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  A DUKE BY DECEMBER

  A Year Without a Duke, Book 5

  Sabrina Darby

  A Year Without a Duke

  Jilted in January by Kate Pearce

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  Forbidden in February by Suzanna Medeiros

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  Seduced in September by Genevieve Turner

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  An Affair in Autumn by Jennifer Haymore

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  A Duke by December by Sabrina Darby

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  A DUKE BY DECEMBER

  Copyright © 2016 by Sabrina Darby

  First Digital Edition, February 2016

  Cover Design by The Killion Group

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author.

  Digital books are not transferable. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To learn more about Sabrina Darby and for more information about A Year Without a Duke, visit:

  SabrinaDarby.com

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  Table of Contents

  1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8

  Jilted in January

  Sneak Preview

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A Duke by December

  Sabrina Darby

  Elizabeth Smith is secretly in love with the tall, handsome golden-haired man who rescued her from Arkansas Territory and offered her a new life. Unfortunately, she knows he’ll never see her as anything more than his secretary.

  Nathaniel Hughes has spent the majority of his life in America amassing his fortune. When he discovers he is the next Duke of Beckworth, he must reluctantly travel to England, face down his past, and rehabilitate an estate to save those who live on it. But every duke requires a duchess and an heir.

  He’ll figure this out somehow with Lizzie, his loyal and capable secretary, at his side. Once at Beckworth, he finds it increasingly difficult to deny a powerful attraction to the woman he has vowed to protect—even from himself. Can he find the strength to choose duty over desire?

  Mr. Reginald Tompkins

  Richards, Thistlewaite and Tompkins Solicitors

  Temple, London

  My dear Reginald,

  What wonderful news indeed! The lost duke is found, and on his way back to England. One can only imagine how he must feel inheriting such an enormous estate with all the responsibilities that entails. He is lucky to have the guidance of a strong, principled man such as yourself to aid him in this task.

  I understand from your last letter that you intend to persuade the new duke to come down to Beckworth Park at his earliest convenience. Might I hope that you will accompany him? One does not wish to be bold, but after this lively correspondence between us, I must confess to a certain curiosity to meet you in the flesh, so to speak.

  Please assure the duke that Beckworth Park will be ready to receive him at his convenience. In truth, the entire family and staff are on tenterhooks! And do not underestimate the magnitude of your own welcome, sir. I must confess that I am even more excited about the prospect of meeting you than I am the duke.

  Yours in anticipation,

  Henrietta Pemberley

  Housekeeper, Beckworth Park

  Chapter One

  “Where is she?”

  At the rage-filled voice shouting from the open front door of the inn’s taproom, Nathaniel Hughes glanced up from the drink he was nursing. It was not the nicest inn at which he’d ever stayed—in fact it barely deserved the name, being more of a dram house with a couple of rooms available—but this edge of Arkansas Territory was still rough and barely settled. The man filling the frame of the door appeared similarly uncivilized, his face hidden behind a full, unkempt beard and a mess of stringy hair that hadn’t seen water or a comb in weeks, if not months.

  Nate looked back at his drink. Whatever the problem was, it was best to stay out of it. As long as he didn’t attract undue notice, Arkansas Territory was a fine place for an Englishman to hide out while his home country was at war with his adopted one. With the war between Britain and the States finally over, he was now making his way back to New York, where he’d left a great deal of his amassed fortune in a handful of banks. But out here a man could take exception to something far less significant than nationality.

  The barest sound of a whimper behind him made him aware that he was directly between predator and prey. His body tensed.

  “Who are you looking for, Morgan?” the barmaid asked, a saucy grin on her lips. Despite her easy façade, the woman’s shoulders were tense. Katie. Nate had watched her for the past two nights. She was well skilled in deflecting half a dozen brawls a night with charm alone.

  “My niece. She’s run off with my property,” he growled, eyes scanning the room.

  “Didn’t know you had any family out here. Didn’t know you had any property either.”

  A few of the men scattered at the tables snickered, but Morgan narrowed his eyes and lumbered in Nate’s direction. There was no door, no escape in the corner behind Nate, and clearly the shadows no longer protected this man’s thieving niece from his notice. What had she stolen? Money? Jewelry? Regardless, it was a family matter. Even better reason to focus on the ale.

  Except all of Nate’s senses were on alert. Morgan was no victim, and there was something odd about the situation. As the man and his pungent scent passed him, Nate followed with his gaze.

  Silvery gray eyes met his, and his gut clenched in primal awareness. Long lashes. Rosy lips. A pale, young face framed with black curls. One that was arresting in its raw beauty. A man might hunt her for that beauty alone. This girl was also terrified. She met Nate’s gaze mutely, beseechingly, before swinging it back to her uncle.

  Who loomed over her. She shifted slightly, and Nate realized that her action was to put herself between her uncle and a young black man. Boy, really. Fourteen or fifteen, perhaps. And indubitably the property to which the uncle referred.

  Nate’s lips curled in distaste. He had enjoyed his years in the United States of America. Made his fortune in the copper mines, but much of that time had been spent in and around New York. Slavery was an appalling practice, and in his travels the past three years, he’d found nothing redeeming about the custom regardless of the arguments in its favor that “gentlemen” and “ladies” proposed to him. England had finally rightfully outlawed the damnable thing.

  Which was possibly why Nate found himself standing a
nd pushing a chair out of the way to demand of the Morgan fellow, “What seems to be the problem here?”

  Morgan eyed him up and down, taking in Nate’s height and breadth, likely trying to see if he was armed. Nate stood a good three inches taller and was strong from years of work, but he didn’t possess the same obvious brute strength as Morgan. At least there was a knife in Nate’s boot. He wished he had the musket that was upstairs in his room.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” the man said in that same low growl and turned back to the girl. “Lizzie, John, get up and grab your bags. We’re heading back.”

  “You can’t make us,” the girl said, her voice assured despite the fear Nate had read in her eyes. “I’m not a child and John’s free. But even if you refuse to acknowledge that, if he’d belong to anyone, it would be to me.”

  Morgan’s face suffused with red. “Mind your tongue, little lady. You’ll be lucky if I don’t give you a walloping for this.”

  He grabbed the girl’s arm and hoisted her up. She tried to pull away, but he yanked hard, twisting her arm behind her. The boy jumped to his feet and reached for the girl’s uncle, but Nate was there first, one hand on the man’s shoulder and one on the girl’s arm.

  She looked delicate, but he could feel the strength in that arm. Not that that strength would be enough to save her from whatever her uncle intended to do.

  “It starts to concern me when a lady is being hurt,” Nate said, a warning note in his voice. “I suggest you release her. Then you can sit down and solve your problems peaceably.”

  He released them both in time to block the fist that came swinging at his face. The impact stung and reverberated through his body, but all the instincts he had honed—first as a youth and then in his early years in America living in rough quarters—moved his arms, his body, and his hands. Nate had learned skill and strategy from pugilists, and it was clear that Morgan relied on his size and brute force.

  The girl had shifted slightly, drawing her brother with her. If she were smart, she would try to slip away while her uncle was distracted.

  Air whooshed by Nate’s cheek as he avoided another punch. Volunteering to be that distraction was not the wisest idea. The silence was thick in the tavern, punctuated by the occasional thud of a glass on a wooden table. All of his senses were heightened as he defended himself, buying the girl time.

  But when Morgan came swinging like a bear, ham fists flying toward Nate’s head, he ducked and attacked. Defense alone would get him nowhere. He needed to incapacitate the man long enough that he, too, could get away.

  He swung at the soft tissue of the man’s lower back. Morgan grunted in pain and surprise. Nate followed it up with a punch to his jaw, blocked a stumbling fist, and attacked again. The seconds dragged on, but then suddenly it was over, Morgan falling backward into a chair that he dragged with him as he fell to the floor.

  The man stared at him through rivulets of blood. His lip was split as well, and red gushed onto his neck and chest.

  Nate’s breath came fast and his body ached, but now he loomed over Morgan. He was intensely aware of the girl watching him from the far side of the room. She’d moved toward the exit but hadn’t left. He wondered at that for only a moment. “They are under my protection now. You follow us, you come after us, I will kill you.” Nate tossed some coins to the innkeeper. “Get him out of here.”

  • • •

  Lizzie Smith thought the stranger was the most magnificent man she had ever seen. Not only had he come to her rescue, but also with his blond hair curling about his neck, his greenish-blue eyes, and a bruise growing on his cheek where her uncle had managed to get one hit in, he looked like some avenging sun god.

  He walked over to them. “Nathaniel Hughes, at your service.”

  Then he held his hand out to John, who reached out hesitantly to shake it.

  “Elizabeth Smith.” Lizzie choked on her own name, cleared her throat, and tried again. “And this is my brother, John Smith,” she continued.

  “A pleasure to meet you both, though I wish it could have been under different circumstances. You’d better come with me.”

  He strode off as if he expected they would follow his orders. Despite a slight twinge of irritation at the assumption, Lizzie was not about to stay in the taproom where everyone watched them with narrowed eyes.

  Not a single person in this room other than Mr. Hughes would have helped them.

  “Let’s go, John,” she said, grabbing the satchel by her feet. He grabbed his as well, and they traipsed after Mr. Hughes, across the taproom, and up the stairs into the hallway where the bedrooms were.

  She shouldn’t have risked coming into this inn, but she’d thought they were far enough away, had forgotten that her itinerant uncle had probably frequented every inn and tavern in the entire territory. She’d wanted to warm up by the fire for just a little bit.

  “I could have taken him,” John whispered.

  He probably could have. At fourteen, John was as tall as she was and strong. But if the solution to their problems had been as easy as letting her half brother defend himself, they wouldn’t now be following this stranger upstairs to his room.

  “You know that would have been a mistake,” she whispered back. “You do anything to him and anyone who wishes to take up his cause will find you.”

  “We’re running, aren’t we?”

  “We’re on foot, unarmed, and penniless. We have no one on our side, and we aren’t faster than horses. And right now, even if we can’t prove it, we have the law on our side. We kill the bastard and we lose that.”

  “If he touches me…” John didn’t finish the threat.

  “Your sister is right,” Mr. Hughes said, stopping and turning slightly on the stairs. She flushed to realize he’d been listening. “A slave boy killing a white man? Here? It wouldn’t matter if you were defending yourself.”

  “He’s not a slave,” Lizzie said hotly.

  The stranger smiled slightly. “And that matters?”

  She swallowed hard, anger seething through her. At her uncle, at the town, at fate. But Mr. Hughes was right. It was why she and John were running away in the first place.

  “Come inside my room, and while I pack, you tell me what happened.”

  “Pack?”

  “As much as I want to sleep, I can’t risk your uncle rounding up a mob to stop us from leaving town in the morning. As far as he’s concerned, I’ve helped you steal property.”

  She glanced at her brother. For all John’s bravado, he was shaking. He knew his life would be hard. How could he not when he’d been ridiculed and sometimes threatened for his parentage? Despite that, he’d mostly been sheltered, living out on their farm with parents who loved him and the security of knowing he was free.

  Until the fire that took everything away from them.

  Not a single person who knew their family would stand up for the truth. Yet this stranger had.

  She nodded, but he hadn’t waited for her response. Nathaniel Hughes was already halfway down the hallway.

  Inside the bare bedroom, John sat in the single chair, clutching his satchel to his chest, utterly silent. He was normally a garrulous, good-natured boy, but grief and fear had changed them both.

  She stood by the window, looking out at the moonlit night as Mr. Hughes carefully packed away the few items he had likely unpacked only a few hours prior. His life was being upended now as well.

  “Calvin Morgan,” she said abruptly. “He’s my mother’s brother. Swooped in when he heard Pa died and wanted to take over the farm. Said a girl like me can’t do it on her own.”

  Nate raised his brow and she looked away, shrugging.

  “Said I’m stupid,” she said, half whispering, the word feeling shameful on her lips. She’d been told that before, by her father and by townsfolk. She had no reason to think any differently. But the cows and the chickens didn’t care much about that as long as you fed them. And bread still baked, and stew still tasted like stew. “He
was going to sell everything, including John, though he’s as free as you and me, even if we no longer have the paper to prove it. Said it was time I married because babies was what I was made for.”

  “My papers, Ma’s papers. Pa and Ma too. Everything was gone in the fire,” John said.

  “When was this fire?” Mr. Hughes asked.

  Lizzie looked at John to see if he would keep talking. He’d barely talked about the fire since the day after it happened.

  “Two months ago,” he said.

  The first few weeks they’d struggled, continued to bring in the harvest, survived as best as they could. But that was when Lizzie had first learned the townspeople would be of little help. One of their neighbors had offered to take her in, said a girl shouldn’t be out on her own, but their charity had been more of a desire for free labor. Then the Cochrans’ oldest son, Joe, had discovered that Lizzie knew how to use her fist if he attempted to get under her skirts. She’d started carrying a knife after that.

  That was when she and John had first discussed selling the farm and moving south to Louisiana territory. Perhaps a woman with only a boy to protect her wouldn’t be much safer, but John’s mother had had a cousin who lived there who said life for free black folk was better. Several times she had spoken about sending John south to give him more opportunities for his future.

  Then Lizzie’s uncle had showed up and the planning transformed to necessity, except without time to sell the farm and gather much more than the clothes on their backs.

  “My condolences on your loss,” Mr. Hughes said, and at his solemn tone a pang shot through Lizzie’s heart. She looked up and found his gaze was on John, studying her brother even as Mr. Hughes’s hands, which were red and swollen from the fight, continued to fold and stuff clothes and objects into his satchel. Then those blue-green eyes met hers and the pain intensified. Tears stung her eyes, and she looked away, blinking rapidly.

  She’d been numb since the loss. They’d been simply struggling to survive ever since, between the need to prepare for the oncoming winter, making the barn habitable not only for animals, but also for two humans doing the work of four instead of two. And then they had fled.