The Duke’s Dark Secret

No one would ever have thought to pair the dangerously handsome duke with the meek little rector’s daughter. But as he helps Cecilia on her quest, Marcus discovers a well of passion hiding behind her sloe eyes that may just be a match for his own.

Two Hearts on a Perilous Path

But Cecilia’s search for the truth about her mother’s death unearths dark secrets from Marcus’s past, secrets that will destroy the new life he has built for his beloved sister and condemn one of the few people he cares about to death. What will he do when he is forced to choose between loyalty… and love?

London

September 1803

Standing beneath a crystal chandelier in Astley House’s glittering ballroom, Cecilia Chenoweth forced a smile to her lips and tried to look anywhere but at the man standing a few feet away.

It didn’t work particularly well, as the man she was determined to ignore was Marcus Latimer, the recently elevated Duke of Trevissick. He was widely regarded as the most handsome man in London, being in possession of pale golden hair, frost-colored eyes, an elegant fencer’s physique, and the sort of cheekbones that made sculptors weep.

He also happened to be the particular man Ceci pictured when she hugged her pillow as she drifted off to sleep at night.

But making eye contact with him was entirely out of the question.

The problem dated back to the first moment she had clapped eyes upon him. It had been one year ago, and she had just arrived in London in order to attend the wedding of her dear friend Caroline Astley to Henry Greville, Viscount Thetford.

Ceci had been taking tea with Caro in the morning room, and Caro had said something very, very funny, as Caro was wont to do.

Unfortunately, Caro had dropped this bon mot at the precise moment two simultaneous events occurred.

One, Ceci took a sip of tea.

And two, the most handsome man in the world came strolling into the room.

This wretched convergence of events meant that Marcus Latimer’s first impression of Ceci was of her snorting tea out of her nose.

It still made her cheeks burn, recalling his look of derision.

Was it possible to recover from such a humiliating incident? This was not one of those rhetorical questions—Ceci desperately desired to know how it could be done. They both served on the Board of the Ladies’ Society for the Relief of the Destitute, a charitable organization founded by the Countess of Morsley back when she had been Lady Anne Astley, so Ceci had to attend board meetings with him on a regular basis. Even after the passage of a year, the mortification had not lessened one iota.

So, speaking to the duke? Unthinkable. Making eye contact? Horrifying.

But Ceci found it difficult to keep her gaze from straying in his direction. Like some bright, golden treasure at the British Museum, he could not help but draw your eye.

Retreating to the opposite side of the ballroom would have made ignoring him easier, but alas, that was not an option. This was a subscription ball being held on behalf of the Ladies’ Society, and Ceci had a job to do tonight: organizing the charity auction. She therefore could not stray from the long table upon which the articles to be sold were displayed.

And, frankly, she had no desire to leave the table, at least, not this close to the beginning of the ball. This was due to the fact that she had managed to wear a hole in the sole of one of her dancing slippers.

Dancing slippers were notoriously flimsy things, and it wasn’t uncommon to wear a hole in one during the course of a full night of dancing. She had been very careful to shuffle her feet as she made her way over to the table, and so long as she could conceal the hole until the second half of the ball, no one would think anything of it.

Still, she was nervous that someone would notice. If you looked at her foot from precisely the right angle, the fraying was visible even when her foot was flat on the floor.

Perhaps she should have mentioned it to Georgiana Astley, the Countess of Cheltenham. She knew Lady Cheltenham would have bought her a new pair of slippers. After her father’s death last year, the Astleys had taken Ceci in, as she had no living family. This was awkward, but necessary, as it was considered improper for a young, unmarried woman to live alone.

But, upon looking into her father’s financial affairs, Ceci had been shocked to discover that she was destitute. She could not understand it. Her father had made a good living. Ceci knew the church post he’d held for most of her life brought in twelve hundred pounds a year, as well as free use of the rector’s cottage. Although her father had enjoyed a few indulgences—books, the best coffee ordered in from London, and sheet music for his daughter—they had lived frugally. Why, he had always told Ceci that when she married, she would have a dowry of a thousand pounds or so!

The point was, Ceci should have inherited something upon his death. But she had not, and without a farthing to her name, the imposition upon her friends was a thousand times worse.

Not that the Astleys seemed to mind. Lady Cheltenham had offered to buy Ceci an entire new wardrobe at the start of the Season, an offer Ceci had gratefully but firmly refused. She was determined to make her own way, not be a burden on her friends. And she was starting to have some success in this regard. The many hours she had spent at the pianoforte over the years now stood her in good stead, and she had managed to attract fourteen music students. The pay wasn’t great, but after the lessons she had scheduled tomorrow, she should have enough saved up to get her dancing slippers resoled.

Everything was going to be fine. All she had to do was keep her feet concealed beneath the edge of the tablecloth for the next two hours and not look at Marcus Latimer.

How hard could it possibly be?

                       

As he examined a Kashmiri shawl that would be auctioned off later in the evening, Marcus Latimer struggled not to look at Cecilia Chenoweth.

As always, it proved to be a difficult task. Even in that hideous, high-necked monstrosity of a gown in a color that artists probably referred to as doleful beige, he could scarcely keep his eyes off her.

Her finest feature was her eyes. They were huge. Brown. Slightly wide set. And still. She was the very definition of a sloe-eyed beauty.

And saying that her eyes were her finest feature was a significant compliment because Cecilia Chenoweth had a figure so delectable that she could make a burlap sack look seductive. Every inch of her was luscious, the beau ideal of a pocket Venus. Her breasts were particularly magnificent. Full. Round. Large enough to overflow his hands.

Not that Marcus was ever likely to lay his hands upon the likes of Cecilia Chenoweth. It was plain that he made her uncomfortable.

He wasn’t sure what he had done. He had been relatively well-behaved. He wasn’t one of those men who went around pawing and grabbing. He didn’t need to—ever since he came of age, he’d had his pick of the most beautiful women in London. Hell, he hadn’t even made any sordid innuendos!

At least, he didn’t think he had. He supposed that, when one was as prone to making sordid innuendos as he was, it was possible she might have overheard something not intended for her ears.

Marcus would probably never know why she couldn’t bear to look at him, much less speak to him. But look at him she could not, and he tried to honor her wishes by leaving her alone.

But it was difficult to ignore her entirely. How could he possibly be expected not to notice the most stunning woman in the room?

But he was trying to be good, damn it, so he fixed his gaze upon the shawl neatly folded upon the table. It was a rich Prussian blue with a colorful floral border at each end. Such shawls had to be imported from the Himalayas in India, and typically cost about as much as a carriage. This one was particularly fine, and the color was rare. It would suit his little sister, Diana, splendidly. Marcus had in fact just returned to town, having left as soon as his father died in order to fetch Diana, who had been raised in the far reaches of Yorkshire by their great-aunt Griselda.

The shawl was easily worth five hundred pounds. Marcus decided he would bid a thousand, as he had been planning to make a donation to the Ladies’ Society anyway.

His mind made up, he prepared to go off in search of a decent glass of wine when a shrill voice pierced his thoughts. “Is that a hole in your slipper?”

Frowning, he turned his head. It proved to be Araminta Grenwood, the waspish daughter of a viscount. Miss Grenwood had spoken loudly enough that fifty heads had turned to see what the fuss was all about.

Marcus flinched as he realized that those fifty pairs of eyes were not merely trained upon Miss Grenwood, but also on her intended victim, Cecilia Chenoweth.

Cheeks aflame, Miss Chenoweth was standing so close to the table displaying the auction lots that her slippers were entirely concealed by the tablecloth. “I think you must be mistaken, Miss Grenwood,” she said in a tremulous voice.

Miss Grenwood seized a fold of the tablecloth and drew it back. “I’m not! It’s no use shuffling your feet. I can see it from here.” Triumph glittered in her beady eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re so occupied overseeing this hodgepodge. It’s not as if any man would be seen dancing with you, anyway.”

Something in Marcus snapped. Although his brain knew that Miss Chenoweth’s fondest wish was to avoid him, his legs carried him down the length of the table in three rapid strides.

His hand snapped out. “Come, Miss Chenoweth.”

Her gorgeous brown eyes met his, filled with a mix of terror and confusion, and Marcus felt his heart give an unexpected thump.

But she did not move to take his hand.

That was when it dawned on him that she truly did not understand that he was asking her to dance. Which was perhaps unsurprising. Marcus scarcely ever danced, because when he did, the gossips of the ton tended to get carried away. If he danced the opening quadrille with someone, then by the Sir Roger de Coverley at the close of the ball, it would be considered an established fact that his partner was the next Duchess of Trevissick. It was tiresome, and Marcus preferred to avoid the whole bloody business.

But his usual reticence explained why Miss Chenoweth stood there, frozen. “May I have the next dance?” Marcus clarified, unable to keep a trace of annoyance from his voice.

“Oh!” Her gaze shot back to the floor. “Th-thank you, my lord.” She flinched as she recalled that he had just inherited a dukedom, and she had therefore used the wrong form of address. “I’m sorry, that is to say, Your Grace. But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Of course, you can.” Miss Chenoweth’s particular friend, Caroline Greville, Lady Thetford, came striding up, her eyes filled with poison and fixed upon Miss Grenwood. She wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist and ushered her around the table, ignoring the panicked look Miss Chenoweth shot her. “She would like nothing better than to dance with Your Grace. Isn’t that right, Ceci?”

“I… er…”

“There!” Lady Thetford exclaimed, seizing her friend’s hand and placing it in Marcus’s outstretched palm. They were both wearing gloves, but still, he felt a tremor run up his arm.

The viscountess glared directly into Miss Grenwood’s scowling face as she said, “Miss Chenoweth is absolutely delighted!”

Marcus wasn’t so sure about that. But at least she did not remove her hand from his.

Before they went to join the dance, he stared Miss Grenwood in the face for a full beat, then pointedly turned away without saying a word of greeting. It was the cut direct, the worst insult he could dole out toward a lady, and a silent testament to what he thought of her remarks.

Miss Chenoweth allowed him to lead her to the top of the set and proceeded to stare at the floor for the entire duration of the country dance they shared.

The Duke’s Dark Secret is now available!