Seven Days to Win a Lady’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Jonathan Howell, the Duke of Norwood, traced his finger along the pistol’s decorative filigree. The weapon was light in his hand, made of silver fittings and English walnut. His head ached fiercely, a persistent reminder of his over-indulgence from the night before. Jonathan ran a hand through his thick auburn hair and sighed. The gathering dawn signalled the arrival of his opponent, Thomas Fitzherbert, the Marquess of Birmingham. Although the man had not yet made his appearance, Jonathan was certain that he would.

Jonathan had deflowered Anna Fitzherbert, and no man would desist from marrying the young lady. After Jonathan refused, the marquess promptly insisted on a duel to preserve the honour of his deflowered, unwed sister. A small part of him supposed that a gentleman ought to expect consequences for his actions, and he should have considered that when he took Birmingham’s sister to a secluded part of the gardens, hitched up her skirts, and ran his hands over her soft, slender thighs. Worse, he had not even particularly desired the young lady. He had noted her dark hair and brown eyes, and he had thought she resembled Miss Elizabeth Morrison, the true object of his affections, well enough that he could pretend it was her. He gazed morosely at the bottle of champagne positioned thirty yards away. Jonathan was tempted to drink the spirit rather than shoot at it.

“You act as though you have never held a pistol before, Your Grace.”

That was Arthur Franklin, Jonathan’s faithful butler and his second for the duel. Jonathan glanced at the ageing man as a feeling of defeat settled over his shoulders. Although Arthur was nearly fifty years of age, the years had been kind to him. His hair was thick and black, only streaked with a few strands of grey, and he moved with the grace and energy of a much younger man. Jonathan suspected that Arthur was sometimes frustrated with him, but the man had nonetheless agreed to be roused before dawn to explain the finer points of gunmanship to Jonathan.

“I have seldom held one,” Jonathan conceded. “I wish we were duelling with swords still.”

Jonathan might have had some chance of surviving the duel if they were using blades rather than guns, and he silently cursed himself for his carelessness. Although he did not overly mind having a reputation as a rake, he was generally careful to only engage in amorous congresses with common women. He had erred with Lady Anna Fitzherbert.

“A pistol requires less skill than a sword,” Arthur said. “If you can handle the latter, you can, of course, manage the former.”

“Of course,” Jonathan replied, grimacing. “If I had years to practice, maybe I would be as good with a pistol as I am with a smallsword.”

“You have until Lord Birmingham arrives,” Arthur said. “Let us focus on the moment rather than lamenting your lack of skills.”

“Could you be a little more direct in your criticisms of me?” Jonathan asked dryly.

“If you wish, Your Grace.” The words were clearly said in jest, but Arthur’s tone was entirely serious.

Jonathan sighed. He might have just made a fatal error, for he knew that Arthur would eagerly chastise him for his conquests. None of this would have happened if Jonathan had resisted the rakish impulses that so often plagued him. That was difficult, though, because women were so soft and beautiful. There was no sight more appealing in the world than a lady with her skirts gathered at her waist and her pale thighs spread. He loved, too, those sounds that women made—all the pleased cries and soft whines for attention. 

As lovely as she was, Lady Anna was not a woman for whom he wanted to die. Perhaps his opponent would not make an appearance. He knew that was unlikely, given that he had dishonoured the man’s sister, but still, he hoped. If Jonathan were fortunate, the Marquess of Birmingham would prove to be a coward.

“You must be more careful,” Arthur said quietly. 

“If I survive this, I shall be,” Jonathan said.

He winced at the pain in his head as he raised his gun and aimed. The champagne bottle seemed to move before his weary eyes, or perhaps it was that his hand shook. Jonathan closed one eye, hoping to focus on his target better. The champagne bottle seemed to tilt alarmingly to the side.

Jonathan fired. The sound of the gunshot reverberated in his ears. Bark split from the tree behind the bottle, leaving the champagne entirely untouched. Jonathan groaned. He had missed his mark by several yards. If he had been trying to hit a man, Jonathan would not have succeeded. He grimaced and handed the gun to Arthur, so the man could prepare it for the next shot.

“Perhaps it will not come to shooting at all,” Jonathan said uneasily. “Lord Birmingham is a reasonable man.”

Duels were not about trying to kill anyone, after all. They were about proving that a man was willing to die to preserve his honour. Maybe a few apologies would be sufficient to persuade Lord Birmingham to throw away his shot or not fire one at all. After all, it was not as though the whole ton knew that Jonathan and Lady Anna had been caught in a compromising position. Only the three of them knew that unless Lord Birmingham had told others about the scandal. If the Marquess of Birmingham would simply accept an apology, the whole affair need not become known by anyone except those directly involved.

“Lord Birmingham did not seem reasonable when he challenged you,” Arthur said hesitantly. “I am sure, of course, that you know more than most how even reasonable men can exhibit very foolish behaviour when it comes to defending the fairer sex.”

“I have not the faintest idea what you mean.”

“I suspect that you would be equally impulsive if someone had dishonoured Miss Morrison.”

Jonathan felt a tightness curl in his chest. Arthur was entirely right. “I cannot believe you had the gall to bring up Miss Morrison.”

Arthur hummed and raised the gun to his eye-level. “You need to keep your arm straight and your hand steady,” he said, demonstrating the position. “Inhale and exhale. And fire.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Jonathan said bitterly. “No one could hit that champagne bottle at that distance. I need a larger target.”

“If you can hit the bottle, you can hit a man,” Arthur said. 

“Then, give me a target the size of a man,” Jonathan retorted. “If I can shoot at a target the size of a man, I can hit one.”

“It is best to focus on precision,” Arthur said. 

Jonathan crossed his arms. “No one could hit the bottle from this distance.”

“No one?” Arthur asked. “Are you certain?”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Now that I have said so, I suspect you will find a way of proving me incorrect. I cannot imagine why you would be so knowledgeable about firearms, but you seem too confident not to be.”

Arthur smiled slyly. “Right you are.”

Gunfire resounded through the air, and thirty yards away, the champagne burst from the bottle in a froth of pale bubbles. The bottle tipped over, spilling its contents onto the ground.

“Lucky shot,” Jonathan said.

Arthur shook his head. “I struck the cork.”

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “That is impossible. From thirty yards?”

“Shall we see?”

Jonathan crossed the space quickly, Arthur following a few paces behind. When he reached the bottle, Jonathan grabbed it from the grass. Champagne still bubbled and spread over the edges of the bottle. Jonathan stared in utter disbelief, for the neck of the bottle was chipped a little. The cork was gone. Arthur truly had struck it from thirty yards away. Jonathan gawked at the bottle, disbelieving what his own eyes told him must be true.

“How?” Jonathan asked.

“It is possible, as you can see,” Arthur said.

Jonathan’s ears rang with the dull thundering of horse hooves. He felt as though the ground fell away from beneath his feet. Lord Birmingham had arrived. Jonathan reluctantly straightened, champagne bottle still in hand.

Lord Birmingham was a tall and imposing man with piercing dark eyes and blond hair. He brought his horse to a halt, expertly handling the massive animal. Moments later, Lord Birmingham’s second—a young gentleman with dark hair and green eyes—halted behind him. There was a third man, whom Jonathan assumed was the physician based on the large leather bag he carried with him.

Lord Birmingham’s eyes fell upon the bottle, still slowly dripping with the colourless champagne. The marquess’s face paled, and a spark of alarm appeared in his eyes. Lord Birmingham fidgeted with the buttons on the cuffs of his coat. He stared at the bottle again as if he thought his own eyes might have betrayed him.

“That was a marvellous shot!” the young gentleman exclaimed.

“It took the cork out of the bottle,” Jonathan said, smiling wryly. “Impressive, right?”

It was almost a pity that Arthur would not be the man shooting, for Jonathan was certain his butler would emerge victorious. Lord Birmingham ran a hand through his hair. His eyes remained still fixed on the bottle.

“Indeed!” the physician exclaimed. “My word! How far away did you shoot from?”

Jonathan blinked, taken aback by the question. Before he could correct the physician’s assumption that he was such a gifted shot, Arthur cleared his throat. “His grace fired from thirty yards away.”

“Thirty yards away?” the marquess whispered, his eyes almost comically wide. “Good God! I was unaware that you were so adept with a pistol.”

“Impossible!” the young gentleman exclaimed.

“I am sure, of course, that his grace would be willing to demonstrate the shot once again,” Arthur said smoothly. “His grace is modest, so he seldom discusses his skill with firearms. I have watched him shoot many times, though. Never in my life have I seen such a gifted man.”

Jonathan’s heart thundered against his ribs. At once, he understood what his butler was trying to do. These gentlemen believed that he, the Duke of Norwood, was such a gifted marksman. 

“With ease,” Jonathan said. “Prepare the pistol for me, Arthur. I am certain that Lord Birmingham is eager to begin our duel.”

Lord Birmingham cleared his throat. “Perhaps that is unnecessary.”

Jonathan felt all the air leave his lungs. His knees were weak with relief at the unexpected twist of fate. “Unnecessary?” Jonathan asked, doing his best to conceal the joy he felt coursing through his veins. 

“Yes,” Lord Birmingham said, his expression hardening. “I believe that I am satisfied.”

“If you are satisfied, I am as well,” Jonathan said. “I have always found duels to be rather ridiculous affairs, truth be told. Nothing will really be resolved by us shooting at one another, after all.”

“Right,” the Marquess of Birmingham said, the words sounding as though they were being torn unwillingly from his throat. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am delighted to see that we are in agreement.”

Jonathan only smiled. He did not wish to say anything that Lord Birmingham might inadvertently perceive as being judgemental. Otherwise, the marquess might decide that he wished to duel after all.

“Farewell, Your Grace,” Lord Birmingham said, turning his horse.

“Farewell, My Lord.”

Without another word, Lord Birmingham urged his horse into a trot. He and his entourage retreated, returning the way they had come. Only once they faded from sight did Jonathan feel as though he could breathe properly.

“You are remarkably fortunate,” Arthur said after a heartbeat of silence. 

A slow grin stretched across Jonathan’s face. “I am, indeed. And I have the best butler in the world, in case you were in any doubt.”

“I was not.”

Jonathan raised the bottle of champagne to his lips and took a long drink. The spirit bubbled pleasantly against his tongue, and his blood roared in his ears. It would probably be in poor form to celebrate with the company of a beautiful woman, but spirits and an evening in the local alehouse sounded sufficient enough. “I think a celebration is in order!” Jonathan declared.

“A celebration is how you found yourself in this mess, to begin with,” Arthur said, the merest note of warning in his voice.

“Indeed,” Jonathan said. “However, I swear that I will show more caution this time. Let us proceed to the nearest alehouse and celebrate my good fortune!”

After all, it was not every day that a poor marksman managed to avoid a duel entirely. In Jonathan’s mind, this was the best possible end. No shots were fired, and no one was hurt. He and the Marquess of Birmingham had come to an amicable agreement—even if it was one based on a misunderstanding—and that was how all gentlemanly disputes ought to be resolved.

 

Chapter Two

Elizabeth Morrison’s heart plummeted. She dropped the flowers that she was considering, their pink and purple petals scattering on the ground by her feet. Their seller—a young country lass with golden hair and wide, blue eyes—gazed at her with a furrowed brow and a face that was etched with concern. Elizabeth whirled around. “You!” she declared, pointing at the man who had spoken. “Wait! What did you say?”

The man halted, looking utterly baffled by her words. Elizabeth fought to regain her composure. Although she forced a smile, she picked up and held the flowers in a tight grip as if they were the only thing tethering her to reality. 

“Me, Miss?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The Duke of Norwood met the Marquess of Birmingham for a duel this morning,” the man said, gesturing. “Just over the ridge.”

A lump curled in Elizabeth’s throat, making it difficult for her to speak. She wanted to dismiss the man’s words as mere gossip, but Elizabeth knew the Duke of Norwood far too well to dismiss the rumour outright. His grace was a rakish man and one who often did not mind his mouth. She could too easily envision him offending some local lord and being challenged to a duel.

“What was the outcome?” she asked. “Where is his grace?”

If he were dead, Elizabeth was unsure, of course, how she would bear it. For all his faults, his grace was kind. His moral fortitude was unparalleled by any living man, and Elizabeth owed her entire life to him. When her father died, Elizabeth’s half-brother had inherited their father’s title and had sought to leave her destitute. Learning of her plight, the Duke of Norwood had offered the assistance of his solicitor and several barristers, and after a considerable legal process, Elizabeth had inherited both her father’s country estate and an enormous fortune. She was an heiress, and she was free. Elizabeth did not need to marry any man unless she loved him.

She owed his grace everything for that, for his persistence and unwavering support when most men would have abandoned her. He could not be dead. He must, of course, still be alive.

“Last I saw, he was with Luke.”

Elizabeth heard nothing save for the frantic pounding of her heart. While she did not often frequent the country village of Avonia, she had on occasion requested aid from the local apothecary, Luke Briars. He was the nearest thing the village had to a surgeon.

“I must see him at once,” Elizabeth said, handing the flowers back to the startled, young woman. “I apologize for damaging them. Kitty, handle the expenses.”

“Yes, Miss,” her lady’s maid replied. 

Elizabeth barely heard the response. She lifted her skirts and darted through the streets. The sound of her own racing heart reverberated inside her skull, drowning out every other sound and most of her conscious thoughts. The Duke of Norwood had been involved in a duel with the Marquess of Birmingham, and his grace had been last seen at the apothecary’s shop.

She must not think the worst. It could be that his grace was only lightly injured. Just because he had visited the apothecary following the duel did not mean that he was badly injured.

Or worse.

Elizabeth’s stomach lurched, and bile rose in her throat. She must not let her thoughts get away from her. There was no proof that the duke was in any danger or that he was even injured. Maybe his visit to the apothecary was entirely coincidental. Perhaps it was nothing. 

As the apothecary’s small shop came into sight, the door opened. Four men emerged. Between them, they carried a prone figure spread over a long length of cloth. She recognized that prone form—the auburn hair, the chiselled jaw, and the fit figure—that the other men carried. A small, short cry escaped from her lips. A surge of longing and despair overcame her so strongly that she felt as if her knees might fail her.

“Your Grace!”

One of the men started at her cry and looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. The others looked a little unnerved. Elizabeth clutched her chest as if she feared that her heart might burst from her ribcage. She stepped forward, staring with wide brown eyes at the duke’s unmoving form. His grace had always been so lively and seeing him prone and still broke something within her. In an instant, her mind bolted through all the forbidden thoughts she had ever had about the Duke of Norwood. 

Loving a rake—desiring a rake—was among the most disreputable feelings that a young lady could have, but every time she heard of one of the duke’s exploits with women, she imagined herself as the intrepid heroine. Elizabeth imagined that it was her, his grace wished to lure to some secluded garden. She thought of his lips against hers and his hands tracing the curves of her body. When it was late and the household had gone to bed, she even dared to imagine him undressing her and whispering how beautiful she was. In her visions, as in life, he was kind, lively, and cheerful.

It seemed impossible for him to be dead. He had always seemed so strong to her, invincible in so many ways. She could not quite reconcile this prone body with the man she had come to know and—although she would never say it aloud—love far more than she ought.

“My Lord,” she gasped, scarcely able to breathe. “Is he—is he badly injured?”

Her eyes swept over him, searching for the signs of a wound. She found none, but he was not moving. Maybe the injury was already dressed and hidden beneath his shirt and trousers. Or perhaps it was some manner of internal injury? Elizabeth had heard of such things.

“Badly injured?” 

Elizabeth recognized the voice of Mr Arthur Franklin, his grace’s butler. The man himself emerged a heartbeat later, looking unaffected and vaguely apologetic.

“I heard that the duke was involved in a duel this morning,” she said. “Is he—is he badly hurt?”

“His grace’s only injuries are the result of his own vices,” Arthur replied.

Elizabeth stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

“His grace was challenged to a duel, but his opponent thought it best not to proceed,” Arthur clarified. “This is the result of his grace drinking enough alcohol to satisfy the entire population of France.”

Elizabeth’s face grew hot. She curled her fists into the blue skirts of her walking gown. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said very deliberately, “that his grace has been rendered unconscious due to his own inebriation? He is otherwise entirely uninjured?”

“Indeed. These men have graciously agreed to ferry his grace back to his estate.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath, trying to quell the rage that threatened to burst forth from her body. “I suppose you have come to the apothecary in search of a cure for what will, of course, be a terrible migraine once his grace has recovered.”

“Indeed, Miss.”

Elizabeth inhaled again. She was not often prone to anger, and she found herself uncertain of how to handle the fury boiling within her. “I am glad to hear that his grace is unharmed,” she said tightly. “Good day, Mr Franklin.”

Elizabeth took great handfuls of her skirts, clenching the fabric so tightly that she felt her nails dig into the palms of her hands. She stormed through the street, her jaw tight and her shoulders set. If she were not so relieved at his grace’s survival, she might have been of the mind to shoot that foolish man herself.

“Of all the careless, foolish things that he could have done!” she hissed to herself. 

Her lady’s maid approached her, arms laden with the flowers that Elizabeth had wanted to place in her parlour. “Is all well, Miss?”

“No,” Elizabeth snapped. 

Kitty’s face paled. “I am so sorry, Miss! I know how dear his grace was to you.”

“I mean, all is fine,” Elizabeth replied. “The Duke of Norwood is unharmed, aside from being a drunkard.”

“Oh.”

“I thought he might have been fatally injured,” Elizabeth continued. “I thought the worst!”

Kitty nodded, her face sympathetic. “Shall we return to your estate, Miss?”

Elizabeth sighed. The wind blew a few tendrils of her black, curled hair into her eyes. She brushed the strands of hair away with more force than was strictly necessary.

She huffed. “I have never met such an irresponsible man in my entire life!”

Kitty said nothing, only offered a gentle nod in response. They walked together along the familiar road. The distance was not far, and usually, Elizabeth enjoyed the walk. She found the country air to be invigorating and peaceful, but on this day, Elizabeth scarcely noticed the gentle summer breeze or the warm sunlight. Her thoughts were entirely consumed with the Duke of Norwood, that foolish and inconsiderate man.

What if he had died? Had his grace even given a single thought about how she would feel? Of course, he had not. Elizabeth clenched her jaw. She was nothing but a friend to him. Her thoughts were easily forgotten in the flood of his own impulsive desires.

“I must forget him,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot endure having such a man as he in my life. I would think that he ought to have learned something about how to be a proper duke by now, but alas, he has not. It seems as though the Duke of Norwood has chosen entirely to neglect his self-improvement to chase his vices.”

Forgetting his grace would be exceedingly difficult, given how many of her fantasies involved the man. She had one very persistent dream of toppling into bed with him, of them shedding their garments so quickly, and of his grace worshipping her with kisses and touches. Sometimes, Elizabeth even dared to trace the inside of her thighs, imagining how it might feel if the Duke of Norwood touched her there instead. The thought never failed to send a shiver tracing along the path of her spine.

“Perhaps it was not his vices that led to the duel,” Kitty said hesitantly.

“It was,” Elizabeth said. “Of that, I have no doubt. His grace simply does not think before he acts.”

Much of her fury, Elizabeth reflected, was not really directed towards his grace. Certainly, the Duke of Norwood was the source of a lot of her anger, but Elizabeth also had to concede that she was vexed with herself. She had long been fond of the man, fonder than any mere friend would be.

And why? For what? His grace had never hidden the manner of man that he was, and for years, Elizabeth had simply accepted that she must forgive his reckless behaviour again and again. Worse, his reckless behaviour often involved sharing the beds of beautiful women, and every time Elizabeth received word of one of his many lovers, she felt the sharp knot of jealousy curl in her chest. It was maddening that he would give his attention to everyone except her. As a lady, of course, it was expected that she would refuse such advances, but it would be nice to know that he held some passionate feelings for her.

“No more,” Elizabeth said.

“No more?” Kitty asked.

Elizabeth took a steadying breath. Her estate loomed before her, beautiful and familiar. “I am no longer going to entertain his grace’s selfish behaviour,” she said. “It is far past time that I seek more respectable company.”

It would hurt; she knew that. But Elizabeth’s patience had frayed until it snapped. She had forgiven his grace too many times, and this duel—fearing that he might be dead—was one time too many.