The Duke's Reluctant Bride

If the elderly butler who had answered the door was shocked by the forcefulness of Emma Buckland’s tone, or the unfashionably early time at which she was calling, his face did not betray it.

He ushered the well-dressed young lady politely into the entrance hall of the townhouse, solicitously enquiring if she would like tea, as he led her to an elegantly decorated drawing room.

“No, thank you,” Emma said in response, as she took a seat by the window.

From here she could keep an eye on the hackney cab she had arrived in. She had instructed the driver to circle the square while he waited for her. It would not do to be seen leaving the Duke of Daventry’s home unchaperoned, she needed a quick escape.

“Whom shall I say is calling on His Grace?” the butler was looking at her sympathetically now, her nervousness quite evident in her fidgeting.

“Miss Emma Buckland,” she said, smoothing down the front of her skirt with restless hands.

A slight flicker of recognition passed over the butler’s face, as she stated her family name, though in an instant it was gone. Emma had to admire his discretion, the whole ton was gossiping about her brother losing the family fortune to the Duke. Her brother, Christopher, had fled to France leaving Emma and her younger sister alone.

“Very good,” the butler said smoothly, “I shall see if His Grace is still at home, he usually rides in the morning.”

He turned and left the room silently, leaving Emma to nervously wait and see if the Duke would receive her.

It was a terrible idea, she knew, to call unannounced and unchaperoned to a bachelor’s home. In fact, it could be the ruination of her reputation, but Emma had not been able to think of any other way in which to help her family keep their ancestral home.

She must appeal to the Duke’s sense of decency, and allow her to pay him back in instalments so that her small family estate did not fall into the hands of someone who would not care for its tenants as she would.

She stood up and began to pace the floor of the parlour in agitation; too lost in her own thoughts to note the splendour of the décor, the gleaming mahogany furniture…or the imposing figure of the Duke who now stood at the doorway watching her. “Miss Buckland I presume?”

Emma gave a violent start, knocking her bonnet askew. “Your Grace,” she breathed, most flustered, her hands reaching to straighten the brim of the bonnet that was obscuring her view, and once it was righted she almost instantly wished it wasn’t…for the man who stood before her was breath-taking.

But Emma heard he was immoral, and even though many women would have loved to be his wife, Emma found him to be distasteful. She knew of his reputation.

Emma felt her face flush with heat as she took in the Duke of Daventry. He was tall with broad shoulders, his muscular thighs encased almost sinfully in buckskin breeches. It was his face though, which had her so flustered, he was classically dark and handsome and his eyes held a devilish gleam as he regarded her.

Emma was of pale complexion, long wisps of umber streaked with highlights of ginger that always seemed to gleam when they captured the light just right.

Her hair was a lovely whisky, the color of fallen leaves browned and sleek with the first rain of autumn. How such a tint could play with the light, like peering at the sun through a jar of pine honey.

She had the kindest pair of blue eyes trimmed by long gorgeous lashes. Her eyes were blue like the sea, crystal clear blue- shimmering and crashing and churning. Looking into her eyes you could hear the waves falling against the shore, see the foam flying into the air. Her eyes were blue like the sky right before the sun disappears - dark rich indigo, with specks of wild colours here and there.

She had florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted lips, as if crafted by angels themselves. All these features set together on a delicate, almost angelic face.

There was something about her that lighted up a room when she entered, that made people give her a second look and a smile.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The deep sardonic tone with which he spoke let Emma know that her presence was anything but.

“I wish to speak to you about my brother Christopher,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as his impudent eyes raked her body from top to toe.

“Did he send you?” the Duke’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“No,” Emma spluttered, “Of course he didn’t – Christopher would whip me if he knew that I had come to you.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that at least one member of your family has a sense of propriety.”

Emma’s face flushed once more at the Duke’s biting appraisal of her behaviour, though she steeled herself against his patronising gaze.

“I wish to strike a bargain with you, Your Grace.”

The Duke’s expression immediately took on a primal, proprietary air.

“Indeed,” he crossed the room to where she stood by the window in three long strides, coming to a halt in front of her. Emma felt her breath catch in her throat at his closeness – he was so big; although her height was often remarked upon, the Duke positively towered above her.