. Pity…see you in a couple days.
So many things to look forward to, and a new lunch date on top of it all. Life couldn’t be any more exciting if she had written herself in her own novel.
2
Algernon Ramsbury shouted to his friends across the park in a most uncouth manner. He’d been called uncouth more often than his own title, for most of his life, and while its use may have bothered him when he was young, he now felt little regard for any who chose to use such a word. Those two syllables spoke far more about the person speaking than the one being described.
For one, people speaking the word, uncouth, had pinched lips. What was to be enjoyed about pinched lips? Pinched lips rarely smiled. They had a tightness about them, and several rows of vertical wrinkles lining the mouth. He grimaced. But the worst part about pinched lips was their impossibility to be kissed properly. Who ever heard of enjoying the hard ball of pinched lips under their own? He shuddered and then, to help him forget the horrific image, laughed as loud as he could.
“Tally ho!” He urged his horses faster around the next corner, thrilling in the jump his stomach made with the acceleration. Jameson tailed behind, but he was known to pull a fast trick or two at the very end and win. Not this time. Algernon would come out first or else be forced to dance with Winifred Wallflower at Almacks on Thursday. And he would not dance with Winifred. He urged his horses faster.
She was not so horribly repulsive. She, by herself, was actually quite plain, nothing remarkable about her. But as soon as one of the men were to dance with her, the talk, the expectation, the mothers hovering about, would be unbearable, and none of his set wished such a thing upon themselves. If she were a new debutante the action would not be discussed more than once or twice during a ball, but now that she had three years on the shelf, any attention at all was analyzed from all aspects and debated upon. And the matrons were already all in a ruffle about who his Duke-ly self might marry. He hummed. No, he must not lose this race.
But the park was beginning to attract visitors. He and his friends had meant to already be finished with their raucous behavior, his mother called it uncouth and raucous. By this hour they should have been safely ensconced at Whites, or promenading with the ladies on paths. But Roderick had arrived late, as was his habit, and none of them wished to give up on the race entirely, and so they shortened it a bit with hopes they could avoid foot traffic. Alas, people in the park were difficult to avoid at this hour. He swerved precariously away from one as a punctuation of his thoughts.
He hurried toward the next bend, way too close to a group of ladies. Several squealed, with hands over their mouths and wide, fearful eyes. Some feather of sense crept into his brain and he grappled with it for a half breath, and then he slowed. No. He would have to be the one to take the dripper and dance with Winifred. Someone was bound to get hurt at this pace.
Horses pounded the earth behind him, Roderick calling out, “Whoa now. Easy girls.”
Algernon turned to him and Jameson with a shrug of his shoulders. “What’s a gentleman to do?” He ignored Roderick’s victorious smile and then urged his horses to a walk across the clearing to the group of ladies on his left. He bowed as gallantly as he could from a curricle, while sitting down. “Good morning.”
They tittered about; they giggled; a few curtseyed; but none responded. His gaze travelled over the bunch of them and dash it all he hadn’t been introduced to a single one. Well, no matter. They seemed a silly enough group; he could be grateful he avoided them one and all. Could he find but one woman brave enough to speak her mind in all of England?
Surely they did not all occupy themselves morning ‘til night with such vacuous thoughts as needlepoint and the weather? It seemed to him that’s all they ever discussed.
He’d been spoiled with friends growing up, ladies, who said all manner of fascinating things, took him on frequent fantastical imaginary adventures, and stood up to his nonsense.
He clucked his tongue and guided his two horses home. What he would love to find is a woman who could challenge him, a woman with whom he could discuss things, someone who could help manage his estates, a confidante. And soft lips. He smirked. But so far, none of the vapid, eyelash fluttering, “accomplished” women seemed to have any amount of education or practice in discussing important things. They were experts in all the dealings of others, knew just how to discuss the weather for hours on end and could smile charmingly in support of whatever he said, be it of interest to them personally or not. Maybe he should blame the governesses. As soon as women took to the dance floor, or sat in morning rooms for callers, they seemed to lose all semblance of personality. He sighed. The stable boy took his conveyance at the front door, and Algernon stepped inside.
Wailing met his ears immediately. “Go get his grace! Fetch him for me, Doris!”
His mother’s much encumbered and fettered maid rushed into the hall and nearly barreled into his chest. At times he regretted his massive height and broad chest for it scared most servants, and a good portion of the young ladies. If not his title of Duke, his size surely forced them into a silent shell or to silly giggling nonsense. Neither of which he could abide.
“What is it, Doris?”
“It’s your mother.”
“I hear that. What precisely is the ailment?” With his mother, it was always best not to become too caught up in her complaints for her wailing could be for a cause as terrible as she pronounced or one not nearly so awful, depending on her state of the day. Which he couldn’t begin to guess for he’d left long before she typically arose.
Doris couldn’t answer the simplest of questions, and he didn’t blame her. Perhaps she should get another increase in her wages. Dealing with his mother all day and into the night seemed an unfortunate existence for any human. He hated to think of her so, but his mother was so very tiresome. Nothing was ever simple. They must make the largest to do about every such thing that they talked about, every subject addressed, and she was the worst of gossips. He bored instantly when she was cheerfully and spitefully picking apart the faults of all the people they knew.
When Doris proved useless as a manner in which to gain information, he mercifully dismissed her. “Thank you Doris. That will be all.”
