The Summer Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 3) Read online

  She was everything he didn’t want…

  And everything he desperately needed.

  Andrew bit back a groan when the hem of Regina’s skirts swished over the toe of his boots. Any closer and she’d be wrapped in his arms. He could smell her perfume, a sultry combination of vanilla and lavender that made him want to nuzzle her neck and find precisely where she’d dabbed the intoxicating scent.

  “I – I shouldn’t have said that,” he rasped even as his hands itched to sink into her neat hair and send the pins flying in a dozen different directions. There was a velvet sofa right behind her, and he gritted his teeth against the sudden image of her sprawled across it beneath him, her arms out flung, her mouth damp from his kisses, her eyes heavy lidded with passion.

  No, he told himself. Devil take it, Andrew, you are not going to kiss the wallflower.

  But then she reached out and touched his chest, elegant fingertips trailing inquisitively across the buttons on his waistcoat.

  And that was precisely what he did.

  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.

  © 2019 by Jillian Eaton

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  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles by Jillian Eaton

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  A Duke for All Seasons

  About the Author

  Runaway Duchess

  Description

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  Other Titles by Jillian Eaton

  A Duke for All Seasons

  The Winter Duke

  The Spring Duke

  The Summer Duke

  The Autumn Duke – September 2019!

  A Duchess for All Seasons

  The Winter Duchess

  The Spring Duchess

  The Summer Duchess

  The Autumn Duchess

  Bow Street Brides

  A Dangerous Seduction

  A Dangerous Proposal

  A Dangerous Affair

  A Dangerous Passion

  A Dangerous Temptation

  London Ladies

  Runaway Duchess

  Spinster and the Duke

  Forgotten Fiancee

  Lady Harper

  Wedded Women

  A Brooding Beauty

  A Ravishing Redhead

  A Lascivious Lady

  A Gentle Grace

  Swan Sisters

  For the Love of Lynette

  Annabel’s Christmas Rake

  Taming Temperance

  Christmas Novellas

  The Winter Wish

  The Risque Resolution

  A Rake in Winter

  The Christmas Widow

  Description

  Regina has everything a woman in the ton could possibly want. A beautiful manor. A generous allowance. A handsome duke. But the one thing she secretly yearns she fears she will never have…her husband’s love.

  Forced to marry Regina after they were discovered in a passionate embrace, the Duke of Glenmoore has hardly spoken a word to his wife since their wedding night. Instead he’s spent the past three months drinking, gambling, and trying to forget he ever said, ‘I Do’.

  But when the duke falls from his horse and is confined to bedrest, Regina suddenly becomes much more difficult to ignore. Especially after an impulsive kiss rekindles the fires of their desire. She may not be the wife he wants…but is she the woman he needs?

  Chapter One

  “He’s staring at you,” Lady Kitty Dower whispered excitedly.

  “Who is?” Regina murmured, not bothering to pick up her head from the book she’d concealed behind her fan. Two hours into the ball and she’d nearly reached the fifth chapter. At the rate she was going there was a distinct possibility she would finish before the evening was over. Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to bring another book.

  Tucked away in her reticule – one she’d had specifically tailored to conceal her reading habit – was her beloved copy of Mansfield Park. The leather binding was creased and the ink on the edge of the pages was beginning to smudge, but it remained her most treasured possession and she carried it with her wherever she went.

  To the park. To watch a play. And always – always – to the ballroom.

  Dancing until the wee hours of the morning may have been some women’s idea of a lovely time, but Regina would have much rather preferred to remain at home curled in her bed with a book on her lap. Since she couldn’t possibly bring the ball to her bedroom, she did the next best thing.

  She brought her books to the ball.

  “The Duke of Glenmoore,” said Kitty, poking Regina in the ribs with her elbow. “The Duke of Glenmoore is staring right at you!”

  “How many glasses of champagne have you had? You must be confused.” Dukes did not stare at Regina. Marquises did not stare at Regina. Earls did not stare at Regina. Occasionally she caught the attention of a baron, but it never lasted for very long. And that was all right. Truth be told, she much preferred the company of fictional heroes to literal ones. If they started to bore her all she had to do was turn the page.

  “Only one glass, for your information. Besides, I should think I know who the Duke of Glenmoore is. Look! No, don’t look,” Kitty hissed when Regina marked her place in the book with a satin hair ribbon and glanced up.

  “Well which is?” she grumbled. She did not like having her reading interrupted. Especially by something so utterly ridiculous. The Duke of Glenmoore was London’s most eligible bachelor. Handsome, wealthy, and (if rumors could be believed) in search of a wife, there was no reason on God’s green earth he would be looking at someone like Regina.

  They may have been at the same ball, but they did not run in the same social circles. Most likely because her social circle was more of a square. Despite her mother’s best efforts – a woman who, in her time, had made what many still regarded as the best match of her Season when she snagged the Earl of Mallen – Regina’s debut had thus far been nothing shy of a miserable failure.

  It wasn’t due to scandal or physical appearance that she’d perfected the art of blending into the background, but rather personal preference. In short, Regina couldn’t be bothered. And because she couldn’t be bothered, men did not bother with her.

  Particularly men like the Duke of Glenmoore.

  “Regina, put your book away,” Kitty said suddenly. A classical beauty with sleek black hair twisted in an elegant coiffure, large gray eyes framed with thick lashes, and a perfectly circular beauty mark to the right of her voluptuous mouth, Kitty tended to turn heads whenever she went. Which meant she really should have known that if the Duke of Glenmoore was looking in their direction it was Kitty he was gazing at, not Regina.

  “What?” Having already flipped back to the page she’d been reading before her friend had gotten some willy-nilly notion in her head about a duke, Regina gave an irritat
ed shake of her head. “I certainly will not. Lord Bindley has Miss Pinewood trapped in the broom closet and he’s about to–”

  “Kiss her?” a deep, husky masculine voice interrupted. “My, my. That’s rather scandalous reading for a ball, is it not?”

  “No.” Regina snapped her book closed on an annoyed huff of breath. “For your information, Lord Bindley is…the…” Her voice trailed away as she looked up and found herself staring into the amused eyes of none other than the Duke of Glenmoore. “Oh,” she said, while beside her Kitty let out a glorified squeak and swayed on her feet. “You really were staring at me, then.”

  How odd, she thought silently.

  Having never been this close to the duke before (or any duke, for that matter), she was somewhat surprised to see Glenmoore’s handsomeness had not be exaggerated as it so often was in the case of the fashionable set.

  Tall and broad shouldered with a trim waist and muscular thighs, it was evident he favored physical activity. He had a strong, clean shaven jaw and a long, straight nose that was neither too large nor too small but rather filled out his face in a very satisfactory manner. His eyes were the same color as her coffee before she added cream. Dark and rich and chocolatey brown, they were a shade lighter than his hair which, in the soft glow of the candlelight, was a glossy black and fell away from his temple in soft waves.

  “I don’t know if I would call it staring,” he said, his mouth curving in a half smile. “Closer to looking, I think. I’ve a habit at looking at things that catch my interest.”

  Kitty released another squeak, causing Regina to look at her in concern.

  “Should I summon a doctor?” she whispered. “You sound as if you’ve ingested a small rodent.”

  “I-I’ll be fine,” Kitty said weakly. “I just need to-to sit down. Talk to him,” she hissed before retreating to a nearby chair, leaving Regina and the duke alone. Or alone as they could be in a grand ballroom filled with five hundred of their closest peers.

  “I do not believe we’ve met,” Glenmoore drawled. “Surely I would have remembered a face as beautiful as yours.”

  Regina’s winged eyebrows drew together. “Do you think it’s beautiful? I’ve always considered it mildly pretty. Certainly not to the standard of Fanny Price or Lizzy Bennet. Perhaps if my freckles were a tad more discreet. My mother tried bleaching them away with lemon juice, you know.” She grimaced faintly as she recalled having her cheeks scrubbed with the stinging yellow fruit. “It didn’t work.”

  If the duke was taken aback by the unusual direction their conversation had taken (as a general rule, compliments were not supposed to be followed by explanations of home beauty rituals), it did not show in his expression. “I think your freckles are lovely.” His dark gaze dipped to the pale brown specks that covered the bridge of her nose and spread out across her cheekbones. His smile deepened, revealing a dimple on the right side of his face.

  Regina resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Of course he would have a dimple.

  If a duke didn’t have one, was he even a duke?

  But he seemed like a pleasant enough fellow – not at all arrogant or conceited, which surprised her – and when he asked if she’d accompany him on a stroll around the ballroom she accepted, albeit with one small caveat.

  “I am not going to dance with you,” she said matter-of-factly as she placed her gloved hand on his forearm.

  “And why is that, pray tell?” He smelled of sandalwood and leather, and beneath his flawlessly tailored jacket sleeve Regina could feel the strength of his muscles as he guided her around a cluster of gossiping debutantes, all of whom immediately stopped tearing apart the Countess of Hatfield’s puce-colored gown to stare in slack-jawed astonishment at the baffling sight of the Duke of Glenmoore escorting a bookish wallflower.

  A bookish wallflower with freckles.

  “Who is she?” Lady Emmeline demanded as she stared hard at the blonde-haired chit on Glenmoore’s arm. The girl looked vaguely familiar but Emmeline couldn’t place her name which meant she was no one of importance. But if that were the case, then how the devil had she managed to attract the attention of a duke?

  A duke Emmeline had already claimed for herself.

  “Haven’t the foggiest idea,” Lady Heather sniffed.

  “A relative, perhaps?” Lady Sasha suggested.

  Emmeline’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Whoever she is, she’d do well to remember her place. Everyone knows Glenmoore and I are practically betrothed.”

  Heather and Sasha exchanged a quick glance, but wisely held their tongues. Everyone did not know Glenmoore and Emmeline were practically betrothed because – despite Emmeline’s best efforts – they weren’t. But that hadn’t stopped their friend from laying claim to the duke and laying waste to any woman who thought otherwise.

  “I’m sure it is nothing,” Sasha said reassuringly. “A bit of entertainment for him, nothing more.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Tossing her head back, Emmeline gave a tittering laugh. “After all, why would a man like him be interested in a mouse like that?”

  Regina was thinking precisely the same thing as Glenmoore gazed down expectantly at her, which was why it took her a moment to answer his question. Well, that and the distracting flutter in her belly. Or maybe it was more of a buzz. Bees, she thought with no small amount of alarm. I’ve swallowed bees.

  Of course she hadn’t, but it did feel like a swarm of tiny winged insects were flying around in her abdomen as she tilted her chin and met the duke’s dark eyes. There was a tint of gold in the irises she hadn’t noticed before, giving a touch of warmth to a stare that tended towards coldness despite his easygoing smile.

  “I do not wish to dance because I do not like to dance,” she said honestly, the capped sleeve of her yellow gown flipping upwards she jerked her left shoulder in a shrug. “I never have, really. There are too many steps to remember and too many other things one could devote their time to learning.”

  The bees in her belly erupted in a flustered swarm when Glenmoore’s fingers brushed against her bare skin as he reached out and turned her sleeve back over. His thumb lingered on her ivory flesh for a heartbeat longer than necessary, causing Regina’s throat to tighten in a most peculiar way.

  In all of her life she’d never felt like this before. Hot, flushed, off balance. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and her naïve heart questioned the cause of it. Had Elizabeth Bennet’s pulse raced in a similar fashion when she first encountered Mr. Darcy? They had ended up together, although not without much confusion and strife. Not to say the Duke of Glenmoore was anywhere near proposing. Or even thinking about proposing. Or even thinking about thinking about proposing.

  It is just a stroll about the ballroom, Regina told herself firmly as she attempted to rein in her thoughts. Not a chapter plucked from the pages of one of your books. Calm yourself immediately.

  Aside from boredom and poor lighting (dimly lit chandeliers and dark corners were not exactly conducive for reading), her imagination’s inclination towards romantic fantasy was another reason why she disliked balls. Or any social gathering, for that matter. One glance at a dashing stranger and she couldn’t help but wonder what might happen if he suddenly came over, extended his arm, and whisked her off to her very own happily-ever-after.

  Having the Duke of Glenmoore appear out of nowhere and ask to walk with her was as close as she’d come to fulfilling her fantasy. Her absolutely absurd fantasy, because everyone knew wallflowers were never whisked anywhere and all of their happily-ever-after’s involved a spinster’s cap and a parlor full of cats.

  But if that was true, then why was Glenmoore looking at her exactly like she imagined Edmund had looked at Fanny when he confessed his love for her at the end of Mansfield Park? Speaking of which…

  “Oh no!” she cried, halting with such suddenness the toe of her slipper caught on the hem of her skirt and she would have fallen flat on her face had Glenmoore not caught her about the waist and tur
ned her into the hard plane of his chest.

  “What is it?” he asked in concern, his hands loosely banding around her arms.

  “My book! It was in my reticule.” Any wayward thoughts of love fantasies and marriage proposals and swarming bees were put by the wayside as Regina’s worry for her much beloved copy of Mansfield Park rose to the forefront. “I must have left it on the chair I was sitting in.”

  The duke lifted an ebony brow. “I’m sure it will be fine for–”

  “No,” she interrupted, “it won’t. You do not understand. That is my favorite book. It is irreplaceable. If I were to lose it…” Pressing her lips together, she shook her head, quite unable to finish her sentence for fear of spontaneously bursting into tears.

  Such a silly thing, to cry over a book. But surely no less silly than crying over a lord, and goodness knew her sisters had filled buckets of tears doing precisely that.

  She started to turn, only to discover herself detained. Any other young woman (or old, for that matter) would have no doubt found great delight in discovering themselves being held by the Duke of Glenmoore. Particularly a young woman who had no prospects, two younger sisters who outshone her in every way possible, and a grim future filled with caps and cats. But Regina had not exaggerated when she said the book was irreplaceable, and she was eager to go look for it.

  Mansfield Park was the last gift her father had given her before he set sail…and didn’t return. A storm overtook his small ship in the dead of the night. There were no survivors. Not even a plank of wood remained when all was said and done. Bound for Boston, the sailing vessel – along with its crew and passengers – had sank straight to the bottom of the Atlantic, never to be seen again.

  Regina had been positively devastated. Her mother and sisters slightly less so, which had only made the pain of her father’s death all the more difficult to bear. That was why her copy of Mansfield Park, albeit tired and worn from too much reading, was so precious to her. It was her last remaining link to a father who had understood her better than anyone else. A father that no one talked about very much anymore, even though he’d only died two years ago.