Glory and the Duke

Book 5: The Regency Collection

by Deborah Simmons

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Glory Sutton wants to reopen her family's once famous spa, though she scoffs at rumors of its romantic powers. But someone is working against her. Could it be the handsome and powerful Duke of Westfield, who might not be what he seems? Glory doesn't trust him—or herself when he's near.

Westfield doesn't believe in matchmaking waters or Miss Sutton's motives, but something about her stirs feelings he'd thought long dead. He's determined to solve all of her mysteries—including why she affects him like no other woman.

Is the well working its magic?

Release date: February 5, 2021

Publisher: Bennett Street Books

Print pages: 217

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Glory Sutton slipped into the Pump Room, blinking in the dimness. She wished she had brought a lantern, for the curtains that were drawn to foil gawpers also kept out the light of the fading day. But she hadn’t realized how late it was when she’d remembered the reticule she’d left behind.

Or how empty the building would be.

With the workmen gone, the place was silent, her slippers making the only sound as she walked around the ladders and paint, the culmination of her efforts to bring Queen’s Well back to life. Years ago the spa had been a popular destination for fashionables to enjoy the healthful waters and polite company. It had been in her family for centuries, and Glory took pride in her efforts to preserve that heritage.

The building was familiar to her now, like a cherished heirloom, but a low noise made her glance about warily. It was just the creaking of old wood, Glory told herself, yet she felt uneasy in a way she had never been before coming to take possession of her inheritance.

Her welcome had been mixed, for not everyone in the village shared her enthusiasm for Queen’s Well. But that hadn’t been enough to unnerve someone of her practical sensibilities. What she found troubling was the sensation she often had that someone was watching her. She didn’t mention it, for her brother Thad would say her feelings were proof of the enmity of the locals. And Aunt Phillida would only worry—or faint dead away. Neither of them shared Glory’s hopes for the spa and would seize upon any excuse to abandon the once-thriving well she was trying to revive.

Although Glory kept her concerns to herself, she had slipped a small pistol into her reticule. The precaution would have horrified her aunt and her brother, but Glory’s father had instilled in her the determination to watch out for herself—even in such a seemingly benign locale as the village of Philtwell.

However, a pistol would do no good, if she did not have it at hand, Glory thought as she turned to scan the deserted room. The shrouded furniture made the place look ghostly, as well as shielding her view, and she had to swallow a cry of surprise as a stray draught caught at a sheet. Finally, she spied a dark object lying on one of the benches that lined the walls. Had she laid it down when inspecting the refurbished pieces? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps a workman had put it there.

Hurrying forward, Glory reached for the item, relieved to feel the soft material of her reticule and the heft of the weapon inside. But then she heard a noise again and spun round in alarm, for it sounded like the creak of a door.

Had someone followed her inside? Glory was tempted to call out the question, but held her tongue. Who would enter a darkened business that had been closed for decades? It might be a curious villager or one of the workers returning, but something made Glory shrink into the shadows.

A glance toward the main entrance showed that it remained firmly shut. But she had come through the rear of the building, using her key. Had she left the door open? She had so much on her mind, so many details to tend to before the reopening, that she might have been careless. If so, the wind may have blown the door shut. Still, Glory slipped the pistol from her reticule and inched behind the sheeted tables, keeping to the perimeter.

But the private rooms at the rear were even darker, and Glory cursed her own foolishness as she shied away from the shadows. Finally, she saw the door standing open ahead and moved toward it, eager to leave the eerie atmosphere of the building. Hurrying over the threshold, Glory released a sigh of relief, only to catch her breath again as a shape loomed up in front of her.

Jerking backward in alarm, Glory lifted her weapon with a shaking hand and called out in an even shakier voice, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

“Excuse me?”

The low drawl wasn’t what Glory had expected, but she was not about to lower her guard. “Stand right there. Don’t move,” she said, inching away from the presence. Although it was lighter outside, great sycamores shrouded the Pump Room’s exterior, and she could see little except a dark form, large and menacing.

“Do you know who I am?” it asked.

Although definitely male, the figure was too tall to be Dr. Tibold. The physician had made himself a nuisance with his insistence that the well waters be given freely to all—so that he could more easily line his own pockets.

“No,” Glory said, even as she wondered whether Dr. Tibold had hired some thug to ensure her compliance with his outrageous demands. At the thought, her grip on the pistol tightened. This fellow seemed too smooth, his speech too refined, to be a ruffian, and yet all her instincts told Glory that, whoever he was, the man was dangerous.

“Should I?” she asked, with more bravado than she felt.

“I assume that’s why you’re robbing me.”

Glory blinked in surprise. “I’m not robbing you,” she protested. But in that unguarded instant he made his move, knocking the pistol aside and pulling her to him.

The weapon fell to the ground, and Glory found herself closer to a man than she had ever been. Her back pushed against the length of his body while his arm closed over her chest, holding her fast. Gasping at the startling intimacy, Glory felt her wits desert her. Although rarely at a loss, she was bombarded by unfamiliar sensations: the man’s obvious strength, the hard form pressed to hers, and the heat that enveloped her.

As she drew in a sharp breath, Glory was assailed anew by the scent of warm male tinged with a subtle cologne. Her heart thundered, her pulse pounded, and there was a brush of warm breath on her hair as though of a whisper…

“What the devil?” Thad’s shout rang out, cutting off whatever words Glory imagined she might hear from the man positioned behind her. And before Glory could summon the sense to respond to either male, her brother appeared on the path, silhouetted against the setting sun. “Unhand my sister!”

“Work in tandem, do you?” The deep drawl close to her ear sent shivers up Glory’s spine. She told herself it was because the man didn’t seem the least bit wary of Thad charging to her rescue. Her reaction certainly had nothing to do with the voice itself, low and familiar and assured, or the peculiar quickening of her body, a loss of control that alarmed her more than anything else.

But perhaps that’s what panic did to a person, Glory thought, although the man had not hurt her, simply disarmed her. In fact, she appeared to be in more jeopardy from Thad, who suddenly launched himself toward the stranger, despite the fact that Glory was standing in front of the man, unable to move. Her assailant, a bit more aware, put her behind him.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, as he released her, and Glory wondered at the kind of villain who would set her free. Perhaps one who thought far too highly of himself, she mused as he faced Thad.

But the man’s confidence was not misplaced. Even in the dim light, Glory could see that Thad’s efforts were clumsy and erratic, while his opponent’s were perfectly controlled and as practiced as a boxer’s. Although that was not unusual, for even Thad wanted to take up the gentleman’s sport, this fellow had the skills of a professional. He easily could have been one of the bruisers who were paid to bloody each other in a milling-match, as Thad would say.

Yet he didn’t look like the sort to be a prize-fighter. He was too elegant and too finely clothed, his movements too smooth. Still, he was dangerous. Glory was sure of it. And although she had not feared for her own life, now she feared for Thad’s. But before she could think how to save him, her brother was knocked to the ground. Crying out in protest, Glory stepped toward him and nearly tripped over the forgotten pistol. Relief swamped her as she leaned down to retrieve it.

“Stop right there!” Glory shouted, and this time her hand was steadier as she pointed the weapon at the man looming over Thad.

But neither male paid any attention to her threat. Thad sat up, rubbed his jaw, and eyed his silent foe with what might have been admiration. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Gentleman Jackson’s.”

“No! Really?” Thad said, his voice rising with excitement. “I’d love to learn from the master, but my sister doesn’t approve. Instead, she dragged me here to the ends of the earth, where there’s nothing for a game fellow to do.”

As Glory watched dumbfounded, Thad’s opponent stretched out a hand to help him to his feet. “So you’ve taken up thievery?”

“What? No! I’m no thief, but what… what are you?” Thad asked, apparently coming to his senses. His tone changed to a challenge as he straightened. “What were you doing with my sister?”

“I was wondering why the door to the supposedly closed Pump Room was standing open when your sister threatened to put a bullet in me,” the man said.

They both turned toward Glory, who got her first decent view of her assailant as the setting sun struck him. Tall, dark, and good looking, he was dressed immaculately and reeked of power, wealth, and arrogance. Or was it simply the kind of confidence that few men possessed? Shaken, Glory drew in a sharp breath.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Since circumstances have conspired against a formal introduction, you may call me Westfield,” he said.

“Not the Duke of Westfield?” Thad’s voice held both awe and horror.

“I’m afraid so,” the man said in a wry tone.

Thad gaped, and Glory might have swayed upon her feet, had not the nobleman reached out a steadying hand—to turn away the pistol she was pointing at him.