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Jilting the Duke
The Muses' Salon #1
The Muses' Salon #1
By: Rachael Miles
Releasing January
26, 2016
Zebra Shout
Zebra Shout
Broken Promise, Broken Heart
Aidan Somerville, Duke of Forster, is a rake, a
spy, and a soldier, richer than sin and twice as handsome. Now he is also
guardian to his deceased best friend’s young son. The
choice makes perfect sense—except that the child’s mother is the lovely Sophia
Gardiner, to whom Aidan was engaged before he went off to war. When the news
reached him that she had married another, his ship had not yet even left the
dock.
Sophia does not expect Aidan to understand or
forgive her. But she cannot allow him to stay her enemy. She’s prepared for
coldness, even vengeance—but not for the return of the heedless lust she and
Aidan tumbled into ten years ago. She knows the risks of succumbing to this
dangerous desire. Still, with Aidan so near, it’s impossible not to dream about
a second chance…
My dearest Sophia,
On the anniversary of my death, I write from beyond the grave
to remind you of my love—and your promises.
If you have not already set aside your mourning, it is time. It
does not honor my memory to bury yourself away. Cast off your sadness and live,
if not for yourself, then for our son.
You have promised to return to society. When you do, men will
vie for your hand, whether to gain your beauty or your wealth. Naturally you
will consider Ian’s interests when you choose a husband, but I enjoin you: only
marry a man who respects you, your education, and your intelligence.
You have promised to provide Ian with a male guardian, a
surrogate father to aid him as he grows to manhood. You know my choice. No one
will take his obligations more seriously than Aidan. His very name as guardian
will offer Ian the protection I cannot; it will provide Ian with alliances and
connections he will need in manhood. At the same time, I know this guardianship
raises specters you are unready to face. So, I have lifted the burden of your
promise and invoked the guardianship myself. Unless Aidan refuses—and he will
not refuse—he will share our son’s care until Ian reaches his majority. You may
not forgive me for this decision, but I hope with time you will see its wisdom.
Your other promises I leave to your heart and conscience to
fulfill.
I would like to believe that I could protect you and Ian from
beyond the grave as I have done in life. But that is likely the wishful
thinking of a man who has valued you, and your friendship, more than almost any
other relationship in his life.
All will be well. Remember this, and that I have loved you and
our son.
Tom
Sophia turned
her head toward the garden, toward the bed of pansies, marigolds, and
forget-me-nots, and wept.
Some time
later, Dodsley brought her a note on a silver tray. Breaking the dark wax seal,
she found one sentence in the middle of a large expanse of white paper. An
expensive use of paper, she thought, before the words registered.
“I
shall call upon her Ladyship tomorrow at two. Forster.”
Perfectly
appropriate, with an ease of command suitable to his rank. The note a superior
would send to a subordinate. There was no suggestion of their past intimacy and
no hint of future amicability. No suggestion he’d seen her only hours before.
With one signature, Forster—as Sophia steeled herself to think of
him—established the limits of their relationship.
But he also
prompted her to action.
Within
fifteen minutes, she had called for her carriage, sent a message to Ian’s tutor
that she would return by dinner, and changed into appropriate dress for the
forty-five-minute carriage ride to the home of her sister-in-law.
Ophelia Mason
lived in the rural village of Kensington, some six miles away. Sophia wished
she had someone to confide in other than Tom’s unrufflable sister. Sophia
needed a friend who hadn’t loved Tom deeply and who wouldn’t care that she had
sometimes resented her husband for ignoring her wishes. But she couldn’t think
of any woman outside of Tom’s sisters whom she knew well enough to burden with
her troubles.
As she
climbed into the carriage, musty from lack of use, she wished that she could
take a horse instead, but full mourning disallowed it. On a horse, she could
feel the wind in her face. Her first horse, a Spanish gray mare named Cob, had
been a present from her uncle. Though too old for the hunt, Cob had loved to
run, and Sophia, riding astride like her cousins, would let the horse run long
and fast. Suddenly, she remembered Aidan racing beside her. She had held Cob
back enough to let Aidan think he’d won, then she’d spurred the horse forward
to victory. At their goal, she hadn’t known to play coy, to wait until he
helped her down. On dismounting she found him already beside her, laughing,
calling her his “self-sufficient Sophia” and claiming the victor’s kiss, even
though he’d lost.
She opened
the curtains of the coach to watch the town slip into countryside, her thoughts
turning back to Tom’s guardianship plan and how she’d only agreed because she
had no choice.
Three weeks
before his death, Tom had handed her tickets to take her and Ian back to
England. She’d refused. “We can’t leave you, Tom, not when . . .”
“Not when I’m
dying.” Tom never had any trouble speaking the truth. Placing his hands on her
upper arms, he’d made her look into his eyes. “The Carbonari talk revolution
and nationalism all around us. As long as I am alive, my friendships with the
Bourbon ministers protect us. But support for the Italian nationalists grows
each day, as does sentiment against Ferdinand’s British and Austrian allies.
You and Ian must go home.”
“No.” She’d
held her hands up in refusal. “Revolution is years away. Our friends will warn
us when it’s time to leave. And Ian will not understand. Both you and I know
the pain of losing a father so young, how we would have traded anything for
another year, or another day. . . .” She’d let the words drift off. Watching
Tom slip away had taken all her strength.
“Death is
never easy.” Tom had spoken softly. “Ian must learn his own country, not this
mongrel society we have created for him.”
Sophia
bristled. “Our life here is a hybrid, like our roses. From our Italian friends,
he has learned to live joyfully; from our English friends, he has learned to be
circumspect.”
“Then we will
go together.” He’d pulled out a third packet of travel papers. “In six-week’s
time, we will have the best weather and the quickest winds; we should be in
England within ten days.”
“If the trip
doesn’t kill you, the climate in England will. Either way you cut short our
time. Propose some other plan.” Her hands tightened behind her back.
He’d watched
her silently, then explained his four requirements. Each one, a promise she had
to make.
Be established in London within a month of my death.
Live in London for at least part of each “season.”
Take up your place in the bon ton.
At the third
requirement, she’d objected. “I was an orphaned parson’s daughter; I don’t have
a place in society to take.”
“Yet Ian will
need you to know and be known. In London, you were admired for your poise and
your bearing. Here, invitations to your dinners were much prized. Set your mind
to this, and you will create a community—perhaps form another salon. Besides,
you will not be alone: my sisters and your cousins will ease the way. Finally,
within a year, you must call upon Aidan and ask him to serve as Ian’s surrogate
father.” His hand lay on the tickets, his blackmail. He’d sat so still that she
should have realized that he would not survive another year.
“No.” She’d
turned away, hiding her face. “We’ve heard the rumors even here: he’s grown
hard, unforgiving, more like Aaron than Benjamin. If you want Ian to be guided
by someone from your boyhood, Colin is well respected for his amiability, and
Seth already manages your estate. Of my relations, Malcolm is devoted to his
new wife’s boys. Any would be more suitable.”
Tom had
shaken his head in firm refusal. “Of my Somerville cousins, none were closer
than Aidan and I. He must have felt our marriage a betrayal. We must, if that
is true, try to undo the damage.”
“Sometimes
the damage of the past cannot be undone. And you will not be there. Only I
will.” She had met Tom’s eyes. “You don’t know what you are asking, or what it
will cost.”
“I do know,
but it will be worth the cost, for Ian as well as for you.”
The soft
Italian breeze had carried the scent of rain through the open doorways facing
the loggia. Sophia had suddenly realized that Italian rain smelled nothing like
rain in England. The rain in Naples always had a hint of spice, of the dust
that sometimes rained from nearby Vesuvius and fertilized the cultivated land.
Rain in England smelled fertile, like field upon field of pasture, of crops not
yet come in for the harvest, of waiting in the summerhouse with Aidan for a
storm to end. She preferred the Italian rain: it held no memories and offered
no secrets.
She’d looked
at the set of botanical illustrations she’d just finished. “What about your
book? If you die before it is finished, should I promise to see it through the
press?”
“That needs
no promise, for you will do it whether I ask or not.” Tom had smiled. “The
others are burdens. But, Sophia, knowing I have your promises will allow me to
die easy.”
Rachael Miles has always loved a good romance, especially
one with a bit of suspense and preferably a ghost. She is also a professor of
book history and nineteenth-century literature whose students frequently find
themselves reading the novels of Ann Radcliffe and other gothic tales. Rachael
lives in her home state of Texas with her indulgent husband, three rescued
dogs, and an ancient cat.
Thank you for hosting JILTING THE DUKE today!
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