How to Dare a Duke: Scandalous Lords, #1

By Erin Grace

Adam Talisford, Duke Greymore, wasn't seeking a wife. When scandal forces him to the altar, he accepts his duty without question, despite the disturbing memories plaguing his injured mind.

Olivia Wexford vowed to love, honour and obey but when her past catches up with her conscience, she will be forced to challenge the one man who has the power to determine her future – her own husband.

But, when Olivia dares Adam to consider the impossible, it could cost her everything she'd thought she wanted and everything he'd never thought to have.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Grace
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648583837

Book preview

Chapter 1

As the muted blur of sound and fragments of movement swept around her, Olivia Wexford’s trembling fingers gripped the Duke’s gloved hand as though she were about to fall into a bottomless crevasse.

Perhaps she was.

Hold on. Just hold on a few moments more.

A sudden chorus of exaltation woke her from her daze, made her blink as she swallowed hard, and fought the urge to collapse into an undignified heap of pale pink satin upon the floor.

No. She could do this. She must. Everything depended on it.

Inhaling a steadying breath, she dared a furtive glance up at the man beside her as he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it lightly.

Madam, wife. At his words, her shoulders sagged, and a strange giddiness swept over her as though she’d been running for some time and had finally stopped.

It was over? Angels preserve her. She’d gone through with it.

She was married.

She was married.

The relief, however, was instantly usurped by a cold uncertainty that made her stomach tense. What had she done?

Standing there, Adam Elias Bartholomew Talisford appeared as most men would at their wedding, but she sensed all was not as it seemed.

Though he was impeccably dressed for the occasion, his cool, blue gaze and sombre countenance made her nervous. The Duke of Greymore was displeased?

Or, had he realised her secret?

A slight chill scurried along her spine as she reached up and touched one of the pearl droplets hanging from her ears.

No. She was only nervous. That’s all. Don’t be foolish. Just smile.

Easier said than done.

What troubled her most was that although she’d only met the man moments before the ceremony, she couldn’t shake the intense feeling they had met before. And not just simply in passing. No. This had to be the same man who’d once given her a most special memory—one she’d worked hard to forget.

My Lord. She struggled to dip the slightest curtsey, and as she rose, he inclined his head, let go her hand.

If you will excuse me? He turned away before striding across the parquetry floor and out onto the terrace.

Wait. He was leaving?

Her brow furrowed. Something was definitely wrong.

Guilt washed over her like a foul tide, threatening to pull her under to somewhere she’d never escape from.

No. She needed to speak with him. Make him understand. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to set matters straight? Or, at least try.

After all, this entire event had been of his making.

The only difference was, he should have married her twin sister Clara.

She picked up the edge of her gown and started for the doorway. Despite the cool weather, her cheeks flushed, heartbeat pounded as the collar of her gown tightened around her neck like an expensive lace noose. Heaven help her. Perhaps he really did suspect? He must! Just why had she thought any of this plan would work?

Congratulations, my dear. She halted as a portly fellow with a ruddy complexion and thinning hair appeared before her, thwarting her attempt to reach the terrace. I daresay you have made a beautiful bride. The Duke is a very fortunate man. Yes, indeed.

Thank you. You are very kind. But, if you will excuse... Attempting to move forward, she forced a smile and tried to locate the Duke, but he no longer appeared to be on the terrace.

Her heart sank, angst threaded through her veins as people she didn’t recognise crowded around her offering their over-zealous felicitations.

Nevermore had she just wanted to be home—her home.

Come, my dear. Best you make haste. His Lordship isn’t one for being kept waiting. With a broad smile, her father appeared at her side, took her elbow, and negotiated a path through the crowd.

Yes, Father. Of course. Somewhat grateful for his interruption, she glanced back at the terrace. Still no sign of the Duke.

Quickening his pace, her father led her toward a set of doors leading to another room where various arrangements of refreshments had been laid out. Despite the tempting platters of aspic jellies, cakes, fruit tarts, and glasses of Champagne, she couldn’t bear the thought of eating. In fact, she’d barely touched a bite since she’d arrived at Wexford Manor late last night.

Seemed deceit did not make for a hearty appetite.

Her maid, Millie, had dutifully brought her a tray topped with a cup of hot chocolate and some sugar wafers that morning, but it had been all she could to take the tiniest nibble to satisfy the young woman.

Perhaps it had been for the best, as she’d dreaded the thought of expelling any food from her stomach during the ceremony.

She winced at the tightening grip on her arm as her father dragged her past the table and through to the main hallway.

So much for any celebration, even if she had been hungry.

Father, please. You are holding me far too tightly.

Indeed? I had not realised. Please, forgive my haste, but I must get back and attend to our guests. Millie here will look after you.

Looking pale and somewhat nervous, her maid waited at the base of the stairs, clearly ready to accompany her upstairs to where she would change into her travelling dress.

Her father released her elbow with a wooden smile, removed his fob watch from a vest pocket, then met her eye with a stern gaze that brooked no argument.

Had she done something wrong?

Now, you will return in no more than one hour, ready to depart. Understand? His Grace does not like to be kept waiting.

Clearly.

But, Father. I...

One hour, Clara. Don’t have me summon you. Not on your wedding day. Oh, and don’t worry about your wedding gifts. I’ll, uh, see that they follow in a day or two’s time.

Wedding gifts? She hadn’t thought about it. And, given the strange glint in the man’s eyes, she wondered if she would ever see them. Thank you, Father. That’s very thoughtful.

Good, then. Now, off you go. With only a curt nod, he turned and strode toward the room with the refreshments, as the sounds of lively chatter began to echo into the hall.

Father, wait. I need to speak with you... But he didn’t stop or turn around.

She had clearly been dismissed. And after everything she’d just been through.

Her father no longer seemed the poor, sweet, desperate man she’d met only yesterday. The very same man whom she thought would kill himself rather than make his estranged daughter marry to save his honour and his estate. Could it be he’d just used her?

No. He wouldn’t have done this to her. Would he? She was all he had left.

Frustrated, she picked up her skirts and began climbing the stairs. Come, Millie. We don’t wish to keep His Grace waiting. Though, in truth, the man could wait forever, if that was his attitude.

She sighed at the sparkle of deep, red ruby on her left hand.

For Heaven’s sake. She was married.

And it appeared the honeymoon was to start immediately.

Outside the manor, her father bid her a hasty farewell as she was handed up into the waiting carriage and the door promptly shut.

Apart from a few servants standing by the stairs, no one else was there. Not even her errant husband was waiting for her.

Her throat tightened, eyes misted, but she held back any tears as she rested her gloved hands on the lowered carriage window and gazed longingly at the home she’d spent less than a day in.

Surely, she would return one day? Wouldn’t she?

With a jolt, the carriage began to trundle along the winding path, and soon, the manor disappeared from view.

With a deep sigh, she let go of the window and sat back against the plush upholstery of the blue velvet brocade seat. The same fabric trimmed the windows, and tiny gold tassels swayed with the movement. She’d never travelled in such luxury before.

Though the carriage could comfortably seat four, her maid rode with the luggage in the wagon behind.

Instead, she sat alone inside, nervous, unable to think of anything to say to her new husband as they travelled to his country estate.

Speaking of which, where was her husband?

The familiar feeling of guilt returned, but she subdued it. Did she have any right to be angry at the man? Did she have any right to be feeling hurt by his actions?

No. Yes. Perhaps. Dear Lord, she didn’t know. Her poor head ached with conflicting notions.

It was not in her nature to lie. And beginning a marriage based on deception, on both sides, was hardly the example the reverend would smile upon.

How could she ever face him again?

The carriage continued along, travelling through countryside unfamiliar to her—not that she’d really seen much of England at all.

Her life had been centred within the small village of Twillham, where she’d lived for as long as she could remember with the Reverend Browne and his wife until Patience Browne sadly passed away from pneumonia only a few years ago.

Everything now was new and different to her, including her life.

In fact, she hardly knew where to begin.

She opened her lace-trimmed reticule and produced a small brooch painted with a likeness of her late mother, a mother she’d never known.

Running her thumb along the side of the precious image, she struggled to stop the waiting tears from falling, though a single wretched drop rolled down her cheek and landed on the rich green silk of her dress.

Weary from the day, her shoulders sagged. Had it been true what Father had said about you? Had you really kept me from him all this time? That although he’d love her mother more than life itself, she’d shunned the quiet country life and instead craved the excitement and parties of London?

Had her mother truly held her father to ransom by threatening to leave if she didn’t get what she wanted, only to do so anyway and use her as a means to get more money?

Anger and resentment bubbled up from deep inside at the thought.

Why shouldn’t she believe it? After all, her mother had abandoned her to the Reverend. And there had never been any mention of her sister, Clara, or father. Or even the true identity of her family.

And now, it was all too late.

No wonder her father had acted so strangely at the wedding. He must have long put up a brave front to hide his feelings from society. Imagine the scandal he’d endured. She’d no right to think poorly of him, after everything he’d been through.

She pushed the brooch back into her reticule, tossed it aside, and dabbed at her cheek with the back of her gloved hand.

No more tears. What’s done is done.

Movement outside her window caught her eye. His Grace? Her husband was indeed riding alongside the carriage upon a bay mare.

He’d been watching her just now?

Feeling suddenly exposed, she looked away in the ardent hope he hadn’t seen her crying.

It was the last thing she wanted.

And, though she supposed he’d been riding out there from the start, it gave her cold comfort. He clearly preferred to be alone than to accompany his new bride on the long journey.

Bride indeed.

She gently patted her cheek, then glanced up to find he’d moved on ahead a little but didn’t once look back.

What had she expected?

If she was truthful, she had been somewhat grateful he hadn’t been affectionate at the ceremony, yet now she sensed he didn’t wish to bear her presence at all. Why? Hadn’t he been the one most insistent on marrying her sister? Creating a scandal to have his way?

Perhaps. But his animosity did not help with the guilt she already nursed within her soul, exhausting her to the bone.

How she longed to be just Olivia again.

The sun had long set by the time they stopped at an inn for the night.

As the carriage pulled to a halt, Olivia stifled a yawn and gazed out into the busy courtyard.

She’d no idea where she was.

For most of the journey, she’d attempted sleep but couldn’t, a part of her determined to make her relive memories long suppressed, too painful to recall.

And what if she was wrong about him? She feared perhaps all memories had a way of changing with time, making you see things how you’d wish they had been, instead of how they really were.

Your Grace. The gravelly voice of a footman startled her, and she dropped her reticule from her lap. Several items, including her brooch, scattered across the floor. How embarrassing. As the footman waited patiently, she gathered the items, then moved over the doorway. Oh. My apologies. Thank you.

The man gave her an odd look before holding the carriage door wide open and stepping back.

In truth, she could hardly wait to get outside and move about. Her back ached, and her neck was slightly stiff. Oh, a hot cup of tea would surely do wonders.

As she crouched over, held onto the hanging strap, and stepped down, a firm hand grasped her gloved one. Mindful of the step, madam.

Your Grace? I didn’t realise you were there. She looked up and into his unreadable gaze. Definitely no emotion there. Thank you. I can manage.

I will see you standing safely on the ground if you don’t mind. Don’t mind? As if he would afford her the choice? We shall be stopping the night. My man, Edwards, has arranged a tray of supper to be brought up to your room.

Thank you. That is very kind. As she stood and adjusted her skirts, he let go of her hand and led the way inside the inn.

Well. So much for kindness.

She followed closely behind and entered a smoky, dimly lit room where the aroma of roasting chicken floated in the air, making her stomach rumble. Gracious. It had been so long since she’d eaten.

Evening, Your Grace. Wiping his hands on a soiled apron, an anxious-looking innkeeper and his rosy-cheeked wife smiled and guided her up a narrow flight of stairs as her husband stood drinking a tankard of ale at the bar.

Good thing she wasn’t thirsty as well.

At the top of the creaking stairs, she was then shown to a bedroom boasting a good-sized bed, pretty blankets, and crackling fire where two oil lamps stood glowing upon the narrow mantel. In the corner sat a table with two chairs and a short beeswax candle.

How lovely. A smile curved the corners of her mouth. Such simple pleasures.

For the first time since leaving Twillham, she almost felt at ease.

Weary from the journey, she removed her gloves and wandered over to the hearth, just as Millie arrived with her portmanteaux.

How she looked forward to changing out of her travelling clothes and slipping into the comfort of her night rail and wrapper.

More so, how she missed curling up on her old, faded settee before the tiny hearth in her bedroom at the rectory before devouring another novel she’d borrowed from the shop in the village.

Though she couldn’t often afford to buy any books, the shop owner, Mr. Templeton, would allow her to rent one for a penny a week.

Pity, she’d often read the whole book in a day.

Staring into the flickering orange flames, she sat upon the bed, a deep sigh escaping her as Millie undid her hairpins and began brushing out her hair.

She glanced at the two pillows beside her. Two? Crumbs. Would the duke expect intimacy from her tonight? An odd sensation balled in her stomach as she tightened the wrapper around her. With everything else that had happened, she hadn’t given the matter of intimacy much thought.

Honestly. She was a fool.

He was her husband, after all, but had barely spoken a word to her since leaving the manor. Was he always so cold and aloof?

A knock on the door caused Millie to stop brushing and rush over to the door.

Good evening, Your Grace. The maid curtseyed and stood back as the Duke entered the room.

Relieved of his greatcoat, he looked as handsome as he had at the altar, whilst she once again had never felt so unsure. Tall, broad-shouldered, and well turned out in his fitted breeches and coat of deep blue superfine, his fair hair was tousled from the journey—a look that suited him immensely.

And, yet, beneath his masculine exterior, there was also a kind of weariness in his countenance. She could only suppose that, after riding all day, he too must be tired.

Respectfully inclining her head, her cheeks flushed as she realised she was wearing her bedclothes. Your Grace.

As if knowing she was no longer required, her maid bobbed another curtsey, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

Gathering her courage, she smoothed out the creases in her pale lemon wrapper, then met his critical gaze. Beneath his silent scrutiny, uncertainty began to niggle at her wavering facade.

Though she’d never considered herself to be a beauty, surely she was presentable, if nothing else. She clutched her fingers. Did he think her lacking?

He walked over to the hearth and appeared to stare at the flames. "There is no need to address me as Your Grace in private, madam."

Her shoulders relaxed a little as he finally broke the silence. "Very