The Dukes' Christmas Abductions

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Doris O’Connor & Raven McAllan

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-620-7

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To the Chicks,

  Without you this story wouldn't have been written.

  Many thanks :-)

  THE DUKES’ CHRISTMAS ABDUCTIONS

  Doris O’Connor & Raven McAllan

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  Haversham House, Christmas Ball, December, current time

  “Good lord, I need a minute. How anyone could breathe with these freaking stays on, I have no idea.”

  Clara gasped for breath, and rolled her eyes at Vicky’s smirk. Her new-found friend looked as fresh as a daisy, dammit, whereas Clara was sure she was going to pass out soon, if she didn’t get these torture objects off of her.

  “Wuss. I told you, many ladies in that era didn’t bother with stays but you insisted.” Vicky rolled her eyes. “Your fault. Me? I had more sense. Hence I didn’t wear any under my costume.”

  Clara grimaced anew and looked pointedly from her heaving cleavage to Vicky’s nice tidy handful.

  “You get away with that. Without scaffolding of some sort I’d be wobbling all over the place even more than I am now. My boobs are too damn big.”

  “Rubbish, and the girls are perfect for a Regency dress. Let’s face it, my 34 As are blink-and-you’ll-miss-them nonentities. Why do you think I have a supply of chicken fillets and tissues all over the place? A becomes C. You know full well most women would kill for your cleavage. As for stays … overrated. Hell, Clo, I didn't even put a chemise underneath ... you know," she added at Clara's blank look, "a sort of petticoat under a petticoat. That coal sack you’re wearing, and complaining it chafes your pussy. At least in Regency times they weren’t rough and coarse if you were aristocracy, but still, I guess in this day and age you have to get what the costumier thinks is authentic. But hey it’s no wonder you’re overheating in that get up. Bet you still got your knickers on too, right?” Her impossible friend, who was enjoying herself far too much at her expense, giggled. “I haven’t. What’s the point in daring to go bare, if you cover it all up? We need to get you out of those awful things you call knickers. In the meantime…”

  She paused to snare two flutes of champagne off a passing footman, and pressed one into Clara’s hand.

  “Bottoms up. You’ll feel better once you’ve had another drink.” Vicky winked at her, and grimacing Clara downed the lot in one go. She wasn’t a huge fan of the bubbly stuff, but it did lubricate her throat, and left a nice buzz behind. Well, either that, or the lack of oxygen to her lungs was making her this fuzzy headed.

  “Are my ladies quite all right?”

  James, Haversham’s resident butler, swooped in with his usual majestic grace. It always left Clara feeling somewhat inferior, which was ridiculous. She was curator of this great house, after all. Yet next to the whitehaired, impeccably mannered James, whose family had been butlers in this house since the beginning of time—if he was to be believed—she always felt like an imposter. He certainly never looked at her with the great respect he bestowed Vicky from the minute she’d arrived.

  “Lady Victoria Hopewell, my pleasure to welcome you to Haversham House.” The voice wasn’t actually unctuous but not far off. Luckily her friend had held in the giggle Clara was certain she wanted to give and apart from the twinkle in her eyes, showed no surprise at the greeting. Instead she got into the spirit of things, bowed her head, and murmured her acquiescence. Only, once he was out of earshot, she’d dissolved into fits of giggles.

  “Goodness, he does take this whole Regency authenticity to the extreme, doesn’t he? No one ever called me Lady Victoria before, or if they have it was so long ago I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, well, that’s James. He’s just one of the oddities that surround this house. No wonder their previous curator left. The poor man probably gave himself an ulcer working around the impossible demands placed in the will of the last Duke of Hockwell.”

  Vicky nudged her in the ribs and gesticulated. “Shh, he’s waiting for us now.”

  Clara watched wide-eyed and full of envy as her friend drew herself up to her full height of around five feet seven. She even looked like a member of the aristocracy who would have graced this elegant house two hundred years ago.

  “I say, James, would you be so kind as to show us to the withdrawing rooms for the ladies?” Vicky’s stilted accent shook Clara out of her musings about the state of Haversham House, and focused her attention back on her friend.

  James’s lined face broke into a wide smile, and he bowed again.

  “Certainly, my lady. If you follow me to the gallery, you will find private rooms off there.”

  Vicky grinned and grasping Clara by the elbow, hissed in her ear.

  “Gallery, eh? That’s pictures and portraits of the family. Does that mean he’s taking us to the private wing?” Clara had to smile at the excitement in her friend’s voice.

  “That means chamber pots and stuff, or is there a loo there?”

  “There’s a loo.” Clara smiled at the look of disappointment that spread over Vicky’s face. “You don’t really want to pee in one of those gravy boat things you showed me, do you? Isn’t that taking authenticity a bit far?”

  “I guess but…” Vicky punched Clara on the arm as Clara howled with laughter. The noise echoed around the gallery and Vicky shh-ed her. “Stop it,” Vicky hissed. “You’ll get us black balled. No don’t.” Clara sniggered and snorted until tears ran down her cheeks. Vicky tried to be stern and didn’t make it. “Oh Clo, shut up or you’ll start me off.”

  “B … black … balled. I thought lack of sex was blue-balled and okay, I’ve zipped it. Just look around and remember stuff.”

  This would be excellent research for Vicky’s next historical romance, after all, and had been the main reason why Clara had ensured Vicky had received one of the coveted invitations to the Christmas ball. They were usually reserved for the cream of society. With a glance back at the crowded ballroom, Clara allowed herself to be led away, satisfied that the evening went as planned, even if the supposed heir hadn’t turned up.

  In truth, she was quite curious to see the private wing too. James and his wife, the resident cook and housekeeper, kept the keys for this wing. Clara was due to catalogue all the items in that part of the great house soon. She hadn’t managed to do so yet, her attention taken up with the parts of Haversham House open to the public, and thus paying her wages. Which, should the estate not sort out this missing heir to the dukedom issue, wouldn’t happen for much longer.

  James stopped outside the imposing oak paneled door, and unlocked it with great flourish. A strike of lightning lit up the dark interior before the lights came on, and Clara jumped.

  “It seems the predicted storm is approaching faster than anticipated. If my ladies will excuse me, I’d better make sure our guests are taken care of.”

  James inclined his head, and before Clara could get over her astonishment at the fact that James was leaving them on their o
wn in this sacred part of the house, Vicky had pushed through the door.

  With an impending sense of doom, and accompanied by a loud clap of thunder, Clara followed into the dimly lit long hallway. The heavy door clicked shut behind her. Goosebumps broke out on her skin as the temperature instantly dropped, and she rubbed her hands up and down her exposed forearms.

  Vicky, who by all accounts ought to be shivering in her barely there outfit, jumped up and down in excitement.

  “Wow, look at all these old paintings. These must be their ancestors, and I have to say these two don’t half look yummy. Cousins it says. I think they’ve got the same great grandfather. So there’s a bit of a gap, you know second cousins once removed or something,” Vicky said as she peered at the metal tags on the frames. “But, boy, you can tell they weren’t born on the wrong side of the blanket. Come here, have a look.”

  Vicky waved her on, and with a sigh of foreboding Clara stepped forward. The entire hallway lit up in a blinding flash as she did so, and the most enormous rumble of thunder deafened her. Vicky screamed and darkness descended.

  Someone or something brushed up against Clara’s back, and she barely suppressed a shriek. She hated the dark with a vengeance, at the best of times. Through the driving rain lashing against the windows now, she heard the sound of a match being struck.

  “Deuce, Kit, where the devil are you?”

  Spinning round to the sound of that deep masculine rumble, Clara lost her footing as the rug on the floor gave way. A strong masculine arm snaked around her waist, and hoisted her up, against a broad, warm chest. Scents of horse, tobacco, and some woodsy cologne teased her nostrils, as the unknown invader lifted up the lone candle, placed in an old fashioned candle holder, seemingly to study her.

  “What have we here? I’m not sure what game my cousin is playing, but I think I shall keep this bounty.”

  The man, who looked as though he’d stepped straight out of one of those paintings smirked, and raised one perfectly shaped blond eyebrow at her. A flash of lightning made the diamond in his cravat sparkle, and the ring with what looked like a crest on his pinkie shine brightly in the dim candlelight. He bowed from the waist and took her limp hand in his, to kiss it suavely.

  “Daniel Danvers, Duke of Hockwell at your service, Miss…?”

  Pressed against him as she was, Clara couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and for the first time in her twenty five years swooned like a good old Regency heroine.

  ****

  “Tarnation, Dan what the hell are you playing at?” Christian—known to all except his mother as Kit—Capel, the Duke of Aulban, swore as he turned from another candle he’d managed to light, to see his cousin holding a swooning woman in his arms. “Who is she?”

  Daniel shook his head. “In truth, I have no idea but she’s a pretty handful. The storm blew out the candle and, well…” He shrugged and shifted his grip on the swooning woman to lift her into his arms. “I got one lit and here she is.”

  Kit shook his head. “Just like that? So which debutante is she? I must admit this is a new way to ensnare a duke. Wait for a storm, blow out the candles and sneak into the private wing. Thence to be compromised. Welcome to the world of the leg-shackled man.”

  Daniel glowered. “I’ve no idea who she is but it matters not. It won’t rub, no leg shackling will occur. I’ll deny it all. After all I was with you all evening.”

  Kit grinned. “Of course. As I was with you. Just in case Marianna Allencroft claims otherwise.”

  Daniel paused on his way toward the door, which led to his rooms. “Fair Marianna?” He whistled. “You lucky dog. How was it?”

  Kit considered. “It would have been bland. I scratched the itch once before, but that was it. She of course was more than satisfied, but I had no intention of returning for another course. Once over egged dish was enough.” He shuddered. “She wears so much attar of roses I was almost the one to swoon the time I did partake.”

  “Poor man.” Daniel’s voice was mocking, and Kit snorted.

  “I assure you ‘tis true. She got to taste my pudding and I declined to sup her nectar.”

  Daniel kicked open the door. “Only taste, not enclose?”

  “I decided enough was enough. The woman ate me like she was starved.” He paused. “Although if the gossip mongers are to be believed, Alllencroft isn’t, shall we say, able to perform. Too many dubious encounters in Portugal.”

  “Poor sot. I suppose I could say poor Mariana but … I can’t say I’ve ever warmed to her.” Daniel walked through the open door. “Now this handful could be something different.”

  Kit stared at the unconscious woman in his cousin’s arms. Much too voluptuous for his liking, but definitely to his cousin’s taste. “I wish you joy.”

  “I wish me cunt.”

  ****

  Vicky listened with growing anger as the two impeccably dressed men talked so callously about women. Okay they might have found the perfect costumes but did they really have to make their performance quite so authentic? Men—well some men—had moved on surely?

  The door banged behind her friend and the first guy and she jumped as she realized she was stuck in the semi dark with an unknown man. One who hadn’t clocked her yet, but it was surely only a matter of time before he discovered he wasn’t alone? Vicky groped over the shelf of the mantelpiece she’d found in her fumble along the wall once they’d been plunged into darkness. Clara had been several yards ahead of her, and in the eye line of the two men. Luckily, Vicky thought, as she was behind them, her presence hadn’t been noted.

  Where had they appeared from? She could have sworn she and Clara had been the only two in the room when the lights went out.

  Wherever it was now she not only had to contend with a storm, and boy she hated storms and always had, but also a drop dead gorgeous, play your cards right and you can have me guy in front of her, and her friend god knew where with this guy’s almost double.

  It was enough to make even the hardest woman swoon, and whatever others might think—and her last boyfriend insisted he knew—Vicky was no ball buster. Oh she was an outspoken, in your face feminist, and had long thought women got a raw deal at times, but she also knew given the right man she’d roll over and purr. Unfortunately Maurice—hedge fund analyst and all out asshole—Endon hadn’t been that one.

  The guy in front of her lifted the candle he held high in the air and turned in her direction. Vicky bit her lip, slid her hand a few inches further and to her utmost relief touched something cold and hard. She almost groaned her relief out loud. Thank god for small mercies. It might only be another candlestick but it was empty, heavy, and available. As a cosh it would work as long as she had the element of surprise. If it bent and wrapped itself around the bloke’s head it didn’t matter as long as it gave her time to find Clara and they both got away unscathed. Vicky decided she could bet her new iPad mini these two weren’t the sort to kiss a hand and say good bye.

  More like kiss somewhere else and demand more.

  The man in front of her turned and stared straight at her. His blond hair glittered gold in the candlelight and his blue eyes matched the color of his impeccable evening jacket that sculpted his body. He flexed his long fingers, which gripped the candlestick. Vicky’s mouth went dry. That small gesture made her think of how they would grip her. How he would grip her.

  She swallowed as an unholy grin spread over his face and the corners of his eyes crinkled up.

  Well,” he drawled. “It seems it was indeed a lucky day I told Lady Allencroft enough was enough, and I preferred to partake of supper elsewhere.” He walked purposefully toward her. “And lo and behold my supper is waiting. Neat and perfect for me.” He stared meaningfully at her breasts.

  To her chagrin Vicky felt her nipples tighten to the point of pain … or nipple clamps in place. Then her sex-hazed mind cleared, she processed his sentence and her blood boiled. How dare he suggest she was on the menu? She gripped her unlit candlestick harder and waved
it in the air. “You come near me, mate, and I’ll knock your brains out. And as most men’s brains are in their gonads be prepared to sing soprano from now on in.”

  He blinked but didn’t miss a step.

  “I don’t sing. Not for anything including my supper,” he said as he reached for her.

  Vicky moved sideways and lifted the candlestick above her, ready to strike.

  A flash of lightning was followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder

  Vicky screamed and threw the candlestick in the air. Something—someone—grabbed her, and then the candlestick swung around in lazy circles high above her.

  Almost in slow motion both she and her assailant watched it fall toward them.

  Her last thought was it would hit her not him, and try as she might she couldn’t move.

  I hate storms.

  Chapter Two

  Daniel whistled to himself, as he shouldered open the door to his rooms. This fragrant bundle of curves in his arms would prove a fine distraction away from the tediousness that was the annual estate Yule Ball. The servants enjoyed the one night they could join in the festivities, though it made for dashed uncomfortable lodgings for him.

  Jenkins, his valet, was no doubt romancing Bella, the kitchen maid he was sweet on, having been given the evening off, but you’d have thought they’d have made sure to light the fires in his rooms.

  In the flash of another lightning bolt that lit up his sitting room he could see his breath curl in front of his face, and the lady’s lips were turning blue.

  Cursing under his breath, he abandoned his plan to do the gentlemanly thing and put her down on the overlarge and overstuffed armchair in front of the fire. If he had to light his own blasted fire, he would do so in the comfort of his bedchamber. Just as he feared the hearth in this chamber was stone cold also, but the room was marginally warmer, no doubt due to the long, south-facing windows, now covered with deep maroon velvet.