Page 1 of Never Dance with a Duke
Hyde Park, London
Morning, 15 May 1810
Nicolette Twistleton puffed out a soft, poignant sigh as she strolled the sun-dappled footpath along the southern bank of the Serpentine in Hyde Park.
Bella, her pug puppy, frolicked about, yanking on her leash in an energetic attempt to investigate every single thing she happened upon: leaves, sticks, insects, rocks, worms, people— and their shoes. She had a particular penchant for the latter, which she thoroughly enjoyed ruining with her needle-like teeth.
Thus far, a trio of Nicolette’s slippers and a pair of half-boots had met a gruesome end.
A pair of brownish-gray mourning doves swooped across the pathway, landing beneath a flowering cherry tree’s heavily laden branches. Cooing softly, they touched bills, in what almost appeared to be an avian kiss.
Several feet behind Nicolette—enough to permit a bit of privacy but not so much as to cause raised eyebrows—her maid, Jane, carried Nicolette’s parasol and hummed softly to herself.
A distracted half-smile curving her mouth, Jane twirled the plump pink peony she’d plucked from the front flower bed when they left the house an hour ago.
Jane was madly in love.
She and Jack, one of the Twistleton grooms, were to wed next month. Her dreamy expression and wistful sighs were beginning to wear on Nicolette’s tattered nerves, however. As happy as she was for the loyal servant, she couldn’t prevent the reoccurring twinge in the region of her heart.
Oh, the pang most assuredly was not envy.
No indeed—God forbid such a wholly ludicrous idea.
The familiar ache was a bitter reminder of Nicolette’s absolute humiliation and devastation two years ago. Her then betrothed, Alfonse Bremerton, the Duke of Kilbourne, had jilted her a mere four hours before they were to have exchanged vows at St. George’s Church. After the odious churl had danced with her thrice at a ball the night before, pretending to be the doting soon-to-be groom.
When his note had arrived the morn of their wedding day, she’d eagerly opened it, expecting a love note.
Nicolette,
I cannot marry you.
Forgive me.
K
Kilbourne hadn’t even deemed her worthy of an endearment.
Seven words.
Twelve short syllables.
Thirteen if you counted Alfonse’s initial, which she did not.
That was all it took to destroy Nicolette’s life, her plans for the future, and make her determined never to trust a rogue again. Or even marry for that matter.
How could she possibly ever trust her gullible heart again?
By the time she’d received her former betrothed’s cryptic note calling off their wedding, the cowardly cur was already half-way to Gretna Green with Maribelle Grosenick—a vulgarly rich heiress hailing from America.
Even more mortifying—salt in an already festering wound—Kilbourne’s heir, a healthy male child, had entered the world a mere six-and one-half months later. Irrefutable proof that the blackguard had been playing Nicolette false during their courtship.
And he’d dared—dared, by God!—to plead with her to consummate their vows the eve of their wedding. After all, they were to exchange vows on the morrow, he’d cajoled, and all the while, Kilbourne had been plotting to scorn her.
Scapegrace. Hog-grubber. Jackanape.
Typical man—controlled by that thing between his legs and not the brain in the head atop his shoulders. And most assuredly not governed by any sense of decency, honor, or chivalry.
“Contemptible, maggot-patted bounder.” She snorted, loudly and most indelicately, earning her a curious look from Bella’s big brown eyes and also sending the cooing doves to wing.
