One Night with the Duchess, page 1
Widows of West End
Three extraordinary ladies.
Three extraordinary love stories!
Welcome to Victorian London, where a trio of unconventional widows aren’t afraid to take scandalous risks in order to claim their independence...and love on their terms!
In One Night with the Duchess
Widowed Duchess and virgin Isabelle must prove her marriage was consummated or face losing her title and stepson! Her plan? Seek out notorious rake Lord Ashworth to bed her!
And coming soon:
Read Wilhemina’s story
After Wilhemina’s awful husband is suddenly murdered, she’s shocked when long-term friend Leo, Viscount Pemberton, offers to protect her—with a marriage proposal!
Read Mary’s story
Bold Mary Lambert demands that self-made businessman Cameron Sykes offer her a job...but she doesn’t count on how tempting working in such close proximity to Cameron will be!
Author Note
I’ve always been obsessed with the Victorians, especially the aristocracy, with their strange rules and conventions, most of which applied to women and dictated how they could (or, more accurately, could not) behave. Rules that changed significantly with a woman’s marital status. So, when it came to writing a historical romance trilogy, I wanted to explore a trio of young widows who leave convention behind, take scandalous risks and, most importantly, fall in love with men who cherish them exactly as they come.
Thus, the Widows of West End was born.
And there was so much to explore! Funerals, mourning periods, mourning garb (commonly called “widow’s weeds”), legal consummation of a marriage, virginity testing... Yes, you read that right. Though virginity testing would have been considered quite outdated by the 1840s (in the United Kingdom, at least), what better way to usher in a sordid love affair than by having a newly married and widowed duchess seek out a notorious rake to rid her of her virginity so that she could retain her title?
I adored creating Matthew and Isabelle, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading One Night with the Duchess as much as I enjoyed writing it!
ONE NIGHT WITH THE DUCHESS
MAGGIE WESTON
Maggie Weston is a Victorian-era enthusiast. Though she grew up voraciously consuming classical literature, she stumbled upon her first romance novel at age eleven and never looked back. When she’s not writing or researching all the weird things our predecessors did, she can be found reading, taking on home improvement projects that she thinks she can handle (but can’t) and watching period dramas. Maggie lives with her husband, two dogs and innumerable houseplants in California.
One Night with the Duchess is Maggie Weston’s debut title for Harlequin Historical.
Look out for more books from Maggie Weston
coming soon.
For my parents, who have always been irrationally confident in my ability to succeed.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author Note
Excerpt from Her Warrior’s Redemption by Michelle Willingham
Chapter One
London, 1840
‘Excuse me, my lord.’
‘What is it, Taps?’ Matthew Blake, Lord Ashworth, regarded his butler over the rim of his crystal whisky glass.
Taps, who had served the Blake family for nearly twenty-five years, was a contradiction in motion, a man as firm and stout in appearance as he was fidgety by nature. Even as Matthew watched him, Taps shifted from one foot to the other.
‘There is a young lady here to see you, my lord.’
Matthew raised one dark eyebrow and spared a glance at the rosewood clock on the mantel. The delicate brass hands indicated that it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. ‘Who?’
‘She refused to give a name, my lord. However, she said it was a matter of great urgency.’ Taps paused almost imperceptibly before adding, ‘She seems quite distressed.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘She is accompanied by another woman, perhaps her lady’s maid.’
Intrigued despite his fatigue, Matthew asked, ‘What does she look like?’ He didn’t know any young woman who’d risk visiting his private residence unchaperoned at such a time.
‘She is in mourning, my lord.’
He waved one large-palmed hand lazily. ‘Show her in.’
Taps paused and cast a subtle look at Matthew’s attire—or lack thereof. ‘Would you like some time to make yourself presentable, my lord?’
‘Taps,’ Matthew chided without looking down at his partially unbuttoned shirt, ‘it is one o’clock in the morning. Any woman coming to see me now doesn’t give a fig about propriety.’ He slouched further into his chair. ‘At this time of night, she’s lucky I’m clothed at all.’
While his butler would never dare to question him, Taps had long ago perfected a tone that displayed disapproval while somehow sounding nothing but polite. He used it now, issuing a crisp ‘My lord’ before bowing and leaving the room.
Matthew ignored his butler’s subtle reprimand and pondered his unexpected visitor instead. He wasn’t aware of anyone he knew having died recently, which could only mean that either he didn’t know the lady in question or she was wearing mourning garb as a disguise. Considering whose house she had entered, he considered that wise. Bold, undoubtedly. But wise.
There was a gentle announcing knock on the door before Taps re-entered the room, this time with a small woman in tow. Her slight frame was hidden under a mass of black fabric, her face completely obscured by the weeping veil that fell in one smooth sheet from the brim of her hat to the exact point at her throat where her high-collared dress started, leaving not even a single inch of skin exposed.
Seeming at a loss for how to introduce the woman, Taps floundered for a second, then gave up entirely, bowed, and left the room.
Curious as to what she’d do, Matthew said nothing. He made no move to greet the stranger, essentially breaking every rule of decorum that had been drilled into him from birth. He took a sip of his peated whisky, crossed one booted ankle over the other, and waited in silence for her to say something.
The woman bowed her head in greeting. ‘Lord Ashworth.’
Her voice was cultured and young—young enough that he instinctively knew nothing good could come of their meeting. ‘If you’re going to barge into my house in the middle of the night, I at the very least deserve the courtesy of knowing to whom I am speaking.’
Her head tipped forward, almost as if she were trying to regain her composure—or pray. ‘My name is Isabelle Con—’ She took a small breath and slowly straightened her spine. ‘I am Isabelle St Claire,’ she corrected, ‘the Duchess of Everett.’
Matthew’s heart constricted in his chest. Slowly, he put his drink down. ‘Your Grace,’ he greeted her politely, but his mind warred with this new information. He knew the name, of course. There were, after all, less than thirty dukes in all of England.
There’d been news lately... At the club, maybe... No, he remembered, at Giovanni’s School of Arms.
‘Your husband died a few days ago?’
‘Yes.’
Her affirmation was all he needed to have the memory surfacing. His best friend—Leo Vickery, Lord Pemberton—had told him about the Duke of Everett, who’d had a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-five. A sad event, to be sure—made all the more unfortunate by the fact that he’d left behind a bride of eighteen, a woman barely out in society. This woman, as fate would have it.
‘My condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Your Grace,’ he chastised gently, ‘it is hardly proper for you to be here at this hour. If anyone were to see you in my home...’
There was no need to explain further. Matthew’s reputation aside, some things simply were not done, and visiting a strange man in the middle of the night was certainly one of them.
‘I am well aware,’ she countered immediately, her tone leaving no room for further argument on his part.
Hopelessly fascinated, Matthew leaned back in his chair. ‘Your Grace...?’
‘Isabelle.’
Uncomfortable with the familiarity, he simply nodded.
‘I am going to be frank, Lord Ashworth.’
She sounded like an ancient matriarch, chastising an errant toddler, but Matthew found the contrast of the stern tone and the young, birdlike woman intriguing.
‘Please do,’ he said, and although he did not move from his position, he fought the insane urge to go to her and tear the weeping veil off. For some unholy reason, h
The Duchess did not mince her words. ‘I was married a mere two weeks before my husband died.’ She anxiously clasped and unclasped her small gloved hands. ‘The marriage was decided upon when I was just thirteen.’ She cleared her throat daintily. ‘The Duke was a trusted friend of my father’s.’
The Duchess took three quick steps towards the door, spun around, and then hurried in the opposite direction like a mouse trapped in the corner of a barn.
‘You see, my husband was not a...’ She paused to consider her word choice before settling on, ‘He was not an unkind man. He was older, to be sure, but rather...soft...’
She tugged at her bodice with both hands, as if she could somehow rip the heavy dress off her body.
Matthew pushed himself to a stand, getting warier by the second. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, interrupting her nervous chatter, ‘please speak plainly.’
The Duchess spun around to face him. She inhaled a huge breath and as the black veil was suctioned inwards, plastering the dyed lace to her lips, she spluttered. Reaching up with both hands, she frantically ripped the entire hat off, scattering pins and scraps of fabric on the floor.
In any other circumstance Matthew might have been amused. His mouth even momentarily fought a smile as he watched the hairpins bounce across the carpeted floor before settling. But the moment he looked up his smile faded and any humour died.
The Duchess of Everett blinked at him from worried eyes the colour of onyx...eyes framed by impossibly long, inky lashes. Her skin was golden, stark against the cascade of black hair that had come undone and fell in thick ringlets down her narrow waist to her flared hips. Her sharp features were softened by a small, straight nose and a delicate mouth. She was a vision.
‘My marriage was not consummated,’ she blurted, and then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, clearly mortified by her admission.
Matthew watched, fascinated, as a pink blush spread from the high collar of her dress up her neck and through her cheeks. At a complete loss for the appropriate thing to say, he merely repeated, ‘My condolences.’
The Duchess opened her mouth, closed it. She placed both hands on her hips and began to walk around his parlour.
‘With all due respect, Your Grace. How may I be of service exactly?’ he asked.
‘Is it not obvious?’
‘I’m not sure that it is.’
‘My late husband’s cousin is insisting upon a doctor’s...proof that I am really the Duchess of Everett.’
Matthew scowled at that. ‘Why did you not refuse? I’m sure most doctors would find such an examination archaic.’
‘I should have,’ she agreed. ‘However, that only occurred to me after the fact, and now the risk is that my marriage will be annulled.’
Matthew began to see her dilemma. ‘And you would lose your new title... Duchess.’
The Duchess straightened her spine and shot him a look that would have sent a lesser man running. For Matthew, her narrowed eyes and tight mouth had the complete opposite effect, and for some absurd reason he suddenly wondered what it would be like to tease those seriously set lips into sighing open for him.
‘I am a virgin,’ she stated, and although he’d inferred that much, hearing the actual words turned his momentary fantasy to dust. Though she tried to hide her embarrassment, she fidgeted with her gloves again. ‘A new match, however humiliating for my family, could be arranged...’
Her voice was clear, but Matthew could hear the heavy dread in it still. He did not move; he barely breathed.
‘My concern is for the new Duke of Everett—my husband’s son by his previous wife.’ She spun around again, making her stiff skirts sway back and forth like an ancient church bell. ‘Luke is only seven.’
Matthew saw her logic then. ‘And you fear what would happen to him should you be sent away?’
‘My husband’s cousin—Gareth St Claire—is an unbearable man. And he is next in line for the Dukedom after Luke.’
‘Common law would prevent him from assuming guardianship of Luke if he is next in line for the title,’ Matthew pointed out, even though he knew that such things rarely mattered. Without protection, a titled child alone in the world was easy prey.
‘Yes, I am aware,’ she replied dryly. ‘But my late husband named his wife—if there should be one—as Luke’s guardian in the event of his death. That is me.’ Her voice rose with her panic. ‘If my marriage is annulled, Luke will be placed as a ward of the Chancery. He’s a child, my lord. It will be years before he’s of age and able to assume the responsibilities of his title, and in all that time there will only be one stranger appointed to come between Luke and his uncle.’
‘You think he would harm the boy?’
Although he kept his tone cool, Matthew saw her distress was genuine. He knew even if it weren’t for her obvious anxiety, the facts remained. No man was as close to power and wealth than when he was separated from an inherited title by a single child—nor would he ever be that close again.
‘There are many ways to damage a child irreparably, my lord. More ways to manipulate and control one. I don’t know if Gareth would physically harm Luke, but I would not put anything past him. And I am the only person with the means to do something.’ She took two bold steps closer. ‘Many of my childhood summers were spent at the Everett country home, Moorhen House. I was always a bit...solitary. An only child. When the previous Duchess died in childbirth, Luke was completely alone. He is a little brother to me in many ways.’
‘Some might even say a son?’
‘Yes. Although he is only eleven years younger, some would say he’s like a son to me.’ Again, those thin shoulders squared, those black eyes slowly rose to meet his. ‘It’s my responsibility to ensure his well-being.’
‘And secure yourself the title in the process?’
‘I’m not denying that I would benefit, Lord Ashworth. Merely that benefit to myself is not my primary motivation. Being the Duchess of Everett is a duty I take seriously. However, Luke’s safety is my only concern.’
Matthew was no idiot. He had an inkling of why she was in his house, hiding in her widow’s weeds, at one o’clock in the morning. And even though he’d never touch an unspoiled daughter of the peerage, he couldn’t help but push her to her point. He needed to hear her say the words.
‘And you’re here because...’
She exhaled a deep breath. ‘I’ve come because...’
‘Yes?’ It was a single word, a simple word, but it left Matthew’s lips weighted with anticipation.
‘May I ask a favour?’
‘You may ask,’ he countered, ‘but I will most probably refuse.’
‘I would like you to bed me.’
Having become somewhat used to people expecting such behaviour from him, Matthew smiled grimly. But, in spite of that, when he said, ‘No,’ the word left his lips tasting bitter.
* * *
Isabelle was startled at the abrupt answer, issued from Lord Ashworth with no hint of doubt. ‘You’re not even going to think about it?’
The giant man standing in front of her grinned, his white teeth flashing wolfishly. He ran one large hand through his unstylishly shaggy hair.
‘There’s no need. I don’t bed virgins. I don’t ruin reputations—’
‘That is not what I heard.’
Matthew ignored her comment. ‘And I certainly will not be led by the nose into a situation where you could hold any sort of power over me. I’m not the man you’re looking for, Duchess.’
Isabelle couldn’t help the slightly hysterical giggle that worked its way up her throat. ‘You... You think that I would trick you into marriage?’ she asked, somewhat stunned by the notion. ‘Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?’ She waved both hands down towards her heavy black dress. ‘I’m in mourning. I will be for years!’ she practically shouted. ‘And even if I wasn’t, marriage to you is the last thing I’d want!’
Because she felt hot and flustered by his looming presence and the entirely inappropriate conversation they were having, she started to pace.
She lowered her voice. ‘I’m a duchess. I don’t need your title. And marrying again before my mourning period is over would cause a scandal that would be completely antagonistic to my main goal—helping Luke.’ When he only raised his eyebrows, she continued, ‘Moreover, I have no desire to get married again.’
