The Duke, the Earl and the Captain Read online

  The Duke, the Earl and the Captain

  Gemma Blackwood

  Copyright © 2018 by Gemma Blackwood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  About Gemma Blackwood

  The Duke Who Hated Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Grace Captures the Captain

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Amelia and the Earl

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Gemma Blackwood

  About Gemma Blackwood

  I love hearing from my readers! If you have any questions, comments, or just want to get in touch, please email me at

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  Standalones

  The Duke’s Defiant Debutante

  Destiny’s Duchess

  Redeeming the Rakes Series

  The Duke Suggests a Scandal

  Taming the Wild Captain

  Let the Lady Decide

  Make Me a Marchioness

  Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall

  The Earl’s Secret Passion

  The Duke’s Hidden Desire - coming soon

  The Lady He Longed For - coming soon

  The Baron’s Inconvenient Bride - coming soon

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  The Duke Who Hated Christmas

  1

  “A little to the right – no, my right – further down – lower – yes, that’s perfect!”

  Charlotte waved her hands like the conductor of an orchestra, carefully guiding the final pieces of greenery into place about the windows of Langdon Manor. The two footmen balanced precariously on a couple of chairs and followed her orders as best they could without toppling. They’d hung spiky holly, dark green and gleaming, evergreen fir branches, ribbons, apples, fragrant bay; the rambling old building had never looked so festive.

  “What do you think?” she asked, turning to Tilly, her young lady’s maid. “Will the duke be pleased?”

  “Oh, Your Grace!” gasped Tilly, clasping her hands together. “It’s all so lovely! Why, it’s exactly like Christmas back at Bessington.”

  Charlotte’s smile turned pensive. If you had asked her six months ago, on the eve of her marriage, whether she would ever be able to replicate her childhood Christmases in the icy cold of a Yorkshire winter, she would either have laughed or cried.

  Now, as she saw the candles sparkling from every surface and the cheerful servants pressing their noses to the window glass as they waited for the Yule log to arrive, she sighed with satisfaction. It wasn’t Bessington, where her unmarried sisters would be bobbing for apples together at this very moment, but it was home all the same.

  Why, she’d even ordered in a bundle of mistletoe on the mail coach – a touch which had not escaped the notice of Peter, the footman, who finished tying up his end of the holly and promptly jumped down from his stool to chase Tilly under the kissing-bough.

  “Get off me! How dare you!” Tilly squeaked, her cheeks pink with pleasure, as she ducked his bristly face.

  Watching them, Charlotte felt a rush of Christmas joy – and a prickle of fear at the same time.

  The budding romance between Tilly and Peter only served as a cruel reminder of what was missing in her own life.

  Would the duke appreciate the effort she’d made? Would the happiness of Christmas be enough to persuade him to spend some little time at home?

  Charlotte dusted down her skirts and went to check on the kitchens, where she knew old Mrs Henson was under pressure to create a Christmas Eve feast fit for His Grace. Keeping busy was the best way to distract herself from her hopes and fears for the next few days.

  Charlotte had not married for love. She had been under no illusions that her life with the duke would be at all romantic. But was it too much to hope for a single week spent together, after all the months they’d been married? They hadn’t even had a honeymoon. For all that she’d grown used to her role as Duchess of Langdon, the duke was still the stranger he’d been on their wedding day. All his time was spent inspecting his estates further north, travelling to London in service of the Prince Regent, and visiting with his gentlemen friends. He had made it quite clear that Charlotte’s presence was not required on any of these occasions.

  Not that she particularly minded. She had always been a homebody. Even so, Christmas was a time for family. If she couldn’t spend it in Bessington with her sisters, she intended to keep up the same festive spirit in Langdon Manor. All she could do was hope that she’d made the great house homely enough for the duke to decide to stay.

  Charlotte was interrupted on her way to the kitchen by shouts of joy rising up from the servants at the windows. The usual rules of the household had been relaxed for the Christmas celebrations and everyone from the kitchen maids to the butler had gathered to wait for the boys to bring in the Yule log. Charlotte smiled, looking forward to the roaring fire that would soon warm the old manor house to its rafters.

  “Quick, Your Grace, come and see!” shouted Tilly, quite forgetting her decorum in all the excitement. “It’s the duke!”

  Oh, goodness! Ralph was finally home.

  Charlotte hurried out into the frosty evening to greet her husband. She hadn't known how eager she was until the cold air hit her arms and she realised she'd forgotten her coat. Thankfully, the butler appeared at her side with a warm shawl tucked under his arm.

  "If I may, Your Grace?"

  She gratefully accepted the shawl. "Thank you, Withers." It wouldn't do to be a shivering wreck in front of Ralph after so many months apart.

  The duke's carriage was polished to perfection underneath the mud-splatter from the long journey, and it still gleamed here and there in the light spilling from the house. Charlotte's breath caught in her chest as the footman descended and opened the door for His Grace. Despite the fact that they were married, she still had very little idea what manner of man was about to step from the carriage.

  But...

  Yes. Oh, yes. There he was.

  Charlotte didn't think she would have been able to bear marrying without love if her husband hadn't at least been handsome. And handsome he certainly was. If he'd had any interest in the young ladies of the ton, he might have had his pick of the debutantes any year in the past ten. What duke would not entrance society's young ladies with those flashing blue eyes, that dramatic mane of dark locks, and cheekbones you could use to slice cheese?

  Charlotte fingered a curl of her own black hair, tr
ying not to let her nerves show. Our children will be dark-haired, she thought, the silly notion bubbling up out of nowhere. If we ever have children at all, of course.

  Ralph's hessians planted firmly on the paved courtyard. He looked at the house first, running his eyes over every tower and window of Langdon Manor. His lip curled. He was not pleased.

  Charlotte knew he could not chide her over the manor's upkeep. Why, she'd had the windows cleaned for his homecoming that very week! Every inch of the large house was in perfect condition. And still, Ralph was not happy. It was as if he were disappointed that the building still stood.

  Slowly, his eyes dropped to Withers, whose bow he acknowledged with a brief incline of his head. And then Charlotte found herself the object of that stony gaze.

  It was like being pierced by twin shards of sapphire. Cold, sharp, and painful. Yet beautiful, all the same.

  Charlotte drew herself up proudly. What did it matter if the duke was pleased with her appearance or not? He had only himself to blame. He’d chosen her.

  She'd had no say in their marriage at all.

  "Welcome home, Your Grace," she said, giving a formal curtsy. "Won't you come inside and warm yourself? We are expecting the Yule log at any moment."

  Indeed, she thought she heard the singing of the farm boys warming the air in the distance.

  The duke raised one immaculate black eyebrow. "The Yule log?"

  "That's right, Your Grace. It's a lovely tradition." Beside her, Withers coughed frantically. The duke shot him a glare of irritation, before turning back to Charlotte.

  "Who gave you permission to follow foolish Christmas traditions in my house?"

  "You did, Your Grace," she answered without hesitation. "When you left me in charge of our house. I have taken care of it well. You will find nothing amiss."

  The duke gave a grunt of derision, as if he did not much care whether something was amiss or not.

  "Have my things brought in," he said, marching past Charlotte as if she were one of the servants. "I'll take a cold supper in my room."

  Charlotte hurried after him. The ripple of silence which spread out around them was not lost on her. It was as if her husband brought the deathly cold of winter with him wherever he went.

  As he swept into the drawing room, so bright and merry with its glistening candles and its festoons of greenery, the servants stopped their chatter. They turned to the duke, hands behind backs, and made a series of mute bows. Unlike Withers, they did not merit even a nod of greeting. The duke pulled the black glove from his hand and touched a frond of fir hanging over the doorway.

  "What's this?" he demanded. No-one spoke. Charlotte realised with a start that those harsh words must have been directed at her.

  "We have all worked hard to make the place cheerful for Christmas," she said. Her voice wavered, high-pitched and timid. She cursed herself for being such a frightened little hen.

  It was only that she'd had such hopes...

  "Take it down," said the duke. "I do not permit such silly festivities."

  "We will certainly not take them down!" Charlotte snapped. Ah. Now she had found her voice. The sound of her disapproval rang from the plasterwork ceiling.

  Her husband did not even look at her. "I have spoken, Charlotte."

  He brushed past her without a backward glance. The tramping of his footsteps on his way upstairs was the only sound for some time.

  Tilly was the first to raise her eyes. "Miss?" In her fright, she had quite forgotten that Charlotte was a duchess.

  And who could blame her? What sort of duchess allowed her own husband to treat her so cruelly?

  "Leave the decorations where they are," said Charlotte, patting Tilly's hand. "Listen! I hear the Yule log coming. I will let you have the honour of lighting it, Withers. His Grace is... is not disposed to join us at present."

  "And the other preparations, Your Grace?" asked Withers gently. Clearly, he expected a command to pack everything away.

  But Charlotte was determined to have her Christmas – with or without her husband's permission.

  "Carry on as I instructed you this morning," she said. The air in the room immediately lifted. Sighs of relief, and a whoop of joy from Peter, melted the frost the duke had left over their gathering.

  "But His Grace was so clear –"

  "I will see to my husband."

  Charlotte gathered up her skirts and marched towards the sweeping marble staircase.

  She imagined what her older sister, Harriet, would say if she knew what had happened. Oh, Charlotte! To think of you married to such a beast! It's too much!

  Her younger sister, Frederica, of course would only say, But he's so handsome! I think I could forgive him almost anything!

  Charlotte had no idea what she was going to say to Ralph. But it was Christmastime, and he was, after all, handsome, and she was fully prepared to forgive.

  2

  Home.

  How miserable it was to be home.

  Ralph let the door thunk closed behind him as he surveyed the damage done to his bedchamber.

  Two sprigs of holly were fastened about the window with red ribbon. Those would be the first to go. Not that he intended to spend any time at all looking out at the depressing brown of his estates in December. Even if it should happen to snow, the landscape brought back too many painful memories to be beautiful.

  Someone had spent a great deal of time cutting stars and snowflakes from gold paper. The cursed things were everywhere – hanging on ribbons from the ceiling, lining his bookshelf, even wrapped around his bedposts!

  Ralph touched one of the paper stars with his ungloved hand. Firelight reflected warmth from the bright gold paper. He crumpled it in his fist and took a step towards the fire.

  A sharp knock on the door interrupted him.

  Who on earth?

  "I am coming in whether you are decent or not," said Charlotte's voice, loud and clear. "You are my husband, after all."

  Ralph hid the fist with the crumpled star behind his back. "Come in."

  He was expecting fiery rage and demands for an apology. He was expecting tears. He understood tears. He was fully prepared to tell her to retire to her own chambers until she had a hold of herself.

  Unfortunately for Ralph, Charlotte was the image of self-possession. Her face was smooth and calm as a fresh fall of snow. The little rosebud of her lips did not even tremble.

  For a moment, startled by her calmness, he could do nothing but look at her. She was a woman who deserved his attention, that was certain. Hadn't he married her precisely for the sake of those intelligent eyes, that proud upturned nose?

  No, he'd married her because he was sick of being hassled to take a wife. And because he thought she'd be meek and obedient. The last thing he wanted in his bride was a mind of her own.

  He was beginning to realise he'd made a rather serious mistake.

  "You must have had a very difficult journey," said Charlotte, in a soft voice which reminded him of clean bedsheets and fresh-cut grass, and all manner of things much more pleasant than Langdon Manor in midwinter. "I can see you're out of sorts. I came to see if there was anything I could do for you? A hot tea, perhaps? Or a glass of mulled wine?"

  "The journey was not at all difficult," said Ralph. "I simply have no wish to degrade myself by keeping company with the servants and indulging in silly country traditions."

  "But you are quite wrong!" said Charlotte, eyes widening. "It is not at all degrading! This is precisely the time of year when we ought to make merry with the whole household. You need not be embarrassed if you haven't prepared. I have taken care of everything."

  "What on earth would I need to prepare?" he demanded.

  "Why, your gifts for the servants, of course. I have arranged them all. The only one which gave me any trouble was your valet, as I haven't had the chance to get to know him, but I thought a new set of gloves might do. No-one can have too many gloves."

  Ralph could hardly believe what he wa
s hearing. "This is Langdon Manor," he growled. "We do not give presents to the staff at Langdon Manor."

  Charlotte shrugged. Blast! Would she really refuse to become angry, just to torment him? Ralph could deal with anger as easily as blinking. This – this strange, soft, feminine concern – this was something else.

  "I am now the Lady of the house," said Charlotte lightly. "And in your absence, Your Grace, I have done as I saw fit to do. Now, I have ordered hot water to be sent up so that you can wash before dinner. We will eat at half past seven."

  "I asked for a cold supper –"

  "I am your wife!" Ah. There it was. The tremble of tears, there, catching at the back of her throat.

  Yet, now that he had achieved his goal, Ralph felt no triumph at all. Only the familiar, bitter tang of regret.

  He was right. Langdon Manor would never hold any pleasure for him. Especially not at this time of year.

  "I am your wife," Charlotte repeated, voice still trembling. "And you will dine with me. I have not seen you in three months. And then it was only for a few days – and that was the first time since our wedding night!" Ah, yes, the wedding night. What a debacle that had been. Had no-one explained to the girl that he wanted a wife for propriety's sake, and to shut up the matchmaking Mamas? There had never been any possibility of affection.

  "You cannot possibly desire my company," said Ralph, genuinely baffled. Was it really that which had upset her – the thought of his absence? "You do not know me at all."