All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke Read online

  Contents

  The Duke and Duchess Trap by Valerie Bowman

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  Sophie and the Duke by Tiffany Clare

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  The Duke’s Christmas Wish by Vivienne Lorret

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  One Magic Season by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Duke and Duchess Trap

  By Valerie Bowman

  Dedication

  To Anne Bergeron, who knows why.

  Prologue

  London

  September, 1810

  “LADY EVANGELINE HOLLISTER?” The headmistress’s voice rang out across the huge banquet hall.

  Evie swallowed. Oh, she didn’t like this. Not one bit. She bit her lip. Being shy was such a curse. Why did she have to be the first to be called upon on the first day at her new school? Apparently, new students were first to be inspected and provided with a class schedule. She stared up at the monstrous carved chandeliers that hung like gargoyles from the wood-­beamed roof of the hall. Attending the most exclusive school in London was her birthright. Mother had said she must be brave. She’d promised Mother. Never mind that the idea of leaving Mother, her home, her dog, her beloved horses, not to mention the servants, made Evie want to cast up her accounts.

  She blinked away the tears that stung her eyes. Tears would not do. Mother said the daughter of a duke did not cry. Even at the tender age of twelve. Evie smoothed her blue skirts and glanced down at her perfectly clean and orderly white stockings, which peeped out at the ankles. She pressed her palm against the thick wooden table, preparing to stand. She tucked her book under her arm. The book had been another recommendation from Mother. “One cannot be homesick when one is reading a compelling book,” she’d said. “When you’re reading, it doesn’t matter where you are.”

  Mother was right, and Evie had been clutching her copy of The Canterbury Tales ever since she’d arrived at Miss Hathaway’s School for Young Ladies. But she somehow doubted that Headmistress Hathaway would take kindly to her reading during roll call.

  “Lady Evangeline,” the headmistress called again. Evie pushed herself to her feet. The short heels of her leather slippers clicked against the polished wood floor, and the eyes of all the other girls swiveled to watch her. She gulped and stepped forward, forcing herself to take another step and another, shuddering at each smack of her heels. She pressed her hand to her book, clutching it so tightly that her fingers drained of color.

  “Present,” she managed to force from her dry throat.

  The headmistress’s head snapped up, and she eyed Evie’s approach over the rim of her golden spectacles. It seemed as if hours passed before Evie arrived, trembling, at Miss Hathaway’s table, which was perched on a dais at the front of the cavernous hall. The middle-­aged lady lowered her spectacles and glared at Evie through narrowed dark eyes. She spoke in a pinched, unhappy voice. “I’m not amused, Lady Genevieve. I said Lady Evangeline Hollister.”

  Evie gulped. “I beg your pardon, madam.” Her voice trembled. “I am Lady Evangeline Hollister.”

  Miss Hathaway pursed her lips. It was an unfortunate look for her. She contemplated Evie with a suspicious glare while the giggles of the other girls grew louder. Evie swallowed and clutched the book to her chest, crossing her arms over it, desperately wishing she could disappear. There couldn’t possibly have been a mix-­up, could there? Mother would have seen to all the details. Mother was kind, and beautiful, and full of laughter. And Mother never made mistakes. It was absolutely inconceivable.

  The headmistress’s eyes narrowed further, if that was possible. “What have you done to your hair?”

  Evie pushed her free hand up to her red locks. “My . . . my hair, madam?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, Lady Genevieve. You’re forgetting that I was present when you decided to run off into the park without your bonnet, resulting in that unfortunate incident with the pine sap, which led to Miss Lancaster having to cut your hair—­and seriously displeasing your father, I might add.”

  “My . . . my father?” Evie cocked her head to the side and stared at the headmistress as if she’d been speaking a foreign language. Evie hadn’t seen her father since she was a babe. Or so Mother had told her. Evie certainly didn’t remember him or their last meeting. What in heaven’s name did Miss Hathaway mean? And why did she continue to refer to her as Genevieve?

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” Evie managed, “but to my knowledge, I’ve never had the misfortune to get pine sap in my hair, and I have yet to make the acquaintance of a Miss Lancaster.”

  There was more tittering from the other girls. Evie’s cheeks heated. She clutched her book even tighter in her slick palms, wishing she could disappear into the volume. She had the distinct impression she was about to be dismissed from the most exclusive school in London before she’d even begun. What would she tell Mother?

  The headmistress tapped the end of her quill against the wide mahogany table in front of her. “Lady Genevieve, as usual, I do not find your behavior amusing in the least. Now, I shall ask you for your full name one final time. I warn you, your father will hear about this if you give me anything short of the truth.”

  Evie swallowed and nodded.

  Miss Hathaway’s nostrils flared. She raised her chin and pressed her spectacles farther up her beaklike nose. “Your name, if you please.”

  Evie didn’t blink. “Evangeline Marie Sandford Hollister.” Her voice was low and weak as usual, and she silently cursed herself for it.

  The headmistress’s hand cracked against the surface of the table, making Evie jump. She jumped a second time when the door to the hall slammed open and an urchin with short red hair, sagging stockings, and an askew bonnet came running across the wide expanse of wood flooring. She passed the banquet tables filled with girls and skidded to a halt in front of the headmistress, her hair flipped across her brow, obscuring her face. She smelled like sherbet lemons,
reminding Evie of home. Mother’s favorites.

  The girl was breathing heavily and seemed to be balancing precariously on one foot. Evie also noted with no small bit of wonder that the urchin was missing a button from the back of her gown, and one of her gloves appeared to be stained. Blood? Good heavens! Or was it chocolate? She wasn’t sure which was more alarming. Mother wouldn’t approve of Evie missing a button from her gown, let alone being in possession of a stained glove. What sort of mother did this urchin have? And how in heaven’s name had the creature managed to matriculate at Miss Hathaway’s School for Young Ladies?

  “I was told you were looking for me, Miss Hathaway,” the urchin stated in a loud, clear voice. “I am sorry, ma’am, but I was in the science hall feeding the lizards and quite lost track of the time.”

  The urchin turned to look at Evie. She swiped the unfashionably short crop of red hair from her forehead, and her face came into full view.

  Evie gasped.

  Miss Hathaway gasped.

  The urchin’s eyes (which were the exact same shade of blue as Evie’s) grew wide. “Oh, my. How wonderful. You must be my twin sister, Evangeline. I cannot tell you how lovely it is to finally meet you.”

  Chapter One

  The London town house of the Duke of Hollingsworth

  Three days before Christmas, 1810

  NATHANIEL DAVID MONTGOMERY HOLLISTER, the sixth Duke of Hollingsworth, eyed the plump, sixty-­year-­old housekeeper who stood staring at him expectantly across the desk in his study. Mrs. Curtis was overbearing, insistent, and impertinent, but she’d been employed by the Hollister family since before Nathan was born, and he wasn’t about to dismiss her. She was another of his duties. Like his vast properties and investments, Mrs. Curtis was something to be managed.

  “Your Grace, we must discuss the menus for the upcoming week,” Mrs. Curtis repeated. “It’s Christmastide, and if you and Lady Genevieve intend to remain here in London, we must prepare accordingly.”

  Nathan glanced at the ledger he’d been balancing. “Of course we must, Mrs. Curtis. It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Mrs. Curtis leaned forward, her lips pursed, her eyes watching, expectant.

  Nathan tapped his quill along the paper in front of him. “At times I wish I had a wife who would deal with these matters.”

  “You do have a wife,” Mrs. Curtis replied in a matter-­of-­fact voice, but Nathan didn’t mistake the twinkle in her eye. “Lady Elizabeth just doesn’t happen to live here. Though I’m sure Her Grace would be quite capable of picking out excellent menu items if given half the chance.”

  Nathan ignored the servant’s impudence. The housekeeper had never shied away from giving him her full mind, and she wasn’t about to start now that he was five and thirty. She’d made it more than clear through the years that she did not agree with his marital arrangements. Not one bit.

  “I’ll leave the Christmastide menu in your capable hands, then,” he replied instead, returning his gaze to his papers.

  She opened her mouth, no doubt to give him an additional piece of her mind, but a light knock on the door stopped her.

  “Come in,” Nathan called, thankful for the reprieve from Mrs. Curtis’s cheek.

  The door opened silently and the butler stepped inside.

  “Yes, Winthrop. What is it?” Nathan asked.

  “The dowager duchess has come to call,” the butler intoned.

  Nathan scowled. “Mother? Here? On a Tuesday afternoon? What could she possibly want?”

  Mrs. Curtis put her hands on her chubby hips. “Lady Genevieve is coming home today,” she reminded him.

  “Yes. That’s it. Isn’t it?” Nathan shook his head. “Mother doesn’t want to see me. She’s merely visiting as a thinly veiled excuse to see her granddaughter.”

  “It’s a shame she can visit only the one granddaughter,” Mrs. Curtis added with a distinct harrumph.

  Nathan eyed her down the length of his nose. “That will be all, Mrs. Curtis.”

  Mrs. Curtis bobbed a quick curtsy, sidled past the butler, and left the room, but not before giving Nathan a look that informed him it would not, in fact, be all. Not by a far cry.

  “Show my mother in,” Nathan said to Winthrop.

  “The dowager has requested that you meet her in the blue drawing room. She said . . .” Winthrop cleared his throat. “ . . . she said your study was too . . .” The jowly man looked away, his face turning red.

  Nathan sighed. “Go ahead and say it, Winthrop.”

  “I believe the word she used was ‘dark,’ Your Grace.”

  Nathan glanced around the room. It was true that the space was filled with dark brown leather and dark brown wood, and the rug just happened to be navy, and the portraits were all a bit gloomy, if he was being honest, but what did Mother care?

  “Be that as it may, show her in . . . here,” he repeated in a voice that brooked no further debate.

  The butler nodded once and turned to leave, but Nathan stopped him.

  “Has Lady Genevieve returned from school yet, Winthrop?”

  The butler paused, his white-­gloved hand on the door handle. “Not yet, Your Grace.”

  Nathan waved him off, pushed back his chair, and rubbed his fingers through his dark hair. He truly adored his daughter. Both of his daughters. But the fact remained that he was a duke without an heir. He spent considerable time and resources setting aside money for Genevieve and Evangeline, but he’d long ago given up hope of siring a legitimate male heir. That would involve seeing Elizabeth again, touching Elizabeth again, and he’d as soon cut off his right arm. No, Genevieve would be well cared for financially, as would Evangeline, but his estate, the land and holdings, would all be entailed to his cousin Richard, and Nathan was just fine with that. His mother, however, was . . . not.

  “Very well, Hollingsworth, I see you mean to make me suffer the dinginess of your study.” His mother’s words sliced through the air as she regally marched through the door. His tall, thin mother wore a purple silk gown and carried an ivory-­tipped cane that she did not need. Carefully removing her kid gloves, she touched one long fingertip to a slightly graying eyebrow.

  Nathan stood. “I thought it was dark, not dingy.”

  “It is both. Make no mistake,” the dowager countered. She cocked her perfectly coiffed head to the side, presenting him with her pale cheek, and Nathan made his way around his desk to kiss it. He did love the old bird, even if she was a handful.

  Before resuming his own chair, Nathan waited for his mother to take a seat in front of the desk. “Gena is not back yet,” he informed the older woman.

  She stamped her cane upon the carpet. “Do you assume I came to see my granddaughter alone and not my son?”

  Nathan quirked a brow. “That’s exactly what I assume. Do you deny it?”

  She pursed her lips. “Yes. I wanted to speak with you.”

  Nathan steepled his fingers over his chest. “I already told you that Gena and I intend to spend Christmastide in London this year.”

  “Nonsense. You will spend it with me in the country as usual. But the Christmastide arrangements are not why I’ve come.”

  Nathan leveled his gaze on his mother. He adopted his most patient voice. “Then why have you come?”

  “Always direct, aren’t you, my son? So different from your father that way.” She regarded him coolly down the length of her nose.

  “I’m different from my father in many ways,” Nathan replied evenly.

  “Also true. And all of them for the better, I might add. All save one.”

  Nathan’s gaze met hers. His eyes were the same sapphire blue as his mother’s. At nearly sixty, his mother was still attractive, with a sharp, aristocratic nose and strong brow, but she was also as clever and cunning as a fox. He knew better than to step into her trap. “I won’t ask wh
at you mean.”

  “Your father was able to sire an heir, at least.”

  “Ah, yes. This again. I should have guessed.” Nathan pulled his ledger closer. “I’m quite busy today, Mother, and I refuse to have this conversation with you yet again. You might have saved yourself the trip. You’re welcome to return later this afternoon to see Gena, but until then . . .”

  His mother held up a hand. “You’re wrong again, Hollingsworth. Your lack of an heir is also not why I’ve come. Though I daresay you would need to at least be in the same town as your wife, if not the same room, to do so, and you’ve steadfastly refused to do either.”

  Nathan rubbed the back of his neck where an ache was beginning to form. He’d been a lad in leading strings the last time he’d done his mother’s bidding, and he wasn’t about to begin again now. Or rise to her bait. “I’ll do us both a favor and not respond to that. Now, if you haven’t come to see Gena or to lecture me about my duty, why have you come?”

  The dowager pressed her gloved hands upon her cane. Her back ramrod straight, she said, “As you know, I have many contacts at Miss Hathaway’s School for Young Ladies.”

  “If by ‘contacts’ you mean ‘spies,’ then yes, I know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They are not spies. They are my dear friends, and I’ve been sitting on this particular rumor for nearly four months now.”