A Wicked Duke’s Redemption (Preview)

Chapter One

Essex, 1818

The carriage pulled to a halt, and Leopold Parish, Duke of Farnham, drew in a shuddering breath. He raked his hands through his blond hair, in case it had become disheveled during the long trip. Then he fixed his blue-gray eyes into a stern, even expression. The carriage door opened, and the coachman bowed deeply. “We have arrived, Your Grace.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He had not been away for so long that he had forgotten what his own country estate looked like. Leo swallowed hard. Lydia, the lively and beautiful Duchess of Farnham, was dead, and yet Groveswood Estate was as green and beautiful as ever. Leo, Lydia’s husband, fixed his gaze on the rolling green fields, the lush trees, and the carefully manicured gardens. His country estate bore not a single fingerprint of grief, and it seemed somehow to be a cruel injustice. Lydia was gone from the world, and nature had forgotten her the moment her body was placed in the ground.

She had loved Groveswood best, and that was why Leo had waited five years before returning. He had thought that the wounds of Lydia’s death had healed enough. He had imagined himself stoically and bravely approaching his estate, the place where his beloved wife had run like a wild thing through the trees and past the pond. It hurt more than he expected.

The house was unchanged, too.

As Leo climbed the stairs towards the entryway, he saw a flutter of faces and fingers peering at him from behind the house’s curtains. They were gone a second later. Leo clenched his jaw. He had not informed the household that his arrival was to be expected, and he was certain they were gossiping about him.

They would have gossiped anyway. Everyone had their theories about Lydia’s death, and Leo found himself figuring in many of them. As if his wife’s death was not a great enough wound, he also had to endure the indignity and sorrow of being thought her murderer.

The door opened, and the butler bowed deeply. “Your Grace, it is an honor to greet you. We were unaware that we ought to expect you, but the staff are preparing supper and your rooms for you. You have my sincerest apologies for not being ready for your arrival.”

The butler was familiar. Nathanial Jones had served Leo’s family for two generations. None of the maids hurrying about looked familiar, though. Leo grimaced. How many of the staff had abandoned their posts because of the rumors? How many had remained anyway and thought him a killer?

“May I take your coat, Your Grace?”

Leo surrendered the garment, eyes searching for anything different. The entryway was entirely unchanged, though. There was the familiar Persian rug and the portrait of his great-great-grandfather. The busts on the mantle of the fireplace were unchanged.

“As long as everything is prepared quickly,” Leo said curtly. “Is my study in order, at least?”

“We need to light a fire to warm the room,” Nathanial replied, “and I imagine that you would like—”

“See to it,” Leo interrupted. “I will remain there until supper is prepared for me.”

Leo set his course toward his study, noting with displeasure that a few maids stepped out of his path. They looked like frightened hares, their eyes wide as they watched him. He did not recognize either of them, which meant they were hired after Lydia’s death. It was clear how they thought the late duchess had died.

“Have brandy sent to me,” Leo called over his shoulder. “My journey from London has been long, and I would like to rest in my own home.”

“At once, Your Grace!” the butler replied.

Leo reached the second floor, passing several servants. They bowed to him, as expected, but Leo knew it was surely feigned respect. He left whispers in his wake. Leo drew his shoulders back and clenched his jaw. His study was blissfully empty and clean. The air was still and stale.

Scowling, Leo seated himself behind his desk and fixed his attention on the dead fireplace across from him. At least, this room was not one he associated with Lydia. She had seldom come here. This room was too small and dark for her. She preferred the open spaces of the estate grounds and the sunlight pouring through the windows of the drawing room and parlor.

A polite knock cut through Leo’s thoughts. “Enter!” he said, trying to assert every ounce of ducal authority that he could into his voice. 

The door opened, and a woman entered. She was tall and broad with thick, white hair pulled sternly back. Wrinkles lined her face like the bark of a tree, a testament to her decades of life, but her green eyes were alight with mischief and youthful enthusiasm. For a heartbeat, Leo simply stared at her. 

Everything within him softened, his ill temper and melancholy melting away like frost before the spring.

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“Mrs. Gunderson,” he said, standing. “You look well.”

Mrs. Gunderson, the housekeeper, approached him with a small, wry smile. “And you are a sight for my tired, old eyes, Your Grace. Are you all right?”

“As well as I can be,” Leo replied. “Worse than I ought to be.”

There was only a moment of hesitation. Then Mrs. Gunderson pulled him into a tight embrace. He tensed. Ordinarily, the impropriety of the gesture would not have vexed him. Leo had not always been a man who was terribly concerned with such expectations. If he wanted to embrace the housekeeper, who had been in the household since his childhood, he would. He was a duke, after all. No one would have the gall to tell him what he could and could not do.

After Lydia’s death, he developed a new respect for those pleasantries. Once a curse, propriety was now a shield. It was a means of quelling the worst of the rumors, or at least ensuring that they would not reach his ears. It was the only guide he possessed for how to conduct himself in the face of such unfathomable grief. This small breach in etiquette brought all the turmoil of the past five years bubbling to the surface, and his breath hitched rather unbecomingly.

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Gunderson said softly. “I can scarcely imagine how it wounds you being here.”

The housekeeper released him, and Leo took an awkward step back. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back, trying to adopt something of a ducal posture. “Yes.”

“I have been very worried about you.”

Leo laughed bitterly. “You appear to be the only one in this household who has held concern for my health. The rest appear to be either frightened of me or else recent additions to the staff.”

“Most of the staff do not know you like I do,” Mrs. Gunderson said, her voice infinitely patient and kind. “If they did, they would not dare think ill of you.”

Leo sighed. He returned to his seat and gestured across from him. “Sit. I suppose you ought to tell me about the estate.”

“Would you not prefer to hear of it all in the morning?” Mrs. Gunderson asked. “I have requested that a supper tray be sent for, and I have ordered that a bath be drawn for you. After such an arduous journey, I think it would be far better to spend the evening tending to your own needs. In the morning, I can recount to you the state of Groveswood.”

Leo pressed his lips into a thin line and studied Mrs. Gunderson carefully. “I am not a child, Mrs. Gunderson.”

“You have not been one for some time,” she replied, “and it is not my intention to act as though you are one. Even men need rest, however, and you are among that especially stubborn variety of man who believes that he can simply charge through any obstacle.”

“Careful, Mrs. Gunderson,” Leo said. “You are beginning to sound as though we are social equals.”

He meant it in jest, and Mrs. Gunderson knew him well enough to realize that. The housekeeper shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am ensuring that the dukedom continues to thrive, which it can only do if its duke is likewise in good health and hardy.”

“Clever.”

A knock came at the door. “Enter!” Leo called.

The door timidly opened, and a maid peered inside the room. She was a slight creature with blonde hair and wide, green eyes. “Ah, Anna,” Mrs. Gunderson said.

The maid, Anna, curtsied and entered. In her hands, she carried a silver tray laden with two decanters of brandy and two glasses. “I brought the brandy that His Grace requested,” she said. “We were unsure which variety would be preferable, so I was told to fetch both.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Gunderson said. “His Grace can decide.”

Anna crossed the room quickly and placed the tray at the edge of Leo’s desk. He forced a smile, but Anna did not seem to notice the attempt at friendliness. She curtsied quickly and left as soon as she could, discomfort clinging to her. Leo sighed and let his chin rest in his hand. 

Mrs. Gunderson smiled sympathetically. “Which variety, Your Grace?”

“It hardly matters,” Leo replied. “All brandy tastes the same, regardless of where it comes from.”

Mrs. Gunderson chose a decanter and poured the amber-brown brandy into one of the glasses. Leo took it, swirling around its contents. “Thank you. If you like, pour yourself a glass, also. I understand your concern about my health, and I appreciate it. However, if I do not discuss the dukedom tonight, I know that I will be unable to sleep tonight. I will lie awake in my bed and worry about it.”

She poured some of the brandy into the other empty glass. “If you are certain, Your Grace.”

“I am.” He took a heavy swallow of the brandy, savoring the burn of the alcohol against his tongue and the richness of its taste. “Has anything changed? The estate looks quite the same, and I did not notice anything unusual on the road.”

They both knew that he was not really asking about the road or anything else in the county of Essex. Mrs. Gunderson’s face softened, and she traced a finger around the rim of her glass. Leo swallowed hard, fighting down the lump which rose in his throat. He knew to expect the worst.

“Nothing much has changed, Your Grace,” she replied. “I am terribly sorry that I must relay that news to you. I wish so much that it was not so.”

Leo sighed and placed the glace on his desk. “I suspected that, but still, I hoped.”

Mrs. Gunderson seemed hesitant. She curled her hands around her glass and seemed to silently deliberate something in her head. At last, she reached out and curled her hand around his. “Your Grace,” she said softly. “I regret to inform you that your return will likely make the gossip worse. Those who do not know about Her Grace already will hear from others, and they will tell more still. If you intend to stay in Groveswood, you must not let such rumors upset you.”

Leo felt a stab of pain at the words. He knew Mrs. Gunderson was right. Not only did the rumors paint him as his wife’s killer, but Leo knew his decision to flee to the continent and remain away for five years cast him in the worst possible light. He looked like his wife’s murderer, like a coward who had fled a deserved punishment. Leo sighed and poured more brandy for himself.

“I wish you were wrong,” he said.

“As do I.”

It all seemed so futile. His love for Lydia had changed nothing, and his absence had changed nothing. Most of these servants and his tenants knew nothing about which they spoke. They did not understand the grief he felt every single day of his life, not only separated from his dearest love but also accused of being her killer.

If these people wanted a monster, though, why fight it? Leo finished his brandy, placing the empty glass on his desk with more force than necessary. If they wanted a monster, he would give them one.

 

Chapter Two

One Year Later

“From your letters, Captain John sounds like a simply wonderful man!” said Violet Brewer. “I am so happy for you, Liza!”

The two young ladies walked alongside the road, arm in arm. Trees, laden with the green leaves of summer, lined their path and cast shade over the ground in elaborate patterns, as lovely as spider silk. Violet was the taller of the two. She was a slender woman with thick, red hair and unusual violet eyes. Her clothes were clean and fit well, but they were not in the current style. When dressing in the mornings, Violet often felt as though she were an imposter attempting to dress like a grand lady. There had been no grand lady in her family for generations, though. 

Violet’s dearest friend, Liza Petit, was a tiny woman with black hair and a delicate, elfish face. She was the daughter of a baron, who was well known for being a shrewd businessman. Some jokingly called him Baron Midas and claimed he could make even the worst investment into a fruitful one. On that day, she wore a well-tailored pale green gown. 

“He is a wonderful man!” Liza agreed. “I could scarcely believe it when he proposed. What did I possibly do to deserve such a man as that?”

“What did you do?” Violet asked, laughing. “Why, you are a wonderful woman. It only makes sense that you would find a man as equally marvelous. I cannot imagine you being forced to settle for anything less.”

Color rose to Liza’s face. “I fear that you praise me too highly.”

“Nonsense. You do not praise yourself enough,” Violet said cheerfully. “It is a good match and even better that you love him!”

Liza sighed dreamily. “I never believed that I could feel so wonderfully happy.”

“You must write me often and tell me of all your adventures in London,” Violet said.

Liza’s betrothed Captain John Everleigh was the captain of a merchant ship, and the trading company which employed him expected him to live in London. Not only would Liza spend a great deal of time there, but she was also to accompany Captain John on most of his travels. Violet and Liza would likely be unable to enjoy one another’s company for several months. It would be different and difficult.

Violet and Liza had seen one another nearly every day since they were girls, and although Violet truly felt that her friend deserved only the best of everything, a dull ache curled in her chest when she thought of being alone in Essex, save for her parents. She had no other friends and few acquaintances.

“I will only be traveling with him until I have children,” Liza said. “Then, I shall remain in London, or perhaps, I can persuade my dear husband to purchase us a country house in Essex or Yorkshire. You can visit me whenever you like. That is, of course, assuming that you do not have a husband of your own by then. I imagine that you are next.”

Violet laughed. “Are you so certain about that?”

“Of course! Why, you are the most beautiful woman in Essex! I have heard on good account that many gentlemen have said so,” Liza said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I fear that you may find too many gentlemen attracted to your many charms. However, shall you choose which one you desire most of the lot?”

Violet smiled. She did not need a lot of gentlemen to choose from, only a single man who truly loved her. As a girl, Violet’s favorite pastime had been to slip away from her governess and sneak into her father’s library. She had plucked the old romances and fairy stories from her father’s shelves and hidden there behind the shelves of heavy volumes or beneath her father’s favorite chair by the fire. As a child, her mind was filled with the tales of Lancelot and Guinevere, of Tristan and Isolde, and Romeo and Juliet. Even as a young lady of twenty years, Violet still held tightly to those old tales. Someday, she hoped that her prince would come and sweep her off her feet, preferably to place her atop a white stallion. And from there — 

From there, Violet’s fantasies lost some clarity. Most of the modern novels seemed to conclude at the wedding, leaving the wedding night a mystery. Violet had read only small, tantalizing details about what happened on those nights. She had read of Lancelot sneaking into Queen Guinevere’s bed, so lost in the throes of passion that the good knight failed to notice that his hand was cut and that he bled onto the bedclothes. And she had read about Sir Gareth and Lady Lyonesse together, burning with desire and desperate to engage in conjugal felicity.

“Perhaps,” said Liza, oblivious to the strange heat which Violet felt curling inside her. “You should have them fight for the honor like the knights of old. That seems like something you would enjoy.”

Violet laughed and tried to force the thoughts away. Although Liza was her dearest friend, Violet knew there were certain subjects which could not be discussed in polite company, and the nature of wedding nights was one of them. “Maybe I would enjoy it a little,” Violet conceded. 

The trees thinned as they came to a curve in the road. In the distance, the Duke of Farnham’s enormous house stood silhouetted in the sun. His house was built atop the tallest point in the countryside, looking over all the other valleys and hills. A cold shiver jolted through Violet, and she rubbed her arms, although the weather was not cold. Liza quickly averted her gaze.

Neither of them had seen the Duke of Farnham, but everyone in the countryside knew of his notorious reputation. The gossip said he was once a notorious rake, but once he married the late Duchess of Farnham, he seemed to be a changed man. He no longer frequented the bawdy houses or engaged in activities with the streetwalkers. The Duke of Farnham seemed to have become the epitome of an honorable man, so Oxeburgh reacted with horror and astonishment when the young duchess was murdered. The village insisted that His Grace was to blame. There was no evidence of his alleged crime, but everyone knew that a duke’s faults were easily hidden. 

Since the late duchess’s death, no one in the village had seen His Grace, but anyone who dealt with him—like the servants who occasionally came from his grand house—reported all the horrible stories of his temper and monstrous behavior. He was curt and stormy, prone to locking himself in his study for hours and only emerging to eat or speak with his housekeeper.

“We should be going,” Liza said, her voice uneasy.

“Agreed. My parents will be expecting me soon, anyway.”

The young ladies quickened their pace, following the curve of the road to their homes. They parted ways, and Violet continued along the path for a little longer. Once, her family had been aristocratic, but generations of carelessness and misfortune left them with only a hunting lodge in the countryside. Violet remembered a governess and maid-of-all-work from her childhood, but their fortunes had deteriorated. Now, they had neither.

The lodge was empty when Violet entered. She hummed to herself as she walked to the kitchen. In all likelihood, her father would be in the village. Her mother was in her bedroom. She seldom left her room; her health had been failing her for many years.

Violet began preparing the stew for dinner. It was a small meal; made from the few potatoes she had traded for doing a farmer’s mending and some wild roots that she had dug up by the lakebed. There was no meat, but they were fortunate enough to have half a loaf of bread. As she prepared the meal, Violet’s thoughts wandered to the conversation with Liza.

“I will be next,” Violet said softly to herself. “Next to wed.”

She considered her prospects, but despite her friend’s optimism and encouragement, Violet knew that she was far less desirable than Liza. Her friend was the daughter of a baron, while Violet’s family was barely aristocratic. Liza had a substantial dowry and a father who had impressive business connections. Violet could offer a husband nothing. She supposed that there were a few young men in the village who might be willing to wed her, but she had never quite felt as if she properly belonged with the people of the village. She did not belong anywhere. Violet was too poor for aristocratic circles and too wealthy to earn the trust of the villagers, most of whom had only met a single member of the ton—the notorious Duke of Farnham and alleged murderer. 

With the stew finished, Violet prepared the table for dinner. Their dishes were still fine and delicate, even as most of the furniture had luxuries had been sold for money and to clear debts. After the table was ready, Violet filled a bowl with her stew and climbed the stairs to her mother’s bedroom. She opened the door, peering carefully inside.

Her mother lay in her bed beneath a mound of bedclothes. When Violet entered, her mother raised her head and smiled weakly. Once upon a time, Violet’s mother had been a great beauty. Like her daughter, she was blessed with thick auburn hair, but the long years of illness had made her hair limp and gray. Her face was pale and wan, the skin pulled taut over her high cheekbones. 

“Are you hungry, Mother?” Violet asked.

“A little, dear.”

Violet smiled and took her usual seat beside her mother’s bed. Some days were better than others for her mother. There were days when she could feed herself and leave her bed, but those were becoming fewer. Her hands often shook too badly to hold spoons and bowls, so Violet had taken to sitting beside her dear mother and feeding her meals. 

“How was your day?” her mother asked. “How is Liza?”

“Well,” Violet said, as she gently lifted the spoon to her mother’s lips. “She is engaged to Captain John Everleigh. Do you remember me telling you about him? He did some business for Liza’s father.”

“Oh.”

It was unclear to Violet if her mother did remember, but she did not press the matter. “He is a good man,” Violet said. “At least, Liza says that he is, and she is a sensible young lady. They are deeply in love with one another.”

Violet’s mother swallowed a spoonful of soup before speaking. “A love-match. That was rare even in my mother’s Season. I imagine it is even more uncommon now.”

Violet’s mother had been an heiress, but she had found her inheritance squandered before she could even claim it. There had been some disagreement over who ought to receive how much of her father’s fortune, and it had taken the chancery courts so long to settle the matter that by the time a decision was reached, it had all been squandered in solicitors’ and court fees. It seemed like a cruel twist of fate that both of Violet’s parents were fallen in a sense. Perhaps that was why they had wed—the impoverished heiress and the poor aristocrat.

“I am happy for her,” Violet said. “I hope that I may find a love-match of my own someday.”

“You deserve one.”

The conversation lapsed into silence, as Violet fed her mother the rest of the stew. Violet heard a door close below and thudding footsteps, and she knew her father was home. He would find the stew and eat by himself in what was once a parlor. 

“I hope so, Mother,” Violet said. “At the very least, I should like to fall in love just once, so I know what it is like. I must know if it is as wondrous as the stories say.”

She must also know what happened after the wedding when she and her beloved would be together in bed, kissing and clasping one another. Violet’s pulse quickened, and heat rushed to her face.

Her mother smiled. “What does your friend Liza believe?”

“That it is even better,” Violet said.

“Well, you must tell me when it happens,” her mother said, sighing and settling against the bed. “I shall wish to meet the gentleman.”

“Of course.” Violet recognized that her mother was tired, as she often was after meals. “Shall I leave you to rest, Mother?”

“That would be lovely, dear.”

Violet smiled. “Rest well.”

She took the bowl and went into the parlor, where her father sat. He was a tall man with a hawkish face, thin like a sapling, and with perpetual dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Good evening, Father,” Violet said.

“Good evening, dear. How is your mother?”

“The same.”

Her father closed his eyes and inhaled quietly. He let out his breath slowly and took another bite of the stew. “The stew is good.”

“Thank you.”

Her father had always been a melancholy man, and Violet knew that he sometimes liked to be alone with his thoughts. She went to the pot and poured the remainder of the stew into her bowl. Then she settled by the window with her stew and an old copy of Chretien de Troyes’s Lancelot. Only a few of her father’s books remained unsold, which made Violet treasure the ones that she had all the more. 

She began to read, immersing herself in the world of knights and magic, where true love was as simple as a shared look.

---

“A Wicked Duke’s Redemption” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Violet Brewer, a spirited young woman from a declining aristocratic family, finds herself thrust into an arranged marriage with the notorious Duke of Farnham. Yet, as she grapples with her fear of a union with a man whose dark reputation precedes him, she discovers the undeniable allure in his piercing blue-gray eyes. Before long, Violet will yearn to succumb to the passion that simmers beneath the surface…

Can she overcome her apprehensions and unlock the secrets of pleasure hidden within the depths of her mysterious husband’s heart?

Leopold Parish, the brooding Duke of Farnham, harbors a painful past marred by rumors of his involvement in his first wife’s mysterious death. Encased in bitterness and loneliness, Leo seeks solace in a marriage of convenience with a woman of lower standing. Yet, as he navigates the intricacies of duty and desire, the scorching heat of his undeniable chemistry with Violet becomes impossible to ignore.

Will the steamy nights in each other’s arms be enough to melt away the icy barriers surrounding his heart?

United by a marriage of convenience, Violet and Leo embark on a shared journey of discovery, battling the ghosts of Leo’s past. Yet, amidst the heat of their growing passion, they must confront chilling whispers and malicious glances that threaten to extinguish the flames of their desire. As their intimacy deepens, will they unravel the truth behind Leo’s first wife’s murder, or will the relentless whispers tear them apart? Will their love story rewrite the narrative that society has woven for the Duke of Farnham and his unlikely Duchess?

“A Wicked Duke’s Redemption” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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