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- Herausgeber: Babooks Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Inconvenient Brides
- Sprache: Englisch
A wealthy merchant’s daughter and a struggling writer. Can this gentleman find a way to woo the lady he desires?
A captivating prequel novella full of unrequited feelings, comedy and steamy romance.
London, 1818. Dinah Honeyfield can’t wait any longer. In love with her family’s long-term houseguest, she’s determined to get him to reveal his affections before her rich industrialist father marries her off.
Lord John Pettigrew gave up his birthright to follow his dreams. And with nothing to offer a potential wife, the aspiring author despairs he’ll never be able to win the hand of the one who’s been his muse.
Can they rewrite their future and plot a path to forever?
Interview With the Duke is the delightful prequel to the Inconvenient Brides Regency romance series. If you like worthy heroes, fast-paced plots, and enduring connections, then you’ll adore Nina Jarrett’s charming tale of passion.
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Seitenzahl: 112
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Interview With the Duke Ebook Edition
Copyright © 2022 by Nina Jarrett. All rights reserved.
Published by Babooks Publishing.
Edited by Katie Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information, contact author Nina Jarrett. www.ninajarrett.com
INTERVIEW WITH THE DUKE
INCONVENIENT BRIDES PREQUEL
NINA JARRETT
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
More Books by Nina Jarrett
SUBSCRIBE TO DOWNLOAD YOUR FREE COPY OF THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE
A missing bride and her estranged husband. Can this gentleman woo the lady he desires?
A captivating prequel novella full of unrequited feelings and steamy romance.
Mrs. Lydia Lewis has given up on broken promises. Marrying her soulmate only to be attacked during his heartbreaking absence, she finds refuge as an incognito ducal housekeeper.
Captain Jacob Lewis is angry and hurt. Returning from military service to discover his spouse has vanished into thin air, he begins an almost hopeless search to bring her home.
Can this star-crossed pair reclaim newlywed bliss?
The Captain’s Wife is the delightful prequel to the Inconvenient Brides Regency romance series. If you like worthy heroes, fast-paced plots, and enduring connections, then you’ll adore Nina Jarrett’s charming novella.
Get The Captain’s Wife for a tale of passion today!
Download your free copy by subscribing at:
NinaJarrett.com/free
PROLOGUE
Oh, sweet sorrow to recall the blood one has lost.
A gust of wind grabbed hold of Lord John Pettigrew’s beaver and flung it back before he could react. Spinning on his heel, he gave chase as it skittered down the street he had just exited. The hat had been a gift from his older brother, whom he had not seen in some time, and it was too valuable to him to allow it to escape. It came to a stop on the filthy London roadway, but John was determined as he grimaced at the unmentionable things that would need to be brushed—nay, scrubbed—off the expensive piece.
As he bent over to pick it up, a door opened nearby and a pair of polished Hessians stepped out of Hatchards bookshop and into his peripheral vision, causing him to stumble off-balance. A large, sun-bronzed hand shot out to steady him as John tried to find leverage while grabbing for the brim of the headpiece. The man holding him up was strong, preventing John from sprawling face-first in a ripe pile of horse manure currently gracing the dirty street cobbles.
Once he had regained his balance, John straightened, much more gracefully than he had folded over, to thank the man for his hasty intervention.
“Pettigrew?”
John looked up into a familiar face. “Halmesbury! I mean … Your Grace.” He sank into a bow.
The young duke snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. If you insist on ‘your gracing’ me, I will have no choice but to ‘milord’ you, so let us behave like old school chums who have just been reacquainted after some years apart, shall we?”
John smiled. Halmesbury was as modest as he remembered from their Oxford days, which was a pleasant discovery. Since his father had disinherited his own sorry arse, demonstrating implicitly that John was the unnecessary spare, many of the peers he had considered friends had shunned him. He no longer had a generous quarterly allowance; he was no longer connected to a marquess; and, horror of horrors, he now wrote for a living. Worse, hemadea living instead of being an indolent second son living off his father’s fortune.
“It is good to see you, Halmesbury. And thank you for catching me.” John gestured at the offensive pile.
“What are you doing right now, Pettigrew? Do you have time to accompany me to a coffee shop so we can catch up?” the duke queried in his deep baritone as he released John to swipe errant blond strands from his own face. John’s smile widened. The duke had always worn his hair a little long and was perpetually sweeping it back with his hand. Lord, it was good to see his broad, friendly face again.
“You drink coffee, Your Gr—Halmesbury?”
“Of course, Pettigrew, with a good book. I’m not much for the hard stuff, friend.”
John smiled and nodded in agreement. They both turned in the same direction to make their way to the nearby coffee shop, clearly in one mind about the exceptional quality of that particular establishment.
* * *
While John settled onto a crudely carved bench, the duke dropped down across the scarred tabletop onto his own bench. He topped John’s five feet eleven by at least four or five extra inches, and he was broader of frame, so the seating was more awkward for Halmesbury. The duke took several moments to settle into a comfortable position.
“So tell me, John, why have I not seen you in so long? It must be four to five years since we last met?”
John’s heart grew heavy in his chest as disappointment flooded him. Did the duke not know about his scandalous behavior? Would he see the man’s expression grow cold when he explained his current circumstances? Pensively, he stared at Halmesbury for some moments, breathing in the aroma of roasted coffee beans and taking in the chatter of the other patrons.
“The marquess cut me off.”
“What?” The duke looked flabbergasted. “Why would he do such a thing? You were always such a good … Why? When?”
“Back in 1814, he purchased me a commission. Unbeknownst to him, I had written a novel that had just been accepted by a publisher. When he told me of the commission, I informed him of my decision to pursue a career in writing, and we … had words.” John winced at this understatement. More like a holy war that had raged for weeks as his father had flung accusations of cowardice and ingratitude, followed by tirades about not knowing one’s place in the world—John severed the torturous thoughts. Even years later, the memories were still raw and painful. It was fortunate he had Dinah Honeyfield in his life to sweeten his sentiments and relieve the pain of losing his family.
“A novel, you say?” To his surprise, the duke’s expression reflected interest, not disdain.
“Yes. The marquess accused me of being a coward for shirking my duty and threw me out. I have been writing ever since.” John added the extra information as if some compulsion drove him to challenge the duke to reject him. He preferred to not prolong their meeting and just reach the inevitable outcome quickly.
“Truly? What have you written?” The duke’s interest did not appear to wane.
“A novel, two volumes of poetry, and I write articles for The Gentleman’s Magazine.”
Halmesbury looked astonished. “Incredible … I never knew you had such an interest in writing.”
“As the second son of an important noble, I was trying to learn my place. But I reached the day I could no longer deny my passion for the written word, and I had to pursue it.”
The duke mulled on this, no sign of rejection or contempt yet evident. “That sounds like a terrible sacrifice to have made.”
John struggled to follow his meaning. After a few seconds, he pointed to himself. “You mean me ?”
The duke tilted his head in assent.
John bobbed his head in astonishment. “You think I sacrificed?”
“Of course. The easy path would have been to bow to your father’s desires and take the commission you did not want, would it not? As the son of a marquess, you likely would have been assigned something in administration if you had wished it, thus never experiencing a moment of danger during your service.”
John pondered his remarks. “Well, I don’t know what to say. You are the first to view it that way.”
The duke frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? How has it been viewed?”
“That I am a coward for not donning the scarlet coatee. That I was avoiding my duty. Not to mention the scandal of being engaged in a disreputable career and turning my back on centuries of noble tradition.”
“Other members of polite society may not hold honest work in high esteem, but I do. And avoiding your duty was not the impetus for your decision, was it?”
“Well … no.”
“Then, pish, art is important. It inspires men to dream, to aspire to new heights. Mayhap, to dream of new solutions that do not involve cutting men down in battle and leaving widows and orphans to fend for themselves. As I see it, you took a risk. You walked away from a life of certain luxury to forge your own path and do what was right for you. Are you a good writer? Do you have something meaningful to contribute?”
“I like to think so.”
“Well, then, there you go. You are not a coward, but a brave man to face the unknown.”
John stared at the duke for several seconds, steady gray eyes staring right back at him. They both lifted their coffees to take a sip and grimace at the bitter beverage. It was an acquired taste. By all appearances, Halmesbury was intimately acquainted with the intricacies of coffee-drinking. John dropped his gaze to stare down into his cup before raising his head to break the silence.
“And you, Halmesbury? What have you been up to?”
“I married—”
“Congratulations!”
“—and was widowed.”
John winced. “Good Lord, I am so sorry, friend.”
“So am I, Pettigrew, so am I. The duchess was a beautiful young woman and taken from the world far too soon.”
“Zooks! Halmesbury, that is terrible. Losing my family left a hole in my soul, a metaphysical wound that will never fully heal. They are my blood … but it seems trivial compared to losing your wife … Hell, listen to me running off at the mouth! My apologies, Your Grace, and my condolences.”
“Thank you and not at all. It is a pity—and unnecessary—that this happened to you, and I understand the desire to vent to an old friend.”
“You were always a good listener, Halmesbury. I am glad to find you unchanged in that regard.”
The duke’s face fell for a moment, his eyes haunted as he looked away. “Would it be, friend, would it be.”
John suppressed a shiver as his writer’s eyes glimpsed into the other man’s soul, straight to some undisclosed, festering wound. A moment later the duke smiled, composed once more, as if he had not a care in the world. John’s heart squeezed to realize that his old friend was masking great pain and he, John, had not the means to alleviate it.
“Now, tell me, Pettigrew, how can I be of assistance?”
John’s head bobbed up in surprise at the change in subject. “Truly?”
Halmesbury gave a nod.
“Well … I make my regular income from The Gentleman’s Magazine. If you would grant me an interview—”
The duke winced. “Egads, John, anything but that! I hate being in the public eye! You know that … damn …” John stayed silent while the duke appeared to consider it. “All right, I will allow an interview, but the article will be about my philanthropic work, to promote charitable causes, mind you. That is the only subject I am willing to discuss in a publication.”
John nodded as he reached into his burgundy tailcoat to pull out a fresh, leather-bound notebook and a graphite pencil. He had just purchased both the items at his favorite stationery shop that morning, which now turned out to be fortunate timing.
“Then tell me about this charitable work?”
“Let me see … I guess it all began when my housekeeper, Mrs. Thorne, approached me to discuss the Halmesbury Home for Children …”
* * *
It was early the following morning when John came to be seated across from his editor while the balding, old man scanned the pages covered in John’s—admittedly untidy—scrawl.
Mr. White was a scrawny figure filled with nervous energy, who frequently sought his eyeglasses as he chewed on the end of a cheap cigar. The eyeglasses were usually clamped onto his head, resting on the top of his balding pate in a steely embrace, so John could not understand why the editor did not feel the tight grip of the arms pressing against his skull. He had diplomatically withheld the urge to point them out when the man had scurried around searching for them just moments ago because he had learned his lesson during their very first meeting, when Mr. White had been affronted by John pointing to his missing eyeglasses.
John now knew to never point them out unless specifically asked to by this cantankerous major of the magazine’s writing troops.
Mr. White had finally discovered them and was currently reading the article John had prepared the day before.
“Halmesbury? The reclusive duke? How did you get an interview with him?” Mr. White’s questions were tossed across the desk of haphazard papers and semi-organized chaos.
