The Runaway Duke

by Julie Anne Long

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Ruined! No one could ever accuse Rebecca Tremaine of being a proper young lady. She's wretched at embroidery, pitiful at the pianoforte, and entirely too informed about the human body, courtesy of her father's scientific journals. And now she's been compromised by a dandy she despises! When her parents arrange a hasty marriage, there is only one man she can turn to for help. Rescued! No one knows that Irish groom Connor Riordan is the fifth Duke of Dunbrooke, "killed" in action at Waterloo, and he wants it to stay that way. But a true gentleman never turns away a damsel in distress. Soon Connor and Rebecca dash away-only to be pursued by bumbling highwaymen, a scheming duchess, and Rebecca's fiance. Ravished! Being with the beautiful and desirable Rebecca jeopardizes Connor's secret every day-and tests his willpower every night. For if ever there was a reason to bring the Duke of Dunbrooke back from the dead, it would be to make Miss Tremaine his Duchess!

Release date: September 3, 2007

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 388

Sample

Prologue

June 1815

He was dreaming, or he was awake; he couldn’t be certain anymore. Smoke and gunpowder scorched his lungs. His musket, slippery with sweat where his fist clutched it, was hotter than his lungs, and nearly slipped his grip as he fumbled to reload. His legs and arms had gone numb from exhaustion, and the sounds raging around him—screams of horses and men, the clash of metal, the thud of boots, the boom of cannons—pulsed, collided, fused into one sound. From somewhere within that one sound an echo of hideous pain howled, distinct, relentless.

“Son? Can you hear me, son?”

Someone grabbed him by his hair, grown long during the endless weeks of marching, and yanked his head back; he looked into the cold glinting eyes of his father, who threw him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. And when he curled his arms around his knees to protect himself, his father kicked him again, and again, and then pulled him to his feet, because it infuriated his father when he could not see in his son’s eyes the pain he was inflicting. And then his father let him go, and when he looked up again, still fumbling to load his gun, he saw Roddy Campbell take a musket ball in the gut; saw the blood fountaining from him, saw Roddy flying backward to lie like so many others on the field, no longer a laughing Irishman who occasionally cheated at cards and always missed his mother, but a pile of rags and bones and meat.

“Tell us your name, lad,” came the voice again, a sound disconnected from the wall of raging noise, soft but excruciating and unwelcome, because it wanted to drag him closer to the surface, where the pain was.

“I don’t think he can hear you, Doctor. I was able to give him some of the bark water, but the fever seems to have him now.”

“Roddy,” he gasped. “Roddy.” It seemed important to tell the voice about Roddy. Someone should know, someone should acknowledge his fall.

“What did he say just then?”

“I believe we have our answer. He said ‘Roddy.’”

The doctor dropped his head to his chest with a deep sigh, then quickly lifted it again. Gestures of resignation and loss were indulgences here. He could afford them only sparingly.

“If this is Roddy Campbell, then the lad with his chest blown in must be young Blackburn. First name Roarke, according to Pierce, then a half-dozen other names, like any proper nobleman. Dunbrooke’s heir. We’ve lost the future Duke of Dunbrooke here tonight.”

“Oh,” said the woman, a sigh. They turned to look at the body of the young man whose face they had just covered. Awe of the aristocracy had been bred into the English bone for centuries, and even now, surrounded by the blood and misery of Waterloo, they mourned more than perhaps they ought to for the dead young man, simply because he was the eldest son of a very wealthy duke.

“Word has it that he enraged the duke by serving at all, let alone in the infantry,” the doctor said. “Bloody rash young fool. Send a messenger to Colonel Pierce—he personally saw these two lads loaded onto the hospital cart. He was fond of Dunbrooke. The rest of their regiment is dead on the field.”

“Does the duke have any other sons?”

“One other. Word is the younger son’s a bit of a rakehell.”

“I’ll pray for young Roarke Blackburn’s soul, then, may he rest in peace. Do you think Campbell will live?”

“If he survives this fever, yes, he will live, or at least it won’t be his leg that kills him. Give him some more of the Peruvian bark water when he’ll take it. The ball missed the bone, so he’ll likely keep his leg. Lucky chap, unlike his friend.”

His fever broke the next day and the searing pain in his leg became all too real evidence that he was alive. He opened his eyes to the shy, kind smile of the woman kneeling next to him—was this her house? It was a farmhouse, and bodies of soldiers—dead, dying, struggling to live—lined the floors, and the stench of suffering thickened the air. The woman offered him some water and called him “Roddy.” And as he had decided somewhere in his fitful sleep that his life thus far had been nothing but battles and that if he lived he would never do battle again, he saw this as a sign from God. He thanked God for the innate resourcefulness that allowed him to recognize an opportunity when it reared before him. He silently thanked his father for the cool control he had at his command, a control that had been forged from violence and manipulation. He thanked Wellington, who cared little what his men wore on their backs as long as they fought well and bravely, for no one would be able to identify him from his uniform. And he thanked Roddy Campbell for the temporary loan of his name, and was certain that Campbell would have been thoroughly amused.

In the chaos of Waterloo’s aftermath, it was easy to become someone else. When he was able to limp out of the makeshift battlefield hospital and away from the horrors wrought by Napoleon and his own countrymen, Roarke Blackburn, now known as Roddy Campbell, boarded a ship for England and disappeared into the English countryside, to a life empty of everything but the freedom to choose what came next. At the first pub he encountered, he offered a final silent prayer of gratitude and a toast to his unlucky friend, then retired Roddy Campbell’s name. He had decided to use two of his own names; since he had so many to choose from, it seemed the right thing to do.

Roarke Blackburn is dead, he thought with a smile, and toasted himself. Long live Connor Riordan.

“Jenkins—I mean, Riordan—may I beg a favor of you, m’boy?”

Connor stifled a smile and looked up from the saddle he was polishing. Imagine Sir Henry Tremaine “begging a favor” of his head groom. But Sir Henry was like that: kind and respectful, if absentminded—occasionally Sir Henry called him Jenkins, who was the gardener, and he called the gardener Riordan. Connor merely considered the extra layer of anonymity afforded by Sir Henry’s forgetfulness an added benefit of his employment. They’d met in a country pub a week or so before—Sir Henry had mistaken Connor for an Irish laborer, which was precisely what Connor intended to be mistaken for—and they had begun talking about horses, a comfortable, manly topic. At last, filled with bonhomie and ale, impressed with Connor’s extensive equine knowledge, Sir Henry had impulsively offered him a job. Why not? Connor had thought. He knew horses; he had been wandering aimlessly for nearly a year. Some structure to his day, a kind employer, a small but sufficient wage . . . it had seemed like the perfect way to bide his time until he knew what he intended to do for the rest of his life.

“A favor, sir? But of course. How can I be of assistance to ye?”

“Well, ’tis my daughter, you see . . .”

“Your daughter, sir?”

“My youngest. Rebecca. She’s in a tree. Something to do with a hound.”

It seemed that Daisy, a big old brown hound Connor had met just a day ago, had died in her sleep during the night. Shredded with grief, Rebecca had taken to the largest apple tree in the orchard shortly after breakfast. Suppertime was growing nigh, and she showed no signs of desiring to set foot on the ground ever again, regardless of the shouted coaxing that her mama and papa had done from below.

“I’m not as spry as I once was, Riordan, and I wondered if you’d mind going up after her? She’s a stubborn little thing, and a bit of a hoyden at times, but very dear in her way.”

Connor had a soft spot for stubborn hoydens. “I’ll have a go at it, sir.”

He followed Sir Henry to the tree, an impressive tree to be sure; it sprang up out of the ground like an immense gnarled hand. He scaled it and found a pale, redheaded twig of a girl, all long limbs, fierce expression, and tear-streaked cheeks, huddled on a thick branch.

“Who are you?” she demanded imperiously, sniffling, when his dark head came into view.

“I’m Connor Riordan, m’lady. I work with your da’s horses in the stables. I understand you are Rebecca. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Riordan.” Connor smiled; her startled imperiousness had given way to politeness, as though she was loath to make anyone feel unwelcome. “You’re not English, are you?”

“No, m’lady. Irish as St. Patrick.”

Rebecca nodded, studying him curiously now.

“’Tis a sad thing about Daisy, eh, lass? She was a fine hound. I liked her very much.”

“You met her?” Rebecca asked, half hopeful, half suspicious. Her eyes began to tear again.

“Oh, yes, I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance yesterday. She had very kind eyes, a lot of gray around her muzzle, and a particularly nice smile for a dog. She looked a bit tired, but happy to meet me.”

Rebecca began blinking rapidly, because the tears were coming again, but she laughed a little, too. “Her back legs hurt her, and she couldn’t see very well anymore, and she had more gray fur than brown on her face. I think you are right—she was very tired. But she was my best friend, and I will miss her very much.”

“Oh, you are a lucky lass then, if you were her best friend. Daisy was very lucky, too, to have you for a friend. And she’s lucky to have folks who miss her. I wish I could have known her better.”

Rebecca nodded somberly, reflecting on this philosophy.

“What do you think Daisy is doing now?” she asked in a near whisper, as if fearing the answer.

“Oh, she’s most definitely in heaven, Rebecca, chasing her tail, and maybe some rabbits, too, and every now and then she catches one. But they have an agreement, she and the rabbits—it’s just a game of tag, no eating allowed. She has the hind legs of a pup. She’ll have scraps from God’s dinner table every night.”

Rebecca laughed again, then swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She looked a little relieved at his answer.

“The vicar isn’t certain whether animals go to heaven,” Rebecca mused. “But I thought that Daisy might.”

“I will tell you a secret, Miss Tremaine: vicars do not always know the answers to the big questions. But do not tell the vicar that I told you that.”

Rebecca nodded. “I believe you are right. Our vicar doesn’t seem to like it when I ask questions, but I cannot help it. There’s so much that wants questioning.”

“I’ll wager you ask excellent questions,” Connor said with a grin.

Rebecca nodded somberly, as if this went without saying.

“Did you know your da bought a new horse today? A young Arabian colt, name of Maharajah. A big gray fellow. I think we all need to make him feel welcome. Would you like to meet him?”

After a moment of reflection, Rebecca nodded, and Connor held out his arms, an eyebrow cocked.

“I can get down on my own,” she said with an indignant sniffle.

“I know, lass, but you’re tired, aye? Everyone will think I’m a hero if they see me helping you down, and I’d like to impress your da, seeing as how I’m new here. What do you say? Will you help me out?”

Rebecca smiled, mulling this over. And at last, she gave in and trustingly hooked her hands around Connor’s neck.

And so Connor shinnied down the tree with one arm wrapped protectively around the gangly little girl. She seemed to weigh barely anything at all.

Chapter One

May 1820

A word, Rebecca.”

Lady Tremaine stood on the stairs with a lit candle in hand, a sleeping cap pulled down over her graying curls. She was a short woman who had gone very round in her middle years, and her night robe was flamboyantly ruffled. The overall effect was usually endearing; tonight, however, it was simply terrifying. Above all those ruffles Lady Tremaine’s mouth was a grim line, and her eyes were shining with unspilled tears.

“To bed with you, Lorelei. Come with me, Rebecca.”

Rebecca, in her incriminating black clothing, followed her mother to the sitting room, her heart a frozen fist in her chest.

Her mother did not sit down, or invite Rebecca to sit. She merely turned to speak.

“Clearly I have failed you, Rebecca.”

“Mama—” Rebecca began, pleading, but her mother raised her hand abruptly.

“No, it is quite clear that I have failed you. I think it can be fairly said that you are perhaps a special case, but it remains a mother’s duty to give her daughter the skills she needs to fulfill her obligation in life. And I have tried—”

Here Lady Tremaine’s voice broke, and one tear slipped from her eye. Rebecca watched, transfixed in dread, as the candlelight lit its path down her mother’s cheek. She had seen exasperation on her mother’s face before—many times before, truth be told—and frustration and anger, too, all a result of something she had done or failed to do. But she had never before made her mother cry.

“I have tried,” Lady Tremaine continued, her composure regained, “to teach you modesty. And honesty. And gentleness. I have tried to demonstrate by my own actions the proper way to behave. I have tried to ensure that you could lay claim to at least a few ladylike refinements, such as the pianoforte or embroidery. And I have not undertaken this in order to punish you, Rebecca, though I am quite sure you have thought otherwise, but to protect you: a woman is nothing without a husband. For the sake of your future happiness and security, for the sake of your place in society, for the sake of your honor, I have attempted to teach you these things, so that when the time came you would be a suitable wife deserving of a suitable husband.”

“Mama—” Rebecca tried again, a hoarse whisper. Lady Tremaine shook her head in warning. The tears were falling swiftly and silently now, and her voice had gone thick.

“And though you have a good heart, Rebecca, you have willfully resisted all of my teachings, which has caused me no end of distress. I am convinced that it is only through an accident of fate that you have not brought great shame down upon us. At this very moment, you can be certain that your father is securing your engagement to Lord Edelston. Your honor and the honor of your family will thus be protected, and Lorelei’s prospects will not be threatened. You may count yourself fortunate that instead of becoming a social pariah and a burden on your family, you will become the wife of a baron. You may go to your room now. We will talk further in the morning.”

It had been almost disappointingly easy to leave her bedroom just before midnight, creep down the stairs, tiptoe out through the kitchen, and dash across the back garden lawn to crouch behind the tall hedge near the fountain. Obviously, it had never occurred to her parents that one of their daughters might ever be tempted to do such a thing; they had retired hours earlier, and were no doubt already sleeping the sleep of the blissfully unaware. All the servants were safely in their beds and snoring, too; her own maid Letty, as usual, slept as though she’d been clubbed in the head. The entire estate seemed to be dreaming, dogs and horses included. Rebecca was satisfied that no one had witnessed her furtive excursion.

Her exultation at having successfully arrived at the fountain ebbed a bit, however, when she discovered that it was colder than she had anticipated. Although she had, quite cleverly, she thought, donned a pair of black gloves and a dark wool cloak and tucked her treacherously bright hair into a dark furry hat before she left the house, the chill was beginning to penetrate every last bit of her protective covering.

To distract herself, she exhaled extravagantly and admired the white cloud her breath made. There had been a very interesting article on vapor and condensation in one of her father’s scientific journals, and Rebecca had been happily engrossed in it this afternoon in the library until her mother herded her into the solarium, where she was forced to poke at the pianoforte for the rest of the afternoon.

The midnight trap she had planned for her sister had promised to more than make up for the torture of pianoforte practice, but the midnight chill, as much as she hated to admit it, was proving daunting. She hoped her sister Lorelei would hurry up and appear and fall into the arms of Anthony, Lord Edelston, who, no doubt, was creeping across the lawn to the fountain at this very moment. Rebecca planned to leap out from behind the hedge with a hearty “ah-HA!” and thus buy freedom from future extortion by her sister.

It was quite by accident that Rebecca had overheard the exchange between the tall, golden-haired Lord Edelston and her fair sister, Lorelei, who, by the age of eighteen, had done her duty to her relieved parents by growing into precisely the sort of pristine beauty the ambitious name “Lorelei” implied. Lorelei was very nearly unnerving, with her silver-blond hair, pale blossom of a mouth, and enormous crystalline blue eyes fringed with the most unfair dark lashes. Rebecca’s own lashes were a sort of pale chestnut, which she supposed matched her hair well enough and did nothing to detract from her own handsome gray-green eyes, but they simply lacked the drama of Lorelei’s. Rebecca sometimes feared her entire face lacked drama, which seemed to her a gross—or perhaps merciful—misrepresentation of what actually went on in her mind and heart.

Whereas Lorelei had inherited her mother’s smooth refined oval of a face, Rebecca had inherited her bones from some more rugged ancestor: her cheekbones soared, her mouth was wide and plush, her nose was straight and strong and resolute, and her firm little chin had a dimple in it, for heaven’s sake, exactly the size of the tip of her forefinger. When one considered them side by side, one could see that Lorelei and Rebecca were sisters, but Lorelei’s hair seemed like something spun from silk and moonlight, while Rebecca’s hair was merely numerous shades of red and rambunctiously curly to boot.

“Titian,” her mother described it, optimistically; “That unfortunate red” is what Lorelei called it when they were sniping at each other, which was rather frequently.

Rebecca did not dislike her older sister, and Lorelei did not dislike Rebecca. They were, in fact, very fond of each other. But Rebecca was widely loved by the servants and the neighbors, partially because she was everything Lorelei was not: she laughed loudly and easily, she was curious, she read far more than a decently bred girl ought to read, she galloped her horse hard (astride, no less) and came home happily sweaty. She was affectionate and kind and immensely opinionated about things she should really know nothing about, but then Sir Henry Tremaine was a trifle careless about where he left his scientific journals.

She was, naturally, the bane of her mother’s existence and affectionately tolerated by her father, who had taught her to shoot on a whim and then basically left her to her own devices, as she could never really be the boy he had always wanted. Both of her parents secretly despaired of finding a husband for Rebecca, let alone one with a title.

Lorelei, on the other hand, was typically regarded with the sort of nervous reverence her kind of beauty always inspired, and although she secretly reveled in the awe, she found herself increasingly unable to step out of her regal reserve. She had begun to regard her own beauty as something sacred that had been entrusted unto her safekeeping, and thus she felt obliged to treat herself with somber respect at all times. Lorelei was fully expected to make a spectacular titled marriage, and her mother never tired of pointing this out.

Consequently the Tremaine sisters were jealous of each other, which manifested in an ongoing exchange of blackmail threats that rarely reached their parents’ ears, although the possibility was always tantalizingly present. Yesterday afternoon Lorelei had threatened to tell Sir Henry, their father, that Rebecca had been poring over the anatomy book he purposely kept on a very high shelf in the library. This was a serious threat, indeed, as the book had been forbidden to Rebecca, and punishment would no doubt be severe—she might even be deprived of her horse for a fortnight. And doubtless the book would then be spirited away forever, safe from Rebecca’s voracious hunger for knowledge, and Rebecca would never learn the complete story of how blood circulates through the veins (it was much, much too late to protect her from the story of how babies were made).

In a sense, it was all her father’s fault. Upon retirement, Sir Henry had indulged his long-denied interest in science and medicine by subscribing to any journal that could be had on the subjects. Rebecca had happened upon the journals one day in the library and waded into them cautiously, keeping a wary eye out for her mother.

She had never been more enthralled by anything in her life.

Shockingly matter-of-fact debates regarding whether musket balls should be left in wounds if they could not be retrieved easily, the best methods of amputation, the uses of mercury, words like “laudable pus” and “trepanning”—the journals were both appallingly, titillatingly gory and strangely reassuring. Human beings were subject to a staggering array of illnesses and disasters, but the fact that learned men could discusses such things in dispassionate detail made human frailty seem less mystical and frightening and more a matter of course, of philosophy, essential to the pattern of life itself. Whenever Rebecca encountered a word or the name of a body part with which she was unfamiliar, she referred to her father’s anatomy book, and thus inadvertently gave herself a very unorthodox education.

As a consequence, Rebecca nursed a secret desire—or rather a semisecret desire—to be a doctor. She had broached the subject once at the breakfast table, and in light of the spasm of pain that had crossed her mother’s face and the condescending bark of laughter it had surprised from her father, she had thought it best not to bring it up again. However, the desire remained, and had only increased in poignancy, as is the habit of all secret desires. Thus, this newest threat of Lorelei’s required momentous ammunition by way of counteraction, and she had prayed hard for the appropriate solution.

Rebecca’s prayers had been answered in an almost comically swift fashion. Anthony, Baron Edelston, who was staying with the nearby family of Squire Denslowe, had effortlessly and instantly fascinated all the young women in the area simply by behaving toward them the way every young rake in London behaved: politely resigned to boredom, ever-so-slightly tragic and languid, a slight hint of danger glinting in his eyes as he lingered a little too long over the hand of some lucky maiden. Rebecca thought he was handsome but somewhat repulsive. Why on earth anyone found his air of boredom and tragedy captivating was beyond her ken.

However, Lorelei was poised on the brink of her first London season and had yet to meet a man like Edelston. Her careful reserve soon proved no match for Edelston’s cultivated indifference. Edelston, indeed, behaved as though Lorelei’s sort was as common as the dandelions that sprinkled the garden lawn, and Lorelei found herself actually exerting herself in an attempt to charm.

As exertion was unfamiliar territory for Lorelei, she was in over her head rather rapidly. One moment Edelston was coolly surveying the room full of overly cheerful provincials over the top of Lorelei’s moonlight-colored head; in the next moment, he had dropped his voice to a fierce murmur, suggesting a tryst in the back garden at midnight the following night. Rebecca, surreptitiously moving through the room, heard her sister murmur a shocking acquiescence.

Because it would be ever so much more satisfying—and much more potent an arrow in her blackmail quiver—to actually catch her sister in the outrageous act of meeting a young man at midnight, Rebecca had decided to precede the pair to the garden. If the two of them didn’t appear soon, however, Rebecca decided she would return the way she came, as catching a chill was becoming a real threat. She clapped her mittened hands together to warm them and gazed up at the stars sprinkling the sky, picking out constellations to pass the time.

Sir Henry Tremaine had rheumatism in his left knee. It had made itself at home there after a hunting accident a few years ago, and every now and again, particularly on chilly nights, it plagued him mercilessly. It was plaguing him tonight, and he had lain awake long enough. Careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, he slid out of bed, slipped into his robe, and lit a candle to light his way to the library, which was where he kept the brandy. From experience, he knew that a quickly bolted glass would muffle the pain long enough to allow him to sleep.

But halfway down the stairs, Sir Henry caught a glimpse of a pale head of hair and a swirl of dark skirts. Astonishingly, Lorelei appeared to be exiting the house through the kitchen. At midnight. In seeming deference to his shock, his throbbing knee went quiet. Sir Henry decided the brandy could wait. He stealthily followed his daughter outside.

Tom Jenkins, the Tremaines’ gardener, was arriving home from The White Sow, the best place in the village for a glass of comfort and a relaxing chat with a large-busted barmaid, when he saw a dark figure dart across the back lawn. It was tall enough to be a man, and as he had only consumed two pints this evening—Tom liked his ale well enough, but he liked his job better—Tom was certain his eyes were not playing tricks on him. Thinking quickly, he armed himself with a spade from the toolshed, and cautiously glided across the frost-stiffened lawn toward the fountain, where the shadowy figure had disappeared.

Rebecca was deeply disappointed. It appeared that she had risked a great deal for naught, because no one had yet appeared near the fountain. She sighed and straightened her back, then stepped out from behind the hedge to return to the house.

Right into a pair of masculine arms.

“There you are, my sweet. I feared you had changed your mind,” said Lord Edelston in the same fierce murmur he had used to entice Lorelei here to begin with. Before Rebecca could register this astonishing turn of events, Edelston lowered his mouth to hers, slid his hands down to cup her bottom, and flicked his tongue at the corners of her mouth.

Rebecca was paralyzed by a number of conflicting realizations, including the fact that, for all intents and purposes, she was being ravished for the first time in her life and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, even if the loathsome Edelston was doing the ravishing. The curious part of her wanted to see what would happen next. The rational part of her was infuriated and frightened indeed. Her hands hovered in the vicinity of Edelston’s shoulders, undecided as to whether they should rest there and settle in for a while or shove him away.

The decision was taken out of her hands by a feminine scream, a masculine roar, and a dull thumping sound.

R. . .