She might be.
“Today we shall see to breakfast and beds and—” she grinned wickedly at him. “Loving.”
“I am ready for that, as these moments in the proper drawing room are a torture. I am already seeing your gorgeous body on a soft bed, where I can love my highwayman properly.” He drew her close, set his lips to the curve of her neck. “Tomorrow and the next day, then, and we shall see to the rest.”
Bea could not fault that logic, so she settled into the circle of his arms and let Wulf kiss her senseless.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Despite being a native Michigander, Alyssa Alexander is pretty certain she belongs somewhere sunny. And tropical. Where drinks are served with little paper umbrellas.
Until she moves to those white sandy beaches, she survives the cold Michigan winters by penning romance novels that always include a bit of adventure. Her books have been translated into multiple languages, received Top Picks from RT, Publisher Weekly Starred Reviews, and nominated for RT Best First Historical and the Best First Book RITA®. She has been called a “talented newcomer” and “a rising star you won’t want to miss.”
Alyssa lives with her own set of heroes, aka an ever-patient husband who doesn’t mind using a laundry basket for a closet, and a small boy who wears a knight in a shining armor costume for such tasks as scrubbing potatoes.
Interested in previous titles? Visit http://www.alyssa-alexander.com/books/.
Or you can follow Alyssa’s cooking misadventures and writing life at all the usual places, including Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. No guarantees what you’ll find!
THE DIFFERENCE ONE DUKE MAKES
FEBRUARY
ELIZABETH ESSEX
PREFACE
Miss Penelope Pease is what every bright young thing never wants to be—ruined, thanks to an ill-conceived flirtation with the late Duke of Warwick. But ruined suits the new duke, his brother, Commander Marcus Beecham just fine—because after a career in the Royal Navy, he’s rather ruined himself. All it takes is one frosty night for two imperfect people to make the perfect February valentine.
CHAPTER 1
London, February 1816
COMMANDER MARCUS BEECHAM turned his face into the bitter wind on the River Thames, closed his eyes and thought of England. Of easy living, lazy summer afternoons in the country, with picnics and long rides across the rolling hills. Witty conversations with charming girls who gazed at him with—
No. It was impossible. After more than a decade at sea, he doubted he could even hold a conversation with a girl.
And yet here he was, back in the damp land of his birth. His family had insisted, having written that he must resign his commission in the Royal Navy and abandon the career to which he had sacrificed ten long, hard years—and very nearly his life.
Marcus would just have to show his family that he was well now, if not entirely whole. That he was sound of mind and judgment, no matter his injuries. That he was as fully capable as any officer in the fleet—more so, for he knew the cost of battle better than most men.
He also knew his duty, which was the only reason he had left his ship to return to a city he disliked with an intensity that rivaled his odium for his callous, authoritative older brother, Caius, Duke of Warwick.
A sentimental homecoming, it would not be, but a short one, Marcus hoped. Caius could not want him to stay long in London, either.
Ahead, a figure hailed his captain’s gig from the Hungerford Stairs. Marcus recognized an older version of Hodges, his brother’s stern-faced butler, extending his arthritic hand as if he would assist Marcus out of the boat. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
The sudden dread in his chest weighed him down like a cannonball in a canvas shroud. Marcus had to use his good arm to push himself to his feet in the boat. To meet the man’s eyes. To make sure what he had heard was no mistake. “Your Grace?”
There had been no news in the letter that had reached him off Recife. No hint that he was no longer the spare. Nothing in the short, formal lines insisting upon his return that his brother, the heir—the bloody Duke of Warwick—had finally done the world a favor and been put to bed with a shovel. Or a bullet between his eyes.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Hodges bowed his head in solemn confirmation.
The boat tipped beneath Marcus’s feet. Shock made his body heavy and his brain stupid. “Dead?” Caius had always seemed invincible—a reckless force of nature who had inherited his dukedom young and learned early to aggressively insist upon having his way.
“How?” Caius was little more than a year older than Marcus—a man in the prime of his life. A man safe ashore, who might be expected to live a far less hazardous life than Marcus, or any of his Royal Navy brethren, certainly had. “Accident? Misadventure? Revenge?” Caius had always done as he pleased. Perhaps he had done as he pleased with someone else’s wife?
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Your Grace.” Hodges still held out his hand to help Marcus ashore. As if he thought Marcus so frail that he needed an arthritic old man’s help on the water-slick steps.
There was nothing for it, of course. With one well-aimed shot across his bow, Marcus was being made to quite literally give up his ship.
And so, he would.
Because Commander Marcus Beecham knew his duty. He planted his sea boots ashore and became a duke.
Damned if it wasn’t one hell of an unexpected demotion.
THE PALATIAL TOWNHOUSE on Grosvenor Street was as it had always been: stone-faced, curtained and immaculate, with not so much as a weed daring to poke through the clean-swept pavement. Inside was the same—nothing out of place, everything as unchanged and preserved as if it had been under glass for ten long years.
His mother, whom he had not seen since he was a raw boy of ten and four, barely looked at him. “Oh, Marcus, there you are.”
As if he had come from the next room and not half a world away. “Mother.”
“I prefer Mama—so much more elegant.” She chanced only a glancing look at Marcus, as if she were afraid to look at her own child. As if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.
Ten years away and he had become a hardened man—two minutes back in her presence and he was already as surly and uncomfortable in his own skin as the adolescent boy he had been when he left. More so.
The ache where his left arm used to be wasn’t helping his mood.
Marcus took a deep breath and resolved to be himself. “Well, Mama, I reckon what prompted you to send for me was that Caius has died.”
“Don’t say died.” The teacup in her hand trembled ever so slightly. “I prefer passed away.”
“I prefer no double speak.” His decade of service had given him a taste for simplicity and the character for honesty. “When did Caius die, and how?”
“Months ago. It’s taken you forever to get here.” The dowager duchess frowned into her teacup, as if she were put out at him for not being more conveniently located than the coast of Brazil. “You’re so awfully out of fashion with that ill-kempt beard and antiquated clubbed hair.”
No mention of what else about him that was more permanently altered.
Marcus worked to keep the slow match of his temper dampened. “Fashion doesn’t matter at sea, Mama.”