Duchess By Night (Desperate Duchesses)
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A Mischievous Charade . . .
Harriet, Duchess of Berrow, is tired of her title and the responsibilities that come along with it. Enough with proper tea parties and elegant balls; what Harriet really wants is to attend an outrageous soiree where she can unleash her wildest whims and desires. But to attend such an event—especially if the event in question is Lord Justinian Strange's rollicking fete, filled with noble rogues and rotters, risqué ladies and illicit lovers—would be certain scandal. That's why she must disguise herself . . .
Looking forward to a night of uninhibited pleasure, Lord Strange is shocked to discover that beneath the clothes of a no-good rake is the most beautiful woman in the room. Why is a woman like her risking her reputation at his notorious affair? And can he possibly entice her to stay . . . forever?
of fairies or Palmyra, wherever that was. She just wanted a husband. Someone to sit with her of an evening, just like Loveday said. Chapter Two Another chapter in Which Breasts Play a Not-insignificant Role Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, threw back her head and laughed. Her bodice gaped, precariously clinging to the slope of her breasts. The dapper man before her twirled on his toes, one hand up in the air, like a gypsy dancer at Bartholomew Fair. Zenobia laughed again, and flung both hands in
“Fire!” Harriet bellowed. “There’s a fire in the west wing and Miss Eugenia is alone in there.” He stared at her for a second and then wheeled and tore down the stairs. “Harry?” Eugenia said, through the door. “Yes, sweetheart.” “Did you say fire?” “Don’t worry,” Harriet said firmly. “He’s bringing the key and I shall have you out of there in exactly one minute. You’re going to be fine, Eugenia. We’ll get the fire out, and then we’ll find your father and murder him.” He must be in the wrong
didn’t go to bed is just part and parcel of the truth of it,” she said. “Perhaps you should send her away. A father who spends the night gallivanting rather than bothering to check on his daughter obviously has no time for her.” He put his head back in his hands. She felt that alarming sweep of vertigo again, as if she would do anything to make him stop looking so stricken. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” “I—” “I’m a terrible father. My father was no father at all, but I thought I
her, soothing her until she craved more, until she was murmuring with— Until she woke up. “What are you doing here?” she gasped. Her nightgown was up to her armpits. He was sprawled out next to her, stark naked. “How did you get into my room?” He stopped kissing her ribs just long enough to say, “I walked in.” It was such a laconic, Jem-like thing to say that her heart thumped. His fingers were trailing up her ankle. “And now,” Harriet said, with a little squeak— “I’m going to make love to
Isidore. I really can’t.” “I’ll take her,” Harriet said. She heard the words in her own ears with that queer double sense one gets when one hasn’t thought out a comment. It just sprang from her lips. There was a moment of dead silence. All three turned to look at her. “You?” Isidore said. And: “You mustn’t take Isidore’s starts so seriously,” Jemma said. “She’ll forget about this scheme of hers by tomorrow morning.” “No, I won’t,” Isidore stated. “Why shouldn’t I go?” Harriet said. “If the