Dukes Do It Better

Book 0: Misfits of Mayfair

by Bethany Bennett

Genres: Sagas; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

From the series guaranteed to "win the hearts of Regency fans” comes a story of secrets, scandal, and unlikely love that will warm even the coldest of hearts (Publishers Weekly).

After a debut season plagued by scandal, Lady Emma Hardwick is ready to return to London, now with her young son in tow, and make a match. She's looking for someone respectable. Someone wholly unlike Malachi Harlow, the new Duke of Trenton and former ship captain, whose long hair and tattoos make him decidedly dangerous to her peace of mind.

Malachi would rather be at sea than in a London ballroom. But until he can sort out why the admiralty brought him home, he has to stay landbound. That becomes less of a hardship when he meets the beguiling Lady Emma, whose dimples and easy laughter capture his imagination. When they start receiving threatening notes, they realize that there's more to their connection than chemistry, and they'll have to work together to figure out why someone wants to ruin their lives.

Release date: May 24, 2022

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

Somewhere in the Baltic Sea
February 1825

On days like this, the fantasy of you brings me comfort. Well, you and a glass of brandy. I’ve been chasing a small child all day, and although a lady shouldn’t drink brandy, we both know I’m not a perfect lady. With you I am simply myself, and you love me anyway.

Malachi shifted in his bunk, the mattress ticking giving way beneath him until it cradled his body the way it had for countless nights before. It had been a hellish day. Definitely worthy of reading one of his favorite journal entries for the umpteenth time. He tucked one hand under his head and used the other to tilt the book to catch the light from a swaying lantern.

I imagine you sitting beside me now, as I write this. You’re so handsome, you take my breath away. I make a habit of staring at you when you aren’t looking. Others might not think you are good looking, but yours shall be the kind of face I want to watch age. The kind of face I want to see first thing in the morning.

You’ll love everything about me. Not because you can’t find fault, but because I’m yours. I’ll have no secrets with you. Lord knows I have enough to burden my soul, so knowing I have nothing to hide from you will be a relief.

Besides, I miss sex.

God, I miss sex.

Whoever she was, this woman was damn near perfect.

Perhaps you are only a fantasy, but I think we can both agree a fantasy is safer for the heart. I can’t imagine opening up to anyone other than you. Which, yes, means I will never remarry. The dream of you keeps me warm. The idea that somewhere out there is someone who could love me. Maybe not even despite my secrets, but because of them.

In my mind, the firelight in this parlor reflects off your smile—that smile you save for only me. You have your own glass of brandy cradled in your hand, because I hate to share. When I kiss you, the brandy will linger on your tongue, making you doubly delicious. The flavor of you is something I miss, although I’ve never tasted it.

The wind is howling outside the cottage tonight, whipping up from the waves and tearing across the top of the cliff like a wild thing. But this fire, the brandy, and the dream of you keep me warm.

Malachi closed the book, content for the moment. The author of the journal may be a mystery, but the book had been a comfort this voyage. No matter how much a man loved the sea, there were days when the tedium of being stuck on a floating piece of wood in the middle of endless water, with the same group of unwashed sailors, wore on one’s sanity. Even though he was the captain of those smelly men, and considered them to be the best version of family he had, he’d escaped into the entries in this journal over and over again.

He’d found the book abandoned on the beach about a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave he called the vault, where he stashed treasures collected from his years in the Baltic.

The bloody Baltic, where action was minimal, the risks were low, and his father’s reach in the government had effectively placed his career in the doldrums.

Most captains had prize money tucked away from their years of service after living through the war. But not Malachi, whose meddling father had ensured he and his crew wouldn’t see any action of note. The Russian treasures he’d collected with meticulous attention to resale value were the closest thing he had to a nest egg, since he was determined to not live off the duchy’s funds. After his father deliberately financially damaged him, he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of accessing family money.

Which also meant that Malachi didn’t have a home in which to store his treasures until they found new owners willing to pay a generous price.

One only had to look around the average high society London drawing room to see evidence of decorating crazes. Egyptian, Chinese, Indian. At some point, a dowager was going to fall in love with the gilded opulence of Russian art, and Malachi would be ready.

If nothing else, the British Museum remained an active buyer of artifacts and art from other cultures. Unlike many contributors, he could provide documentation and provenance. The existence of the Elgin Marbles was proof enough that the museum tended to be…flexible when it came to certain details.

Stumbling upon the journal had been an unexpected gift during the trip in October to the sleepy village of Olread Cove on the coast of England. The second unexpected gift, to be honest.

The first had been the delightful armful of a blonde he’d enjoyed the last night before he’d sailed.

After the first month at sea, he’d nearly memorized the entries, so it wasn’t as if what happened next was a mystery. The following letter detailed the writer’s baking projects and the bread she’d finally mastered. Each time he read about her kitchen adventures, it made him hungry.

But tonight, he needed the longing in this entry. It came through so clearly in her writing. Sometimes, when he needed to think about something other than his duties on the Athena, he imagined the letters in the journal were to him. Pretended he was the man sitting beside her in a snug parlor, listening to the wind howl outside as the waves crashed below. More often than not, the fantasy included the blond widow from the village as the woman beside him, and the image always calmed him.

Outside his window the waves never stopped. Gulls and water were constants. Had been for the last fifteen years. Up here at the top of the world, being at sea meant beating ice off the lines, biting wind, and a cold that seeped into bones and never left. But there were also moments of breathtaking beauty. The first time he’d seen the aurora he’d stood on deck, utterly entranced by the swirls of magnificent color painting the sky, dancing to music heard by only those waves and creatures of myth.

In his breast pocket the dispatch from this morning crinkled as he shifted. No need to read it again. Those words floated behind his lids each time he blinked, and would likely haunt his sleep.

The discharge papers were short and to the point. Due to the demands of taking over the title Duke of Trenton, Malachi Harlow was relieved of duty and ordered to the port of London from his current service in support of relations between England and Russia.

Mother must have raised hades at the admiralty to get his orders changed. But he’d expect nothing less. She did what she wanted, and wielded her coronet like a weapon, with the unerring ruthlessness of a seasoned soldier. Odd to have her championing a cause for Malachi, but decidedly in character that the cause stood at cross purposes with his wishes.

It was a hell of a way to find out his brother, George, was dead.

Orders were orders, and thanks to his mother, the only way to challenge these was to march into the offices of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and demand reinstatement to his ship. Plenty of aristocrats held positions of command in service of the king. Mother hadn’t needed him home when he was the spare son, so demanding he return now was ridiculous. The duchy would have to continue without him. With Mother around, he’d be no more than a figurehead anyway.

The circle of lantern light swayed across the ceiling with the rocking of the ship. He was due on deck in a few hours, so despite the news of the day and the riotous thoughts demanding attention, Malachi reached up and snuffed the light.

Tomorrow would come no matter what. Georgie would still be dead. Malachi would still be stuck with a title he didn’t want. But, if he slept now, he might be able to dream of the woman who’d written the journal.

Clutching the leather book to his chest, he let the sea lull him to sleep.

*  *  *

 

Olread Cove, England

Late March 1825

Emma Hardwick opened her journal, flipping by habit to the back pages. But no. She stopped. New journal. Fresh pages, with plenty of room for all her thoughts. The old journal seemed to have disappeared into the ether months ago. No doubt she’d find it under a cushion or tucked into a wardrobe one of these days. Alton enjoyed hiding things, because five-year-old boys were made entirely of mischief and some mystery substance that made them smell vaguely of wet dog.

Things always seemed clearer after she wrote them down. She’d never kept a journal as a child, but since moving to this cottage at the edge of England, free of the usual social distractions, she had begun to write out her thoughts. No one else was around to hear them, after all, and holding in all those emotions wasn’t an option. Some days she’d thought she would explode with the suppressed feelings. This journal, and the ones before it, was the one place she could be wholly honest. Free to be herself without risk of consequences.

The leather of this journal hadn’t sufficiently softened yet, so the book stood open and stiff, like a soldier at attention, as she flipped to a blank page closer to the front.

“At ease, obnoxious book,” she muttered, smashing the cover flat on her table. A smear of flour from her hand marred the brown leather, and she brushed it away, which only made the smudge worse. She’d thought her hands were clean, but in this kitchen, flour lurked everywhere.

It might be something she complained about on a daily basis, but Emma adored her kitchen. Over the years this room, with its perpetual scent of yeast and baked sugar in the air, had become her favorite place in the world.

She rubbed her fingers together, rolling the residual flour into a slim snake of white goop. Holding the journal in one hand, she painted the spine of the leather with the flour paste. Eventually the cover would soften from frequent use and exposure to natural oils. Or in her case, smears of pie crust. The old journal had been perfectly soft, falling open to the back pages as if awaiting her words.

Pinning the cover down with her left elbow, she dipped her pen in ink and wrote.

Frankly, I’m more upset about losing my journal than I am about Father’s passing. What kind of person does that make me? Father is dead. The mourning period is nearly over. Yet I can’t seem to cry, no matter how hard I try.

One should cry when their sire dies, right? Instead, my mind skims over grief and focuses on the to-do list I need to accomplish to make the journey to London.

A— is over the moon to be there for F—’s birthday this year. No doubt the boys will raise hell as usual. When my brother visits the Cove, the boys essentially run feral. The potential for disaster is substantially increased in London. Which might be why we typically celebrate the summer birthdays here on the coast.

To think, once upon a time, I thought London the most glamorous city in the world, and here I am already missing my cottage.

The words stopped flowing from her brain to her fingers, so Emma slumped in the chair. A piece of hair had escaped her simple coiffure. She tucked it behind her ear and stared out the window over the counter while she fiddled with the edge of the paper.

How her old friends in society would laugh to see the woman once hailed as the diamond of the Season dreading going to London. My, how time changed things.

Beyond the glass, the lawn stretched toward the sea, where it ended abruptly at the cliff’s edge. Along the cliffside, the grasses grew tall enough to sway in the breeze. Closer to the house, the lawn stayed short thanks to Leonard the goat, and Titan, her horse.

As if called forth by her thoughts, Leonard wandered into view, round belly swaying. Emma suspected Leonard might be female and expecting a blessed event. Although who Leonard had found to rut with, Emma had no idea.

Like her, the goat found a mate, then was left to deal with the consequences alone. Lady Emma Hardwick, daughter of a marquess and a much praised beauty, had married a nobody, then disappeared from society.

Not that the accolades mattered much now. To her knowledge, a widow had never reclaimed the title of diamond. Diamonds, after all, were pure, sparkling, and precious. Not dangerous liars. The thought sent a dark twist through her belly.

She drew in a calming breath and set aside the familiar thought. There was a bright side. Widowhood came with certain undeniably enjoyable freedoms. She never needed to marry again. Which, considering the piles of evidence pointing to her being exactly like her mother, was probably for the best. Emma had taken a lover out of wedlock, lied to everyone to cover her tracks, and eventually run away to a place where everyone accepted the lies as truth. Mother would have approved. Her passionate, manipulative mother had wielded her dimples as weapons to get her way, heedless of how her choices impacted others. Father hadn’t been much better, truth be told. When Emma had arrived in Olread Cove at the age of eighteen, she’d already been well on her way to upholding their legacy.

It wasn’t something to be proud of.

A pair of eerily pale hazel eyes flashed in her memory, making a rueful smile appear.

The man with those eyes had been compelling enough to divert her from the restrictions she usually lived under. And what happened? Emma let loose for a few hours and landed in a sailor’s bed.

If ever she’d questioned whether she was her mother’s daughter, that encounter—delicious as it was—laid any doubts to rest. Flirting at the local assembly rooms had been the first time she’d been out in years, and just like that, Emma had reverted to old behaviors.

She’d intended to stop at a kiss.

But damn, it had been a spectacular kiss. No wonder she’d thrown caution to the wind and spent the night with him.

Even now, months later, knowing she’d never see him again, Emma couldn’t fully regret that brief flight into merry widowhood. It was one time, and only one time. At least now, when she lay in bed and it was just her hands and the darkness, her mind had clear pictures to fantasize about. Those memories were more than enough to keep her warm through the winter.

People would say a mere sailor wasn’t a suitable match for the daughter of a marquess—even the notorious Marquess of Eastly, famous for his countless affairs and scandals. A twisted version of a smile tilted her lips. There was quite a bit of her father in her, in addition to her faithless, long-dead mother. Not many would miss him.

She rolled the quill pen between her fingers, then returned to her journal.

C— is the marquess. How odd to think of him with Father’s title. And P— shall have to adjust to being a marchioness, instead of a countess. Lord knows how much she twitched and moaned about being a countess to begin with. If nothing else, hearing her complain about changing titles will be grand entertainment. I can hear her voice cursing in my head already, and it makes me smile.

“Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama…” Alton’s voice carried down the hall.

“In the kitchen, little love,” she called back. He repeated her name until he found her, and by the tenth mama her nerves had frayed.

Alton’s curls peeked over the back of the wooden chair beside her. Goodness, he was getting tall. The chair scraped against the plank floor as he pulled it away from the table, then clambered up onto the seat. “Is there pie?”

Emma moved the inkpot out of reach before his little hands could make their inevitable grab for it. “Pie is in the oven.” His pout made her chuckle. “Baking takes time. These things don’t happen by magic, you know.” At his age, she’d thought the kitchens produced delights like a djinn from a lamp.

Wish. Poof. Pie.

She’d had no concept of the labor and time each pastry and loaf represented, and hadn’t wrapped her mind around the reality until nearly six years earlier. Even in the womb, Alton had craved pie, and thus Emma’s love of baking had been born a few months before her son.

Alton sagged in the chair like his bones were turning to jelly. He lolled his head in her direction with beseeching eyes. “Can’t it go faster? It smells so good, and I’m hungry.” As if on cue, a gurgle sounded from his tummy.

“Some things are worth waiting for. Have a glass of milk and some bread with cheese to tide you over.”

He blinked his big, dark eyes at her. Dark eyes, gold hair. No one could deny Alton was her son. When she met his impression of a starving orphan waif with an unblinking stare, he sighed and climbed off the chair.

“Fine,” Alton grumbled, then moved toward the cupboard for a glass.

The milk jug was too heavy for him, so Emma rose to slice the cheese and bread, then pour his milk. The plate trembled slightly and tipped at a precarious angle as he carried it back toward the table. Her fists clenched with the need to step in, but instead of taking the plate away, she hovered, ready to make a grab for the stoneware before it hit the floor and they lost another place setting. Alton’s independent streak had been making an appearance during the last few months, which meant more chips, cracks, and crashes than were good for their dishes.

He was growing up right before her eyes. So many changes since the weather turned cold.

Maybe she had been too busy and distracted to grieve Father. When she was back in London, wrapped in the easy life of her brother’s house with its army of servants ready to see to her comfort, the reality of Father’s death might crash into her.

Or she might find that London changed nothing, and the part of her that should mourn her last parent remained cold. Exactly like Father had been when Mother died. After a lifetime of drama and heightened passion over every damn thing in their relationship, Father’s reaction to his wife’s death had been unexpected. As if she’d taken all the emotions with her when she died. Father hadn’t cried, and he hadn’t mourned in any discernable way. The next week he’d found a new mistress and was back to his old habits.

Alton scurried over to the open window and yelled, “Leonard! Don’t eat that!”

A muted bleat from the goat was probably Leonard’s way of telling the tiny tyrant to go to hell, and the sound made Emma smile.

She’d miss their home, but the need to see Calvin and Phee was stronger. Alton would love seeing his cousin again, and the merriment of celebrating Freddie’s day of birth as a family would be worth the travel. It was only a few weeks, after all. It wasn’t as if she planned to stay for the Season.

She knew her place now, and it wasn’t in glittering ballrooms. Although this life, as sweet as it was, could feel solitary. Especially late at night, when loneliness settled over Emma heavier than blankets, the memory of a pair of hazel eyes and a wicked smile reminded her that no matter how hard she tried to suppress it, her desire was alive and well.

Maybe she needed to take a lover. To enter into the relationship thoughtfully and methodically, and not on impulse. Choose someone decent and kind who would be around for longer than one night, but wouldn’t expect marriage or access to her secrets.

Yes, perhaps a lover was worth considering. If Leonard the goat could manage it, surely she could too.

Chapter Two

I sometimes wonder what life would be like if I’d received everything I thought I wanted. I’d have missed so much. Not a bit of my day-to-day existence would resemble my current reality, beyond the presence of A—. No cottage. No crashing sea. No midnight baking sessions, or overly familiar household servants. Worst of all, I would have married HIM.

—Journal entry, May 12, 1824

London, England
Early April 1825

For the love of everything holy, if Roxbury didn’t release her arm, she was going to do the man some serious harm. Here, in Hyde Park, where anyone might happen by, Lady Emma Hardwick would raise a fuss the likes of which London hadn’t seen since King George barred his queen from attending his coronation.

“You shall unhand me at once, and never touch me again. Do I make myself clear, Lord Roxbury?” The words had to work past her clenched jaw. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma spotted her sister-in-law, Phee, chattering animatedly with Alton while leading him farther away. Bless her. Phee knew Emma’s top priority would be keeping Alton away from the scene her unwanted companion seemed determined to create.

Roxbury released her arm with clear reluctance. “I’ve called twice this week and your prick of a butler says you’re not at home.”

It took every ounce of her self-control to not roll her eyes. “I have no interest in renewing an acquaintance with you, Lord Roxbury.” She made a note to thank Higgins when she returned to the house. The aging butler had had his hands full these past few weeks. Not only dealing with houseguests and the young master’s birthday celebration, but keeping unwanted callers like Roxbury at bay.

He grinned, and for a second, she glimpsed what had caught her eye so many years before. Devon had a great smile. Charming, persuasive, and distracting. Many women besides her had been taken in by his smile while he lied through his teeth.

“So formal, my love,” he said.

Emma couldn’t help grimacing in disgust. A week prior he’d been dancing attendance on a well-dowered wallflower. The girl was young and sweet and didn’t deserve to be stuck with this reprobate for the rest of her life. After an anonymous note to the girl’s father, the match everyone had been expecting fizzled abruptly. The resulting speculation in the gossip pages had made her smile into her coffee cup.

Sending that note had been Emma’s good deed for the week. Unfortunately, the interference had unexpected consequences. Namely, Roxbury’s full attention was now focused on her, instead of divided between two women with money and empty ring fingers.

Emma tucked a lock of hair back under her bonnet as she wished her former lover to the devil. “I’m not your love. I’m not your anything. If you call on me, I won’t be at home. You and I have no relationship, no ties.”

Roxbury’s smile turned flinty, with an edge that threatened to slice her world apart as he tilted his head to study her, then glanced toward where Alton stood near the river. “I’d say we have quite a few ties, Emma. Pity the boy is so small. The men in my family are usually strapping lads from a young age.”

She swallowed a wave of acid back down her throat, forcing her expression into something neutral. “Adam wasn’t a large man, but he was a good man. I’d be thrilled if his son grows to look like him.” She’d lived the lie for so many years, it no longer tasted wrong on her tongue, but throwing it so blatantly in Roxbury’s face sent a spike of anxiety straight through her.

His smile disappeared, and he wrapped a hand around her arm, dragging her close enough that his hot breath hit her face, ripe with stale liquor. “You stole my fiancée—I know it was you. And you stole my heir. Next time I call, you’ll receive me, or everyone in London will see who his father really is.”

The pressure of his fingers sent panic tightening her chest as doubt crept in. Devon Roxbury, biological father to her child and all-around rotter, sounded earnest in his threat. Unlike her, he’d been in London all this time and had a full roster of friends, allies, and dupes. If he spoke against her and her son, people would believe him. He could ruin Alton’s future with his twisted version of the truth.

Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone and let him marry his wallflower? She winced under the pressure of his fingers and forced a breath into her lungs. Memories of how Roxbury had sneered at, shamed, and then abandoned her when she’d told him she was pregnant, rose to the forefront of her mind. The wallflower deserved happiness, and Roxbury hadn’t changed. That’s why.

The truth stiffened her spine until Emma jerked free of his hold. “She deserves better than a man like you.”

She braced as he opened his mouth for a no-doubt scathing retort.

“There you are, darling. So sorry I left you to the wilds of the park. I didn’t realize there were so many dangers about.” The deep voice from behind her sent a wave of gooseflesh rippling down her back. The last time she’d heard that voice, it had rumbled in her ear with aroused disappointment as she’d crept from his bed at the inn in Olread Cove. The sun had been peeking over the windowsill, and knowing Alton would be awake soon drove her from his arms and back to real life.

Captain Malachi Harlow, in the flesh.

And what mighty appealing flesh it was. His rough palm, warmer and more solid than her memories, seared her lower back as he slipped into place beside her. The hard chest she’d explored with her hands, and those wide shoulders she’d clung to, blocked the sun and cast a shadow over Roxbury’s wide eyes. Harlow did make quite an impact on the senses. Rather like a blunt force blow to the side of the head—enough to scramble your wits and steal a breath or two.

Emma loosed her sweetest smile on the captain. “Lord Roxbury was just saying goodbye. You returned at the perfect moment.” She turned to Devon. “You were preparing to take your leave, weren’t you, milord? I’m certain a gentleman such as yourself wouldn’t want to intrude on our private outing.” For emphasis, she stepped closer to Captain Harlow’s firm heat. Bay rum, made more potent by the man’s body and the sun’s warmth, hit her nose, flooding her with a feeling of safety. Even if for one moment, it was a relief to not face Roxbury alone.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Malachi slipped one hand around her waist and offered the other to Devon.

The men shook hands in a parody of civility. “Lord Devon Roxbury. Former friend of Lady Emma.” The man’s chest puffed like a peacock, as if he could somehow claim her by proclamation alone.

“Captain Harlow of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and the Duke of Trenton. Current friend of Emma,” the man beside her said.

Duke? Emma shot him a glance, but saw only a distractingly hard jaw and heavy brows bisected by a scar.

The two men stared at one another long enough that no one could mistake their exchange as friendly before Roxbury stepped away and cut a shallow bow in her direction. “Good day, Lady Emma,” he said, then turned on his heel and made a hasty retreat.

She and Malachi held their cozy pose until Roxbury and his mount rounded the curve and disappeared.

“Duke of Trenton?” She whirled around in his loose embrace.

“Lady Emma?” he countered, arching his scarred brow.

At the base of her spine, his fingers flexed, urging her to sway closer. “I don’t use the honorific in Olread Cove. It would have made a fuss.”

His pale hazel gaze flicked toward the path Roxbury had taken. “And he’s part of the reason you didn’t want a fuss, I take it.”

A shrug would be the onl. . .