A Wulf in Duke's Clothing: A Legend to Love, #6

By Renée Reynolds

The Earldom of Rothgard has a long and storied history of strength, wealth, and integrity. But the death of the current matriarch hits everyone hard – most especially the Earl – and he tumbles into a mourning so intense his life becomes lost in a shroud of grief. His eldest daughter, Lady Isobel, steps up to lead the family while her brother attends university and her younger sisters continue to experience a childhood of some normalcy.

Finding weaknesses in all Lady Isobel establishes to protect her family, an enemy seizes an opportunity to launch financial and personal attacks. When treading water in the mess only yields an overwhelming sense of imminent drowning, she is forced to seek aid—the fate of her family depends upon it.

Help arrives in the form of a confident, handsome gentleman seemingly suited more for the ballroom than the battlefield. The Duke of Conall, the 'Wulf of the North,' is an enigma in bespoke boots and tailored jackets. Yet behind the facade of cultivated ennui and charm beats the heart of a warrior—one who quickly recognizes the enemy tormenting the Rothgard family.

The Duke comes prepared to fight...but did he also come prepared for love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rock Creek Publishing
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386119906

Renée Reynolds

Author Renée Reynolds grew up all over the world as the daughter of a globe-trotting Marine father and spirited and supportive mother. Their family motto was you can never learn too much, travel too much, or talk too much. She majored in majors in college, and after obtaining a host of degrees she decided not to use any of them and instead writes about what she cannot do - go back in time to dance at balls, flirt with lords, gentlemen, and scoundrels, and gallop unfashionably down Rotten Row during the most fashionable hour. After dodging a few Collinses and Wickhams, Renée happily snared a Darcy. Her HEA turned out to be in Texas, where she resides with "the hubs, the kiddos, a boisterous menagerie of indoor and outdoor animals, and a yard of meticulously maintained weeds." She has happily tagged on this addendum to the family motto: you can never read too much, too often, or too late at night. You can also catch up with Renée on Twitter @eenayray and her blog at www.obstinateheadstronggirl.wordpress.com. Some fast and fun facts: I adore writing. I rest when I read. I am a culinary ninja. I talk with my hands as much as my mouth. I will run when the zombie apocalypse befalls us. Until then - no.

Book preview

A Wulf in Duke’s Clothing

A Legend to Love

Renée Reynolds

The right of Renée Reynolds to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for excerpts used for the purpose of reviews, without prior written permission of the publisher and/or author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to others. Please return to point of purchase for additional copies.

A Wulf in Duke’s Clothing is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental, or use for fictitious purposes. The author and publisher do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright© Renée Reynolds 2018

Cover Design by

Midnight Muse Designs 2018

Edited by Koinonia Creative

Dedication

For my niece, Addie.

Here’s to trying new things.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Author Note

A Legend to Love Series

Excerpt From Next Book in Series: The Promise of the Bells

About the Author

Other Books by Renée Reynolds

Prologue

The entrance of Rothgard Hall, Derbyshire, April 1812

"Turn around, remount your horse, and I shall not shoot you today . . . Sir."

The pause before the ‘sir’ was deliberate, just short enough to seem polite, but long enough to broadcast the insult. He would have chuckled had he not sensed the sincerity behind the words. His eyes scanned the entrance to the imposing estate, but the clear day and size of the area caused the voice to seemingly come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He must have hesitated too long himself as further instructions rang out.

I had not planned to practice sighting my guns today, but as you are obligingly ignoring my directives, I will take advantage of the opportunity. I should warn you that I am a crack shot and your immobility all but guarantees my aim shall fall true. I have only to decide which part of you needs a ball in it most.

The owner of the voice remained unseen, but the ominous cocking of a pistol drew his attention to the massive planter on the right side of the landing between the flights of stairs. No shrinking violet, this one, he thought. She had not been hiding, merely tactically placing herself near cover should it be necessary. The lady stood taller than most, had striking dark hair and eyes, and wore a topaz morning dress not in the first stare of fashion, but of high-quality material and extremely well-made. Her found himself taking notice of her skirts and the wisps of hair about her face, gently rippling in the light breeze. She raised one pistol, aiming it dead center at his chest, and returned his attention to where it belonged.

Clearing his throat, the action as foreign to him as the sudden attraction he felt toward this stranger threatening his life, he began his mea culpa.

My Lady, I believe I should introduce myself before we have cause to regret your actions. Despite not knowing her identity, he still sensed he spoke to someone of import.

Save your speech to occupy your thoughts on your journey back down my lane. The only introduction you need concern yourself with is this ball greeting your torso. An impish smile spread across her face as she raised one brow as if in a cocky salute. "And I assure you, I shall feel no regrets in the matter."

And with those saucy words and braggadocio, the famously aloof and impassive Duke of Conall thought he might be in love.

Chapter 1

Rothgard Hall, Derbyshire, January 1812

Tell us the story of Papa again. The one where he slew the dragon, demanded Lady Matilda Harold, youngest daughter of Josiah, Earl of Rothgard. And do not roll your eyes, Cecily. You love the story as much as me.

You can’t see if I roll my eyes. It’s far too dark. And it’s ‘you love the story as much as I,’ lectured her slightly older sister, the middle Harold daughter, Lady Cecily.

See, Issy, I told you she loved the story, too. Now you must tell it. A pillow came flying from the shadows to hit Matilda squarely in the face. Oh! That was unfair! Right in my eye and possibly breaking my nose! Matilda shot off her bed, launching herself onto Cecily with all the force sibling rivalry could muster.

Lady Isobel Harold turned, picking up the brace of candles to better survey the scene across the room with clarity. The previous half-hour’s sisterly serenity of readying for bed by plaiting each others hair, followed by dabbing jasmine water behind their ears, had vanished in a matter of seconds. Each sister held the other’s long, blonde braid, aping victory, whilst taking turns kicking each other’s shins into submission. At the close ages of thirteen and eleven, the youngest Harold children invariably teetered back and forth between friendship and fury throughout the day. Lady Isobel, soon to be three-and-twenty, had never felt older than she did now, watching her sisters tussle without a care for the next five minutes, let alone tomorrow.

Isobel could not remember the last time she had not worried for time, her family, or anything of any count. Enough of this, she thought, and blew out all the candles. The ensuing shrieks brought an end to the ridiculous fight.

Now that I have your attention, you heathens, get into bed. Isobel walked over to the firebox for a match and re-lit several candles. Both of you. You’ll have your story and then it’s time for rest.

Pish! That tired old story! Cecily took one more verbal stab at her little sister. You do know Papa didn’t kill a real dragon, don’t you?

Matilda looked stricken . . . and ready to strike. Isobel intervened. The dragon may not have possessed scales nor breathed fire, but Papa did slay many beasts just as fearsome at the pinnacle of his time in public service to the Crown, from faithless politicians to royal usurpers to dastardly thieves. There were dragons aplenty, of a kind, in London.

Humph, grunted Cecily.

Pish. Humph. I declare, Cecily, you sound like Great Aunt Gert. Either you’ve aged forty years at the thought of hearing this story again, or you have the gout. Which is it? teased Isobel.

Matilda dissolved into peals of laughter as her sister’s face flamed. Before hackles could rise again in protest, Isobel put the candles down and climbed into the bed her sisters now shared, gathering them close. At times such as these, she felt more their protector than simply a sister. Despite the trying times of raising them in the midst of the parent-less situation currently plaguing their family, being able to cuddle with them, sharing stories, or braiding their hair, somehow made the hard times easier to bear.

The greatest land in all the world, England, has always been blessed by the greatest of Earls– she began.

The Earls of Rothgard, whispered Matilda dramatically.

Yes, the Earls of Rothgard. These Earls are the kindest and most generous, but also the bravest and smartest Earls in all of England. And the best of all the Rothgards is the Earl named Josiah.

Papa! interjected Matilda.

Quiet! admonished Cecily. If we have to hear this story for the hundredth time, at least let Issy tell it.

Now Josiah was a busy Earl, with many responsibilities and duties to King and country, which he took seriously. He was benevolent to his tenants, wise with his fortune, and loyal to his King. He was sent across two seas to broker peace, and very nearly succeeded although the people were wild and not interested in concord. He met with royal courts across Europe, bringing back treasures for his King—and some for his family, too.

Isobel continued her tale, with legends of court intrigues, and rumors of mad Kings and insolent sons. Soon Matilda was sleeping, and the older sisters each lit their own candles before tiptoeing quietly from the room. As soon as the door swished closed, Cecily began to whisper furiously in the deserted hall.

I don’t know why Tilly keeps wanting to hear stories of father and all his glories. He could no more squash a spider any more, let alone a ghastly beast of any mean size. His days of fame and honor are well behind him.

Isobel rounded on her sister with a swell of rising indignation. You know why father is different now. It's neither kind nor helpful to make fun of him, especially not in front of Matilda. Had you the weight of the Earldom, parliamentary duties, a son at university, a country at war, and only three silly daughters for help, you'd be less effective, too. They stopped and stood underneath the wedding portrait of their mother painted over twenty years earlier. Neither girl said anything as they held up their candles, each one lost in her own observations.Had you lost the love of your life and not been able to say goodbye, your days might hold less glory as well.

She had been gone nearly two years now. The same could also be said of their father.

Cecily sighed loudly but didn’t continue her arguments. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?

Very beautiful, Isobel agreed. And you look exactly like her. Where Cecily and Matilda inherited their mother’s blonde hair and fair features, Isobel and their brother had taken after Papa, with dark hair, dark eyes, and tall frames. No one would ever mistake her for a petite, English rose, she thought with a touch of envy that passed as quickly as it came.

Tears pooled in Cecily’s eyes. She set her candle on the table underneath the portrait and threw her arms around Isobel. I’m so sorry I snipped at Tilly and poked fun at Papa. I love him and know he does his best. I just miss the way he used to be. She sniffed loudly. I miss the way we all were, when Mama was alive.

Isobel rubbed her hands up and down her sister’s back, treasuring the moment she knew wouldn’t last as Cecily briefly lowered her armor. We all miss her, Papa most of all. That's why it's important to be strong for him, and for each other. Soon, brother will be home so Papa can rest more, and things will seem less difficult.

Brother won’t be home soon! Matilda suddenly wailed from the shadows, running forward to crash into her sisters. The three enveloped each other in a wide hug. He made me swear. We even pricked our hands with the big sword hanging above Papa’s desk in the Study, and smeared the blood all over our palms. But I can’t keep it inside any more, and now that you’re out here crying without me–

Isobel looked up and down the hall but saw no flickering lights nor heard any thumps to indicate they had awakened the staff. She ushered her sisters back into the bedroom, shutting the door against the draft from the chilly hall. Before Cecily could begin an inquisition, she plopped them all into the big tester bed, pulled up the covers, and began to soothe Matilda, rubbing soft circles on her back. The same ministrations she could remember her Mama offering her as a child.

Shh, Tilly, tell us what you know. Then you’ll say your prayers and speak no more of anything until the morning. She continued the slow, comforting shapes on her back.

"When Eric came home for Christmastide, I espied him with cousin Theo. They were drinking something vile and talking about guns—and France—and war. Theo said it was a done thing, and that they would stop by the banker in London to buy their commission. I didn’t know what any of that meant, but later they talked more about fighting the frog-eaters and taking care of old Boney. Then I just had to know, so I barged in and demanded they tell me. Theo threatened to tie me up in the stables, so Eric threatened to tie him up in the stables. Matilda hiccoughed on a frenzied laugh, pausing to gulp in a few breaths. Theo stormed out but Eric came over to me and let me have a sip of his punch, which was terrible, by the way. Anyway, Eric said it was to be our secret, and that older brothers and littlest sisters needed their very own secrets. Tears coursed down her cheeks anew. I felt so very proud that we had a secret, but have snooped around Papa’s papers each month enough to know that Eric has gone off to war. Buying his commission meant he is in the Army. And the frog-eaters are the French. So he wants to kill as many as he can. She sniffed loudly. And secrets between older brothers and younger sisters are awful."

Shock spread across Cecily’s face. Shock that Isobel knew was the mirror image of her own. Well, if he is fighting the French, he’s been there for mere weeks. Why, there’s been so little time gone past that perhaps he’s still in London, mused Isobel.

Matilda was having none of any hopeful thoughts. You don't know that! None of us do! He's probably dead, just like Mama. Dead on some field in a country on a map I can’t find because Miss Steen says France smells and has terrible cheese! Dead for a stupid cause for a mad King every one pokes fun of in the papers I see. And he seems to be fighting a mad General named for a skeleton! I hate them all! I hate it all! Matilda began to cry in earnest again, burying her head in a pillow.

Isobel shoved the information to the back of her mind to think on later. She glanced at Cecily and for once, they shared a look of understanding. "Tilly, do not distress yourself. Brother is strapping and strong, and we will figure all of this out in the morning. Perhaps he is still at Oxford, and the secret is somewhere in between what you know and what you think you know. You know how Theo likes to brag and try to scare us. For tonight, Cecily will stay here and you can share a room like old times. Make her tell you all the silly stories you wish."

Isobel slid from the covers before turning and bundling them back around her sisters, who were now wrapped in each other’s embrace. She quickly moved to the hearth to stoke up the coals to flames before slipping from the room to the low words coming from the bed: You may have all the stories you wish, but they shall be of castles in the sky, carriages that can fly us there, and the heavenly dresses we shall wear . . .

~~~

Isobel left the bedroom and walked steadily, purposefully, down the hall and grand staircase, wending around the decorative obstacles in the entryway until she reached her father’s Study. A candle had been left burning, as always. She instructed the staff to leave one lit at all times on the off chance her father would bestir himself to enter his once-proud domain. Perhaps he would see to the accounts, check on the tenant reports, or monitor investments.

But the room remained cold. Though the candle flickered in the night, the fireplace betrayed its lack of use with its clean brick and absence of wood. Isobel blew her breath into the room, watching the white swirls disappear into the darkness, shivering at the image it stirred. Her mother’s life had slipped away like so much vapor. If something didn’t change soon, Papa might fade away just as easily.

She stood at the entrance of the room he now avoided, and had avoided for over a year, deferring all things to his steward in favor of rambling about the house, taking meals in odd rooms, and muttering to plants in the garden and orangery. Except it wasn’t only the steward who toiled, but also she, the eldest daughter, while the son and heir supposedly finished his schooling. He evidently decided instead to go die on a battlefield in a foreign land. She sniffed, the sound amplified in the stillness of the room.

Because the family had not experienced enough death and loss already.

Isobel grabbed the single taper from its stand by the door and studied the art on the wall opposite her father’s desk. It featured portraits of a family experiencing happier times: the one painted when brother was a baby to Isobel’s toddler; the one when Isobel was seven and Eric five; and the last one of the entire family, with little Tilly seeming to waddle across the grass, so well did the artist capture her constant baby motions.

She took a turn about the rest of the room, taking inventory of all the collectibles, ledgers, books, and other brick-a-brac gathered over time—floor to ceiling shelves burst with memorabilia. The manly color scheme combination of burgundy, brown, and gold displayed itself everywhere, from the heavy mahogany furniture, to the rich velvet curtains, to the elaborate brocades of the upholstery. Everything proclaimed ‘twas a noble room in a noble house of a noble family with a noble lineage. What had the past two years wrought on her father, their family? While he had been in mourning ever since her mother had passed, the past twelve months had especially brought a new low to his mien.

To make matters worse, Isobel and the steward, Mr. Platt, still weren’t completely sure of the cause, but something or someone now tampered with the accounts. Little bites were being taken from various