Awakening the Duchess

  A marriage of convenience

  ...and unexpected desires

  If Oliver Huntsbury, Duke of Somerfeld, hadn’t burst into Arabella van Haven’s backstage dressing room, her father would not have been able to blackmail them into marriage. His wealth has finally secured her a titled husband! Arabella is determined to be a wife in name only, their marriage unconsummated. But once they’re alone together, she knows this experienced, seductive, charming man could undermine her resolve so easily...

  “You do realize this marriage is just one of convenience for both of us, don’t you, Arabella?”

  “Of course I do,” she shot back, her voice rising. “I don’t want to be engaged to anyone, least of all you, and I certainly don’t want to be married. Yes, this suits us both. As you said, it saves you from a beating and it saves me from my father’s incessant matchmaking.”

  “And we’ll both be free to pursue our interests, free from the other’s interference?”

  Arabella nodded, and looked around the room at all the beautiful women. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Oliver pursuing his interests with all his very good friends. There would be other women in his life, women who he would take in his arms and kiss the way he had kissed her in the dressing room.

  She lightly touched her lips, remembering that kiss. After such a kiss she could see why so many women fell under his spell. It had been a kiss that had caused her to forget herself, to abandon all reserve, to want more, so much more.

  Author Note

  Awakening the Duchess features Arabella van Haven, an American heiress who is an aspiring actress determined to succeed on the London stage.

  Her father has other ideas and wants to see her married off to a member of the aristocracy. He wants to acquire connections to the nobility through his daughter and sees acting as a disreputable profession for a woman.

  Mr. van Haven was not alone in his attitude to actresses, who were often looked down upon by members of “polite” society.

  This negative attitude to actresses has a long history. In Shakespeare’s time the idea of a woman appearing on stage was deemed so offensive that female roles were played by young men. It wasn’t until King Charles II decreed that it was acceptable for women to act that women could legally perform on stage, but the stigma against actresses continued for many years.

  These days it is hard to imagine why the Victorians objected to a woman becoming an actress. It would also be interesting to know what those disapproving Victorians would think if they knew that a member of the royal family would one day marry an actress, and an American one no less.

  EVA SHEPHERD

  Awakening the Duchess

  After graduating with degrees in history and political science, Eva Shepherd worked in journalism and as an advertising copywriter. She began writing historical romances because it combined her love of a happy ending with her passion for history. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, but spends her days immersed in the world of late Victorian England.

  You can find her on evashepherd.com and Facebook.com/evashepherdromancewriter.

  Books by Eva Shepherd

  Harlequin Historical

  Beguiling the Duke

  Awakening the Duchess

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  To Jacqui for starting me on this journey, and for your continued support and encouragement, and, of course, to Linda Fildew, Bryony Green and the talented editorial team at Harlequin.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Warrior Knight and the Widow by Ella Matthews

  Chapter One

  London—1893

  Oliver Huntsbury, the Fifth Duke of Somerfeld, was not usually a man to run from a fight.

  But when faced with five armed assailants, all hell-bent on causing him as much harm as possible, and when one of those assailants was brandishing a knife and threatening to part him from his manhood, there was only one sensible course of action. Run.

  So run he did down the backstage corridors of the Limelight Theatre.

  He vaulted over props left carelessly lying in his path, dodged past stagehands moving scenery and flew past preening showgirls, their perfume wafting out like a floral cloud, masking the musky smell of the damp building. He ignored the temptation to stop and admire the scantily clad beauties. For once he had something more important on his mind: self-preservation.

  ‘Come here, you guttersnipe, and take your punishment like a man,’ Lord Bufford bellowed behind him. The irate peer of the realm raised his knife above his head, causing the corridor to clear immediately of showgirls and stagehands, as if a conjurer had waved his magic wand.

  That left Lord Bufford, backed by his four burly henchmen, armed with an assortment of chains, knuckledusters and coshes, at one end of the corridor and Oliver at the other.

  So once again he turned and ran. Somewhere in this labyrinth of corridors was Lucy’s dressing room. He had to find it before the thugs caught him and stripped him of his most prized possession.

  Oliver was loath to hide behind a woman’s skirts, but Lucy would provide him with the necessary alibi to prove to these murderous marauders that he could not possibly be Lady Bufford’s lover. Not when he had spent every night in the inviting arms of Lucy Baker. At least that’s what he hoped the renowned actress would say. He had indeed spent many a night in her lovely arms, with her even lovelier legs wrapped around his waist, but he had also spent the occasional night sampling the abundant charms of Lady Bufford. And, yes, he had been known, on occasion, to have more than one woman at a time in his bed. But even he was not capable of servicing one woman in London while at the same time tupping another woman at her Essex estate.

  As long as Lucy vouched for him and said he had spent every night with her, then his beloved body part would be safe. As would Lady Bufford’s reputation. While the lady had never been reticent about taking a lover to her bed, she most definitely did not want that fact made public.

  And having your lover dismembered by your irate husband would certainly get the tongues wagging. Not to mention putting a damper on your lover’s ardour.

  Lady Bufford had long ago lost interest in her boorish husband, but she had never lost interest in his money, or the comfortable life and position in society that their marriage provided. If Lord Bufford took the drastic action of petitioning for divorce on the grounds of adultery, it would be the ruin of her and such public shaming was not a fate Oliver wanted for any of his mistresses.

  No, he had no choice but to keep running. He increased his speed as he rounded another corner. Where was Lucy’s dressing room? He was sure he knew the way. Was he running down the same corridor he had just speeded down? Was he going in circles?

  He overturned a rail of brightly coloured costumes, sending it crashing behind him.
Hopefully that would slow down his assailants and give him time to think.

  Hadn’t Lucy mentioned something about taking up another position last time they had been together? He’d assumed she wanted him to get even more adventurous in their lovemaking, but perhaps he’d misunderstood and she’d secured another acting position in a different theatre. He really should pay more attention to what women were saying. He hadn’t noticed her on stage during tonight’s performance, but his attention had been taken by a new actress, one he hadn’t seen before. She certainly had been a delight, with her midnight-black hair, ivory skin and that stunning body. But he should not be thinking of that now. He had to find Lucy. He had to keep running.

  * * *

  ‘It’s blackmail, it’s extortion, it’s...it’s...it’s just plain wrong.’ Arabella glared at her father, her hands placed firmly on her hips to emphasise her point.

  ‘Call it what you will, my dear, but it’s the best offer you’re going to get.’ Her father stared back at her, his stony face implacable. It was the look Arabella imagined he wore when he stared down any business rival foolish enough to try to get the better of Mr van Haven. Her father hadn’t dragged himself up from poverty to become one of America’s richest men by being faint-hearted. And now Arabella was on the receiving end of his merciless deal making.

  But she shouldn’t be so surprised. Hadn’t she learnt from bitter experience that her father would do anything to get what he wanted, regardless of who got hurt and that included his only daughter?

  ‘I’m being more than fair. Most men who discovered their daughter had defied them and become a professional actress would not be as forgiving as I’m being. All I’m saying is, you’ve had your fun and now you’re going to have to do what I sent you to England to do: marry a man with a title. And to sweeten the deal, and to make sure you do nothing to undermine my plans, I’ll save your precious theatre. It’s as simple as that.’

  Simple. There was nothing simple about this outlandish proposal. ‘Basically, you’re going to pay me to get married, or rather, you’re going to pay the theatre if I marry.’

  Arabella had hoped to shame him. Surely he could see that blackmailing his daughter into marriage because he wanted the status that came with being related to a member of the British aristocracy was something any decent man would be thoroughly ashamed of.

  But his expression showed no shame—instead he sent her a self-satisfied smile. ‘Good. Finally you understand what’s expected of you.’

  Arabella shook her head rapidly, her bottom lip trembling. What was she thinking? Of course he would feel no shame. When it came to financial transactions nothing mattered to him except winning the deal. And in this instance, his daughter’s marriage was nothing more than another financial deal to be won.

  ‘I won’t do it. I just won’t.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you will,’ her father said, his voice a calm contrast. ‘You can pout all you want. You can even throw a temper tantrum if you must, but you will marry into the aristocracy. And I won’t be returning to America until you do. You’ve let me down once and it won’t happen again.’

  He drew in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. ‘But I suppose I have only myself to blame. I should have known better than to let you come to England with my sister rather than accompanying you myself. All Prudence had to do was chaperon you when you met the man I had arranged for you to marry. But even that was beyond her.’ He shook his head. ‘And how the Duke of Knightsbrook ended up married to my ward instead of you I’ll never know. But now I’m here, so there will be no more of your tricks. You will be getting married to a titled man.’

  Arabella blinked away tears of anger and frustration. ‘How can you possibly do this? It’s...it’s...’

  ‘It’s all for your own good. Left to your own devices you know you’ll make the wrong choice—haven’t you already proven that? So now you will do as you’re told and I will generously inject the necessary money into this theatre. And if you’re not convinced by that offer, I believe you should consider the alternative. You will have to come back to America with me on the next ship. You will never act again, even in amateur productions, and this theatre you inexplicably love so much might struggle on for a few weeks more at its present dismal level, before sinking without trace and all your new friends will be without a job. And unlike you, I doubt if any of them has a rich father to support them. Would you really see them thrown out on the streets, without money, without a job?’

  ‘It’s despicable, simply despicable,’ Arabella muttered under her breath, sorrow clenching her heart. She could not stop acting, it was the one thing she lived for. Nor could she deny the theatre the chance of survival. It desperately needed more funds for advertising, for better props and scenery. Tonight’s house had been less than half-full and, now that their leading lady, Lucy Baker, had left them for brighter prospects, they had also lost their main drawcard. The theatre desperately needed more money if it was to survive.

  But this? Marriage? And to a man of her father’s choosing. It was too much to ask.

  ‘I can see you’re upset, my dear, so I’ll make you one concession.’

  Arabella’s tense shoulders eased slightly and she waited for him to throw her a lifeline.

  ‘It can be any sort of title. I’m not that fussy. Duke, earl, viscount, even a baron will do, as long as you become Lady Something.’

  Arabella’s mouth almost dropped open and she stared at him in disbelief. It was hardly a concession. No matter how you looked at it, she was expected to sell herself in marriage to any man with a title to satisfy her father’s need for self-aggrandisement. Being one of the richest men in America was not enough for him. Now he was going to use his daughter to get the social status that he’d always felt he lacked because he had been born poor. She was going to be sacrificed on the wedding altar just so that her father could feel superior in status as well as financially to those snobs back in New York. It was unconscionable.

  ‘Oh, stop sulking, Arabella,’ he barked at her. ‘It’s the first thing I’ve ever asked of you after a lifetime of indulging your every whim. Haven’t I always given you everything you’ve ever wanted?’

  Arabella continue to stare back at him, too shocked to answer. Yes, he had given her everything she could ever want in terms of material goods—fine clothes, expensive jewellery, music lessons, singing lessons and more—but as for affection, attention, they were areas which he’d severely neglected.

  ‘I even forgave you when you acted in those little amateur shows back in New York, but I never thought you’d be so simpleminded as to do it professionally. Hopefully the substantial amount of money you’ll bring to any marriage will counter the damage you’ve already done to your reputation. But now that I’m here in England we can put all this nonsense behind us. Once you’re married you’ll be a lady, living the life of luxury on your country estate, and all this acting nonsense will be forgotten.’

  The ground wobbled under Arabella’s feet. She wouldn’t do it. She would not give up the life she loved and she’d find some other way to save the theatre that didn’t involve her being sold off like a piece of chattel. She had worked so hard to get this acting job. It hadn’t just taken skill as an actress, but had also involved scheming and planning so she could attend rehearsals without Aunt Prudence knowing. Her subterfuge had become more complicated when her father had arrived in England to attend his ward’s wedding to the Duke of Knightsbrook. But she had succeeded. That is, until tonight.

  ‘I mean you were born for better things than this,’ he continued, looking around her tiny dressing room with distaste. He scraped a piece of flaking cream paint off the wall with his thumbnail, further exposing the rough grey plaster underneath, then glared at the dressing table with its split timber and tarnished mirror, and the racks of costumes and props cluttering up the corners.

  It might be small and, yes, perhaps a little shabby, and it
was unfortunate that it doubled as a storeroom, but Arabella was pleased to have a real dressing room in a professional theatre, to have her first part on the London stage, even if it was a minor role.

  And she’d much rather be in this shabby dressing room than being bored to death at the tedious balls and social events that a woman of her class was expected to attend. Thanks to her father’s constant absences she had been able to avoid most of the events hosted by New York society. And since her arrival in London, she had been given almost free rein. Her hypochondriac Aunt Prudence took to her bed most days with one imagined illness after another, and Nellie, her lady’s maid, was more a friend than a servant and would do anything she could to help Arabella achieve her dream.

  It had been her dream since she was a child to make her own way in the world as an actress. And now that she was on the cusp of achieving that dream, she would not have it snapped away from her by her father. She just had to find a way to do what countless businessmen and politicians had failed to do and get the better of her father, the notoriously ruthless New York banker, Mr van Haven.

  The door flew open and Arabella’s attention was drawn to a tall, blond-haired man barging into the room. Every inch the dashing leading man, he was staring straight at her with those deep brown eyes and heading in her direction, fast.

  ‘There you are, my darling,’ he said, sending her a roguish smile.

  Before she could register who he was or what was happening he grabbed her firmly around the waist, tipped her backwards until one leg was off the ground and kissed her.

  A gasp escaped Arabella’s lips and she clung on to the stranger to stop herself from falling backwards. Although with him holding her so tightly falling was the least of her worries.

  This was an outrage. She should stop this. Immediately.

  So why didn’t she? Was it because it felt strangely comforting to be held in his strong arms? Or was it because his fresh masculine scent, all musk and leather with the hint of a citrus shaving soap, was somewhat enticing?