Charming . . . Witty . . . Enthralling . . . Luscious . . .
Meredith Duran’s passion-filled novels of nineteenth-century London deliver “romance at its finest” (New York Times bestselling author Liz Carlyle)!
THAT SCANDALOUS SUMMER
RT Book Reviews Top Pick
“A sophisticated, witty, smart novel that, like a Mary Balogh romance, compels the reader to look deeper and uncover great depth as well as grand passion. Duran’s characters . . . give readers a better understanding of humanity and the power of love.”
—RT Book Reviews
“So adorable and witty. . . . I am fascinated and enthralled by Duran’s voice.”
—Smexy Books
“A powerful story with emotional punch. . . . Her prose is a joy to read.”
—The Romance Dish
AT YOUR PLEASURE
RT Book Reviews Top Pick
A Romantic Times nominee for Most Innovative Romance of 2012
An American Library Association Shortlist selection
“Unforgettable romance. . . . Rich in texture. . . . A novel to sink your teeth into.”
—Romantic Times (4½ stars)
“Fast-paced, heart-pounding . . . a wonderful read!”
—Fresh Fiction
A LADY’S LESSON IN SCANDAL
RT Book Reviews Top Pick & a Desert Isle Keeper for All About Romance
An American Library Association Shortlist selection
“Compelling, exciting, sensual . . . a nonstop read everyone will savor.”
—Romantic Times (4½ stars)
“Top-notch romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
WICKED BECOMES YOU
RT Book Reviews Top Pick
“Charming and deliciously sensual from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times
“Witty, often hilarious, sensuous, and breathlessly paced . . . An engaging mystery-enhanced escapade.”
—Library Journal
“Sexy, inventive, and riveting, it’s hard to put down and a joy to read.”
—All About Romance
“Rousing . . . delightful. . . . Wicked Becomes You enthralls with particularly likable characters and a heartwarming romance with deeply affecting emotions.”
—Single Titles
WRITTEN ON YOUR SKIN
RT Book Reviews Top Pick & a Romantic Times Best Historical Romance Adventure award nominee
“Mesmerizing . . . a glorious, nonstop, action-packed battle-of-wills romance.”
—Romantic Times (4½ stars)
“Wildly romantic.”
—Dear Author (Grade: A+)
“Everything a great historical romance should be.”
—Romance Junkies
BOUND BY YOUR TOUCH
A Best Book of 2009 in All About Romance’s Reviewer’s Choice column
“Entertaining. . . . Historical romance fans will enjoy the adventure.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sophisticated, beautifully written, and utterly romantic.”
—The Book Smugglers
“A great love story. . . . I found new layers and meaning each time I read it.”
—Dear Author
THE DUKE OF SHADOWS
Finalist for the Romantic Times Best Historical Debut award
“Evocative and enticing . . . a luscious delight.”
—Liz Carlyle
“Fascinating, emotionally intense.”
—Romantic Times (4½ stars)
“Riveting. . . . emotion-packed. . . . A guaranteed page-turner.”
—The Romance Reader (4 stars)
“Without a doubt the best historical romance I have read this year.”
—Romance Reviews Today
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For Matt, as long as we both shall live.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am infinitely indebted to Janine Ballard and S. J. Kincaid for enthusiasm, encouragement, and understanding at all times of the day and night. Thanks also to the ladies and gentlemen at Pocket Books, especially Lauren McKenna, editor/muse; Elana Cohen, who writes the most charming emails the Internet has ever hosted; Faren Bachelis, eagle-eyed copy editor; and the marvelously talented art department. Finally, my immense gratitude to Caroline Guindon for her expert guidance in French (any mistakes are definitely my own), and to Ronroe, Katherine, my wonderful parents, Rob and Betsey, and the Birnholz-Farrell clan for always understanding when I say, “I can’t go/come/stay—I have to write.”
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1885
Olivia drew up before the scene of her next crime. Was it her imagination, or did the townhouse loom? All the other mansions on this street looked polite and elegant, neatly confining themselves within rows of trimmed hedges. This house, on the other hand, sprawled. She spied a gargoyle lurking above one cornice, glowering at her. Of course the Duke of Marwick would have a gargoyle carved into his house!
She crossed her arms and glowered back. She was a thief now, wasn’t she? No matter that, for all her twenty-five years, she had prayed before bedtime and gasped at curses. Now she was a criminal. Criminals should not fear anything—not even the Duke of Marwick, tyrant extraordinaire.
Brave thoughts. But her stomach was jumping like she’d eaten spoiled food.
She pivoted away, pacing to the hedges that marked the next lot. God in heaven. Was this the kind of woman she wanted to be? She’d told herself she had no choice, but that was a lie. One always had a choice. She could run again, flee to France, or even farther . . .
The autumn breeze carried a child’s laugh to her ears. In the park at the center of the square, a little boy was playing chase with a puppy. He ran in circles, shrieking with delight as the spaniel nipped his heels. Was he all alone?
Her concern faded when she spotted the couple watching from the shade of the elm trees. They were not a nanny and footman, as one typically saw supervising the young heirs of Mayfair, but a married couple, the husband fair and slim, with an elegant gold watch pinned to his lapel. The wife, plump and pink cheeked, hugged his arm as she smiled at her son.
A knot rose in Olivia’s throat. If she walked away now, it would never be safe to make a home. She would always be alone. Always running.
Strictly speaking, theft and fraud were immoral. But her cause was just, and her prospective victim, a bully. Marwick deserved a taste of his own medicine. She would not feel guilty!
She nudged her spectacles up her nose and marched back to the duke’s townhouse. The brass knocker felt slippery in her hand. The advertisement was a week old; the maid’s position might have been filled already. All her agonizing would be for nothing.
The door opened. A young brunette set her shoulder against the doorjamb and looked up at Olivia. “Oo-oo. Tall as a man, ain’t you? Come about the position, I expect.”
It had taken several days for Olivia to persuade Amanda to write the reference. But in a second, she saw that she might as well have forged it herself. Nobody was going to check its authenticity, not when they had this creature answering the door. “Yes,” she said. “The maid’s—”
“Welcome to the madhouse, then. Me name’s Polly.” The girl waved Olivia into the chill of the lobby, a cavernous space tiled in checkerboard marble. “It’s Jones you’ll want to see. He’s in the butler’s pantry. Don’t ask what he does there; nobody can say.”
Olivia followed the girl past what look
ed to be the scene of a fight, remnants of a shattered vase strewn along the wall. Or perhaps only neglect was to blame, for the Grecian urn by the stairs held masses of withered roses, and the air smelled sour, as though somebody had laid down vinegar for cleaning and forgotten to mop it up again.
A madhouse, indeed. It was the master who had gone mad first, Olivia guessed. Her former employer, Elizabeth Chudderley (from whom she had stolen), had called the Duke of Marwick a bully and a tyrant, for his ruthless opposition of Elizabeth’s marriage to his brother. But this house suggested he was less exacting of his servants than of his family. How bizarre!
A bully, she reminded herself. Marwick was a boor, a monster. Cheating him would be criminal, but not unforgivable—unlike her theft from Elizabeth.
“So you’ll have heard about our duke,” Polly said as they stepped into the servants’ passage.
For a stupid moment, Olivia thought the girl had read her mind. And then she gathered her wits. “Of course. The Duke of Marwick has done so many wonderful—”
Polly’s snort spared Olivia the distasteful task of praising him. “You don’t know the half of it.” And as they descended the stairs, she commenced a chattering monologue, full of sordid details that supplied the larger picture.
The housekeeper had quit nine days ago, after an episode in which the duke had thrown a shoe at her. Since then, half the maids had fled. Oh, the pay was still good, but you couldn’t expect a lunatic to live long, could you? To be sure, he was only thirty-five. But the duke had not left the house in ten months. If that wasn’t lunacy, what was?
“It’s been grand fun,” Polly concluded as they emerged into the servants’ gallery. “Like being paid to see a stage show!”
“Indeed.” Olivia felt slightly sick. Thanks to the letters she had stolen from Elizabeth, she knew far more of the situation than she should. She even knew why Marwick was deranged.
Several months ago, Elizabeth had come into possession of letters written by the duke’s late wife. These letters revealed the duchess to have been unfaithful and treacherous. The duke, upon learning it, had turned from a grieving widower into a half-mad hermit—and perhaps a drunkard, too, for what else could have driven him to throw shoes at the housekeeper?
Polly banged on the door to the butler’s pantry. “You’ve a new one,” she called.
The door opened a crack. A hand shot out, pudgy fingers snapping up Olivia’s reference. The door slammed shut again.
Polly crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Now, now,” she said loudly. “This one looks promising. I swear to you, it wasn’t Bradley who summoned her.” She cut Olivia a grin. “One of the footmen. Thought it’d make a fine joke to summon a painted lady for an interview. Poor Jones, he wasn’t amused.”
Olivia grew conscious of her own increasingly stiff posture. Did the butler have no spine? Why did he not sack Bradley?
That isn’t your business, she reminded herself. The disarray of this household would work to her advantage. Her aim was to rifle the duke’s belongings, for his late wife’s letters suggested that he kept files on his political colleagues, dossiers that evidenced their crimes. If this was true, then Olivia needed to find the files. There was a certain man she very much needed to blackmail.
She had anticipated a great many watchful eyes ready to catch her in the act of prying. But this lot? They wouldn’t notice if she stole the silver! Assuming any silver remained to be stolen, of course.
“You’re lucky,” Polly said, jarring Olivia from her reverie. “Old Jones is so desperate, he’ll probably not care that you wear spectacles. But in the normal course, ain’t much call for a maid who can’t see.”
“Oh.” Blinking, Olivia nudged her glasses back up to their proper place. She had never considered that detail.
“And you’ll have to stop coloring your hair,” Polly added with a tsk. “Fine shade of red, but a bit too loud for service.”
“I don’t color my hair.” She had considered it for the sake of disguise, but the lighter shades did not stick, and the darkest would have looked unnatural.
Polly gave her a skeptical look. “Right-o. Mother Nature just got frisky, I suppose.”
“I tell you, this is my natural color.” And if she had dyed her hair, she certainly would not have chosen the shade.
The door opened. Jones proved to be a distinguished gentleman in black tails, with bulldog jowls and hair as silver as a groat. He clutched Olivia’s reference like a drowning man to driftwood. “This looks quite satisfactory, Miss Johnson.”
Polly gave Olivia a questioning look. “Miss Johnson, is it?”
Mere parlor maids did not deserve such a formal address. Olivia had a sinking feeling that Amanda had not obeyed her instructions: omit from the reference any mention of Olivia’s education, and emphasize instead her experience in cleaning and caring for a grand home. Not that she had any, in truth. . . .
“Come, come,” said Jones, pushing himself through the doorway and all but scrambling for the stairs. “Follow me, if you please.”
* * *
“Our finest drawing room,” Jones announced. He waved her out of the salon, setting a brisk pace down the corridor. “You worked two years in Lady Ripton’s household?”
Olivia rushed to keep up. Roman statues lined the hallway, their stiff, marbled faces gazing with disapproval on this unlikely scene: the butler, who was meant to stand at the top of the servants’ hierarchy, giving a tour to his prospective underling. “Yes, sir. I served two years as an upstairs maid.”
This was a lie, of course. Olivia was a secretary by training. But it was her good fortune that Amanda, her former classmate at the typing school, had recently married Viscount Ripton. This made Amanda’s recommendations very powerful things to own. If the Viscountess Ripton said that Olivia had been a housemaid par excellence, then this poor, beleaguered butler would not doubt it.
“I do wonder . . .” Jones was scratching his chin. He seemed very interested in one spot in particular, a patch of whiskers beneath his ear that he had obviously missed during his morning ablutions. The silver hair there sprouted a full inch longer than the rest of his beard.
Beneath her fascinated gaze, he recalled his manners, flushing as he tucked his hand back into his waistcoat. “Are you, by any chance, lettered?”
She could have answered him in French, Italian, or German. But it seemed rather showy—and improbable, for a housemaid. “Yes, sir. I can read and write.”
“I don’t suppose you can do figures as well?”
That was also not among the housemaid’s usual skills. But the pleading look Jones fixed on her was impossible to resist. How desperate he appeared. “Yes,” she said. “I’m quite good at figures.”
Relief flashed over Jones’s face, followed, puzzlingly, by what looked like pure trepidation. He came to a stop by another door. “The library,” he said—but before he could show it to her, raucous laughter exploded around the corner, causing him to wince. “Today is rather unsettled,” he said hastily. “But I assure you, I do not tolerate such disarray on a typical basis.”
His embarrassment was contagious. As the giggles came again, Olivia felt herself turning red to match him. “Of course not, sir.”
Two maids spilled around the corner, one of them holding open a magazine, the other craning to gawk at it. Jones stiffened. “Muriel!”
The girls startled—and then, to Olivia’s astonishment, they turned on their heels and scampered back the way they had come.
Jones scowled after them. But his spirit was sadly broken, Olivia saw; rather than summoning them for a well-deserved scolding, he sighed and shook his head. “Have you any questions for me, Miss Johnson?”
She consulted herself. “Well—wages, of course.”
“Twenty-five pounds per annum, increasing to thirty after five years’ service. Anything else?”
She wracked her brain for typical concerns. “When His Grace closes the house, will we travel with him? Or will we be kept
on here?”
Instantly she regretted the question, for Jones darted her an agonized look. “I do not think . . .” He cleared his throat. “His Grace will not close the house this year.”
Nobody stayed in London during the winter. She tried to mask her shock. “I see.”
“You may have heard . . .” The butler hesitated. “I wish to assure you that His Grace is everything one could wish for in an employer.”
Poor Jones. He sounded so disheartened by his lie. Olivia restrained the urge to touch his elbow in comfort. “I have no doubt, sir.”
And that was not the kind of lie she had expected to tell today. Indeed, she’d anticipated having to prostrate herself. This was, after all, the household of the most feared figure in British politics: Alastair de Grey, fifth Duke of Marwick, friend to princes, patron of prime ministers, and puppet master of countless MPs. His upper staff, she’d assumed, would be overproud and haughty, like all servants in grand houses.
But if Marwick had once governed the nation, he now failed to govern even his own home. His servants were running wild. It made no sense to Olivia. Elizabeth had spoken of him as an all-powerful bully . . . but a bully never would have tolerated this chaos.
And once she stole from him, this beleaguered butler—the only one here who showed a lick of sense—would bear the blame for having hired her.
She couldn’t do it. To take advantage of this miserable fellow was too sordid. “Mr. Jones,” she began, just as he spoke.
“Miss Johnson, I have a terribly unorthodox proposition.” He took a deep breath, like a diver preparing himself for the plunge. “We are lacking a housekeeper. As you—as I am sure the maids already told you.”
“Indeed, they did not,” she lied. How far gone he was! Mr. Jones should not depend on the staff’s gossiping. His task was to prevent it.
“Well, yes. She gave notice . . . rather abruptly. And I do wonder . . .” Jones mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That is, it occurs to me . . . Lady Ripton spoke most highly of you; why, she even said she felt you were lowering yourself to this position, having served, in her time of need, as an amanuensis, a companion and secretary—”