Who Wants to Marry a Duke Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Sabrina Jeffries, LLC

  Cover illustration © Jon Paul

  Author photograph © Jessi Blakely for Tamara Lackey photography

  The right of Sabrina Jeffries to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Published by arrangement with Zebra Books,

  an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2020

  by HEADLINE ETERNAL

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN 978 1 4722 6632 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headlineeternal.com

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Sabrina Jeffries

  Also by Sabrina Jeffries

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Read on for a preview of Undercover Duke

  Don’t miss the dazzling novels in the Duke Dynasty series

  Be seduced by the Sinful Suitors

  Meet the Hellions of Halstead Hall

  Find out more about Headline Eternal

  About the Author

  Sabrina Jeffries is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 50 novels and works of short fiction (some written under the pseudonyms Deborah Martin and Deborah Nicholas).

  Whatever time not spent speaking to organizations around the country or writing in a coffee-fueled haze is spent traveling with her husband and adult autistic son or indulging in one of her passions – jigsaw puzzles, chocolate, and music.

  With over 9 million books in print in more than 20 languages, the North Carolina author never regrets tossing aside a budding career in academics (she has a Ph.D. in English literature) for the sheer joy of writing fun fiction, and hopes that one day a book of hers will end up saving the world. She always dreams big.

  For more information, visit her at www.sabrinajeffries.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SabrinaJeffriesAuthor or on Twitter @SabrinaJeffries.

  Praise for Sabrina Jeffries, queen of the sexy regency romance:

  ‘Best-selling Jeffries brilliantly launches her new Duke Dynasty series with another exemplary Regency-set historical brilliantly sourced from her seemingly endless authorial supply of fascinating characters and compelling storylines’ Booklist on Project Duchess

  ‘Quick pacing, witty dialogue, and charmingly original characters set Jeffries’ books apart’ Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  ‘Master storyteller Jeffries is at the top of her game’ RT Book Reviews

  ‘Quick wit, lively repartee, and delicious sensuality drive the elaborate plot of this sinfully delightful addition to Jeffries’ latest series’ Library Journal (starred review)

  ‘Witty banter, well defined characters, and a wonderful surfeit of breathtaking sensuality’ Booklist

  ‘Lovely, poignant, and powerful’ Kirkus Reviews

  By Sabrina Jeffries

  Duke Dynasty

  Project Duchess

  The Bachelor

  Who Wants To Marry A Duke

  Sinful Suitors

  The Art Of Sinning

  The Study Of Seduction

  The Danger Of Desire

  The Pleasures Of Passion

  The Secret Of Flirting

  Hellions Of Halstead Hall

  The Truth About Lord Stoneville

  A Hellion In Her Bed

  How To Woo A Reluctant Lady

  To Wed A Wild Lord

  A Lady Never Surrenders

  About the Book

  Chemistry is everything . . .

  A past kiss with Miss Olivia Norley should be barely a memory for Marlowe Drake, the Duke of Thornstock. After all, there are countless debutantes for a handsome rakehell to charm beyond a young lady whose singular passion is chemistry – of the laboratory type. But Thorn has not forgotten – or forgiven – the shocking blackmail scheme sparked by that single kiss. Now Thorn’s half-brother, Grey, has hired the brilliant Miss Norley for her scientific expertise in solving a family mystery. And the once-burned Thorn, suspicious of her motives, vows to follow her every move. . .

  For Olivia, determining whether arsenic poisoning killed Grey’s father is the pioneering experiment that could make her career – and Thorn’s constant presence is merely a distraction. But someone has explosive plans to derail her search. Soon the most unexpected discovery is the caring nature of the reputed scoundrel beside her – and the electricity it ignites between them . . .

  To my daddy, who always has a big smile for his “firstborn,” quirky daughter.

  And to my mom, who tirelessly takes care of my daddy these days.

  Thanks to both of you for all the love you give.

  Prologue

  London April

  1800

  Having finally come into his title as the Duke of Thornstock, Marlowe “Thorn” Drake leaned against a pillar to survey the crowd at the Devonshire House ball. Why hadn’t his twin sister returned to England with him when he’d asked? If Gwyn were here, she’d be mocking the fops with their excessive cravats and taking bets with him on which gentleman would make a drunken fool of himself first.

  She’d be keeping him well entertained.

  God, how he missed her. Until now, they’d never been apart, and it still chafed him that she’d blithely watched him sail away without her. He’d never counted on feeling so alone in the land of his birth. He was English, damn it, and this was his rightful home. Since he’d never felt as if he belonged in Berlin, despite having lived there almost since birth, he’d expected matters to be different in his native country.

  Instead, everything smelled and tasted odd, from the weak coffee his servants gave him in the morning to the strange liquid he was drinking now, which bore a faint—very faint—resemblance to the Glühwein he’d drunk in Prussia, although not nearly as good.

  “So what do you think of your first marriage mart?” asked his half brother Grey, who’d come up beside him.

  Fletcher “Grey” Pryde, the Duke of Greycourt, had returned to England at the age of ten to be educated for his future role as duke. That probably explained why he seemed comfortable with English life. He’d had fifteen years here. Thorn had only had six months.

  Not that he would let his older brother see his discomfort. “This is a marriage mart?” Thorn snorted. “I’d imagined something a bit more . . . mercenary, with mothers sniffing the crowd in search of eligible gentlemen for their pretty vixens.”

  Grey laughed. “That’s not far off the mark, at least for ladies who have only their looks to commend them. With heiresses, it’s more like the fathers sniffing about—trying to ferret out the fortune hunters.”

  “Then I suppose I should be glad Gwyn did not come with me.” Thorn pushed away from the pillar. “Father and I had enough trouble keeping the fortune hunters at bay in Berlin.”

  “I would have helped you with that.” Grey gazed up. “Gwyn would have loved that ceiling. She would have tried to sketch it for her book of architectural wonders. That’s why I can’t figure out why she refused to come back with you.” He fixed his gaze on Thorn. “Do you know why she chose to stay in Berlin?”

  “She said Mother needed her,” Thorn replied.

  “Nonsense. Mother is perfectly capable of fending for herself. Besides which, Mother has Maurice, who dotes on her. There’s got to be another reason.”

  Thorn had a pretty good idea of what it was, but Gwyn had never admitted it, and he wasn’t about to speculate to Grey. “What are you doing at a marriage mart, anyway?”

  Grey turned grim. “I lost a bet.”

  “Ah. What are the terms?”

  “I have to stay until midnight . . . or until Lady Georgiana is introduced to me, whichever comes first.”

  “Devonshire’s daughter? The one coming out this Season?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then you’ll be able to leave soon enough,” Thorn said. “They’ll introduce her to you first of anyone.”

  “And you. Or have you forgotten your exalted station?” “No.” How could he? Every time he entered a room, people bowed and curtsied for all they were worth.

  “Never lose sight of who you are,” Grey said. “You’re not accustomed to how devious matchmaking mamas and their scheming daughters can be. Look at it this way: They’re the hunters, who want to hang your ducal coronet on their trophy wall. So keep an eye out.”

  “I plan to. As soon as I see the Devonshires coming, I’ll flee.”

  “I didn’t mean keep an eye out for the Devonshires, for God’s sake,” Grey said. “They take precedence over us both. Fleeing would be like giving them the cut direct. Even I am not so reckless as all that. I may need one of them someday.”

  Thorn would rather risk that than take one step awry in conversation with them. Although earlier he’d had someone point them out to him, this would be his first time to actually meet the powerful Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, and he was a bit shaky on the protocol. In Prussia, Thorn had been the only English duke around since Grey had left for England.

  “First of all,” Thorn said, “I don’t have your ambition to own half of London. Second, I can escape a ballroom without being noticed if I have to.”

  “You think so, do you? Look around, little brother. Half the young ladies in here have their eyes on you.”

  “Or you. When the exalted duke and duchess introduce you to their daughter, everyone will be so fixed upon that august event that no one will even notice I’ve vanished.” Thorn grinned at him. “Besides, I’ve no need to marry as well as you. I can be content with one of the pretty vixens, as long as she’s also clever and amusing.”

  He heard a snort behind him, but when he looked back, he saw nothing. He must have imagined it.

  Grey frowned. “From what I’ve heard, Lady Georgiana is neither. Supposedly, her mother eclipses her in that respect as well as in looks.”

  “That’s a damned shame. For you, anyway. Would you marry her for her connections in spite of it all?”

  “Only if the gossip is wrong about her and she proves to be, as you put it, clever and amusing. And pretty.” He smiled at Thorn. “I want everything in a wife.”

  And he’d probably get it, too, once he decided to settle down. Grey had the sort of wavy black hair that always looked as if he’d just left some woman’s bed, and his blue-green eyes and chiseled features ensured that he could get back there anytime he pleased. Unfortunately for the ladies, he was very particular.

  “That’s probably why you haven’t yet married. You set the bar ridiculously high.” Thorn sipped some of the mysterious liquor in his glass and grimaced.

  “How can you stand to drink that?” Grey said.

  “I keep trying to figure out what it is. It tastes like port, but it’s too thin for that and far sweeter. Nor would I expect port to be served at a ball for ladies making their debuts.”

  “And yet it is. What you’re drinking is negus, a punch the English have concocted out of watered-down port and whatever spices are lying about. Or so I’ve surmised through years of trying to drink it without making a face.”

  “It’s vile.” Thorn looked around for one of those footmen who took the glasses away. Instead, he spotted the Devonshires heading in their direction. “And I believe it’s time to make myself scarce. Our hosts are approaching.”

  Grey nodded. “I see them. I know Devonshire himself well enough to speak to, but I’ve never met the duchess or her daughter. The duchess is rumored to be a fascinating woman. Are you sure you don’t wish to stay around?”

  “Another time, perhaps,” Thorn muttered.

  At twenty-one, he was hardly ready for marriage. Right now he could barely make his way through the myriad rules in London society and manage the properties of his dukedom, much less drag a woman along with him. Nor was he yet comfortable enough with the brother he hadn’t seen in years to admit that.

  The Devonshires now paused to speak to another acquaintance, so he circled the pillar in search of a balcony where he could hide out. Then he collided with another guest and spilled negus on the front of his waistcoat.

  He stared down at the prominent red spots. “Damn! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “Why don’t you? I was just standing here minding my own business.”

  His head snapped up to find a fetching female with fire in her eyes staring him down. Like many of the young ladies, she wore white silk, but the curious embroidery of gold thread along her bodice drew his gaze to her full breasts. And he did like a buxom woman.

  Instantly he changed his manner. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend. I simply wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

  “Clearly, Your Grace. You were too busy trying to escape poor Lady Georgiana, who is the nicest person one could ever meet.”

  He grimaced. “I take it you overheard my conversation with my brother.” That explained why his effusive apology hadn’t softened her. And he refused to apologize for not wishing to meet Lady Georgiana. Why should he? This chit shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on a private conversation.

  Drawing out his handkerchief, he began to dab at the spots on his waistcoat.

  She shook her head, sending the fringe of blond curls around her face bouncing. “You’ll make it worse trying to get it out like that. If you come with me, I can clean it.”

  “Really? How in God’s name do you mean to do that?”

  “With champagne and bicarbonate of soda,” she said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

  It piqued his curiosity. “What is bicarbonate of soda, and where the devil do you intend to get some?”

  “I carry it in my reticule, of course.”

  Of course? “Because that’s what all young ladies carry in their reticules, I suppose.”

  “Do they? I thought I was the only one.” Before he could even respond, she added, “But if we don’t act quickly, those spots will stain your waistcoat for good.”

  He could afford to replace his waistcoat ten times over, but he hadn’t even had a chance to dance, so her offer to wipe away the spots had merit. Besides, he wanted to see what magic she meant to conjure up with her odd ingredients—and if she really did have bicarbonate of soda in her reticule. “Then by all means, lead the way.”

  With a nod, she took his glass of negus and replaced it with a glass of champagne sitting abandoned on a nearby tray. Then she guided him out onto a balcony. “The hall to the Devonshire library isn’t too far. We can do it there.”

  Do what there? Thorn nearly asked. Did the pretty wench really intend to whisk away his spots? Or did she have some other, more lascivious purpose in mind?

  Now that would be a result he’d embrace. The woman’s bodice was intriguingly low cut. He’d assumed from her gown’s color that she was a debutante, but he might have been lucky enough to have stumbled over some fast-living married woman.

  One would think that if the young lady was that, she’d be curtsying and flirting like all the other females he’d encountered in society. Then again, London society was wilder than Berlin’s. He was still trying to figure out the rules.

  As the stepson of the British ambassador to Prussia, Thorn had been expected to behave appropriately, which had generally meant not having any fun. But in the six months since he’d left home for England, he’d begun to loosen his strictures, encouraged by other young bucks he’d met. Still, this was the first time a young lady had tempted him to misbehave.

  They’re the hunters, who want to hang your ducal coronet on their trophy wall. So keep an eye out.

  He would. But he’d enjoy this intriguing encounter, too. There had been few enough of them since his return.

  They traversed the balcony, then passed through a pair of French doors into a hallway not frequented by the rest of the guests. That roused his curiosity even further.

  “Since you mean to save my hapless waistcoat, perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” he said. “I am—”

  “I know who you are, sir,” she said curtly. “Everyone does. My good friend Lady Georgiana pointed you out to me from the moment we entered the ballroom.”

  “Is that why you were eavesdropping on my conversation with my brother?”

  “Hardly.” She shot him a mutinous glance. “I was there first, you know, trying to hide from my stepmother.”