Lily Dalton - Never Desire a Duke

Like all authors, I’ve attended my fair share of writing workshops. I remember one speaker in particular who said writers should never look at their books like their “babies.” That we shouldn’t be so emotionally wrapped up in them that we forget the book is business. While I see the value of such an understanding, I can’t help it—each book I write is my baby. I think all good books scare the life out of the author at one point or another. Like a parent, I’ve fretted over the choices my characters made and lain awake at night worrying over how the story as a whole will turn out once it is grown. Now that the book is leaving the nest, I can’t help but feel it’s taking a piece of my heart along with it. Needless to say, I need to thank a few people for putting up with me while I go through this wonderful and awful process.

Enormous thanks to Kim Lionetti, my agent, for always believing in my writing, steering me right, and having the same taste in dark and tormented heroes as I do.

And working with an editor for the first time is sort of like sending them naked pictures of yourself and hoping they don’t call the police on you. I’m so grateful Michele Bidelspach didn’t call the cops. Not only does she understand the workings of a woman’s heart, she has the good sense to pull my characters back from the edge when they want to go to Crazy Town. Michele, I’m so lucky to be working with you. Thank you also to editorial assistant Megha Parekh and the rest of the Forever team, including cover designer Diane Luger and copyeditor Kathleen Scheiner, for giving this author a wonderful debut.

All writers have a supportive network of writer friends and readers. They are the most generous people on earth, and I could list pages of those who have inspired and cheered me. You know who you are, and I hope I let you know every time I see you (or Twitter or FB you!) how thankful I am for you.

Tell me now, what has happened?” demanded Vane Barwick, fourth Duke of Claxton, tenth Earl of Renclere, as he swept through the front doors of his London residence, the frigid chill of the winter’s day clinging to his greatcoat.

“Your Grace.” The grim-faced butler gave a hurried bow and led him toward the grand marble staircase at the center of the house. “The Duchess of Claxton has taken a fall. The physician is with her now.”

“Oh my God,” he uttered, not waiting for details. Panic cut through his veins, and he took the stairs two at a time. Sophia. Our baby.

Having received the urgent summons while in sessions, he knew something terrible had happened. His feet couldn’t carry him fast enough. His heart beat so hard and fast he thought it might explode. He had to get to her.

Several maids stood outside the duchess’s door, wearing expressions of concern. Upon seeing him, they started and rushed away. He heard voices inside and entered straightaway.

“Sophia?”

In one shattering instant, he took in the scene before him. His beautiful, dark-haired wife lay curled on her bed, her face stricken and tearstained. Her lady’s maid, also in tears, held her hand. The surgeon approached him, softly speaking regrets.

“No,” he whispered, stunned by such a magnitude of grief, his legs nearly failed him.

“My love,” he murmured, crossing the room toward her.

“Stay away,” she cried. His feet staggered to a stop.

Turning from him, she collapsed again into the pillows and gave the most heartrending sob.

Certainly he misunderstood. He took several more steps, but her maid threw him a sharp glare and raised a warding hand before rushing round to the far side of the bed to soothe the duchess there.

The unexpected rejection stung, like a slap to the face. Why did Sophia turn him away when certainly she needed comfort? Not their comfort, but his .

Their baby. The reality of the moment still crashed over him in waves. Everything had been so perfect. They’d been so happy. How could this have happened? Grief cut through him, scoring his heart into shreds. Didn’t she know? He needed her comfort too.

Suddenly the housekeeper was there, attempting with all discretion to lead him away.

“How did this happen?” His voice sounded as hollow as he felt.

In a quiet voice, the woman answered. “All I know, your Grace, is that after the duchess read the letter—”

“What letter?” he asked dazedly.

The housekeeper’s cheeks flushed as she indicated the duchess’s escritoire. An envelope and a letter lay there, beside the pearl-handled letter opener he’d given Sophia for Christmas. “After that, she was inconsolable.”

Inconsolable? Because of a letter? Heartsick, he raised a hand to his head, wanting more than anything to wish the moment away, to wake up from this nightmare. “Who wrote the letter, and what does it say?”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t know, sir. Needless to say, I did not read it.”

Yet strangely, in the next moment, she averted her gaze.

“Tell me the rest. Where did she fall? Here in her room or the stairs—?”

He had to see the letter. To understand why this had transpired.

The housekeeper accompanied him toward the desk. “After she read the letter, the duchess packed a valise and insisted the carriage be summoned to take her to her family’s home. But she was in a state, your Grace. A terrible emotional state. In her haste to quit the house, she pushed past the footman, heedless of all warnings of ice and efforts to assist her and—and I regret to inform you, she fell on the steps outside, mere feet from the front door.” Her gaze fell to the carpet. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

At the desk, she fell away, giving him privacy as he lifted the letter. He stared down at the words…and understanding washed over him in a sickening wave. No, God, no. The letter had clearly been intended for him.

Written in a former lover’s hand—someone he’d known before they were married—the letter extended a salacious invitation and described various proposed intimacies in shocking detail. Sophia wasn’t nosy. She would have opened the letter by accident. It sometimes happened and never bothered him because things were so good and happy between them. He could only imagine the moment she’d innocently begun to read.

He crumpled the page in his fist. His stomach twisted, and he thought he might retch.

While he’d been out, his past had come for a reckoning. Regret and shame thundered through him. Because of him, they’d lost their baby.

Please, let him not have lost Sophia too.

The scent of gingerbread in the air!” exclaimed Sir Keyes, his aged blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Winter wind swept through open doors behind him, carrying the sound of carriages from the street. “And there’s mistletoe to be had from the peddler’s stall on the corner.”

Though his pantaloons drooped off his slight frame to an almost comical degree, the military orders and decorations emblazoned across his chest attested to a life of valor years before. Leaning heavily on his cane, the old man produced a knotty green cluster from behind his back, strung from a red ribbon, and held it aloft between himself and Sophia.