Miranda Jarrett - The Duke's Governess Bride

THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE

‘Jarrett provides readers with a delightful,

charming art mystery set in a colourful palette

of the French countryside, ancient churches and

regal Paris. The interesting backdrop and art history

add that little something different that

many readers are searching for.’

— RT Book Reviews

RAKE’S WAGER

‘…a romp brimming with Regency style,

Jarrett’s latest cleverly adds a dollop of poignancy

by throwing Richard’s long-lost son into the mix.

The just-right pace and likable characters deliver

a quick, enjoyable read.’

— RT Book Reviews

Richard wore only his nightshirt, rumpled and loose, and yet somehow revealing far more than his usual dress did—because beneath all that snowy linen he was…naked.

The darker shadows beneath the fabric, the way the linen draped over his body, left no doubt, and Jane’s cheeks flamed at the realisation.

Hastily she looked back up to the safer territory of his face. Or perhaps it wasn’t. In all the time she’d been in His Grace’s employment she’d never seen him this dishevelled, his hair loose around his face and his jaw roughened with a growth of darker beard, his whole expression without its usual reserve and control. It was unsettling, seeing him without his guard like this, and it made him less like His Grace and more simply like any other man.

A large, scarcely dressed, and surprisingly handsome man that she’d just summoned from his bed.

Heavens preserve her—what had she done ?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Miranda Jarrettconsiders herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings—even if it’s one that’s also made her family far-too-regular patrons of the local pizzeria. Miranda is the author of over thirty historical romances, and her books are enjoyed by readers the world over. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including two Golden Leaf Awards and two RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and has three times been a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist for best short historical romance.

Miranda is a graduate of Brown University, with a degree in art history. She loves to hear from readers at PO Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-0792, USA, or at susan@susanhollowayscott.com

Novels by Miranda Jarrett:

RAKE’S WAGER

THE LADY’S

HAZARD THE DUKE’S GAMBLE

THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE*

SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH BEAUTY*

THE SAILOR’S BRIDE (in Regency Christmas Weddings )

*linked by character to The Duke’s Governess Bride

If a Woman has any Mind to be wicked, Venice seems to be the last Place in the World to give her better Sentiments.

—‘Miss N’, to the actor Thomas Hull, 1756

Venice — January 1785

Most English gentlemen came to Venice to be amused, whether to view the antique paintings, or to wear a long-nosed mask and dance at the carnival, or to dally with a courtesan in a closed gondola. But Richard Farren, the fifth Duke of Aston, wasn’t here for idle amusement. He had come to Venice for one reason, and one reason only. He’d come for the sake of love.

Turning the collar of his heavy Melton travelling cloak higher against the wind, Richard smiled as he imagined again what his friends in London must be saying of him now. That he was a sentimental fool, surely. That he’d lost his wits, most likely. That the love he was travelling so far to offer would never be returned in equal measure—ah, there were doubtless a good many wagers being made about that, too. So be it. He’d only been able to tolerate a couple of months of loneliness at Aston Hall before he’d given in, and taken off on this journey. But then, caution and care had never been his style, and he wasn’t about to change now. Nothing ventured, nothing gained—that seemed to him not so much a time-worn adage as a good, sound philosophy.

He leaned his arms on the rail of the little sloop, staring out at the wavering dark outline of the shore. This passage from Trieste to Venice was the last step of his long journey, and he’d stood there much of the day, preferring the damp and chill on the deck to the close, fishy stench of the cabin below. Besides, he’d doubted he’d have been able to sleep even if he’d tried. After so many weeks travelling by land and sea, and hard travelling at that, his destination was now only hours away. By nightfall, all his doubts, all his worries, would at last be put to rest—or, if Fate went against him, they’d only have begun.

‘His Grace is eager to reach Venice.’ The sloop’s captain joined him unbidden at the rail. ‘His Grace is happy we make such good speed, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Richard said, hoping that brevity would make the man leave him in peace.

But the captain only squinted up at Richard, pushing his greasy cocked hat more firmly on his head against the wind. ‘His Grace is brave to sail in winter, yes? Ice, snow, wind, brr. ’

The captain hugged his arms over his chest to mimic a man warming himself. In return Richard only nodded. He knew perfectly well the perils of travelling at this time of year. He had embarked from England so late in the season, almost in winter itself, that crossing the Continent to Italy through France and the Alps was out of the question. He’d had no choice but to travel by sea, around Spain and Portugal and into the Mediterranean, until he’d become heartily sick of the company of sailing men like this one.

‘Once you’re at Venice, your Grace, you stay,’ the captain continued. ‘No more journey until spring. No Roma, no Napoli, no Firenze, no—’

‘Quite,’ Richard said, his impatience with the man’s company growing by the second. He didn’t need a list of every landmark city in Italy to know that he’d be winterbound in Venice. He was rather counting on it, in fact, given the pleasing female company that was waiting for him there.

‘But his Grace will find willing friends in Venice to warm him, eh?’ The captain winked slyly, studying Richard from his thick dark gold hair to the toes of his well-polished boots with obvious approval. ‘A great English lion like his Grace will have many ladies, eh?’

Richard said nothing, choosing instead to stare out at the water and let the rascal draw whatever unsavoury conclusions he pleased. His dear wife Anne had been not only his duchess, but his best friend and his dearest love, and when she had died, he’d sworn no other woman could possibly replace her in his life. That had been fifteen long years ago, and the pain lingered still.

‘I can tell you the house of the best courtesans in the city, your Grace,’ the captain was saying. ‘I know what you English lords like, eh? A woman who will bring you to such joy, such passion, such—’

‘Enough,’ Richard said curtly, the voice he always used with recalcitrant servants, dogs and children. Why did everyone on the Continent believe English peers were in constant rut, panting after low women in every port? ‘Leave me.’

The captain hesitated only a moment before bowing and backing away, and, with a grumbling sigh, Richard turned back towards the horizon. The sloop was drawing closer to the harbour now, the outlines of the city’s skyline sharpening in the fading light of day. Richard could make out the famous pointed bell tower of San Marco’s, looking precisely the way it did in the engravings in the books in his library at Aston Hall. There was much else beginning to appear from the misty dusk, of course, places Richard supposed he should have recognised as well, but his mind was too occupied with the coming reunion to concentrate on anything else.