The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
the wind blows; orgasms arrive in tandem.
And after that moment of transcendent bliss, when she brushed the damp hair from her brow and smiled up at her husband in satisfaction, Emma couldn’t have thought him any more perfect.
And now, a few words about badminton.
During the Regency era, badminton as we know and love it today did not exist. There were shuttlecocks, and people amused themselves batting them back and forth with rackets called battledores. “Battledore and shuttlecock” was all the rage in early nineteenth century England. There were no nets, no boundaries, few rules. It was anarchy.
However, no modern reader (that I know, at least) was forced to play “battledore and shuttlecock” in physical education class. We played badminton. So even though the rules were not formalized until the 1860s, I decided to use the word “badminton” anyway. Call it an artistic liberty. Or perhaps an athletic liberty?
Interestingly enough, the game of badminton owes its name to a duke. According to a family legend, the game was invented by the Duke of Beaufort’s bored grandchildren while they were staying at the duke’s home: Badminton. So I don’t think it’s completely unlikely that the bored Duke of Ashbury might think up the game on his own, do you?
That’s my story, anyway—and I’m sticking to it.
Writing romance novels is a joy and a privilege. However, sometimes writers suffer for their art. And sometimes writers share that suffering with everyone nearby.
For their patience and support, I am forever indebted to my husband, my children, my family, my friends, my editor, my agent, my editor’s assistant, my copy editor, my publicist, my personal assistant, my publisher, my twitter followers, my cats, my pajamas, my coffeemaker . . . and pretty much everyone and everything around me. Except that one neighbor with the drone. You know who you are.
Special shout-outs to Guido, Kirk, Samantha, and Ken for bringing the sexy to this book’s cover.
And always, always, thanks to my readers. If not for you, I would have to wear pants.
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Eva Leigh
To Zack
London, England
1817
A woman laughed, and Alexander Lewis, Duke of Greyland felt the sound like a gunshot to his chest.
It was a very pleasant laugh, low and musical rather than shrill and forced, yet it sounded like The Lost Queen’s laugh. Alex could not resist the urge to glance over his shoulder as he left the Eagle chophouse. He’d fancifully taken to calling her The Lost Queen, though she was most assuredly a mortal woman. Had she somehow appeared on a busy London street at dusk? The last time he’d seen her had been two years ago, in the spa town of Cheltenham, in his bed, asleep and naked.
The owner of the laugh turned out to be a completely different woman—brunette rather than blonde, petite and round rather than lithe and willowy. She caught Alex staring and raised her eyebrows. He bowed gravely in response, then continued toward the curb.
Night came on in indigo waves, but the shops spilled golden light in radiant patches onto the street. The hardworking citizens of London continued to toil as the upper echelons began their evening revelries. Crowds thronged the sidewalk, while wagons, carriages, and people on horseback crammed the streets. A handful of pedestrians recognized Alex and politely curtsied or tipped their hats, murmuring, “Good evening, Your Grace.” Though he was in no mood for politeness, responsibility and virtue were his constant companions—had been his whole life—and so rather than snapping, “Go to the devil, damn you!” he merely nodded in greeting.
He’d done his duty. He’d been seen in public, rather than disappearing into the cavernous chambers of his Mayfair mansion,where he could lick his wounds in peace.
The trouble with being a duke was that he always had to do his duty. “You are the pinnacle of British Society,” his father had often said to him. “The world looks to you for guidance. So you must lead by example. Be their True North.”
This evening, before dining, Alex had taken a very conspicuous turn up and down Bond Street, making certain that he was seen by many consequential—and loose-lipped—figures in the ton. Word would soon spread that the Duke of Greyland was not holed up, sulking in seclusion. His honor as one of Society’s bulwarks would not be felled by something as insignificant as his failed marriage suit to Lady Emmeline Birks. The Dukes of Greyland had stood strong against Roundheads, Jacobites, and countless other threats against Britain. One girl barely out of the schoolroom could hardly damage Alex’s ducal armor.
But that armor had been dented by The Lost Queen. Far deeper than he would have expected.
Standing on the curb, he signaled for his carriage, which pulled out of the mews. He tugged on his spotless gloves as he waited and adjusted the brim of his black beaver hat to make certain it sat properly on his head. “Always maintain a faultless appearance,” his father had reminded him again and again. “The slightest bit of disorder in your dress can lead to rampant speculation about the stability of your affairs. This, we cannot tolerate. The nation demands nothing less than perfection.”
Alex’s father had been dead for ten years, but that didn’t keep the serious, sober man’s voice from his mind.