The Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Nicki Pascarella
The Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe
Copyright Notice
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
They stood in the center of the makeshift piste, Georgie facing William as the man fluttered his thick lashes. If it were not for the blunted weapon, she would have sliced the damnable black fans off. She brought the blade to her face, then forward and down.
William languidly repeated the salute.
The man deserved to be run through, not treated like an honorable opponent. The Duke of Astleyshire was about to learn the most important lesson of his life—never underestimate the fighting skill of a woman.
Georgie channeled one of her heroines, the agile Signora Ermenegilda Cheli. Knees bent, right foot forward, weapon steady, her back arm raised, she prepared.
“En garde!”
Her sword extended as she lunged. Still smirking and straight-legged, William parried as if he were swatting a fly. Georgie growled. Back foot first, she slid until she was a safe distance away, then rethought her strategy. Resting the point of his blade against the ballroom floor, William crossed one foot over the other and again fluttered his lashes.
What the bloody hell?
“Don’t be a fool, Astleyshire. She will run you through like a Turkish kebab,” Stephen called.
Praise for Nicki Pascarella
This novella was fun, fast-paced, and sexy as hell… Thanks for showing me all the perks of reading a novella, Nicki…
—Steamy Cairo Nights reviewer, Smutty Book Reviews
“Pascarella has a dynamite series in the Miranda Albright, Ph.D books. These books are for the reader who wants it all, mystery mixed with humor, topped with steamy romance. Her small town is full of quirky characters the reader will never forget.”
—Marilyn Barr, author
The Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe
by
Nicki Pascarella
Christmas in the Castle Series
Copyright Notice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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 Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe
COPYRIGHT © 2023 by Nicki Pascarella
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2023
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-5313-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5315-9
Christmas in the Castle Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Kyann Waters
Thank you for believing in me and being such an amazing critique partner.
Chapter One
December 14th, 1816
Jackson Valiant pressed the point of his sword into Baron Goldcount’s neck. “You will not touch Maria Seraphina again. For if you do, I will slice you into a hundred pieces and invite the wild wolves who live in the surrounding forest to a feast.”
This was no idle threat because the heroic Jackson did indeed control the hungry pack.
From Tattle’s Tales
The Duke of Astleyshire plastered on his sultry smile and swaggered into his third ball of the holiday season. Thirty seconds after his entrance, an attractive woman halted him with the tip of her fan. The widowed countess skimmed a gloved finger over his forearm as she leaned close to whisper, “Your Grace, I do hope that we are able to take a turn in the garden later this evening.”
Since Lady Hemmingsworth was a skilled lover, and her raspy voice was akin to having his balls caressed, William Harrington winked. “Very soon, Susana.”
Taking his leave, he navigated a thousand crystal snowflakes, dozens of girls smiling behind fluttering ivory fans, and a sea of husband-seeking mothers to peacock to the Prince Regent.
“Good evening, Your Royal Highness.” William swept into his most elegant bow.
“William.” The prince’s eyes were slits atop swollen cheeks, but his voice was genuine and affable. “I am glad you are here. I need a trustworthy ear.”
“I as well.” Despite his social exhaustion, and desire to leave London and return to his family seat, William oozed charm. “How is my dear aunt?”
“Between you and I, the queen is quite bored.” The prince shoved an entire iced pastry into his mouth and swallowed with ease. “Let us find a quiet place to talk. I have had enough of this.” He waved wiggling fingers toward the orchestra plucking from the stage centered on a faux lake.
William allowed his older cousin to lean on him as the two men, followed by a half dozen of the prince’s entourage, navigated the bowing and curtseying ton.
As the prince engaged in small talk, William reminisced about a younger, less corpulent man who had played energetic games of pall mall with him when he was a child. Too much of everything, from food, to ale, to women had taken their toll.
The prince hesitated in front of a door and wheezed. “Lord Lionel will not mind if we use his study.” Using his sleeve, he wiped beads of sweat from his brow.
They entered the room and William helped his cousin to sit, then lit two candelabra.
His face flushed, the prince panted. “I am sorry for the loss of your father. He was a good man, a loving uncle, and a friend to the Crown.”
William swallowed. Two months had passed, and he still struggled to talk about his father’s death. He knew better than to ask after the king’s health. It was a sensitive subject to his family and a few years prior, he had bloodied the Marquess of Birmington’s oldest son’s nose for calling his uncle Ol’ Mad an’ Batty.
“The late Duke of Astleyshire was instrumental in passing the Frame-Breaking Act. I hope we can count on you to continue in his footsteps,” the prince said.
“Of course.”
William dreaded politics. But his carefree days of gambling, drinking, womanizing, and sport had come to an end the second his father passed, and he inherited a dukedom. Well, almost come to an end. It was the holiday season, and no man was perfect.
“I knew I could count on you.” The prince cupped a hand to his ear, then crooked a finger, beckoning William to lean close. “Have you heard of this Winkentattle who is writing chapbooks for the working class?”
“I have,” William said. Although he ignored the rumblings since silly stories printed on small scraps of paper were of no interest to him.
“Baron Handershane was a dear friend of your father’s,” the prince said.
The newly appointed baron made William’s skin crawl, and he avoided the man as if he carried the pox.
“He believes these chapbooks could cause a repeat of the attack on Cartwright’s Mill near Cleckheaton.”
If William’s memory was correct, a few years earlier, working-class men had been hanged for breaking equipment in protest of their poor working conditions.
“You would think that would have been an end to the troubles, but there is to be another Luddite hanging at Derby Gaol in a couple of weeks,” the prince said.
William schooled his cringe. He knew little about this group of people fighting against progress and causing upheaval. But hangings were never a good thing.
“Rumor has it that this Winkentattle is operating out of Trent Village and targeting Handershane’s mill. Since you are not far from there, and I trust you implicitly, I hope you might look into this matter. I have a dear friend who does love the lace made at Handershane’s factory, and one must keep the fairer sex happy.” The prince winked and hacked.
Bloody hell. Spying for the Crown? William had simply wanted to say hello to his cousin then plant himself deep inside a warm woman.
“Yes. One must keep the ladies happy,” William agreed with a forced smile. “However, I am unsure how I can help with this
“But you and Alistair Eaton are old friends. Roommates at Bedford and Cambridge if I remember correctly.”
“Yes,” William said.
“Then visit him at his family seat and see what you can learn about this Winkentattle.” The prince chuckled. “But keep away from that hellcat sister of his. The queen fears the lady is a blemish on genteel society. Handershane claims it took all three of her brothers to keep her from scratching his eyes out the last time he visited Trent Castle.”
An on-the-shelf sister who scratched out men’s eyes? A repugnant baron? One of his cousin’s greedy mistresses? Could the night get any worse?
William assisted the prince when he struggled to stand.
“I trust that you will make your father proud.” The prince clapped him on the shoulder. “And now that I have made my appearance, I will take my leave. I look forward to hearing from you. After Twelfth Night, I plan to return to Brighton and hope to relay excellent news to my friend, letting her know that her lace shall be in good supply this season.” The prince gazed over William’s head. Perhaps he was revisiting precious memories. “Dictating the season’s fashion is only one of her many charms.”
Once the door closed, William collapsed onto his chair and moaned.
The bottle of port on the desk called to him. He poured himself a glass and chugged. His father’s words on his deathbed echoed as the liquid burned his esophagus.
“Son, your duties are now to your country and your dukedom. Make me proud.”
He poured and swallowed a second glass. Then a third.
The door opened and Lord Lionel stepped into the room. “Astleyshire?”
William stood, and his world completed one full spin, tilted, then righted itself. Mayhap he had drunk too much.
“Forgive me,” William said. “His Royal Highness needed a quiet place to rest. He just left. I hope that it is of no consequence that I helped myself to a drink.”
Lord Lionel’s gaze slid to the almost empty decanter.
“A few drinks,” William confessed.
“I dare say. You look as though you have had a rough evening.”
William faked a chuckle. “I am fine.”
“Sit, my good man. A few of us plan to enjoy the remainder of the evening in a game of cards. Lady Lionel is preoccupied and will not notice my absence.”
The door flew open, and four men barged into the room.
“Sorry to hear about your father, Astleyshire,” Lord Beers said.
No matter how many times he heard the sentiment, it left William at a loss for words.
Despite his protests, William found himself seated at a table, a fresh drink in front of him, and cards in his hands.
Unfortunately, his friend’s younger brother sat beside him. He’d disliked Evan Eaton the first time Alistair introduced them. The boy had been an obnoxious, energetic little thing, running amok in their dormitory while asking too many questions. Now he was a pompous arse who flirted with William’s conquests.
“Evan,” Lord Lionel said, “I am sorry that Lord Trent was not able to join us. Please send him my regards.”
“The Dowager Countess Trent arrived at Trent Castle this evening and my brother and sister stayed to greet her. The Lady Eatons cannot be left together. They require a chaperone.” Evan Eaton rolled his eyes. “Make that a lion tamer. Whipsh!” he said, as his hand snapped forward.
William recoiled at the crack of the pretend whip.
Evan pointed at William and chuckled. “A bit jumpy, Your Grace? Mayhap you need to slow down on the libations.”
Evan Eaton could bugger off. William tilted his head back and emptied his glass.
The toothless first son of the Marquess of Birmington, Thomas Merrick, chortled. “Evan, how is that sister of yours?”
Evan’s elbow hit the table and a card fluttered, landing beside William’s boot. The youngest Eaton sibling smirked. “She is busy planning your demise, Thomas.”
The other men were so busy guffawing that they did not notice Evan’s turn of the wrist when he bent forward.
“What the bloody hell did you just retrieve from the floor?” William asked Evan.
“My bleeding card, Duke. You have had enough to drink,” Evan shot back.
William showered Evan with all of the contempt he could muster. How in the hell could he visit Alistair if the cheater and the hellcat came with Trent Castle?
Fifteen minutes and another drink later, William had enough. Evan Eaton was a no-good cheat.
“Pay up, Eaton,” William demanded, holding out his palm and shoving it in the rogue’s face.
Evan slapped a hand on the table. “That is the second time tonight you have cheated and blamed me.” Evan glared at every man in the room. “I know he is a bloody duke, but will anyone stand up to him?”
Evan Eaton tossed coins onto the table. Thereupon he huffed and slammed the door behind him.
“And I have to spend the holidays with the bastard.” William blinked. Had he said that out loud?
Thomas laughed. “Mayhap the dashing duke should try his hand at the spinster while he is visiting Trent Castle.”
A chorus of “Hear, hear!” and pounding fists erupted.
William was not in the mood, and the next cockchafer who called him the dashing duke might end up with a fist in his mouth. He grabbed a decanter and poured. “Not interested.”
“I hear she does not like men. Have you ever heard anything so shocking? A chit who does not like men. Just ask Lord Kingsley.”
It did not matter who said it. At that moment, the chuckling thingamabobs were all rotten bastards.
William’s tongue had developed a mind of its own and stuck to his palate, making conversation almost impossible. “S-she would damn well like me.”
He winced. What would make him say such a foolish thing? Pride? Arrogance? Bloody alcohol? He pushed his glass to the center of the table.
“Ah,” said Thomas. “Care to wager? Fifty pounds says Lady Georgiana Eaton stabs the Duke of Astleyshire in the heart.”
“I’ll take that wager and double it. I say she beds-s me within one week,” William slurred. “But now, I have to meet someone els-se.”
He may have lost his balance once or twice as he excused himself and swayed back to the ballroom.
A blurry Susana Hemmingworth stood against the far wall, giggling at a six-eyed Evan Eaton.
“Hell and damnation.” William sloshed to the pair.
“Your Grace.” Susana curtsied and smiled.
Eaton, the rake, did not even bother to address him.
William leaned close to the countess’s ear and whispered, “Meet me in my carriage in ten minutes-s.”
Then he shot Evan a smug smirk. Or it might have been an ungentlemanly vibrating tongue. It was hard to tell much of anything anymore. William pulled his shoulders back and attempted to swagger out of the gathering.
Unfortunately, it took two footmen and an alluring widow to carry him to his carriage.
Chapter Two
Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1816
Wolves snarled as the moonlight reflected off their yellow eyes. Baron Goldcount cowered behind the tree. A lot of good that would do him.
From Tattle’s Tales
Georgiana Eaton strategically positioned herself in front of her mattress. Her efforts were pointless since the scowling dowager countess stepped around her and pointed at the lump under the counterpane.
“Georgiana!”
Georgie’s shoulders caved as she sighed in resignation. Although relinquishing her copy of Female Difficulties was heartbreaking, she had to protect her own writing at all costs. She rooted under the blanket, then placed her beloved Fanny Burney into the countess’s hand.
Clucking her tongue, Louisa Eaton pointed at the outline of folded paper still under the fabric. The woman was more stubborn than, well, her. And Georgie had once been told she was as malleable as a brick wall.
Georgie hesitated before reaching between the blankets again. When she did not hand the chapbook over immediately, it was torn from her grasp. She held her breath for an eternity as the frowning woman lifted a lorgnette to her eye and scrutinized the story.
Finally, her grandmother shuddered. “I have heard that Mrs. Burney fills young girls with absurd ideas. And this man is a troublemaker.” She waved the newest draft of Tattle’s Tales about. “Rubbish. Even the paper is chintzy. And to suggest that the working class read and dictate conditions. Why, ’tis preposterous.”
