The Duke's Defiant Bride (Brides of Mayfair Book 4) Read online

  The Duke’s Defiant Bride

  Brides of Mayfair Series

  Book 4

  Michelle McMaster

  The Duke’s Defiant Bride

  Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Killen

  Digital Edition ISBN: 978-0-9947817-9-6

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Art by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Digital Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Table of Contents

  THE DUKE’S DEFIANT BRIDE

  Copyright

  Prologue

  PART ONE—THE PENINSULA

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART TWO—LONDON

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from ROMANCING THE BRIDE

  Books in the BRIDES OF MAYFAIR Series

  Short Story Collections by Michelle McMaster

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Bellamy House,

  Mayfair, London

  April, 1816

  Carver Adams, the Duke of Hawksmoor, had a secret. Two, actually—and either one of them would knock the ton on its head if the truth ever came out.

  As he stepped into the glittering ballroom of Bellamy House, he scanned the room for his host and spotted him immediately.

  His old friend, Beckett, the Earl of Ravenwood, took notice of his arrival and approached with champagne in hand.

  “Your Grace,” Beckett said, bowing slightly. “Welcome. Though I’m a bit surprised to see you here tonight. Are you finally in the market for a bride?”

  Carver chuckled. “You never quit, do you, Beckett.”

  “Certainly not. If you are, Isobel would be happy to help. Lady Weston would, too, I suspect. Look, there are Alfred and Prudence, now.”

  Carver turned to see Alfred, Baron Weston and his beautiful wife, Prudence, taking the final steps in a lively quadrille in the center of the ballroom. They turned and locked eyes with Carver, smiled and approached.

  After the appropriate polite greetings and light conversation, Isobel—looking stunning with her blond hair woven with pearls in the popular Grecian style—regarded Carver over the rim of her champagne glass as she sipped.

  “Tell me, Your Grace, is it true? Are you on the hunt for a duchess at last?”

  He was on the hunt for something, or someone, Carver mused to himself. But men like him always were.

  “There is quite a crop of beautiful young ladies to choose from here this evening,” Alfred added, scanning the room. “Simply take your pick.”

  His wife cocked her head to the side. “I do beg your pardon, Alfred, but what of the young ladies? Do they not have a say in this? Perhaps they don’t wish to have a husband. Even a duke. Pardon my saying so, Your Grace.”

  Prudence, Baroness Weston, was known for her independent speech and intelligent mind, which was no surprise, considering she ran a successful school for young ladies who came from troubled backgrounds, or even the streets themselves. Alfred had met Prudence one evening on the darkened streets near Drury Lane as she was recruiting students for her school. He had mistaken her for a streetwalker, and the rest was history.

  “I am not seeking a duchess this evening, Lady Weston,” Carver replied with a warm smile. “But if I were, you and Lady Ravenwood would be the first I would consult for advice and recommendations. You are both modern-thinking ladies, and as you know, I have come to the dukedom rather late in life. Truth be told, I still feel like nothing but a lowly captain of the West Devonshire, and nothing more.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she replied with a charming glimmer in her eye, “but as my husband tells it, Captain Carver Adams was quite a distinguished soldier. You led many brave missions in the Peninsula and saved countless English lives. You are a true hero.”

  Carver thanked her but looked away from the compliment, for there was one mission where he had failed catastrophically—the mission to escort a beautiful French spy, Lady Blade, to his superiors at Villarosa.

  Two-and-a half years later, those hellish events still haunted him in the darkest hours of the night. The explosions… The screams of dying men…

  And of course, the beautiful Lady Blade haunted him most of all.

  After the war, he’d returned home, intending to resume his role as estate agent for his cousin, the Duke of Hawksmoor, but upon Carver’s arrival, he was shocked to find the young duke had been taken gravely ill. Carver’s cousin died soon after, and with no heirs of his body, Carver had inherited the title.

  No one was more surprised than he. Suddenly, Carver found himself in uncharted waters, learning the ropes as he went. Thankfully, the duke’s aged valet had taken Carver under his wing. He taught him everything from how to dress, to perfecting his table manners and making small talk with the aristocracy, of which Carver was now part.

  There were many times he longed for his old life as a soldier, living rough in the hills of the Peninsula, commiserating with his men over a strong cup of tea and a smoke.

  To that end, the ton would be surprised that the Duke of Hawksmoor was still involved with the army and took orders from a man far beneath him in the social hierarchy. But Carver wouldn’t have it any other way.

  In fact, part of the reason he was here tonight at Beckett and Isobel’s ball was to receive new orders from his old spymaster, Major Nye. Of course, Major Nye was now known as Mister Nye, a successful merchant. But Carver, Beckett and Alfred still addressed him by his prior rank.

  “Thankfully, the war is over now,” Alfred commented, “and Boney is safely tucked away at Longwood House on Saint Helena.”

  “Yes, well we all thought he was safely tucked away on Elba,” Beckett mentioned, “and look how that turned out. The Allies should have known better than to allow a deposed emperor to walk about a Mediterranean island as he pleased. Didn’t take him long to plan his escape, on a ship aptly named the Inconstant.”

  “Come now, Becks,” Alfred said, “if it wasn’t for Napoleon’s escape from Elba, we wouldn’t have been able to attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. I daresay there’s nothing lovelier than Brussels in June. Except for you, my dear.” He gallantly kissed his wife’s hand.

  “If Napoleon escaped once, do you think he might try again?” Isobel asked.

  “I would put nothing past him,” Carver answered truthfully. “As Beckett, Alfred and I can attest, he is a monster whose only desire is power.
If he had the chance to escape again, I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “Carver’s right,” Beckett said. “There is talk that Napoleon still has supporters all over Europe, loyalists who would do anything to see him back on his throne.”

  Prudence frowned. “If he regained his position as Emperor, I daresay I might be tempted to pick up a musket and march off to war, myself.”

  “A noble and brave sentiment, dearest wife,” Alfred said, raising his glass in her honor. “But this is all speculation. There is no proof that Napoleon’s factions are mobilizing, and unless the threat becomes real, we must all put it from our minds.”

  Prudence sighed. “Well. Let us hope that it does not become real, and that Napoleon stays where he belongs, far away on that remote island in the middle of nowhere. What do you say, Carver?” When he didn’t answer, she touched his arm. “Dear me, you look white as a sheet. Are you all right, Your Grace?”

  Carver struggled to maintain his composure, for he felt as if he were slipping into one of the dreams which tormented him.

  A beautiful, dark-haired woman stood across the ballroom conversing with a nobleman. She wore an exquisite gown of blue satin with a delicate black lace overlay, almost exactly like one Carver had seen in the Peninsula over two years ago. Sapphire and diamond earbobs sparkled in the light of the chandeliers, and her neck was long and slender beneath her upswept hair.

  Her head turned and Carver beheld her profile. Though he initially thought his eyes were deceiving him, now there could be no doubt.

  The woman standing across the ballroom was Lady Blade—the cunning and enigmatic French spy who had been haunting his nights for just over two insufferable years, and counting. He had thought she was dead, or perhaps in France somewhere, still spying for the enemy. But here she was in London, in the flesh, and his blood was suddenly pounding hotly through his veins.

  PART ONE

  THE PENINSULA

  Chapter 1

  Algora, Spain

  July, 1813

  The musket ball whizzed past Carver’s head, hissing through the air with deadly intent.

  “Hackett, take cover!” Carver growled. He scrambled behind a boulder and motioned toward his sergeant to follow him.

  “What are the bloody French doing up here, sir?” Hackett loaded his own musket and brought the butt up tight against his shoulder.

  “We’re sure to find out soon enough.” A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of Carver’s face, tickling him in that pesky, familiar way. He scanned the woods surrounding them. No movement.

  These French were good. Probably a small scouting party like his own. However, there had been no word of enemy scouts this far north. Like most of the intelligence reports in this war, there was always a margin of error.

  These hills were also full of Partisans, who could be a help or a hindrance to the British army depending on the day. The Spanish guerrillas fought their own war with the French, and for the most part, assisted Wellington in his.

  Carver peeked his head over the boulder. Another shot rang out, smashing into the granite and sending chips of rock up in front of his face.

  He sank back down next to his sergeant. “They’re good, whoever they are. Do you see any of them?”

  “Haven’t seen a bloody one, Captain. They’re in those trees, there, smart little buggers.”

  “Then we will flush them out. On the count of three, you aim right, I’ll aim left. One, two, three!”

  The men sprang up over the boulder and shot into the woods, crouching back to reload. The French muskets returned the fire. Carver counted the shots as he spit the musket ball into the barrel and rammed it down with the rod.

  He’d counted six shots. None would have had time to reload. It was two against six.

  Bloody bad odds, but he’d been up against worse.

  Again, Carver and Hackett raised their muskets over the boulder and fired. This time, a scream sounded in the woods. Carver and Hackett exchanged a glance as they crouched down and reloaded.

  “You got one, Captain!” Hackett smiled.

  “You’re sure it was me? Maybe it was you.” Carver ripped the top of the cartridge with his teeth and held the ball in his mouth as he poured powder into the pan and then down the barrel.

  Spit the ball.

  Ram the rod.

  It was as natural to him as breathing, now. He swung the butt up in an arc to rest on his shoulder. Still the fastest.

  “Now it’s two against five. The odds are improving,” he said.

  They fired again. No screams of agony this time. The French returned the fire as if the parties were having a heated debate over a mug of ale.

  “Think we can reach the horses, sir?” Hackett asked, looking back toward the brush that concealed their mounts.

  “It’s a slim chance, but I’m willing to try it. They could sit there all day waiting for us to run out of ammunition.” Carver eyed the stretch of open ground behind them. “I’ll cover you. When you reach the brush, you cover me. Go.”

  Hackett slung his musket over his shoulder. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the brush, crouched as low to the ground as possible. The French shots rang out from the trees as Hackett bolted across the open field. Carver laid down covering musket fire, hoping it was enough to protect his comrade.

  A groan of agony floated through the woods and drifted across the ground. He looked back. Hackett was nowhere to be seen.

  “Ready when you are, Captain!” Hackett’s voice called from behind the stand of brush.

  He’d made it.

  Carver turned his head as another shriek of pain came from the woods. So, the enemy fighter was injured, not dead. Still, there were only four who could shoot now, and he liked those odds much better.

  “Ready, Hackett!” Carver pushed off the granite boulder with his hand and sprinted toward the brush. He saw the burst of Hackett’s musket as he gave covering fire.

  One, two, three shots. Where was the fourth?

  Carver heard the crack of the shot, and grunted as the ball ripped through the side of his right thigh. He fell heavily onto the flat grass before him, his flesh burning.

  Dammit! He was half way there.

  “Captain Adams!” Hackett called out.

  The pain in Carver’s leg speared him like a white-hot poker. He groaned and swore in spite of himself.

  “Captain!” Hackett was on him, grabbing his shoulders and dragging him toward the brush. Carver looked back at the woods and saw the French soldiers for the first time, now running toward them.

  “Leave me, Hackett. You’ll never get me to the horses in time!”

  “No, sir. I’ll not leave you to be supper for those frogs.”

  The French were closing in. Two of them stopped to fire their muskets, and miraculously missed.

  “Ride back to camp,” Carver barked, “and bring a rescue party. It’s better than us both being captured. That is an order, Sergeant. Go!”

  Hackett looked back at the three French infantrymen jogging across the field, then glanced down at Carver. “I’ll be back with the men, sir, fast as I can.” He eased Carver down onto the ground and disappeared into the brush.

  The French muskets crackled again. Carver heard Hackett’s horse whinny, then gallop away.

  The enemy soldiers were on him, grabbing his arms and roughly pulling him to his feet. They swore at him in French, pushing and pulling, so it was almost impossible to stand, shot leg or no.

  “Alright. Easy, now!” Carver spat, glaring at the three Frenchmen in their dark blue infantry jackets.

  But where was the fourth soldier?

  Carver was sure he’d counted the first round of shots correctly. Perhaps one of his musket balls had shot straight through one and killed another. It had been known to happen. But that would be asking too much.

  The soldier on his right yanked him so that his weight fell on his injured leg. He shut his eyes at the shooting pain, and inwardly swore a blue streak.
r />   They reached the trees and made their way along a shady path. At least they were out of the heat. There were more French up ahead. One standing, and two on the ground.

  So, he had counted correctly.

  One of them was moaning, and the other didn’t move. Most likely dead.

  Carver strained his eyes to see the third soldier more closely. It was shady in these woods, and coming out of the bright sunlight made it difficult to see anything other than silhouettes.

  The third soldier stood facing away. A long, dark braid hung down across the dark blue jacket, tied with the tri-color ribbon of France. The soldier bent down to speak to the wounded man. Watching intently, Carver frowned.

  He’d never seen hips move like that on a soldier.

  The light, curved sabre of the French infantry dangled next to the tight trouser of her left leg.

  “Lady Blade,” the soldier at his right called out.

  So, she wasn’t a ghost, after all, Carver thought. The notorious French spy known as Lady Blade was all too real, and standing haughtily before him.

  Some said the legend of Lady Blade was nothing more than propaganda. Only a few had claimed to have seen her in the flesh. Most who made her acquaintance usually ended up with their throats slit, and that was on a good day.

  Now, here she was, within Carver’s reach, and he was her bloody prisoner!

  Warily, they surveyed each other.

  Fiery blue eyes looked him up and down, but gave nothing away. Her mouth was sinfully sensuous, her bottom lip plump and tempting as ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

  How could something so beautiful be so deadly?

  She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Lady Blade wore the uniform of the French Imperial Hussars, blue wool jacket with heavy gold braid and buttons, and tight blue breeches. Her uniform was almost as dirty as Carver’s, yet on her, it looked like a queen’s royal robes.