Epilogue

EPILOGUE

One week later,Sebastian kissed the hand of his beautiful wife as they entered the dining room of Longton Place. The wedding breakfast was set for only nine people. The bishop had just married them with a special license in a small, secret ceremony in the drawing room. Since the whole ton thought that they were already married, they didn’t need to attract any attention to this event. Even the Bishop of London, being Spencer’s friend, had been sworn to secrecy. In the name of the deceased Grandhampton, he would agree to keep his silence.

The Seatons were still in mourning but had made an exception to their avoidance of social engagements to support Sebastian and Emma. Still, they were wearing black. It had been only one month since Grandhampton died.

Normally, Sebastian wouldn’t marry Emma so soon after his friend had passed, but it was necessary to avoid any danger of a scandal. They would visit Emma’s family soon. The Sherbournes didn’t even know about the annulment.

But he had told Mama everything. Even though she had initially thought that Sebastian and Emma were already married, he’d wanted her to be part of the ceremony, and to have no more bad feelings between them, so he had told her the whole truth.

The dining table was laden with bread and buttered toast, ham, eggs, fruit, and cheese. In the middle of the table stood the cake. Looking like a log under a snowfall of perfectly white refined icing sugar, the cake smelled like brandy and roasted almonds.

As they sat down to eat, he couldn’t take his eyes off his wife.

His wife… His happiness. She had healed him. He was not a broken, unloved man, wondering what was wrong with him.

He was…himself. She showed him every day that he deserved happiness. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined he’d be so full of joy and life. Because he’d had no dreams before her.

And now…

He knew he could make her happy, just like she made him happy. Something within him relaxed and warmed up and he felt whole.

Mama chatted with Emma, her face kind and polite. Earlier, Mama had given Emma the wedding ring her husband had given her and thanked Emma for stepping up for her and for Sebastian.

Mama leaned closer to Emma, and looking at both Sebastian and Emma, said, “I hope your marriage is everything mine wasn’t.”

Sebastian’s throat clenched with emotion. “Thank you, Mama.”

She smiled sadly. “All I wanted was to protect you, Sebastian, from gossip and scandal and unhappiness. That’s why I was so unpleasant to you, Emma. I am sorry, dear. And I want to welcome you. My son found a wonderful duchess.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Emma, and the two most important women in his life exchanged warm smiles.

“Seb,” said someone over his head.

He looked up. It was Preston, as white as a sheet and as mournful as death. Now that Preston was duke, it was customary to call him Grandhampton. But Preston insisted Sebastian keep calling him by his given name. Just like Preston had never started calling Sebastian “Loxchester” when Papa died—Sebastian didn’t want friends calling him by his title, either.

“Something happened?” Sebastian asked.

“May I speak to you?”

“Of course,” he said, standing up. “Forgive me, Mama. Emma.” He gave her a warm smile, and his heart lurched when she beamed back at him.

She was so beautiful in a cream dress with pearls decorating the top.

When he and Preston reached the other side of the room and stood next to the window, Preston swallowed hard. “I…have to tell someone… I learned something…something that makes me want to take a cricket bat and smash everything to pieces.”

“What?” Sebastian looked carefully into Preston’s face. He was incredibly distressed. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and lines of grief bracketed his mouth. He was thinner and at the same time looked puffier than before, which told Sebastian his friend indulged in heavy drinking daily.

“Not everything. Everything belonging to one man.”

“Who?”

“Lord Neville Beckett.”

“Miss Penelope’s father? The baron?”

Preston nodded, looking out the window. “The very same.”

“Why?”

“Do you recall Tyche?”

“The club on St. James’s. Yes, of course.”

Tyche was a gentlemen’s club and a notorious gaming hell. Even though it was for aristocrats, it was run by the very ungentlemanlike Solomon Eastbourne, and everyone knew not to cross him. It was a place where the best investments were discussed, deals were done by handshake, and the most outrageous bets were placed on card games.

Preston nodded. “Me, too. Shortly before his death, Spencer told me he thought he saw someone following him, though he never managed to get a proper look at the person.”

Sebastian nodded, remembering his conversation with Grandhampton in the boxing ring.

“And then two weeks ago,” Preston continued, “a servant at Tyche approached me and told me that before Spencer’s death, Lord Neville Beckett had been talking with an important lord about roughing up Spencer… Teaching him a lesson.”

Sebastian blinked. “Roughing up Grandhampton?”

“Yes. Apparently, Lord Neville was concerned that a disreputable rake like Spencer would never marry his daughter, only ruin her. And knowing how much he needed a good match for her and a rich husband…”

“But surely Grandhampton, being a duke, should not have been a concern. And anyway, he did want to marry her, as you well know.”

Preston scoffed. “I guess no one mentioned that to Lord Beckett. The servant wrote and signed a statement where he gives his account of the conversation he overheard. The statement says Lord Beckett ordered thugs to rough up Spencer. And, as you know, things got out of control…”

And Grandhampton died…

“Devil it, Preston, so it was Lord Beckett’s men that beat Spencer up and…killed him.”

Preston nodded slowly. Sebastian had never seen him like this. His eyes were dead. “I’m going to avenge my brother. The only thing that matters now in my life is avenging Spencer’s death. Penelope is at fault, too. Had she not flirted with him, leading him on like that, he wouldn’t have been encouraged. I have no doubt all she wanted was his money. Everybody knows Lord Beckett is a terrible gambler with debts all over London. Most of all, in Tyche.”

It was, perhaps, because of the wedding, the fact that Sebastian was so happy—he was a different man now, a man who knew how love could change someone—but he couldn’t let Preston proceed.

“Don’t do it, Preston. Revenge will destroy you.”

Preston shook his head. “I will not be swayed.”

A hand was placed on Sebastian’s arm, and he turned around. It was Emma, her eyes luminous, the color of grass in the early hours of the morning.

“Excuse me,” she said, “may I talk to my new husband?”

Sebastian laid his hand over hers and looked at Preston. “I mean it. Don’t do it.”

“Too late. I have a plan. And it involves the precious Miss Penelope Beckett. Neville will be sorry he did anything to Spencer. So will she.”

Emma blinked, and to make sure she didn’t hear any more talk of bloody revenge, Sebastian led her away from Preston. She tugged him out of the dining room and into one of the sitting rooms. She giggled, and seeing her beam like she did made him forget any dark thoughts.

When the door behind them closed, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her, reveling in her beautiful, luscious, delicious lips. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and kissed her until his blood simmered in his veins and his need for her was a burning, aching yearning in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re so pretty, Duchess,” he said as he began lowering himself down her beautiful body, kissing her chin, her neck, her glorious cleavage, her delicious breasts.

She put her hands on his head and dug her fingers into his hair. “Duke, someone might come.”

He pushed the skirt of her gown and her petticoat up to her stomach. There they were, her long, glorious legs, her thighs in transparent white stockings.

“Someone will come,” he said to the triangle of hairs at the apex of her thighs. Then he put her leg over his shoulder and spread her folds and locked his mouth with her delicious sex. “You, my love.”

“Ahh,” she moaned as he explored her soft, hot folds, finding her clitoris, and circling it over and over with his tongue.

He inserted his finger into her. She was already so wet, so ready for him. He felt her tighten around him. His cock stood at attention, all his blood searing and boiling for her. He kept pleasuring her until he felt her so tight and so ready for a release.

Then he withdrew from her, stood up, and picked her up, letting her legs wrap around his waist.

“I just couldn’t wait until the wedding night,” he said.

He positioned his cock against her sleek, hot entrance.

“I couldn’t, either,” she said, breathless, flushed. So pretty. Just as he liked her.

With one movement, he buried himself into her sweet, tight depths and groaned at how good she felt. How perfect she was for him. His light. His happiness. His heart.

She clutched at his neck with both her arms. Oh, how he’d looked forward to fucking her like this, against the wall. Her being so hot and so aroused for him. As he moved in and out of her, he looked into her eyes. “We’re married now. You’re mine. Do you still want me to find my release outside of you?”

She titled her head back with a sweet moan. “I want to have all the babies, Sebastian. All your babies…”

This was his undoing. He could lose control now. They could find their release together. With a groan, he began thrusting in and out of her like a wild animal. He felt her pleasure building with her tightening around him, just like his own built and built.

This would be their first time, when they both would come together.

When she shook and trembled in his arms, he felt his own release pound into her, their combined orgasm like one breath, like one being that they both became. She sagged against him, panting. He picked her up and carried her to a sofa, and she lay against him, her head on his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead, inhaling her divine scent.

“Do you like this prison, my love? This marriage prison with me?”

She looked up at him and her eyes sparkled. “I will gladly serve a life sentence being pleasured by you, my love.”

* * *

Thank you for reading WHEN THE DUKE BOUGHT A WIFE. If you enjoyed our prequel to the DUKES AND SECRETS series, find out what happens next in book 1 of the series, ALL DUKE AND BOTHERED.

Brooding Duke. Notorious rake. Driven by grief. Forcing his enemy’s daughter into marriage for revenge. About to lose his heart.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ ”Simply wonderful! Penelope and Preston are two of my favorite characters, ever!”

Read ALL DUKE AND BOTHERED now >

Or turn the page and read on for an excerpt of ALL DUKE AND BOTHERED.

* * *

London, 1813

“The first Almack’s ball of the Season,” declared Miss Penelope Beckett’s father as they entered the grand ballroom together. “Aren’t you glad your old papa managed to get you the voucher?”

Penelope clutched her skirts, her hands sweaty inside her elbow-length gloves. “Indeed, Papa,” she said, striving to keep her tone even. “The most exclusive ball in London.”

The expansive room bustled with a crowd of hundreds of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. Ladies’ feathered hair accessories swayed as they moved, while the light from countless candles and two-tiered crystal chandeliers shimmered on the dark glass panes of six round-arched windows. Pale blue swagged draperies framed the windows beneath elegant, scrolled pelmet heads.

The long walls featured pale blue bays separated by pink marble columns adorned with scroll-like spiral ornaments. Some bays displayed Roman-style sculptures of striking half-naked men. Penelope longed for a pen and paper to sketch them. Others featured rococo mirrors, creating the illusion of an even grander space. Friezes, festoons, and paterae—shallow dishes used in ancient Rome—decorated sections of the walls.

The twelve Almack’s balls held each Season were not only the most exclusive, but also the most significant events in an unmarried lady’s quest for a husband. However, Penelope had a different goal in mind.

She fidgeted with her earlobe, attempting to calm her nerves. After three unsuccessful Seasons, she had undoubtedly been cast aside as a spinster, unfashionable and unwanted. A different path lay before her. The Duchess of Ashton, London’s most ardent patroness of female artists, would be present. An introduction to the duchess might afford Penelope the opportunity to showcase her art and perhaps embark on her career as an artist. Who needed a husband for that?

Beside her stood her cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett, who observed everything with the same wide-eyed fascination as Penelope. Alexandria was a beautiful young woman with sweet, well-defined features, her hair styled in small curls. She looked striking in her pale lilac ball gown.

“Yes, I am glad to be here, Papa,” Penelope said as they walked deeper into the ballroom. Her father remained oblivious to the true reason for her enthusiasm. Her eyes scanned the guests, searching for a lady in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes, whom she had occasionally glimpsed at other social gatherings, but to whom she had never been formally introduced.

A band played an English country dance tune from the musicians’ gallery above. The room was full of humming conversation and the mingled scents of wine, perfume, and perspiration.

“Though, how did you manage to obtain the voucher?” Penelope added. “And why now, when I’ve been out for three Seasons already?”

Despite her being considered a spinster, he must still be thinking of marrying her off.

Her father, a short, paunchy man in his fifties, pursed his lips, causing wrinkles to form on his cheeks. He had lost some of his handsomeness since her mother’s passing. Perhaps it was due to his reddened, puffy face, a consequence of excessive port and brandy consumption, as well as his sleepless nights spent away from home. His pale blue eyes with yellowish whites narrowed at her. His powdered wig, a fashion from the previous century, quivered as it always did when he became angry.

“Aren’t you grateful that I managed to get you in at all?” he said. “I daresay it took quite a few favors. But I did it.”

Penelope’s chest tightened. How she wished Mama were still alive. Papa had always been a better man with her around. Since Mama’s passing, it seemed as though Papa barely acknowledged Penelope’s existence. He had forbidden her from pursuing art some time ago, insisting that a woman’s duty was to raise children, nothing more. However, his frequent absences allowed her to continue painting and drawing against his wishes.

“Where’s your dance card?” he asked. “I see the Viscount of Bridgemere approaching.”

A sinking feeling settled in Penelope’s stomach. Not this again, she pleaded silently. If Papa had gone to such lengths to bring her to Almack’s, he must be truly determined to find her a match. Yet, chances were that her future husband, like most men of the time, would share Papa’s opinion and forbid her from seriously pursuing art.

A tall man with a round belly and narrow shoulders greeted them. As a well-bred lady, Penelope flashed a bright smile—one she often wore at these balls, leaving her face feeling wooden by the end of the evening. She was her mother’s daughter, after all, and she wouldn’t embarrass her papa or tarnish the family name.

“Bridgemere,” said Papa, his face adopting a broad smile that Penelope hardly ever saw. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Penelope Beckett, and my niece, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”

Bridgemere looked her over from head to toe with his large, wide-set eyes and nodded. The strange glossiness of his eyes made her want to shudder. “Miss Beckett, Miss Beckett,” he acknowledged Alex with a slight nod. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He turned to Papa. “Lord Beckett, your daughter is, as they say, a true beauty.”

Penelope shot Alex a brief, puzzled glance, and her cousin widened her eyes in response. As they say? Hadn’t Penelope been dismissed by the ton as an unfashionable, unsuccessful bride?

Confused but wanting to be polite, she broadened her smile until the corners of her mouth ached. “How do you find the ball, Viscount Bridgemere?” she asked.

“I daresay I’ve had the privilege of attending better ones,” he replied, his gaze drifting elsewhere. “The bread slices are too thin and the butter too thick for my liking. And dry cake always gives me heartburn.”

His voice was slow and monotonous, and Penelope’s jaw tightened as she suppressed a yawn. She glanced at Alex again, who subtly raised her eyebrows and hid a smile.

“Quite,” agreed Penelope. “I do hope you feel better.” Struggling to find a topic of conversation, she suggested, “Perhaps some weak tea might help.”

“Perhaps,” he said, looking her over once more as she maintained her bright smile. “My, my, you have the most charming smile, Miss Beckett. May I have the honor of the next dance?”

Penelope opened her mouth, hoping to quickly think of a reason to refuse him, but moments passed, and she found none. “Of course, I would be delighted.”

After that, they mostly stood in silence. Viscount Bridgemere, for some reason, seemed unwilling to leave her side. More men approached her, encouraged by Papa. Within ten minutes, she had three dances filled. As she looked through the ballroom for some excuse to leave his side, she froze.

Only ten feet away, the Duchess of Ashton talked to the Duchess of Grandhampton, a wonderfully pleasant lady. She was the grandmother of Spencer, the deceased Duke of Grandhampton, one of the best friends she had had in the ton.

Spencer…the thought of the wonderfully kind man was a heavy sadness weighing in her chest. The news of his death had reached her last September, and she couldn’t believe her ears. She missed her conversations with the duke. They had similar tastes in art, and he encouraged her greatly to pursue her goal. He was the only one she had confided in about her ambition, and he’d supported her. It had seemed as if they could talk about anything. He’d told her how admirable her independent views were, that a woman didn’t need to get married, and that he thought a woman should enjoy the same privileges as a man.

Of course, she knew he’d never been interested in her beyond that. He was a known rake, and the women he’d pursued were much more experienced than she. But Papa didn’t like her talking to and spending time with him. He had lied at least twice when the duke had come calling on her, telling him she wasn’t at home.

The duke had introduced his grandmama to her, and if only she had a chance to free herself from the circle of men that now surrounded her like flies, she could take those ten steps and greet her. The Duchess of Grandhampton would surely introduce her to the Duchess of Ashton.

She was forced to dance the three dances she had promised. As she danced, she noticed that almost every man stared at her—old and young. Talking to each other. Eyes glistening with something. Staring at her chest, at her legs moving under her ball gown as she danced.

What had happened? During the previous two Seasons, she had done her best to avoid any romantic connections because she was afraid a husband would forbid her from painting like her papa did. How could she have turned from one of the most insignificant young ladies on the marriage mart to the very center of attention?

Finally, her last dance ended. Thanking her partner, she applauded the band of musicians while scanning the guests for any sight of the Duchess of Grandhampton.

Alex came to join her. “How was it?” she asked softly, leaning close.

Before Penelope could answer, the applause died and every person in the ballroom stilled, staring towards the doors.

The crowd separated in front of a man like the sea before Moses, and a shiver went through Penelope. He was tall, and so handsome it was hard to look at him. Hair as dark as Spencer’s, cut in a fashionable, windblown style with short sideburns. He had chiseled features, a square jaw, and a straight nose. Under a high forehead, strong brows swept low over beautiful deep-set onyx eyes with long, curly eyelashes that any lady would die for. His mouth was straight and wide, with full lips and a prominent chin.

The hostesses, Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, and Countess Lieven, the patronesses of Almack’s, rushed towards him.

“The new Duke of Grandhampton,” whispered Alex as she and Penelope watched the three ladies greet and bustle about the duke. “The richest man in England. The biggest rake.”

Not as terrible as his older brother was. Spencer had told her about his brother Preston. And she’d seen him at balls. Seaton was a highly respected name, a noble line dating back to the War of the Roses. Arrogant and gorgeous, all three brothers had notorious reputations. Although everyone wanted their daughter to marry into a duke’s family, these men were considered more likely to ruin daughters than marry them.

And yet, at the back of their minds, every matchmaking mama no doubt dreamed of her daughter taming one of the rakes and becoming the wife of a duke.

“I know,” said Penelope, her heart drumming in her ears so loudly she could hardly hear her own voice.

He barely acknowledged the women around him, looking over the crowd and making his way through the people.

When his eyes landed on Penelope, her heart trembled in her chest like a rabbit before a cobra. She’d always found him mysterious, brooding, and intimidating. It seemed he held a deep dislike for her. Whenever their gazes met, she felt as though the flames of his hatred were burning her to cinders. Though she could not understand why he despised her so.

As the duke approached her, Papa appeared next to her as though out of thin air. People threw odd glances at the duke and at Penelope, making unease crawl down her spine.

“Lord Beckett,” said the duke when he stood in front of her papa.

“Your Grace,” said Papa in a strange crackling voice. His foot tapped nervously against the floor, one knee shaking. He seemed to avoid looking straight into the duke’s eyes. Penelope could understand why. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

The duke was at least a head taller than her, looming over her like a dark tower. “Hm” was the duke’s reply, and then his black eyes found her again.

There it was—the strange, cold fury at the depths of his eyes. She felt like she needed to run away from him but stood transfixed. The vast, glistening, sparkling ballroom suddenly seemed like a shrinking cage around her, and it became difficult to breathe.

“Would you not introduce me to the two young ladies, Lord Beckett?” he said, still trapping her with his gaze.

Papa’s jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth.

“My daughter, Miss Penelope Beckett. My niece, Miss Alexandria Beckett. Duke of Grandhampton.” Papa took her by the elbow and tugged. “Forgive me, Duke, I have to introduce my daughter to—”

But the duke interrupted. “May I have the honor of your next dance, Miss Beckett?”

Penelope swallowed. Every instinct screamed for her to run. But if she said no to him, she’d have to say no to everyone else. And she’d offend him. She couldn’t offend Spencer’s brother.

Sadness over Spencer’s absence was like the stab of a needle deep in her heart.

It would be fine. She’d just get through the dance, and then it would be over. Then she’d return to her mission: to try to talk to the Duchess of Ashton.

And so, once again, she put her social smile back on. “I should be delighted.”

He nodded and finally tore his gaze away from her. “Ah, Grandmama,” he said, and for the first time since he’d come inside, his gaze warmed. “You’re here.”

“I am,” said the Duchess of Grandhampton, coming to stand by their side. Her silvery-gray hair was done in an old-fashioned, high updo with many curls. She was dressed in a violet sack-back gown and supported herself with a walking stick. She had the gracefully aging face of a woman who had been beautiful when she was young. “Miss Beckett, you look lovely tonight. Ah, this is my old friend, the Duchess of Ashton.”

Penelope’s head swam as she stared into the kind, sad, chocolate-brown eyes of the duchess. She was stunning in her fashionable scarlet gown with a high waist and puffed sleeves, which complemented her flawless complexion.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess,” Penelope breathed out. “This is my father, Lord Beckett, and my cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”

This was her chance. Finally, she was meeting the woman who might change her life.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Beckett.” The duchess nodded. “It is wonderful to meet all of you. Is this your first time at Almack’s?”

“It is.”

“And how are you enjoying it so far?”

“It is very splendid.” She beamed at the duchess. “I couldn’t help but admire the statues. I wish I could draw them.”

“Are you an artist?” asked the duchess with curiosity.

“No, she is most certainly not,” said Papa. “My daughter will not be involved in such nonsense. Like all women, she’ll be a wife and a mother one day.”

Curiosity died in the duchess’s eyes, and she frowned. Penelope’s face burned as though scalded. Heavens, she wished the floor would crack open and swallow her like a sea beast. With just three sentences, Papa may have ruined her rare chance to make an important connection in the art world.

“Then why did you say you wanted to draw them, Miss Beckett?” asked the duchess.

Penelope opened her mouth to say something, but Papa interrupted her.

“To please you, of course, Your Grace,” replied Papa. “My Penelope only cares for the happiness and comfort of others. Just like her deceased mama. As a woman should be.”

Penelope felt the hot glare of the duke on her skin.

Now would be a great moment for the ground to swallow her. Now, please, God!

Before she could say anything to defend herself or save her reputation before the duchess, the next dance was called.

“Shall we?” asked the duke…

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