Freddy broke their kiss and pulled Minette close.
Breathing rapidly, she rested her cheek on his chest and he bent to kiss her crown, his own breathing none too steady.
‘It wouldn’t do to be caught out again,’ he said gently.
‘No,’ she agreed, much to his body’s painful disappointment.
She placed a hand on his lapel and stroked down the fabric. Delight with her response to his touch was a wild beat in his blood. This attraction was a positive sign for their marriage. There was much pleasure to be had between them, as long as he made sure not to let things go too far. Not to get too out of control.
‘We really should go before someone misses us,’ she said, not moving an inch. She sighed. ‘We don’t want to set tongues wagging again.’
Wagging tongues were the story of his life. He had told himself a long time ago that he didn’t care. But he didn’t want her hurt by vicious gossip.
‘Yes, we should.’ He kissed her forehead and linked his arm through hers, feeling for the first time in a long while a sense of hope.
I hope you enjoy this offshoot of the Beresford Abbey stories: Haunted by the Earl’s Touch and Captured Countess. When we first met Freddy and Minette I could not understand why they seemed to dislike each other when they would be perfect together. I have enjoyed finding out what was keeping them apart.
Another fun part of researching this story was learning about Mr Brummell’s game of cricket in 1807. Like Minette, I was surprised to see the Beau engaging in anything so active—and with an audience too!
I love to hear from readers, so feel free to email me at ann@annlethbridge. If you would like to know more about my books or sign up for my quarterly newsletter go to my website at annlethbridge.com. And if you are a history buff, you might enjoy my blog: regencyramble.blogspot.com
The Duke’s Daring Debutante
Ann Lethbridge
In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE re-imagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.
Each book has a life of its own and is influenced by many people, but I would like to dedicate this book to those who serve their country in whatever capacity they choose—as my dad did in the army.
I believe he would have liked my foray into authorship, since he was a dedicated Georgette Heyer fan and loved reading about history.
Contents
AUTHOR NOTE
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
Epilogue
The foul stench coated Minette Rideau’s throat. With her skirts held high in one hand and the other clutching Granby’s arm, she focussed on taking only tiny sips of air as she picked her way over Bridge Alley’s slimy cobbles. One of many narrow passages in the reviled district of St Giles, it led to London’s most infamous hell. The only one owned by a duke. Falconwood. The man she now risked her reputation to track down in his lair.
Ancient tenements crowded in on both sides, the glimmer of lanterns behind oilpaper giving them menacing aspects. All around, noises of a seething mass of humanity pierced the darkness. Shouts and curses, music from the tavern on the corner. A child crying. A woman coughing.
So very different from the elegance of Mayfair, but not the worst she’d seen.
Granby halted before a low wooden door bound with iron and set with studs. The lantern above the door cast an oily gleam in the slime oozing along the alley’s central runnel.
‘This is it?’ she asked. ‘The Fools’ Paradise?’
‘It is,’ Granby croaked as if his throat was parched.
It had required all of Minette’s powers of persuasion to convince Lieutenant, the Honourable Laurence Granby, to be her escort when she’d named her destination. Now he was peering over his shoulder with the expression of one who had regained his sense of self-preservation and feared for his life. Finally he had realised that if this little adventure ever came to light, he was destined for a wagonload of trouble.
He cleared his throat. ‘You can’t want me to take you in there.’ Begging her to change her mind.
An unpleasant sensation squirmed behind her breastbone. A guilty conscience was an uncomfortable companion, but not unfamiliar. Guilt lay behind this expedition to London’s worst slums. Even as the idea had germinated, she’d known her escort hadn’t deserved to be placed in such an awkward position. Honour balanced against gentlemanly conduct and no way to reconcile either. He was a nice young man. Open. Honest. And too terribly susceptible to female manipulation. For all that her conscience pricked her, in the end she’d been unable