Historical Romance: How to Make a Marquess A Duke's Game Regency Romance: Wardington Park, #8

By Eleanor Meyers

A favor led him to servitude... 

Servitude led him to love... 

 

Lewis Haywood is the Marquess of Lamont, but one would never know by looking at him.

During the last two years of service to the Duke of Wardington, he has become as jaded as one who was born on the roughest streets of London.

 

With two years down and only three to go, Lewis is looking forward to freedom and won't let anything distract him during his latest assignment. 

 

But as fate would have it, distraction comes in the form of a young boy whose lavender eyes are more than familiar.

 

Lewis has a son he never knew existed!

 And there's only one woman to blame...

 

Lady Phoebe Gillard fled England eight years ago with a broken heart and with a child the father never wanted.

When Lewis finds out about their son, everything changes …

 

Phoebe finds herself falling for the very man she vowed to never love again. 

But when the flames of love are rekindled, both turn to face their last and biggest change.

 

The Duke of Wardington.

 

He knows all and see all.

He won't let Lewis go without a fight.

He demands all debts to paid.

 

And when the time comes, Phoebe and Lewis might find themselves paying for that freedom with blood... or at the cost of their love. 

 

How high of a price is this couple willing to pay to be together?

And can anyone truly be free of the Duke of Wardington?

 

The book is a full-length regency romance in the historical romance genre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleanor Meyers
• Release date: Apr 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393641247

Eleanor Meyers

Eleanor Meyers is a hopeless romantic who believes that one should breathe and live on love. She is especially intrigued by the love tales of the Regency era due to the juxtaposition of tradition and love in a very stylistic fashion. At a young age, she is inspired by the works of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer.  There is a strong romantic appeal about that era and it is Eleanor’s desire that readers will take time to come away with her through her writings and immerse oneself in that time when love was so pure and intense. In Eleanor’s writings, there is a pragmatic display of human’s imperfections; hence characters who may be flawed in certain ways. In the midst of dealing with one’s imperfections, a couple found love, found hope in each other and in God. Eleanor incorporated messages of redemption, forgiveness and sometimes inner deliverances from the bondages that so held a character for so long. It is her belief that no matter how seemingly hopeless one’s situation might be, there will always be hope. They key is to wait and to believe and to hold on. So come away with her and be enthralled in the beautiful Regency era!

Book preview

chapter 1

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April, 1828

Paris, France

Lewis Haywood looked up and over his shoulder, straining his neck toward the sunlight that poured in from the small window of his cell. His face scratched against the harsh surface of the cool stone walls as he craned his neck.

Only another inch and he was sure to catch the sun’s glow. He could feel the heat of its beam like a small wave of warmth, sure that if he could touch it, it would be the realest thing he’d touched in a long time. It would be a reason to live.

The chains at his arms rattled as he launched for the inch, the heavy metal bars tearing into the flesh around his wrists and ankles as he stretched. His toes dug into the hay, dirt, and other things he refused to think of, as they searched for the ground underneath, gaining leverage for his efforts.

Every vein in his neck grew tight as he reached higher.

And then he felt it.

The warmth hit him immediately, coating his eyelids, nose, and mouth, washing over his face and spreading through his every limb, straight to where his soiled feet met cold rock. And for that moment, he imagined himself far away from where he was.

He imagined himself on the beaches of the Isle of Wight or even laying on the grass in the fields at his country house. Anywhere but here.

Then he laughed.

The sun felt so good, flooding through him and changing his mind faster than a pint of whiskey, yet making him feel just the same.

He laughed loudly, the sound generating from his empty belly and pouring out of his raw lungs. The sound echoed out of his cell and down the long gray corridor until it reached his jailer.

Quiet, his jailer shouted in lude French. Quiet or I’ll quiet you.

Lewis did not quiet. He’d gone mad. He laughed louder.

The sound of his melodious titters was soon joined by the sounds of hurried and heavy footsteps drawing closer.

Quiet!

Lewis didn’t listen.

He knew that irritating his jailer would only get him punished, but he didn’t care. He was far past common sense. In reality, common sense for him stopped being common after only three days in his cell.

He had no idea where he was, but he had a feeling it was not a common prison. For one, there was no one else but him on the corridor he’d been thrown into. He never heard any other voices besides the few guards that passed his window.

The first night he’d arrived, he’d yelled at the voice he’d heard passing, begging for help. His pleas were quickly met with the end of his jailer’s fist. The hit had been to his throat, and Lewis had feared death. He’d found it hard to breathe thereafter and didn’t dare to try and speak, fearing his vocal chords to be bruised.

He’d remained silent for the remainder of the week and had only begun to talk more recently. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed, but his mind told him eleven. This was day twelve, and he still had no answer as to what he’d done wrong or why he was there.

The guard appeared instantly in front of Lewis’ cell. His blue eyes were full of hate and annoyance and a smile pulled on his face. You want me to beat you, don’t you? Dirty hands wrapped around the cell’s bars as the jailer leaned forward.

Lewis’ laugh slowly fell into a chuckle as he leaned back against the wall, leaving the sunlight, and moving to the shadows. He closed his eyes and felt all energy leave his body.

The sound of keys jingling was swiftly followed by the creaking of the cell door being opened. Then there were more footsteps. And then silence.

The first strike went to Lewis’ gut, emptying his lungs and leaving him straining for breath.

The keeper laughed. Not laughing now, are you? His second blow connected with Lewis’ jaw, causing his brain and teeth to rattle. The jailer laughed again. What? Is this not funny?

Lewis spit on the ground and then opened his eyes to look at his jailer.

He didn’t know the man’s name.

He didn’t even hate him. Hating took too much energy for Lewis to muster up.

All Lewis wanted was freedom.

The guard's eyes narrowed, and, as though he could read Lewis’ mind, he asked, Do you want to tell me the name of the man you work for now?

Over my dead body.

The jailer laughed, seeing the answer in Lewis’ eyes. Very well. Let’s see how missing another meal makes you feel. He turned and left then, and Lewis sagged under the weight of chains and despair.

Lewis closed his eyes.

Are you British? a male voice whispered.

His eyes snapped open and he looked around, staring at the corridor and then at the little window over his head. There was a shadow being cast into his cell, which meant someone had stopped to speak. Are you? the voice asked again in a rasp.

Yes, Lewis whispered in reply, feeling pain radiate from his chin to his temple. Spots formed in front of his eyes as the pain grew almost severe enough for Lewis to want to stop speaking, but he didn’t. This was his chance at freedom. I am British. I am Lewis Haywood, the Marquess of Lamont. If you help me, I can pay you more money than you could possibly dream. Please, tell my family.

You’ll pay me? the voice asked.

Lewis tasted salt and felt something wet hit his mouth and realized it was tears. Yes, yes. I’ll pay.

How did you get here? his visitor asked. Why are you down here?

Lewis shook his head, though he was sure the man couldn’t see him. I don’t know. I did nothing wrong. I was simply delivering a message.

To whom? the voice asked.

Lewis opened his mouth to answer, but then quickly shut it. He could not say the name of the message’s receiver.

Who told you to deliver your message? the voice asked next.

Lewis felt his heart beat into his throat, almost strong enough to clog his voice. I cannot say, but if you help me, I will pay you. You’ll never have to work again. I swear it.

Who do you work for? Tell me, and I will help you. You are a criminal. I do not know if I can trust you.

Lewis let out a sound of total despair then and felt more tears come. I cannot say. I cannot s-say. Please, help me.

You will not tell me? There was a note of surprise and something else, perhaps intrigue in the voice. You will not say for your freedom? You will not tell me even if it means life or death?

Lewis found the humor of it all and laughed. To say a name will bring death. To not say a name will bring death. However, I’d rather take my chances with the death I don’t know than with the death I do. He dropped his head from the window and turned to see the shadow on the floor.

The shadow stayed, creating a silhouette in the perfect square impression of the sun. Then it disappeared.

Lewis resettled on the ground and stared into nothing and once again reflected on his life.

He’d been born into one of the noblest families of England and from a stunning son, he grew into a handsome man. He had no shame in saying so. It wasn’t a matter of pride in admitting it. It was simply a fact. He’d stood taller than some men, though not as tall as others, just around six feet, had a head of black locks and tanned skin over a body that he’d toned to perfection, but it was his eyes that set him apart. His eyes always got him what he wanted when he wanted it.

They were violet, like the juiciest plum, and warm like hydrangeas on a summer day.

He’d had scores of women in his life and had forgotten half their names... some he’d never even asked for... some he’d treated poorly.

He’d only cared for himself. Like most wealthy aristocrats, he’d been ready to fill his obligations and live a very idle life.

The day his mother died, Lewis had felt some pain, but not much, only in the most superficial of ways. She hadn’t been a warm person. She’d been hateful and cold to both family and those she’d called friends. Not too many had mourned her, but when Lewis’ father died, he’d cared even less.

Indeed, the former Marquess of Lamont had been more wicked than Lewis’ mother. The Haywood name had become associated with class and malice, and Lewis had done everything he could to stay away from them.

But sadness had come when he’d seen the pain in his little sister, June.

Without June, Lewis was sure his heart would have eclipsed into black. But June had mourned their parents, vile creatures who’d never loved her and had rejected her even at their deaths.

His June.

He’d do anything for her.

So, the morning June had found herself in scandal, Lewis had taken it upon himself to change the words associated with the family name.

He’d began to court a Baron’s daughter named Lady Horatia Brewer, a dim-witted, dull-looking woman who had no class and who had half the ton showing her sympathy. Lewis had become engaged to her, gaining much praise from the elite of Society. They’d praised his kind heart for even looking Horatia’s way. And it had all been done in an effort to help his little sister.

But June, being a smart and crafty girl— crafty being another word associated with the Haywoods— had found her own way out of her plight and married into one of the strongest homes in England. She was now Lady June Dawnton, wife to a third son, but daughter-in-law to the Duke of Wardington.

Lewis had been glad for her, but had panicked when he quickly realized that he was still engaged to Lady Horatia. Without any honorable options, Lewis had sought the aid of the only man he’d known could save him.

In exchange for his freedom from Horatia, he’d sold his soul to the Duke of Wardington for a period of five years.

Lewis had successfully completed two and was currently on his third.

He’d been sent to France at Wardington’s request.

Wardington was the reason he was in the cell and possibly facing his death—

No, Lewis whispered.

It wasn’t Wardington’s fault. Lewis’ life was his own and every choice was his own. He was in his current position because of himself.

The sound of his cell door opening slowly brought Lewis’ head up, and he looked into the face of a man he’d never met.

The newcomer’s eyes were dark and hard, like that of a criminal, but it was obvious from his silks and crisp clothes that he did not belong inside a cell. His blond hair was worn pushed back from his face and his shoes shined in a way made them appear like black gems.

What is your name? the man asked in a clear English voice.

Lewis, he said.

The man walked further and cautiously into the cell. His hands were crossed in front of his suit, one hand gripping the other’s wrist. Just Lewis? he asked with a shrug.

Lewis followed his movement. Lewis Haywood. The Marquess of Lamont.

The man’s brows went up and then he dropped down into a hunch at Lewis’ side, bringing their faces within inches.

The guard, who was still standing by the door, began to move forward, but the other man put up a hand and the guard froze in mid step.

Who do you work for? the man asked him.

Lewis looked into his dark eyes, finding them to not be so dark up close. They were actually brown, and there was the impression of an old scar on his bronzed cheek. I can’t say.

The man’s dark blond brows rose. No? Then he leaned closer. Perhaps I should tell you my name first. John Blackheart.

*   *   *

chapter 2

*   *   *

Lewis jumped and the chains around his wrist rattled. Blackheart, he whispered.

Sir Blackheart. Once knighted by the king until he was revealed to be a criminal. After being shipped to Australia, there had been rumors he’d escaped, becoming a vicious thief and confidence man, said to have stolen goods everywhere from England, to Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean. If the rumors were true, and rumors hardly were, then Blackheart was known as a man of magic. He could appear and vanish into thin air. If caught, he would not be going back to Australia, however. He’d be swinging in the wind.

I thought you would be older, Lewis rasped out. The man looked to be in his late thirties.

John grinned. Makes for better legends, doesn’t it?

Lewis frowned. He hadn’t known the man he was supposed to find, only the address and the code he was to say when it was opened. Blackheart, he whispered again, not believing who he was seeing.

Blackheart continued to smile as he said, You’ve held yourself together very well. I apologize that your accommodations have not been the nicest, but I didn’t trust you, so I had my men throw you into my basement.

This was his basement? Lewis did not wish to see the rest of the house.

It was me who was speaking to you through the window. He motioned with his head toward the cut in the wall. You passed my test.

Great, Lewis whispered. So, are you going to kill me now? He’d been waiting for it.

Blackheart narrowed his eyes and said, It all depends on who you work for.

There was silence and then Lewis whispered, Wardington.

Blackheart’s brows did their climb again and then he stood and laughed so hard the sound filled the air. Wardington sent you? he all but shouted. Why didn’t you say so days ago? His hands went through his hair as he stared at Lewis with amazement. Wardingon? Dear me, I would have kept my mouth shut as well. Better to face getting one’s neck stretched than upsetting His Grace. He grabbed his neck for emphasis and made a choking face. Then he grinned and looked at Lewis with fine praise. Nicely done!

Lewis, through it all, simply stared at him.

Blackheart turned to the guard. Unshackle him, clean him up, and feed him, give him whatever he wants. Then send him to my office. Then the thief laughed as he left the corridor and Lewis heard him shout once more, Nicely done! before the door closed.

It was an hour later that Lewis was shown to Blackheart’s office and found that, like the house, the office was not what Lewis had expected at all.

The home was not only fashionably done in warm and rich hues of red and blue, but artfully decorated with pieces of peaceful meadows and happy couples. It was the style that one would expect from a man with a family and not one who was wanted for all manner of evil.

Sit down, Blackheart commanded as he paced behind the desk in his office and glanced at the papers before him.

Lewis lowered himself into one of the empire-styled chairs and leaned back into the cushion, sure he’d never felt anything softer in his life. Neither had he felt cleaner. The time in the cell had seemed endless. He found it odd now to be dressed, well fed, and alive.

The suit he’d been given was bigger than Lewis’ own size and that was after accounting for the muscle he’d put on since working for Wardington— running from cougars through misty jungle terrains and wrestling for one’s life against raging storms on the deck of a mighty ship would do that to anyone. He’d had so many adventures in the short time he’d worked for Wardington. Some he’d enjoyed. Some he’d hated. This was in the running for being the worst, and that was saying something.

Blackheart put his papers down and looked over at Lewis, his blue eyes shining with humor. You’ve held up pretty well for an aristocrat.

I’m sure there’s some dead ancestor to thank for that, Lewis spat out.

Blackheart chuckled. You think so? He lifted a brow. "It takes a certain sort of man to work for Wardington.

Yes, a very desperate one.

His host chuckled.

Lewis reached for his shoe.

Blackheart reached into a box that sat on his desk.

They both froze.

Lewis lifted a brow. What have you in that box?

What’s in your shoe? Blackheart asked. The humor still lay in his eyes, but his mouth had gone flat.

Do you think Wardington sent me here to kill you?

You never know with Wardington, the confidence man said.

Lewis’ hand remained poised in his shoe as he spoke in a calm voice. Well, if I wasn’t sure you were pointing a gun at me, I would laugh.

You seem to have quite the spirit, Blackheart said, his hand never moving. Not many men speak to me this way.

Well, survive what I have, and you’d have stopped caring whether you lived or died a long time ago.

The humor left Blackheart’s blue eyes as he said, Trust me, friend, I’ve survived plenty.

True, Lewis agreed.

The men remained still.

I’m going to pull out an envelope now, Lewis said. I would appreciate it if I left this room with no more than a papercut. He already had a black eye and some sore ribs. He’d also be eating only soup for the next few days... maybe weeks.

Blackheart nodded his agreement.

Lewis grabbed the missive and slowly pulled it out of his shoe.

Blackheart straightened, went around the desk, and grabbed the mail. Then he grinned. You’ve come all this way to deliver this?

Lewis nodded.

What’s it say?

I don’t know, Lewis said.

Blackheart frowned. You’ve come all this way and you don’t even know what you’re dropping off?

Knowing isn’t part of my job.

The man smiled. You should come work for me. I can always use a good man like you.

Lewis leaned back in his chair and sighed. Thank you, but you’ll have to excuse me if I walk away from your offer.

Blackheart opened the note and read in silence then he looked at Lewis and said, This must be a joke.

I wouldn’t know.

Wardington is getting married? Blackheart looked away.

Lewis stilled.

The missive, the pressing letter that had landed him in a cell, was a wedding invite!

Blackheart frowned. I’ve no idea what I’ll wear.

Lewis stood. I don’t see why it would matter. You obviously can’t go. His Majesty will be there. You’re out of your mind... you’re both out of your mind if you believe this to be good idea.

Blackheart sucked his teeth and waved the hand that held the letter in a dismissive fashion. No one will recognize me. Tell His Grace I wouldn’t miss it. Blackheart turned away. Now, I must pick something to wear.

Lewis turned to leave the room, but mumbled. Yes, you wouldn’t want to look anything less than your best in your pine box.

And there’s a room prepared for you upstairs, yours for the remainder of your stay in Paris.

Lewis turned and looked at him. I’ll have to remember to tell everyone of your generous hospitality. He left the room with the sound of Blackheart’s laughter following him all the way.

He’d been sent to France to deliver wedding invites?

Lewis was thankful