The Duke Makes Me Feel...

By Adriana Herrera

Dukes and their demands are nothing new for Marena Baine-Torres. Her newfound success has her little apothecary teeming with ill-mannered aristocrats. But as tiresome as they are, she needs the business. When the unflappable Duke of Linley storms into her shop and makes her an offer she'd be a fool to refuse, Marena soon finds herself on the adventure of a lifetime with a man who is as infuriating as he is intriguing.


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Note: The Duke Makes Me Feel... was originally published in the USA Today bestselling Duke I'd Like to F... anthology, which is no longer available in electronic form.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adriana Herrera Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Mar 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201598471

Adriana Herrera

Adriana Herrera was born and raised in the Caribbean, but for the last 15 years has let her job (and her spouse) take her all over the world. She loves writing stories about people who look and sound like her people, getting unapologetic happy endings. 

Book preview

Chapter One

London, 1879

I need to speak to Marena Baine. What was it about men who could not take no for an answer?

Sir, I’ve already explained to your footman that the potency tinctures are back-ordered, she informed the man who had entered her shop. The authority in his voice—and the immediate request to speak to the owner—told Marena he was probably the employer of the extremely persistent individual she’d just sent on his way. This was tiresome, and she was not in a mood to placate men with too much money and little manners.

It had all started when she’d given a sample of her tinctures to one of her most faithful patrons after she’d complained that her husband had been unusually deficient in their amorous pursuits. After a couple of tries, the earl in question had taken to the mixture of ginseng, ginger, and white oak bark. Within weeks, half of the ton was trampling into her little apothecary in the hither end of Haymarket, demanding she sell them the miraculous elixir. It had been a boon for business, but this level of demand had its drawbacks. Such as aristos interfering with her end-of-the-day routine.

"Potency tinctures? the man finally asked, his voice hoarse with what sounded like suppressed humor. I can assure you I don’t require any assistance with my stamina." He said the last word with obvious amusement.

She almost blurted, That’s what they all say, but even if her current mood had her feeling uncharacteristically pugnacious, Marena was never reckless. Attending to the maladies of London society’s upper crust meant one had to cultivate a monastic level of patience and master absolute emotional disengagement. Marena had sturdy walls protecting her from the harsh words, condescension, and ludicrous requests tossed daily in her direction. A man trampling into her shop and making demands, unfortunately, did not even achieve the label of being remarkable.

She gathered the final reserves of her patience and turned around to explain one last time that she did not have tinctures to sell. But the words died in her throat. She recognized that mouth and those entrancing blue eyes.

There you are, he said pleasantly, his eyes fixed on her, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if they’d been playing a game of hide-and-seek.

What was the Duke of Linley doing in her shop?

Could you fetch Ms. Baine for me, darling? he asked idly, his gaze roaming over the shelves on the walls which were lined with neatly labeled ceramic canisters. He appeared to be completely unconcerned, as if he were guaranteed to get anything and everything he asked for.

This man was truly testing her restraint. The nerve. She was nobody’s darling. She didn’t care who he was. This was the plight of dealing with London’s high society—one could not toss them out on their ear for behaving insolently.

Sir, I—

Tell her Arlo Kenworthy would like a word, won’t you?

She felt unsettled by his presence, and not with the mix of irritation and exhaustion that seemed be an essential part of any visit from the nobility. No, this was a flutter in her belly and a warmth in her chest that truly had no place while she was alone with a duke. She was about to open her mouth to tell him she was aware of who he was, but the fact that he used his family name, and not his title, gave her pause. In her experience, dukes, did not miss an opportunity to assert their importance.

Well-bred in England meant specific things, and brawn and vitality were not typically what she associated with the expression. But this man was a presence. Even his hair was arresting. She’d never seen that particular shade of brown, almost like burnt copper, making for a striking contrast with his piercing blue eyes. A face that demanded a second glance, as her mother would say.

He was so tall his head almost reached the frame of the door. And he had the shoulders and chest of a man who worked with his hands, not one who spent his time in the House of Lords. But that was only one of the reasons that made Arlo Kenworthy one of the most talked-about peers. One could somehow resist falling under the spell of his presence, and perhaps even defend against the effects of his strapping physique. But that mouth was where the battle with all common sense was lost. Sinful. Absolutely sinful. He was almost too much to take in at once. And what could the man possibly want with her?

She’d seen him at a salon organized by Lady Barbara Smith Bibichon, where he passionately spoke his support for women’s enfranchisement. He’d impressed her, but she never imagined she’d see him again, and certainly not in her shop. Not only did he look to be in exceptionally good health, but even if he did need her services, he did not seem the type to do his own shopping.

He cleared his throat, bringing her musings to a stop. Am I to wait much longer?

That haughty tone should’ve irritated her, but instead prompted an irritating pulsing in her chest. After years of dealing with all kinds of ill-mannered patrons, Marena had trained herself to maintain a veneer of placid detachment. It usually worked, but occasionally there would be someone who would walk in and pique her curiosity.

On the rare occasions she felt that urge, she’d play a game she’d invented. She would take the person in slowly from head to toe and imagine the labor of the many hands involved in dressing a grown, capable, and able-bodied adult. Usually by the time she got down to the lustrous leather-clad feet, she could scarcely come up with anything more than tepid disdain. The problem was it did not seem to be working with Arlo Kenworthy.

She stayed behind the counter, feeling reassured by the solid wooden structure that kept him at a distance, and finally revealed herself. I’m Marena.

His eyes widened, probably in surprise to see that the proprietor of the apothecary was a Black woman. Or maybe it was the way she’d said her name. She’d pronounced it in Spanish, surprising herself. She usually gave shop patrons the anglicized version, turning her name into a harsh sound for the benefit of British sensibilities. That, and it was a better alternative than subjecting herself to hearing her given name be butchered a dozen times a day.

Marena guarded her real name like a treasured secret. It was a fanciful combination of the words for sand and sea her mother had come up with. The word felt like a tangible connection to the tropical beaches that shaped her childhood. She never uttered it for people she didn’t think would treat it kindly, but somehow for this stranger, she had.

After another moment of charged silence, Linley dipped his head, that inquisitive gaze still unnervingly focused on her face. Marena.

He came as close to a proper pronunciation as she’d heard from a Brit in the fifteen years since her family had touched upon the shores of Bristol. And no, that absolutely could not be a shiver of pleasure running down her spine. It was exhaustion and exasperation, because how dare he get it right on the first try?

How may I help you? she asked brusquely, not at all in the manner one ought to address a duke. In response, he offered her his hand, which was unexpectedly personable…and discomfiting. Your Grace.

He raised an eyebrow at the deference. He hadn’t revealed his title, but it wasn’t like he was an unknown. Arlo Kenworthy was notorious. The son of the accidental Duke of Linley. Fifteen years ago, Hubert Kenworthy had come into a duchy when a distant cousin died without an heir. Before his rise to the very top of the nobility, he’d been a career foreign office man who’d married an American woman—a Quaker, of all things—and, for the most part, avoided Britain as much as he possibly could. The man had been an unorthodox aristocrat in every way possible except when it came to his penchant for excess.

After his son Arlo took the reins of the estate ten years ago, the dukedom had flourished and was now one of the most prosperous in the Commonwealth. To the befuddlement of every landed aristocrat in England, Arlo had achieved this feat by working. He was a financier, a cunning investor, an advocate for workers’ rights, and a suffragist. He brazenly spoke out against archaic, redundant systems. He was thoroughly despised by most of his peers and he seemed to thrive because of it. His father’s passing had made him duke less than a year ago, and to the ton’s dismay—and morbid fascination—Arlo continued to be as irreverent as ever.

Ms. Baine. She jumped at the sharpness of his tone, not that she could blame him. She’d been gawking at the man like he was a showpiece at a museum.

My apologies, she said, flustered, her face hot from embarrassment. The shop is closed for the day, but if you’d like to place an order, I can have it couriered to you once it’s available. She was proud of managing to sound mostly normal. We would, of course, make sure that your privacy was guarded.

His eyebrow rose slightly further up on his forehead at that, and she swore he was biting back a smile. There seems to be such a furor for your products I am almost curious to try them.

I’d be happy to put your name on the list, she informed him as she stepped around the counter, ruthlessly ignoring the fluttering in her chest. She almost brushed against him before reaching the door. She locked it before realizing she was now alone in the shop with a nobleman who had a very scandalous reputation.

I require a bit more from you today, Miss Baine. His voice was warm and rough, and his eyes on her made every piece of clothing on her body feel constraining. As she usually did at the end of the day, she had already taken her apron off and slipped the pins out of her hair. He was seeing her without her armor.

My sister is about to return, she blurted out untruthfully.

Your sister? Lluvia Baine, the physician? His mention of her sister’s name brought Marena’s back up.

How do you know my sister? She sounded defensive, but she was tired of whatever cat and mouse game the man was playing. The end of the day was no time for subterfuge.

I don’t. He let that sit for a breath, then a second one, and she was ready to scream in frustration by the time he opened his mouth again. Know her. That is.

Your Grace, with the utmost respect… After deciding there was no polite way to say it, she muttered, Get on with it.

To Marena’s confusion, her rudeness seemed to elicit an amused glint in the man’s eyes. I’m looking for your friend, the midwife Delfine Boncouer. The words razed through her weariness, and instantly she was completely alert. She almost wished he’d come to see her about a prick potion. He cleared his throat again. This time, the sound was one of discomfort. I need to find her.

Judging from the set of his shoulders and the furrow on his brow, the Duke of Linley was not here for a social call with Delfine, and this could only mean trouble. I’m not certain how I can help you. Delfine doesn’t live here.

I’m aware of that. She lives with Lluvia Baine, your sister, who has also disappeared. I’ve been looking for Delfine for almost a year, but she seems to have left London without a trace. Since Delfine has no family, I wondered if you had information on her whereabouts.

It’s ‘You-be-ah,’ she corrected sharply, irritated by the way he mispronounced her sister’s name. It means rain.

Lluvia, he repeated, pronouncing it perfectly, while Marena hastily tried to deduce what the man wanted.

A year ago, Delfine had to leave London in haste after the family of a young woman who’d come to her for treatment almost managed to have her thrown in gaol. Apparently, emboldened by the understanding and validation she found under Delfine’s care, the young woman had gone to the police and accused an older and powerful male family member of rape.

In response, the family sent her to

Reviews for The Duke Makes Me Feel...

[RedHobo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very entertaining book. I only wosh the ending wasn't a bit cut short.