My January Duke — Sneak Peek
Chapter 1.
2nd January 1822.
Three debt collectors were lurking at the edge of the churchyard, and Olivia Price let out a soft snort of derision, quickly covered with a cough.
She shouldn’t laugh—it was a funeral, after all—but they’d had a wasted trip. Her father’s coffin had just been lowered into the ground, and the vicar was struggling to say a few kind words about the deceased without perjuring himself.
She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief, ignoring Uncle Hubert’s disapproving glare from across the open grave.
The only good thing to say about her father was that he was dead.
She should probably feel guilty for her lack of filial grief, but she couldn’t honestly say that she’d miss him. He’d treated her with such casual disinterest that she was relieved he was gone. And now that the full extent of his swindling had come to light, she resented him with a slow, simmering fury.
If he wasn’t already dead, she’d have been tempted to kill him herself.
Sir Arthur Price hadn’t just died, he’d escaped—dodging scores of furious creditors, evading justice, and leaving the whole humiliating mess behind for her to deal with. Tens of thousands of pounds that he’d charmed, begged, borrowed, and outright stolen from people he’d had no intention of ever paying back.
Livvy sniffed. Maybe that was too harsh. Perhaps, at the start, he’d meant to repay the debts, but then they’d grown so large, like a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum, that it had become an unstoppable avalanche.
Everything would have to be sold. The townhouse in Covent Garden, the manor here in the village. The contents, too; whatever paintings and furniture he hadn’t already hocked to finance one of his mad schemes. Her mother’s jewels had disappeared years ago, despite being promised to her, and even if Father had bothered to leave her something in his will, settling the debts would take precedence over honoring any personal bequests. Livvy wouldn’t get a thing, except for a shameful legacy that would taint her by association forever. He didn’t deserve her tears.
The vicar finally stopped droning on, and his handful of dirt hit the lid of the casket with a dull patter. There hadn’t been funds to pay for more than the cheapest pine coffin from the local cabinetmaker. No black-dyed ostrich plume headdresses and black horses, no fancy black-and-gilt carriage. The burial fees, sermon-fees, and bell-ringing costs had been more than enough.
As her father’s only brother and executor, the task of organizing the funeral and dealing with the estate had fallen on Uncle Hubert, whose sour expression stemmed more from a distaste for being out in the freezing rain than from any love for his sibling.
Livvy shivered, though not from the chill. Uncle Hubert’s dead-eyed stare made her shudder.
With one last glance at the coffin, she turned away and walked briskly across the churchyard toward the house nestled behind the church. She’d lived at the old manor her whole life, until two years ago, when she’d accepted Daisy’s offer of employment at King & Co., and moved to London in a desperate attempt to earn some money of her own. Money that couldn’t be swallowed up by her father’s foolish extravagances.
“Olivia!”
Uncle Hubert’s grating tone made her stiffen, but she slowed her pace so that he could catch up with her and together they crunched down the gravel path and through the front door. Olivia removed her bonnet and cloak, and he swept off his hat and placed it on the hall table. She caught an unpleasant waft of the floral hair pomade he used to slick down his sparse grey hair.
“A word, if you please. In the study.”
With an inward sigh—she’d known she’d have to face him eventually—she complied and took a seat in the chair in front of the desk that had been her father’s.
A few telltale pale rectangles on the wallpaper opposite indicated where paintings had once hung. They’d already been sold or taken by bailiffs with court-issued permits; by men like the ones lingering by the churchyard wall. They’d probably be knocking at the door at any minute, demanding an audience. At least Hubert would have to deal with them and not herself.
Hubert stalked around the other side of the desk and sat, his watery blue eyes studying her with an unnerving intensity. He steepled his thin fingers together, elbows on the desk. “I assume you’re aware of the extent of your father’s folly?”
“I am. Mr. Wright, the solicitor, explained it to me.”
“Then you know that your prospects are dim. Very dim indeed. I doubt there will be anything left for you, once the debts have been discharged.”
“I know that.”
“To put it bluntly, you are ruined.” Livvy couldn’t hide her wince, but he ploughed on, uncaring. “Socially ruined, at least.” He shook his head, feigning sympathy. “If you hadn’t been so foolishly willful . . . if you’d considered marriage—as I advised on many occasions, if you recall—then you might have been spared this unfortunate situation. A husband would have provided you with a house, clothes, security.”
A husband would have dictated every part of her life.
He sighed. “But now it will be almost impossible to find a suitor who’ll overlook your lack of dowry and the fact that you’ll be excluded from almost every drawing room in the Ton.”
His eyes studied her face, then roved over her chest in a slow perusal that made Livvy clench her fingers into her skirts.
“How old are you now, girl?”
“Twenty-four.”
He pursed his lips. “Past the first blush of youth, to be sure, but you’ve still got a pretty face and a trim figure.”
“Why, thank you.” He missed her subtle sarcasm, as usual, too full of his own self-importance to realize that she was mocking him.
“Your father hoped you might reverse his fortunes my marrying a man with money. Someone who could loan him something for his more pressing debts. But that’s out of the question now, of course.”
Livvy tried to keep the anger from her tone. “I would never have expected any husband of mine to pay for my father’s foolishness. His problems were of his own making.”
“Well, it’s too late now, anyway,” Hubert said brutally. “Arthur’s dead, and the only men who’ll offer for you now will do so out of pity. Or lust.”
He licked his thin lips as he glanced at her chest again, and Livvy’s skin crawled.
“I have no intention of marrying anyone, Uncle. I’ve been supporting myself perfectly well in London for the past two years, and I fully intend to keep doing so in the future.”
Hubert let out a scornful snort. “Ah yes. Your little job at the investigative agency. Being paid to listen to society gossip and run errands for the Duchess of Wansford and her friends. You’re nothing but a glorified messenger.”
Livvy lifted her chin. “That may be, but I’m free to make my own decisions. I’d rather be an errand-girl than married to a man with no regard for me except as someone to run his house and warm his bed.”
Hubert’s lips curved in a cruel smile. “How can you keep doing that job if you’re no longer welcome in society, eh? Your father owed money to half the peerage. Do you think you’ll be invited anywhere now?”
Livvy’s stomach dropped. She’d considered that, of course, but it was still daunting to hear it spoken out loud. Her greatest fear was that her friends would insist on continuing to employ her purely out of pity. She refused to become a burden or the subject of their charity. She would earn her wages, in whatever ways necessary. If she had to become a washerwoman, or a maidservant, to get the information they needed, then she’d do it. She wasn’t afraid of hard work.
“King and Co. don’t just get their information from ballrooms, Uncle. I can be just as useful while working as a governess. Or as a companion to an old lady. I’ll go wherever I’m needed for a case.”
“Perhaps you can start working at a brothel,” Hubert sneered. “But remember that your virtue, once lost, is gone forever. As a soiled dove, your only hope would be to catch the eye of a generous patron and become his mistress for a while.”
“You paint a charming picture,” Livvy said coldly.
Hubert sat back in the chair. “I can save you from that fate.”
“Really? How?”
“You need a protector. Someone older and wiser to provide for you. I could do that. If you marry me.”
Livvy quashed an instinctive wave of nausea. At almost seventy, Uncle Hubert was close to three times her age. He’d been widowed before she was born. The thought of spending another hour in his company was unpleasant; the idea of spending a large chunk of her life with him was utterly repellent. Even worse, the way he was leering at her suggested he wasn’t even offering a celibate marriage of convenience.
Ugh. Men like him were who she needed protection from.
“The only reason I would ever accept a man’s proposal is because I loved him and knew that he loved me.” Livvy said, rising to her feet. “I have no interest in marriage to you, Uncle.” She emphasized the last word to remind him of the grotesque and inappropriate nature of his suggestion.
Hubert stood too, his wiry frame intimidating, even from across the desk. “You are foolish to spurn my generosity.”
Livvy shrugged. “Perhaps.”
He rounded the desk, but she held her ground, determined not to retreat.
“Do you think you’ll get a better offer?” he drawled. “You won’t. Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘better be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave’?” He raised his hand and stroked one of the curls by her ear and Livvy shrank back in revulsion.
“Don’t touch me.”
He ignored her and leaned closer, backing her up against the desk and her heart began to pound in real alarm.
“Come, now. Don’t be missish.” His cold fingers slid against her chin before he put one arm around her waist and tugged her forward, trying to press a kiss to the side of her neck, her shoulder. “Give me a kiss.”
Livvy gasped in outrage. Men had tried to grope her before, on occasion, at Covent Garden market, or while mingling with the crowds at the theater. A sharp word or a quick elbow to the ribs usually sent them packing. But Hubert seemed horribly determined. His hot breath made her stomach roll as she twisted away and gave him a hard shove with both hands against his chest. He staggered back, just a fraction, and she experienced a moment of relief before his wheeze of amusement fanned across her face.
“I don’t mind a girl with a bit of spirit,” he leered. “But your father gave you too much leeway. I’ll teach you your place, my girl.”
Livvy glared at him, abandoning all pretense of politeness as she reached behind her and grabbed the slim brass letter opener from the desk. It was long and sharp, like a little sword, and she held it up between them with a threatening scowl. “Step aside. I’m warning you.”
Hubert snorted in amusement. “Or what? You’ll stab me with that trinket?”
In a sudden move he knocked it aside with his forearm and grabbed her wrist, then stepped close, pressing her forcefully against the desk with his body while his free hand started to pull up her skirts.
He was alarmingly strong. Livvy wriggled like an eel and managed to yank her wrist free, but he grabbed the shoulder and the neck of her dress tore with an audible rip. With a shout of fury, she slashed down with the letter opener and caught him in the meaty part of his thigh.
She tugged the blade free with a sickening pull, scarcely able to believe what she’d done. She’d never stabbed anyone before.
“Little bitch!” Hubert stumbled back and looked down at his leg in shock. “You stabbed me!”
Livvy didn’t stop to think. She shoved past him, racing for the door. His furious bellow followed her down the hallway.
“Get back here, girl!”
She didn’t grab her cloak; she tore open the front door and raced outside into the rain—right into the path of a huge black stallion standing in the driveway.
“Woah!”
The horse reared up on its back legs, its front hooves pawing at the air just inches from her head.
Olivia was too surprised to scream. She froze in her tracks as the rider controlled his mount with impressive skill. He tugged at the reins and remained in the saddle as the creature’s hooves thundered back to the ground.
Livvy’s heart pounded as she glanced up. A shiny black riding boot, a muscled thigh encased in buff breeches, gloved hands gripping the reins, and then, with a terrible sense of inevitability, the handsome face of Devlin Hamilton, His Grace the Duke of Dalkeith.
Daisy’s brother. The bane of Livvy’s life. The last man in England she wanted to see.
Except, perhaps, for Uncle Hubert.
It was a close call. Devlin, to his credit, had never tried to molest her.
He’d merely broken her heart.
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