ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS A DUKE
Historical Romance Holiday Collection
Vivienne Lorret, Valerie Bowman,
Ashlyn Macnamara & Tiffany Clare
Released Dec 1st (Digital), Dec 22nd (Print)
Avon Impulse
The Duke and Duchess Trap by Valerie Bowman
A childish prank may have reunited the Duke of Hollingsworth with his estranged wife, but only the magic of Christmas will show this couple ‘tis the season of second chances…
Sophie and the Duke by Tiffany Clare
Sophie Kinsley planned to remain a wallflower at the Duke of Helmsworth’s ball. Yet when a dance with him leads to a stolen kiss, will the duke be willing to let her go? Or will Sophie’s Christmas wish be granted at last?
The Duke’s Christmas Wish by Vivienne Lorret
To the Duke of Vale, science solves everything—even marriage. When the impulsive Ivy Sutherland makes him question all of his data, he realizes that he’s overlooked a vital component in his search for the perfect match: love.
One Magic Season by Ashlyn Macnamara
Patience Markham never forgot the fateful dance she had with the future Duke of Kingsbury. But when a twist of fate brings them together for Christmas Eve, will the stars finally align in their favor?
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Excerpt from THE DUKE AND THE DUCHESS TRAP by
Valerie Bowman
PROLOGUE
London,
September, 1810
“Lady
Evangeline Hollister?” The headmistress’s voice rang out across the huge
banquet hall.
Evie
swallowed. Oh, she didn’t like this. Not one bit. She bit her lip. Being shy
was such a curse. Why did she have to be the first to be called upon
on the first day at her new school? Apparently, new students were first to be
inspected and provided with a class schedule. She stared up at the monstrous
carved chandeliers that hung like gargoyles from the wood-beamed roof of the
hall. Attending the most exclusive school in London was her birthright. Mother
had said she must be brave. She’d promised Mother. Never mind that the idea of
leaving Mother, her home, her dog, her beloved horses, not to mention the servants,
made Evie want to cast up her accounts.
She blinked
away the tears that stung her eyes. Tears would not do. Mother said the
daughter of a duke did not cry. Even at the tender age of twelve. Evie smoothed
her blue skirts and glanced down at her perfectly clean and orderly white
stockings which peeped out at the ankles. She pressed her palm against the
thick wooden table, preparing to stand. She tucked her book under her arm. The
book had been another recommendation from Mother. “One cannot be homesick when
one is reading a compelling book,” she’d said. “When you’re reading, it doesn’t
matter where you are.”
Mother was
right, and Evie had been clutching her copy of The Canterbury
Tales ever since she’d arrived at Miss Hathaway’s School for Young Ladies.
But she somehow doubted that Headmistress Hathaway would take kindly to her
reading during roll call.
“Lady
Evangeline,” the headmistress called again. Evie pushed herself to her feet.
The short heels of her leather slippers clicked against the polished wood
floor, and the eyes of all the other girls swiveled to watch her. She gulped
and stepped forward, forcing herself to take another step and another,
shuddering at each smack of her heels. She pressed her hand to her book,
clutching it so tightly her fingers drained of color.
“Present,”
she managed to force from her dry throat.
The
headmistress’s head snapped up, and she eyed Evie’s approach over the rim of
her golden spectacles. It seemed as if hours passed before Evie arrived,
trembling, at Miss Hathaway’s table that was perched on a dais at the front of
the cavernous hall. The middle-aged lady lowered her spectacles and glared at
Evie through narrowed dark eyes. She spoke in a pinched, unhappy voice. “I’m
not amused, Lady Genevieve. I said Lady Evangeline Hollister.”
Evie gulped.
“I beg your pardon, madam.” Her voice trembled. “I am Lady Evangeline
Hollister.”
Miss Hathaway
pursed her lips. It was an unfortunate look for her. She contemplated Evie with
a suspicious glare while the giggles of the other girls grew louder. Evie
swallowed and clutched the book to her chest, crossing her arms over it,
desperately wishing she could disappear. There couldn’t possibly have been a
mix-up, could there? Mother would have seen to all the details. Mother was
kind, and beautiful, and full of laughter. And Mother never made mistakes. It
was absolutely inconceivable.
The
headmistress’s eyes narrowed further, if that were possible. “What have you
done to your hair?”
Evie pushed
her free hand up to her red locks. “My . . . my hair, madam?”
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know what I mean, Lady Genevieve. You’re forgetting that I
was present when you decided to run off into the park without your bonnet,
resulting in that unfortunate incident with the pine sap which led to Miss Lancaster
having to cut your hair—and seriously displeasing your father, I
might add.”
“My . . . my
father?” Evie cocked her head to the side and stared at the headmistress as if
she were speaking a foreign language. Evie hadn’t seen her father since she was
a babe. Or so Mother had told her. Evie certainly didn’t remember him or their
last meeting. What in heaven’s name did Miss Hathaway mean? And why did she
continue to refer to her as Genevieve?
“I beg your
pardon, Madam,” Evie managed, “but to my knowledge, I’ve never had the
misfortune to get pine sap in my hair, and I have yet to make the acquaintance
of a Miss Lancaster.”
There was
more tittering from the other girls. Evie’s cheeks heated. She clutched her
book even tighter in her slick palms, wishing she could disappear into the
volume. She had the distinct impression she was about to be dismissed from the
most exclusive school in London before she’d even begun. What would she tell
Mother?
The
headmistress tapped the end of her quill against the wide mahogany table in
front of her. “Lady Genevieve, as usual, I do not find your behavior amusing in
the least. Now, I shall ask you for your full name one final time. I warn you,
your father will hear about this if you give me anything short of the truth.”
Evie swallowed
and nodded.
Miss
Hathaway’s nostrils flared. She raised her chin and pressed her spectacles
farther up her beaklike nose. “Your name, if you please.”
Evie didn’t
blink. “Evangeline Marie Sandford Hollister.” Her voice was low and weak as
usual, and she silently cursed herself for it.
The
headmistress’s hand cracked against the surface of the table, making Evie jump.
She jumped a second time when the door to the hall slammed open and an urchin
with short red hair, sagging stockings, and an askew bonnet came running across
the wide expanse of wood flooring. She passed the banquet tables filled with
girls and skidded to a halt in front of the headmistress, her hair flipped
across her brow, obscuring her face. She smelled like sherbet lemons, reminding
Evie of home. Mother’s favorites.
The girl was
breathing heavily and seemed to be balancing precariously on one foot. Evie
also noted with no small bit of wonder that the urchin was missing a button
from the back of her gown, and one of her gloves appeared to be stained. Blood?
Good heavens! Or was it chocolate? She wasn’t sure which was more alarming.
Mother wouldn’t approve of Evie missing a button from her gown, let alone being
in possession of a stained glove. What sort of mother did this urchin
have? And how in heaven’s name had the creature managed to matriculate at Miss
Hathaway’s School for Young Ladies?
“I was told
you were looking for me, Miss Hathaway,” the urchin stated in a loud, clear
voice. “I am sorry, ma’am, but I was in the science hall feeding the lizards
and quite lost track of the time.”
The urchin
turned to look at Evie. She swiped the unfashionably short crop of red hair
from her forehead and her face came into full view.
Evie gasped.
Miss Hathaway
gasped.
The urchin’s
eyes (which were the exact same shade of blue as Evie’s) grew wide. “Oh, my.
How wonderful. You must be my twin sister, Evangeline. I cannot tell you how
lovely it is to finally meet you.”
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USA Today bestselling author ASHLYN MACNAMARA writes Regency romance with a dash of wit and a hint of wicked. She considers writing her mid-life crisis but reckons it’s safer than hang-gliding or rock-climbing. She lives in the wilds of suburbia outside Montreal with her husband, two teenage daughters, and one loudmouth cat. Although she writes about the past, you can find her in such newfangled places as her website Facebook, and Twitter.
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