How to Tempt a Duke. Кейси Майклс

      

      Praise for

      Kasey Michaels

       A Reckless Beauty

      “A Reckless Beauty [is] a cannon shot. Drama by the boatload, danger around every corner, and heart-wrenching emotion await readers.”

      —A Romance Review

       A Most Unsuitable Groom

      “From the first page to the last this continuation of the

      Beckets of Romney Marsh saga is a well-crafted novel.

      Emotional intensity, simmering sexual tension, characters

      you care about and political intrigue—plus touches of

      humour and a poignant love story—all come together

      in this hugely entertaining keeper.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       The Dangerous Debutante

      “Her characters shine as she brings in fascinating details

      of the era, engaging plot twists and plenty of sensuality.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       Shall We Dance?

      “Brimming with historical details and characters ranging

      from royalty to spies, greedy servants to a jealous

      woman, this tale is told with panache and wit.”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       The Butler Did It

      “Michaels’ ingenious sense of humour reaches new

      heights as she brings marvellous characters and a

      too-funny-for-words story to life. (…) What fun, what

      pleasure, what a read!”

      —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

       Rafe followed Charlotte with his eyes as she pretended an interest in the bookshelves, seeing the young girl who had chased after him sometimes, and gone out of her way to ignore him at others.

      She’d been such a funny creature, he remembered. Tall for a girl, and rack-thin; all arms and long legs and too much hair.

      A pest. She’d been a pest. And female into the bargain. A child, really; fifteen to his nineteen the day he’d gone off to take up his commission.

      He hadn’t recognised her out there on the drive. She was still tall, still thin, he supposed, but also nicely rounded.

      Her hair looked…touchable. Her warm brown eyes hadn’t changed, hadn’t aged. He liked her nose, straight and yet somehow pert, and her wide mouth was full-lipped, and slightly vulnerable.

      It was only when she opened that mouth that the Charlie he remembered actually appeared. Charlie said what was on her mind, always, and never dressed her comments up in fine linen. He’d liked that about her, he remembered, even when he was thinking up ways to avoid her.

      He had no inclination to avoid her now. Quite the opposite…

      USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than ninety books. She has earned three starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has been awarded the RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, the Waldenbooks and BookRak awards, and several other commendations for her writing excellence in both contemporary and historical novels. There are more than eight million copies of her books in print around the world. Kasey resides in pennsylvania with her family, where she is always at work on her next book.

      How to Tempt a Duke

      Kasey Michaels

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my new editor, the one and only

      Margo Lipschultz,

      a woman with the patience of a saint!

       Prologue

      PARIS HAD BEGUN to lose its much-touted appeal. How many years had they all spoken about the day they would vanquish Bonaparte and march, triumphant, into this city of cities? When the mud of Spain sucked off their boots and the provisions didn’t arrive, when they were sure their empty bellies were stuck to their backbones—talk of the glories of Paris would lighten their spirits.

      But after five straight days of cold, drenching rain, thoughts had turned to how soon Wellington would order the troops back home to England.

      It would be raining there, too, but at least it would be good English rain.

      Not that Captains Rafael Daughtry and Swain Fitzgerald would be among the troops piling onto ships and heading for Dover and other English ports. They’d learned just this afternoon that they were among those assigned to escort Bonaparte to his new empire on Elba in a few weeks.

      Fitz had told Rafe they should be pleased, that they would be taking part in something historic, a quite singular adventure with which to one day regale their grandchildren while they bounced them on their knees.

      Grandchildren? That’s when Rafe had narrowed his intense brown eyes and demanded his friend find them a place where they could both, with any luck, soon render themselves grandly drunk.

      Rafe shivered now in his damp uniform and shifted his chair closer to the mediocre fire burning in the hearth of the tavern Fitz had chosen for them. He ran a hand through his overlong, self-barbered black hair, feeling the grease and grit that he had begun to doubt he’d ever be able to wash out of it, and then rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He’d have to locate a new razor in order to shave before presenting himself at Headquarters the next morning, and a clean shirt, as well. Just a dry shirt would do.

      “Well now, would you look at that,” Fitz said with a grin. “Huddling by the fire like some old maid who’s never known a warmed bed. Would you be wanting a blanket for around your shoulders, Mistress Daughtry?”

      “Stubble it, Fitz,” Rafe grumbled, suppressing another shiver. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be warm again. “Where’s this fine ale you told me about?”

      “So many complaints from a man more used to sleeping in ditches these past years. And the devil with the ale—where’s the willing mam’zelles?” Fitz pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed on to the innkeeper as he passed by their table. “Parle vous the English, mon-sewer?”

      The fat and rather greasy innkeeper rolled his eyes as he rattled off a quick string of French that had Rafe laughing into his fist, especially the part where the man compared Fitz to a hairy, overgrown cockroach.

      “Two mugs of your finest brew, Innkeeper, if you please, and whatever hot food you’ve got in the kitchens,” Rafe interjected quickly in flawless French as he tossed the fellow a coin, and the man bowed his way back to the bar.

      “Damned frogs. They don’t seem to know we’ve beaten them, do they, Rafe?”

      “Oh, they know, and they hate us for it. The only thing saving us right now, I’d say, is the fact that most Parisians blame Bonaparte for getting them into this fix in the first place. I heard we had to put more guards around his quarters again today to protect him from his own once-loyal subjects. A part of me thinks we ought to stand down, and simply let them have at him. A personal escort of one thousand of his own men, armed, and in uniform? Dubbing him bloody Emperor of Elba? This is what we fought for, Fitz?”

      “Does seem like we’re coddling the little fellow, I agree. How long