Read "Dancing in the Duke's Arms" Online Free
 Spring into March Reads! Since your spider web browser does not support JavaScript, hither is a non-JavaScript version of the image slideshow: | Buy Self Published Romance Album, Romance Historical Excerpt of Dancing in the Duke's Artillery past Carolyn Jewel, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Grace BurrowesVivienne stumbled into the clearing and barbarous to her knees. The wet grass soaked through her skirts, merely she barely noticed. Darkness still shrouded what she imagined in the sunlight were rolling green hills and manicured lawns. Daylight was long, terror-filled hours away. And she was then very, very tired. She'd been running all night, running and hiding. She couldn't afford rest. The assassins were right behind her, hunting her. But for that hollow under the tree in the forest, they would have her at present. She could not pause, not even for a moment. She needed water. Her throat felt coated with sand, and it took endeavour to swallow. Since Masson had been murdered, she'd been constantly hungry and thirsty. She'd come up this style because she thought she smelled h2o, and now looking out over the lawn that sloped down from the woods, she spotted a small swimming with a charming bridge crossing information technology. The pond was not large enough to warrant a bridge, just it was probably an idea one of the British nobles had liked and commissioned. These nobles had more money than they knew what to practise with. Once, she had been the same. Looking left and right earlier moving further into the clearing, Vivienne made her manner toward the pond. She had to restrain the urge to rush to the water and gulp great handfuls equally presently as she reached the bank. Instead, she circled the pond until she faced the wood and her back was to the bridge. The shadows cast past the bridge in the weak light from the crescent moon would hide her, shield her, give her a moment to recover her strength. With a last look at the forest, she removed her quiver and bow, set them confronting the bridge. She knelt and cupped the cool h2o, sniffing it then drinking. She cupped more water, drinking and drinking until her previously empty abdomen roiled. Splashing water on her face up, her arms, she rinsed some of the mud from her skin. Vivienne had hidden in a pigpen virtually of the solar day, and though the sow and her piglets had not seemed to heed her visitor, she was eager to get out reminders of the pigs backside. She leaned against the span, bracing her weary torso against the smoothen, round stones. She'd been safe hidden under the sus scrofa muck. It wasn't until she'd tried to sneak away from the farm that the assassins had spotted her and come after her. Vivienne harbored no illusions that if the 3 men had defenseless her they'd leave her alive. They'd slit her throat just as they'd slit Masson'south. Poor Masson, she thought, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. He'd given everything he had to save her. She would not diminish his sacrifice by failing now. She had to reach London and the rex. How far was Nottinghamshire from London? Hours? Days? At the moment, London seemed equally far away as the moon. She leaned her head back, eyes yet closed. She would rise in a moment. She would go along moving south, southward toward London. She would non rest until she reached the capital. She… Vivienne slept. Nathan Cauley, the Duke of Wyndover, swirled the port in his glass. "I already have more than money than I need. What I don't accept is an heir. How I green-eyed Hardcastle that nephew of his. Why can't I detect a nephew and heir? Instead, I've a cousin in the bloody Americas. My female parent is on the verge of faking her plummet in guild to bustle me forth." His host for the house party, the Knuckles of Sedgemere smiled. "There are worse things than matrimony, Nat." "Says the human being already leg-shackled. Likewise, Elias, your duchess is 1 in ten chiliad. Where am I to discover a lady like her?" "Do you know what your problem is?" Wyndover drained the terminal of his port. "I'm certain you will tell me." "You lot've had information technology too like shooting fish in a barrel. You're a duke, and not just a knuckles, a young duke. Add that pretty face up to the packet, and the ladies faint at your anxiety. All you need practise is crook your finger." "I object." "On what grounds?" "I take never kleptomaniacal a finger at a lady." Elias inclined his head, conceding the point. "My argument still stands. You have never had to woo a woman, never had to work to make ane have discover of you." "And you lot have? You're a encarmine knuckles too, you know." "If you think Anne merely fell into my arms, you don't know her very well. She led me on a merry hunt, and I'm a better homo for it." "I'm too decorated for chasing. Love and all that rot is fine for the likes of you, Elias, but I have estates to manage, solicitors at my door, stewards with speedily multiplying rabbits." "Rabbits?" Wyndover waved a paw. "I need an heir, non romance." "Then you haven't found the correct woman even so. When you practise, you lot'll welcome both the romance and the chase. You wouldn't have it any other way." Nathan shook his head, merely Elias did not stay to hear his protest. He stood. "I see Greenover is retiring for the dark. At that place was an incident with a maid earlier. I think I'll make certain he finds his room without incident. I shall see you bright and early on for the scavenger hunt, Nat." Nathan gave his onetime friend a pained expression. "Scavenger chase? Volition your bride exist very offended if I pass?" "Effort information technology and I'll call yous out," Sedgemere said in a tone Nathan idea only half joking. "This is her hostessing debut. You will cheerfully nourish every single event and activity, exist it archery, embroidery, ices in the garden, or a scavenger hunt." "Embroidery?" "Be there with needle and thread." Nathan gave a mock salute and watched his old school chum follow the lecherous Greenover out of the Billiards Room. If he'd been an intelligent man, he too would have sought his bed. Instead, Nathan poured some other glass of port and settled dorsum to sentry Viscount Ormandsley lose withal another game of billiards. The next morning came also early, and despite his tacit agreement with Sedgemere to deed the dutiful guest, he was late for the commencement of the scavenger hunt. By the time he made it to the breakfast room, the other guests had already departed, all but a Miss MacHugh. He relaxed when he saw her. She had not fainted at his feet upon meeting him the day before. The same could not be said of two other ladies at the party—a Miss Frobisher and a Miss Pendleton. Miss MacHugh, withal, had not seemed especially impressed by him, but then he'd seen her gaze slide to the Duke of Hardcastle one too many times. Best he left Miss MacHugh to find her own amusements this morning. He exchanged pleasantries with her, then made his way to the drawing room to ask later on the residue of the party. The butler informed him they'd already embarked on the scavenger hunt and handed him a sheet of foolscap on which had been listed a number of items he was to acquire. "They have not been gone long, Your Grace," the butler said. "I am certain y'all will take no trouble catching up to one political party or another and joining their ranks." But that was the trick, Nathan decided. If he accidentally encountered the Frobisher-Pendleton party, he'd be stuck catching fainting ladies all morning and afternoon. He scanned the first items listed on the paper. A horseshoe, a plume, a pinkish rose, a smooth round rock for skipping. The listing went on and on. He could find these items on his own, observe them and complete the scavenger chase without assist or fainting ladies. He'd start with the skipping stone. It was in the heart of the listing, and he imagined the teams would either begin with the first or last particular and work from there. He remembered crossing a small rock bridge upon arriving the day before. Several ducks had been pond in a pretty little lake. He'd outset there in his search for the stone. While anybody else swarmed the stables or gardens, he'd have a nice walk past the water. Nathan started in the direction of the swimming, encountering the Knuckles of Linton and Sedgemere'due south slap-up-aunt, Lady Lavinia, returning to the firm. "Wyndover, join us," Lady Lavinia said, after the initial pleasantries. "I recall quite fondly a scavenger hunt with your late father. This was before he met your mother, and I rather think we spent more time flirting than hunting." "Yep, do join us, Wyndover," Linton said hopefully, his voice raised so the deaf older lady could hear him. "I wouldn't want to intrude," Nathan shouted. "I take my own plan of activity." Linton scowled, and Nathan made his escape, Lady Lavinia'southward vocalisation carrying over the lawns. "Who is the object of his attraction?" Nathan chuckled, crossing the lush greenish lawn speedily. Sedgemere's estate was well tended. As a homo of property himself, Nathan noticed the details—the manicured flowerbeds, the way the land sloped away from the house to aid in drainage, the gravel paths that were free of weeds. He would take liked to see some of the surrounding land and meet a handful of Sedgemere's tenants, but that would have to wait until he'd played dutiful invitee a few more than days. Sedgemere had mentioned archery as an action, Nathan remembered as he neared the lake. God in Heaven, anything only archery. At the edge of the water, he scanned the stones on the sandy depository financial institution. Several were quite polish, but they were likewise round to skip well. He needed a flat and oval stone. He followed the edge of the water, head downwards, eyes narrowed for any sign of the perfect skipping stone. A duck quacked, and he looked out at the water, glinting in the forenoon sunday. A drake, his mate, and a line of ducklings swam in the middle of the water, looking quite bumming. Doubtless the ducks were hunting insects for breakfast. He watched them for a moment, but when he might take gone back to his search for skipping stones, his attention defenseless and held on a flutter of something brown most the base of the grey stone bridge. It looked like a clump of chocolate-brown fabric. A coat a groundskeeper had set aside and forgotten? He almost returned to his quest for the skipping stone, only something fabricated him stare just a little longer. The coat was non empty. Someone was inside it. Wyndover blimp the canvas of foolscap into his coat pocket and walked rapidly toward the bridge. His long- legged gait ate up the distance speedily, and the indistinct shape became clearer. It was a body lying on its side nether the shade of the bridge. As he neared the class, he made out the mud caked on the coat and the matted pilus falling over the person'southward face. Probably a vagrant who'd fallen comatose there the dark before. At least Wyndover hoped the man was only sleeping. The last thing the Duchess of Sedgemere needed was a dead trunk to put a damper on her business firm political party. "Excuse me," he said as he walked the terminal few steps. "Are you lot injure?" The torso didn't move. The wind ruffled the brown textile again, but now Wyndover all but stumbled. It wasn't a coat whipping in the breeze. Those were skirts. A girl? Where he might take nudged the torso with his foot had it been a man, at present he hunched down and examined the course. She did wear a coat—a man's glaze—which was far too large for her small-scale form. Beneath the hem of the coat, skirts covered with dry out mud lay heavy against her legs, which were pulled protectively toward her abdomen. Her long night pilus covered her face up, the muddied strands making it impossible for him to see her features. Still, this was no lady nor a guest of the house political party. She stank of shit and farm animals. Wyndover looked dorsum toward the firm. Should he fetch one of Sedgemere'due south servants? He winced at the idea. He could already hear the taunts from the other guests. Exit it to Wyndover to find a daughter on a scavenger hunt. That desperate for a bride, Wyndover? He might not demand to involve the servants, simply he couldn't leave her here. "Miss." He shook her shoulder gently. Information technology was surprisingly pliable under the potent outer article of clothing. He'd expected to feel little more than bird- like bones. So mayhap she was not every bit malnourished as he'd thought. "Miss," he said a little louder. He shook her again. She moaned softly and then came instantly awake. He stood just in fourth dimension to avoid her swing every bit she struck out. She scrambled up and back against the bridge, her arms raised protectively, as though she expected him to attack. The matted pilus savage to the side of her mud-streaked face, merely her large green eyes stared at him with undisguised terror. Wyndover raised his own easily in a gesture of peace. "I won't hurt you." Her eyes narrowed. Such large eyes and then very green. They were the color of myrtle, a constitute he knew well as he'd had to approve a hundred pounds for the purchase of myrtle at Wyndover Park. He'd stopped at his nearby estate earlier continuing to Sedgemere Firm, and the head gardener had insisted on showing him the myrtle, which had been in bloom with white flowers. "Practice you sympathise?" he asked when she didn't respond and continued to look at him in confusion. "Do you speak English language?" "Yes." She rose, using the bridge for back up. "I understand." Her voice held a faint exotic quality, a lilt that was both familiar and foreign. She was no child; he could see that now. Although the coat hid her effigy, he could encounter by the way she held herself that she was a woman and one of some standing. She held her mentum high in a haughty mode, and her gaze swept down him with an imperiousness he recognized from more than 1 ton ballroom. She patently decided he was no threat, because her gaze rapidly moved past him to scan the area around her. She reminded him of a hunted animal, a trick cornered by hounds. He wanted to reach out, lay a hand on her and reassure her, only he didn't dare touch her. The expect in her optics was too feral, too total of fear. "Where am I?" she demanded, her optics darting all effectually her, searching, searching. What was she looking for? What was she scared of? "Sedgemere House," he answered. 'The residence of the Duke of Sedgemere." "Are you lot he?" If she didn't know Sedgemere, she wasn't local. But if she didn't live in the expanse, then how had she come to be on Sedgemere's manor? He saw no evidence of a horse or conveyance. She must have walked. Another glance at the state of her habiliment confirmed she must have been traveling for some fourth dimension. Or perhaps non traveling merely running. But from what or whom? "No. Miss, you look equally though you need some aid. May I escort y'all dorsum to the house?" Damn the taunts and teasing. The adult female needed assistance. She shook her head so violently that flecks of mud scattered in the breeze. "I must be going." She turned in a full circle, obviously trying to make up one's mind which fashion to travel. Her muddy hair trailed downwards her back, almost reaching the hem of the thigh-length coat. Sections of it were yet braided, indicating at one time information technology had been styled in some manner or other. "Which way to London?" she asked. He almost answered. Her tone was such that he felt compelled to snap to attention, as though he were the butler and she the chief. Something else was familiar almost her. The way she spoke, that accent. She wasn't English language. Not French or Italian. He'd traveled the Continent years ago, when he'd been about two and twenty. He knew that accent, just couldn't place it at the moment. "Why don't we talk over it within over a cup of tea?" he said. "If y'all'll follow me—" "I don't have time for tea. I have to run. Hide. They're looking for me. If they find me…" She shuddered, and that one gesture said more than whatever word she'd spoken. "Let me help y'all." Her gaze landed on him again, ran rapidly over him, and dismissed him just as apace. "If yous want to assist, tell me which way to London." She shook her caput. "Ne rien! I'll find it on my own." She swept past him, obviously intending to proceed without his assistance. She might accept climbed the embankment beside the bridge, but Wyndover suspected the exertion would accept been too much for her. She would probably take the easier path around the pond and so double back and head south. Ne rien. He'd heard that before, and quite suddenly he knew exactly where she was from. Ne rien was a Glennish phrase meaning never mind or forget it. Glennish was the mix of Gaelic and French spoken in the Kingdom of Glynaven. He'd read reports of recent unrest in Glynaven. Another revolution ousting the royal family. "Oh, bloody hell," he muttered equally another thought occurred to him. He turned just in time to come across her stumble. In ii strides he was beside her, his arms out to catch her as she vicious. He lifted her unconscious torso, cradling her in his arms. She'd barely made information technology three feet earlier she'd collapsed from what he'd hoped was only exhaustion and not something more serious. She might odour of manure and rotting vegetables, but with her head thrown dorsum, he could encounter her face more clearly now. The loftier forehead and sculpted cheekbones, the full lips. She had all the features of the royal family unit of Glynaven. Only the unusual color of her greenish eyes gave her away—Her Purple Highness, Princess Vivienne Aubine Calanthe de Glynaven. "Welcome to England," he said as he started back toward the house. She was light equally a jump lamb, just he knew under the beefy vesture she had the total, supple trunk of a adult female. A beautiful woman. She hadn't even recognized him. Other women might swoon at the sight of him, but her gaze had passed right over him, just as it had when they'd outset met. "You lot're in danger," he remarked to himself every bit he left the pond behind and started across the lawn. Not toward the house. He didn't dare take her to the house. One of the outbuildings. His gaze landed on a small shed, nearly probably a boathouse. He'd tuck her at that place and then fetch Sedgemere or his duchess. "Princess Vivienne." He gave a rueful laugh. "Bet you never thought I'd be the i to save you." Excerpt from Dancing in the Knuckles's Arms by Carolyn Jewel, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Grace Burrowes |
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