SEDUCTION WITH THE DUCHESS
The room beyond was dark, lit only by the fire in the fireplace, but as his eyes adjusted, Nicholas could see that it was a bedroom. Emma slipped inside, while Nicholas hesitated on the threshold.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, puzzled by his reluctance.
“There must be some mistake. This is not my room.”
“There is no mistake, my darling,” Emma replied, her voice silky. “This is my room. And that is my bed.”
“I think perhaps we have had too much to drink.”
“I am not drunk,” she said indignantly. “If I were drunk, do you think my brothers would have left me alone with you?”
“You were supposed to take me to my room,” he reminded her gently.
“And so I shall,” she said prettily. “After.”
Books by Tamara Lejeune
SIMPLY SCANDALOUS
SURRENDER TO SIN
RULES FOR BEING A MISTRESS
THE HEIRESS IN HIS BED
CHRISTMAS WITH THE DUCHESS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Christmas with the Duchess
TAMARA LEJEUNE
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
Saturday, December 10, 1814
The iron gates of Warwick Palace stood open all morning, their sharp, gilded spikes gleaming in the winter sun as dozens of heavy traveling carriages rolled up the wide, evergreen avenue to the courtyard of the great house. Emma Grey Fitzroy, Duchess of Warwick, watched the invasion from the window seat of her private sitting room, high above the noise and confusion below.
With her dazzling white skin, steel-blue eyes, and thick, ash-brown hair, Emma was considered one of the great beauties of her time, but men were not drawn to her so much for her angelic appearance as her unbridled sensuality. Born into a life of privilege, Emma had never attempted to govern her passions, had never felt the least need to resist temptation, had never learned to be discreet, or, God forbid, prudent. At twenty-nine, she was as headstrong and impulsive and defiant as she had been as a child. She accepted no criticism of herself. She was, in short, an aristocrat.
“Look at them!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with anger. “I should be ashamed to show up at someone’s house uninvited.”
Seated across the richly appointed room in front of a cozy fire, Cecily, Lady Scarlingford, looked up from the shawl she was knitting. Over the course of her ten-year marriage to Emma’s elder brother, Cecily had borne six children, only three of whom had survived infancy, all females. The experience had left her plump, nervous, and worn out. No matter how hard she tried, she always looked rumpled. Her hair was a bushy mess of stubborn brown curls. She was known by smart Londoners as the “unmade marchioness” because of her unfortunate resemblance to an unmade bed.
“Otto will make them go away,” she told Emma. “Won’t you, Otto?”
Otto Grey, Marquess of Scarlingford, glanced up from his newspaper with eyes more gray than blue. Emma’s elder brother was a tall, thin aristocrat with finely chiseled features and black hair streaked with silver. His skin was fashionably pale, and diamonds glittered on his long, elegant fingers.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man’s house is never his own at Christmas,” he said importantly. “Whatever his thoughts may be on the subject, his family will not be denied their fair share of hospitality. You see, Cecily, how your life will be when I inherit Chilton.”
“I’m afraid your husband is right,” Emma told her sister-in-law. “The Fitzroys invade Warwick every year; it is a standing engagement. From Stir-up Sunday to Twelfth Night, they look upon my son’s estate as quite their own, just as they did when his father was alive. It is quite useless to resist, and even more useless to complain.”
“You will do both, however,” Otto remarked, folding his newspaper neatly and turning it over. Even this slight, affectionate jab brought a frown from his proud sister. “Is it Uncle Cuthbert?” he asked presently. “Second Cousin Hortensia? Rufus?”
“You are making those names up, Otto,” Cecily accused her elegant husband.
He smiled enigmatically. “Am I?” he murmured.
Cecily blinked at him. “Are you?” she asked uncertainly.
“It is nosy, interfering Aunt Susan,” Emma interrupted, “and that fat, lecherous, old fool she married. General Bellamy—back from the war and eager to take all the credit for the Allied victory, no doubt. They’ve brought the whole army with them, too, by the looks of it. Why, the courtyard is perfectly scarlet!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Otto. “Nothing is so common as exaggeration. The Bellamys have four daughters married to officers; a few redcoats are to be expected amongst the party.”
“Do I exaggerate, Cecily?” Emma demanded, pointing.
Her sister-in-law set down her knitting. “Oh, how splendid!” she said, coming to the window. “It’s like a parade. They must have invited all of the officers.”
“Quite!” Emma said indignantly.
“You should go down and do the pretty with Aunt Susan, Emma,” said Otto.
Emma laughed uproariously. “And let the general pinch my bottom, too, I suppose!”
“I’m perfectly serious,” Otto insisted. “You will catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“But I do not like flies, brother,” she told him.
“You know what I mean,” he said sharply. “A little civility will go a long way. It will do you no good to antagonize the Fitzroys—or the Bellamys for that matter. Like it or not, you are related to them by marriage, and connected to them forever by your children.”
“It is my existence that antagonizes my in-laws,” Emma retorted.