He’d started to push the pile of papers back across the table, but she’d set her hand on top of it. With a steady glare, she’d said, “I disagree, but what does it matter, since I’m taking all the risk?” She’d gestured to the purse still sitting between them. “That should more than compensate you for any editing services I might require, as well as all the printing costs, with enough to spare.” She’d stood up straighter. “I don’t expect it to be a huge success, nor do I wish to have more than a few copies made. I just want it available to the public and in Hatchard’s by Christmas.”

Emary had noticed the moment when he went from incredulous to annoyed resignation. He’d reluctantly dragged the pages back to him, flipping through them once more, but this time, in a professional manner. “This will take me two days to go over and another two for printing, that is if I pay my staff to work overtime…” he’d muttered. But it wasn’t until he’d glanced at the heavy purse on his desk that he’d scrubbed a hand over his face and regarded her somewhat curtly. “Very well, Miss Pageant. You have a deal.”

Emary had smiled broadly and stuck her hand across the desk. He’d hesitated a moment, and then accepted the offering. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” she’d said brightly, although she knew he wouldn’t claim the same.

The instant she’d walked out into the sunlight, even the cold air couldn’t dampen her spirits.

Now, as Emary walked up the front steps of St. Paul’s on her father’s arm, she couldn’t keep the satisfied grin from her face. Not only was she a published author with her name on the leather bound cover of “A Seduction at Christmas,” but she was about to marry the love of her life.

As if proclaiming the blessing of God and His angels, a softly falling snow began to fall. Emary lifted her face to the heavens just as the doors to the cathedral opened. With her head held high, she walked down the aisle to begin her new journey as the Duchess of Windwood.

Once the wedding breakfast was over, Donovan strode up to his wife with a hungry look in his eyes that Emary couldn’t fail to interpret. “It’s time we departed, my dear.”

She returned his eager gaze with one of her own. “I thought you’d never ask.” Although Emary retained a touch of maidenly nerves, her need for this man overwhelmed all else. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him and seal this new bargain they’d made. From the moment she’d walked down the aisle and spied him in his red formal regimentals, she’d been hard pressed to keep her adoring gaze off of him. It was hard to imagine that this handsome man truly belonged to her.

Donovan held his arm out to her, but before they could make their escape, the dowager intercepted their retreat. “Leaving so soon?” she said with a tilt of her elegant, blond brow. Her son snorted as Emary likely turned twenty shades of red. “Might I have a moment with your lovely wife before you spirit her away?”

Donovan acquiesced, but Emary could see that he wasn’t altogether pleased about being detained. Once he stalked off, Caroline turned to her with a curve of her lips. “You’ll find that Donovan is more bark than bite.”

Emary wasn’t so sure about that as she recalled all the little love nibbles that he’d bestowed on her in the past week that had set her pulse racing, but she wasn’t about to comment on that. Again, she felt her face heat rather traitorously. To distract herself from such wayward thoughts, she clasped her hands together and said, “I feel guilty for sending you out of your home for the evening.”

“It’s my son’s townhouse, not mine,” Caroline corrected, although not unkindly. “But not to worry. Your parents have always made me feel quite welcome when I’m in residence. Today won’t be any different. Besides, your mother and I get along quite well. But I digress.” She brought forth an object that Emary hadn’t noticed until then. “I only detained you because I was hoping you might sign my copy of your novel.”

Emary gasped in pleasant surprise. “I would be honored. But you know I would have gladly gifted you a copy.”

As Caroline handed her a quill, she said, “And deprive the greedy women of London the chance to whine for more? I think not.”

Emary frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you know?” The dowager smiled broadly. “I got the last copy from Hatchard’s. It turns out your story is quite a success. It’s creating quite a buzz about the city.”

Emary’s mouth fell open. “Truly?”

Donovan returned to wrap his arms around her waist. He put his chin on her shoulder and asked his mother, “Are you quite through monopolizing my bride?”

“I suppose so.” She rolled her eyes. She reached out and set a hand on each of their cheeks. “I’m so happy for you both.” With tears shimmering in her blue eyes, she turned away.

Donovan took Emary’s hand. “Let’s go, my love.” Threading her arm through his, he led her outside and to his waiting coach. Once he tapped the roof and they departed, he wasted no time taking her into his arms. “Finally,” he breathed, as he devoured her lips with his own, his assault so provocative and demanding that when they arrived at his townhouse a short time later, Emary was quite disheveled and burning up from the inside out.

The butler opened the door upon their arrival, but Emary didn’t have time to greet him or inspect her surroundings, other than the black and white checkered floor at her feet, as the duke scooped her up into his arms and carried her over the threshold.

With a bubbling giggle of mirth escaping her lips, Emary wound her arms around her husband’s neck as he strode purposefully up the stairs until he reached a slightly ajar door at the end of the second floor hallway. He kicked the door open fully and shut it behind them. Only then did he set her on her feet.

Emary was breathless as they fell into each other’s arms.

Only once, when they parted briefly, did she ask, “Shouldn’t I wait for Althea to attend to me?”

His blue eyes instantly sparked with fire. “I shall play your ladies’ maid this day, my lovely wife.”

Emary felt a shiver chase across her skin, yet it wasn’t from fear, but eagerness. In reply, she unpinned her bonnet and tossed it aside and then turned her back to him. “Then let’s not delay.”

She thought she heard him groan as he made quick work of the row of buttons on her gown. As it fell into a puddle of silk at her feet, he turned his attention to unlacing her stays. She thought he heard him mutter something about a “damned woman’s undergarments,” before it too, fell away.

It wasn’t long before the rest of her clothes were discarded, as well as his. She marveled at the hard planes of his chest, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the muscles bunching and clenching in his arms. He was truly magnificent to behold, and Emary couldn’t resist reaching out and running her hands along his powerful form.

With an almost feral growl, Donovan lifted Emary into his arms, eliciting a squeal of delight, and laid her gently on the raised, canopied bed. But his eyes were serious when he brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, “Tonight you will be mine in every way.”

“Yes,” Emary sighed.

His mouth suddenly kicked up at the corner. “I hope you know that if you ever wish to offer me another proposal, I’d be more than willing to accept.”

She couldn’t help but grin. “In that case…” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I propose that you make love to me.”

He grinned wickedly. “On that, my dear duchess, I would be more than happy to comply.”

He brought his mouth down to hers, and they loved one another until the early morning hours of dawn.

Copyright © 2019 by Tabetha Waite

Cover Design by Jena Brignola Graphic Artist

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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Dedicated to the men and women who are still searching for their true love. It's never too late to believe.

Day 1

December 1817

London, England

Philomena Wallace, Countess of Lipscomb, was sitting at her writing desk in the front parlor of her London townhouse when the butler entered with a fantastic array of roses.

“These just arrived for you, my lady.”

Mena, as she was known to most, removed her spectacles and narrowed her eyes curiously on the lovely arrangement. “Indeed?” Standing, she smoothed down her simple frock and walked forward. Twelve, perfect blossoms in a rainbow of colors greeted her gaze. Touching one soft petal, she bent down and sniffed a fragrant bloom.

It was rare to find such healthy flowers this late in the year, so they must have come from a hothouse. But who would put forth such an effort for a widow approaching forty-two years of age? She had long passed the time when she would have entertained the idea of a suitor, especially now that she had two grown children — although her son, God rest his soul, had died two years ago in the battle of Waterloo. Then again, it was probably just a kind gesture from her recently married daughter, Marigold.

Thankfully, there was a card. After reading it once, she blinked, and then read it three more times. Each time she read the sender’s words, it just became more confusing. Not only that, but the writing wasn’t in her daughter’s hand, but rather a fine, masculine script.