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A Winter Wish

Nadine Millard
is a
writer hailing from Dublin, Ireland. Although she'll write anything
that pops into her head, her heart belongs to Regency Romance.

When she's not immersing herself in the
1800s, she's spending time with her husband, her three children,
and her very spoiled Samoyed. She can usually be found either
writing or reading and drinking way too much coffee.

For the Love of a Lady

Kristin Vayden's
inspiration for the romance she writes comes from her tall, dark
and handsome husband with killer blue eyes. With five children to
chase, she is never at a loss for someone to kiss, something to
cook or some mess to clean, but she loves every moment of it! She
loves to make soap, sauerkraut, sourdough bread, and gluten free
muffins. Life is full of blessings, and she praises God for the
blessed and abundant life He's given her.

Cloaked in Red

Kelly Martin
is the
bestselling author of contemporary, historical, and YA romance. By
day, she is a preschool teacher. By night, she has her hair in a
messy bun and her fingers on the keyboard. Her favorite reviews are
from the people who 'know' they aren't going to like her books… but
end up loving them. :)

You can find her at
kellymartinbooks.blogspot.com/

She's also on Twitter:
twitter.com/martieKay

And on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/KellyMartinAuthor

She is also on Instagram (kellymartin215),
Pinterest (KMBooks), and Tumblr (martiekay.tumblr.com).

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride

Rachel Van Dyken
is
the
New York Times
,
Wall Street Journal
, and
USA
Today
bestselling author of over thirty books. She is obsessed
with all things Starbucks and makes her home in Idaho with her
husband and two snoring boxers.

An Unlikely Duchess

PROLOGUE

"You know, old chap
,
'tis not a bad sort of life." This sentiment was expressed rather
drunkenly by the gentleman being propped up, unsuccessfully for the
most part, by another young gentleman in much the same state.

The two were exiting one of the more
reputable gaming halls lurking on the wrong side of London. The
Black Den, known as much for its light skirts as the light pockets
people suffered when exiting, had become a regular haunt for the
two friends since the beginning of the Season.

These were no ordinary gentlemen. They were
considered the catches of the Season and, as a result, had suffered
greatly at the hands of ambitious mamas with steel in their eyes
and marriage on their minds.

The more drunk of the two, and younger by two
years at twenty-eight, was Lord Carrington, future Earl of Ranford,
whose seat would be a magnificent estate in Ireland. Having spent
much of his twenty-odd years in England attending the best schools
and then sowing his oats under the pretence of wife catching, the
young lord had no real desire to be shipped off back to Ireland to
waste away with no society or activity to speak of.

However, his father was getting on in years,
and it was time to return home and learn the ropes before the
mantle and responsibility fell to him.

The older, and even more of a catch as far as
the mamas were concerned, was none other than the future Duke of
Hartridge. The title alone was enough to have debutants swooning.
Added to that his colossal wealth and number of properties, and
even Prinny himself would not have caused as much of a stir as when
Charles Crawdon, Marquess of Enthorpe walked into a room.

The gentlemen had been suffering the
machinations of debutantes and their mothers since the start of the
Season. Only that evening, the Marquess had literally had a young
girl thrown at him by her mama in the hopes that the scuffle would
look like some sort of scandal, therefore forcing an
engagement.

He would rather face the entirety of the
French army than the mothers of the
ton
hell bent on having
their girls wed.

And whilst Henry Carrington had suffered his
share of near misses, nobody was terribly thrilled about a
son-in-law who would leave the country. After all, what was the
point in having a peer in the family if one could not parade him
around in front of one's friends? But he was still an Earl, so he
was in their sights.

And so it was that the young scoundrels,
determined to paint themselves as disreputable rakes, though not
quite brave enough to suffer the collective wrath of their fathers,
frequented places like the Black Den, and associated with the
demimonde and the women who had neither the means nor inclination
to trap them into marriage.

Outside, the biting wind helped to revive the
gentlemen somewhat, and as they awaited the arrival of the ducal
carriage they were both contemplating the same thing.

"The end of the Season is fast approaching."
Lord Carrington was the first to break the contemplative
silence.

"Yes, it is."

"Your father expects an engagement."

"So does yours," Enthorpe bit back.

"Indeed he does."

There was a slight pause, and then a desolate
sigh.

"I think our days of rakishness are
numbered."

"Had they even begun?" Enthorpe enquired
dryly.

"Not as much as I had hoped. I suppose I just
do not have it in me to seduce widows and ruin debutantes."

"No," answered Enthorpe rather regretfully,
"nor do I."

Another pause.

"So, who will you marry then?" This time
Enthorpe broke the silence.

"Perhaps Lady Mary. She is a good sort. I
think we would rub along rather well together. She has indicated,
quite forcefully, that a quiet life in the Irish countryside would
be no hardship to her. It may as well be her as anyone. And
you?"

"The Lady Catherine, I think," was the
eventual answer after some minutes pondering the question. "I must
consider the duties of a duchess when making my decision. Nobody
knows the rules of society as much as she. She is pretty and
pleasant. And it will please my father to align ourselves with that
family. She is on his list of acceptable wives."

Neither of the men spoke in terms of asking
these women. They knew, everyone knew, that a refusal would be
completely out of the question for any of the ladies in Town.

There was an air of finality about the
conversation between the two young men. They both knew they were on
the cusp of respectability and their days of misadventure would
soon be behind them.

Thus, it was with a fond nostalgia that the
conversation continued once they were safely ensconced in the
warmth of the ducal carriage and making their way back to
Mayfair.

"It has been a good ride Thorpe," said Lord
Carrington fondly.

The marquess grinned. "It has been at that
Carry."

"I wonder how many brats you will have,"
Carrington quipped.

"Less than you I warrant! An heir and spare
is all I require, though I believe ladies have a fondness for
daughters too."

"I shall want at least four to fill up that
museum of a house in Offaly. As long as one of them is a boy I
shan't mind about the others."

"Boys will be infinitely more manageable than
girls, Carry."

"Nonsense. Girls are pliable and pleasing.
They do as they are told quietly and without fuss." Carrington
answered this firmly and with confidence, having had no experience
of sisters or close female cousins.

The marquess, however, had grown up with
sisters and smirked at Carrington's innocence and naivety.

"And what of the trouble of marrying them
off?"

"Well, what of it? I shall give them their
Seasons and they will marry."

"My dear Carry, do think of the Season
we've
just had. You will subject your daughters to the likes
of us?"

"I had not thought of that," answered
Carrington, his sudden look of consternation confirming that he'd
forgotten that his daughters would not be exempt from the ups and
downs of the marriage mart.

The marquess gave him a moment to digest this
new piece of information and to re-evaluate his desire for
girls.

"I've got it," he announced so suddenly that
Enthorpe almost jumped out of his skin.

"Damnation, Carry! You almost scared me to
death!"

"Apologies, old man. But I've got it."

"Got what?"

"The solution, of course."

"To what?" the marquess asked in
exasperation.

"Why, the marrying off of my children,"
announced Carrington in a booming voice. "I shall just marry them
to yours!"

Now, neither of these young men were hair
brained or stupid. However, both were very firmly in their cups
and, in such a state, the idea seemed ideal. Having enough
sensibilities between them still to actually hash out some details,
they decided that since the duke's heir probably should live where
his actual dukedom was, it would be more appropriate to marry off a
daughter of the earl's to a son of the duke's.

And, as young men of vast wealth and power
are wont to do, they immediately called upon the duke's solicitor
and forced that poor man out of his bed to draw up a legally
binding contract that would secure the futures of their children.
And all this before either man was engaged.

Thus, both men went on to marry their
intended ladies and start on the children they were to produce,
safe in the knowledge that at least two of them could look forward
to a very agreeable match…

Offaly, Ireland, 1815

"Remind me again what
we're doing here." The command, issued in a bored drawl came from
Edward Crawdon, Duke of Hartridge.

The ducal carriage was bouncing along a
rather bumpy, if beautiful, road in the Irish countryside, carrying
its passengers to stay with
Very Dear Friends
. A term oft
used by his mother and usually, as in this instance, meaning people
Edward had either never met or could not remember.

His mother speared him with a steely glint
and slightly raised eyebrow, designed to quell his stubbornness
even from infancy.

"I told you dear. Several times. We are to
visit our very dear friends, the Carringtons."

"You do know, Mother," pressed Edward, "that
I have never actually met the Carringtons?"

"You've met Ranford, dear."

"Have I?"

"Why, yes," the dowager answered sweetly. Too
sweetly.

"And, how old was I when I met him, Mother?"
He speared her with a steely look of his own.

"I cannot recall the exact age…"

"Take a guess."

"Oh, about three or four perhaps."

Edward smirked as his suspicions were
confirmed. There was something going on.

"It is odd, is it not Mother, that we would
be invited to stay with Ranford six years after Father died, and
for no real reason?"

"Of course not," Lady Catherine answered
brusquely. "He and your Father were terribly close, and I have
always maintained a correspondence with Lady Ranford. I expressed a
wish for a change of scenery and she was kind enough to invite me
to stay for some weeks before the Season. Would you have me travel
here alone at my age?"

Edward looked at his mother and raised
another eyebrow. His mother was far from in her dotage. At 54, she
was neither old nor incapable of travelling without her son. She
was fit, healthy and had retained much of the beauty of her
youth.

She had aged some six years ago when his
father had passed away suddenly in a riding accident but, being
good
ton
, had recovered remarkably well and was happy to
become the dowager at a relatively young age. Now she could sit
back, relax, and pressure her only son into marriage and the
production of grandchildren. Besides which, she wasn't alone, never
going anywhere without her lady's maid, Annie.

Edward knew his mother well enough to know
that something was going on. And he'd be damned if he'd walk into
the situation, whatever it may be, blind.

He turned to question the other occupant of
the carriage, his cousin Tom. Tom and he had always been close,
more brothers than cousins he supposed. The son of a second son, he
was very comfortable being a gentleman of means but little in the
way of occupation. He had half-heartedly studied the law before
settling himself in a small estate outside of London. He lived
comfortably and well. His wealth could not be compared to
Hartridge's but there were few men who could boast of that. His
father was, by all accounts, a cruel and bitter man whose jealousy
of Edward's own father had caused a lifelong estrangement. Tom had
been taken under wing by the dowager and her late husband, saving
him from his father's cruelty and allowing him to develop into a
happy and pleasant young man without being poisoned by his father's
moods. He was also very likely to be privy to whatever it was
Edward was missing in this scheme.