The Duke Redemption Read online

  Book 4

  About the Book

  The Duke Redemption

  (Game of Dukes, Book 4)

  © Grace Callaway, December 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-939537-41-6

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, 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 copyright owner.

  A gentleman in search of redemption finds a lady looking for sin. Will honor or temptation prevail? Find out in this sensual and heart-melting take on Beauty and the Beast…

  * * *

  The Beast

  Once London’s reigning debutante, Lady Beatrice Wodehouse is poised for a life of happiness when an accident shatters her dreams. Renamed Lady Beastly by vicious gossips, she flees loss and betrayal, escaping to the countryside. There, she finds solace in anonymity and discovers new purpose, turning her estate into a haven for society’s outcasts. Yet a shard of her old dream remains: she yearns for a taste of forbidden passion…

  * * *

  The Beauty

  Once London’s most feckless rake, Wickham Murray has fought to redeem his honor and prove that he is more than a shallow Adonis. Now a railway industrialist, he’s as renowned for his prowess in the boardroom as in the bedchamber. His latest venture will be the greatest success of his career: the only obstacle is a stubborn country spinster who refuses to sell him her land. On his way to negotiate with her, he stops at a masquerade, where an encounter with a masked lady changes everything he thought he knew about desire…

  * * *

  Their Timeless Tale

  Negotiations go from heated to scorching as Bea and Wick discover that they are not only opponents in business but lovers bonded by a night of ecstasy that neither can forget. As they wrestle with all-consuming passion and blossoming love, they must also contend with deadly attacks from a mysterious foe. In order to survive, they will have to unravel dark secrets…and trust the truth of their own hearts.

  Thank you for checking out my Game of Dukes series! If you’d like to stay apprised of my new releases and bonus content, be sure to sign up for my newsletter:

  gracecallaway.com/newsletter

  * * *

  Let the adventures begin…

  The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul. -George Sand

  * * *

  Here’s to the beauty of the soul.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Also by Grace Callaway

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Hyde Park, London, 1833

  “How are matters progressing, my dear Beatrice?” The Duchess of Hadleigh leaned over the side of the open carriage, the plume of her bonnet bobbing over her honey-gold curls. “Has Croydon spoken of his intentions?”

  Perched on a bay mare next to the carriage, seventeen-year-old Lady Beatrice Wodehouse saw the excitement that lit her mama’s violet eyes. Considered an Incomparable in her youth, Mama remained a stunning beauty, and Bea thought of herself as a pale imitation: her own locks were a lighter shade of gold and her eyes clear lavender. Papa liked to say that Mama and Bea looked like sisters, which always made the former blush and the latter hide a grin.

  It was common knowledge that the Duke of Hadleigh doted upon his beautiful wife. Although Bea’s younger brother Benedict was wont to roll his eyes whenever Their Graces expressed affection, Bea was inspired by her parents’ happiness. It fueled her dreams of finding everlasting love…dreams that might be coming true this very day.

  Bea peeked over at Peter Mansfield, the Duke of Croydon. He sat astride a white stallion a few yards away. The Season’s premier catch, he had been detained by admirers the moment they arrived at Rotten Row. Her pulse quickened when he turned his dark head in her direction, his mouth curving in a heart-stopping smile.

  Warmth rushed into Bea’s cheeks…and other unmentionable parts of her person. Last week, Croydon had stolen a kiss in the garden, awakening a strange need inside her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the warm brush of his lips against her own. At night, she tossed restlessly in bed, dreaming of the mysteries of the marital bower…

  “Well, Beatrice? Has His Grace confessed the reason for today’s ride?”

  “Confess, Mama?” Pushing aside her wanton curiosity, Bea managed a teasing tone. “You make him sound like a criminal.”

  “Your future is no joking matter,” Mama chided. “Do remember to curb that wit of yours: no man wants a bold, overly clever wife. And fix your skirts, dear. You must display your assets to their fullest advantage.”

  Used to her mama’s lectures, Bea bit her tongue; she knew better than to argue. She smoothed her plum velvet riding habit and adjusted the small hat perched atop her pale ringlets.

  “All the marriageable misses have set their caps for Croydon, and who can blame them?” her mama went on. “A handsome duke worth twenty thousand a year is rarer than a unicorn, I daresay, and he’s singled you out for his attentions.”

  A fact that never ceased to amaze Bea. Although she was a duke’s daughter, she’d grown up in the country. Mama was not fond of Town life, and Papa had taken trips to London alone. For Bea’s debut, however, the duke had brought the entire family to the nation’s capital, leasing a grand townhouse for the Season. Bea had to admit that she still felt like a fish out of water in the sophisticated, glittering world of the ton.

  “When His Grace asked permission to ride with you today, he mentioned he had a specific matter he wished to discuss.” Mama looked at her expectantly. “Are you prepared to give him a reply?”

  Would ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ qualify?

  She opted for a demure response. “Yes, Mama. With your and Papa’s permission, of course.”

  “You have it. Oh, how happy you’ll be! As a duchess, the world will be your oyster, and I know Croydon will cherish you as you deserve.” Mama’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Now when His Grace returns, be sure to suggest a ride away from this brouhaha. The section by the Serpentine will be perfect for a tête-à-tête. I’ll follow at a discreet distance to give the two of you privacy…”

  A tinkling, bell-like voice cut Mama off. “Lady Beatrice, fancy meeting you here!”

  Bea glimpsed Miss Arabella Millbank weaving through the crowded path, shaded by a lacy parasol. The pretty, raven-haired heiress had debuted with Bea, and the two had bec
ome fast friends. Since Arabella had grown up in London, she was well versed in the ways of Town. She’d saved Bea a seat at every function, advised her on the latest fashions, and shared the juiciest tidbits of gossip. Bea was grateful for the other’s kindness.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” The flounces on Arabella’s skirts fluttered as she curtsied.

  Mama arched her brows. “Have you lost your chaperone, Miss Millbank?”

  Bea cringed at the frosty tone of the question. Mama did not conceal her dislike of Bea’s friend. Arabella had addressed the topic in her matter-of-fact way: It’s to be expected, dear Bea. Her Grace doesn’t favor me because my family’s fortune comes from import-export.

  Bea didn’t like to think that her own mother would hold such pretensions. Gathering up her courage, she’d asked Mama about it point-blank.

  Any prejudice I have against Miss Millbank is due to her character, Mama had retorted. Your trusting nature will be your downfall, Beatrice…but I suppose I am to blame. I kept you sheltered too long in the country. Heed my words: things are different in London.

  Bea saw no reason to distrust Arabella, who had been nothing but kind.

  “My chaperone is back there somewhere,” Arabella now said brightly. “When I saw Lady Beatrice standing here, I simply had to rush over to say hello.”

  “What perfect timing you have,” Mama replied.

  As Bea was puzzling over her mother’s dry tone, the Duke of Croydon rejoined them.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Arabella’s green eyes sparkled as she twirled her parasol. “What a magnificent mount you have.”

  “Thank you, Miss Millbank.” Croydon patted the Arabian’s neck before turning to Bea. “I apologize for the delay, my lady. I had not seen the Yardleys for some time, and there was much to catch up on.”

  “I hope you had a nice visit,” Bea said sincerely.

  “Quite. Although I missed the present charming company,” Croydon murmured. “Are you ready to continue our ride?”

  “Indeed we are,” Mama cut in. “Why don’t you escort my daughter along the quieter path by the Serpentine, Your Grace? I’ll follow behind after I return Miss Millbank to her chaperone.”

  Bea rode to the leafy, shadowed path with Croydon. Here, the walk was sparsely populated, the chatter of crowds replaced by birdsong and buzzing insects. As promised, Mama was following discreetly behind—so discreetly, in fact, that Bea did not even see her.

  Bea slid a sidelong glance at her companion, wondering if he would take the opportunity to steal another kiss. Not that he’d have to steal what I would willingly give. The brazen thought warmed her cheeks even more than the sunshine.

  The duke’s stallion, Attila, seemed to take a liking to Bea’s mare, Midnight Star; when Attila came too close, Star lurched away with a nervous whinny, jostling Bea in the sidesaddle.

  “She’s a bit skittish,” Bea apologized, tightening her grip on the reins.

  “I don’t blame her for being shy. Attila, stop being a brute,” Croydon ordered.

  Seeing the stallion’s chastised expression, Bea couldn’t help but giggle.

  “May I compliment you on your laugh, Lady Beatrice? It is so unaffected and carefree. Qualities that, I daresay, are as rare and admirable as your beauty.”

  Bea’s heart raced at the duke’s intent expression, the vivid blue of his eyes.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly.

  “As it is just the two of us, could I tempt you to call me by my given name?”

  “That…that would be forward, wouldn’t it?”

  “Such informality would be improper,” he said gravely. “Unless we had a more intimate connection, that is. I have a question to ask you, my dear. I will, of course, speak to your father, but I wanted to know where your wishes lay first.”

  She felt faint with expectation. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Lady Beatrice…would you like to be my wife?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I would like that very much—”

  “That’ll teach you to steal from your betters, you filthy guttersnipe!”

  The shouting shattered the magical moment. Startled, Bea swung her gaze in the direction of the voices. Two figures were just up ahead on the path. A man on horseback was dragging a boy up by the scruff, lifting the child’s kicking feet clear off the ground. As Bea watched in horror, he raised his other hand, which held a gleaming black horsewhip.

  “What the devil?” Croydon muttered.

  Instinct propelled Bea into action.

  She galloped forward. “Desist, sir! You’re hurting the boy!”

  As she pulled to a stop, the man’s gaze roved with slow insolence over her. He had thick jowls and square, pugnacious features. His clothing was costly and ostentatious, gold buttons and fobs scattered over his expansive torso.

  “Who are you to interfere in my business?” he demanded.

  “I am Lady Beatrice Wodehouse, daughter of the Duke of Hadleigh.” Bea saw with anxiety that the child still suspended from the man’s beefy fist had a swollen eye and bleeding lip. “Let the boy go, sir. Can’t you see that you’re hurting him?”

  “Bloody pickpocket deserves a thrashing.” Scowling, the man shook the boy again, the force sending the child’s tattered cap to the ground. “He filched my coin purse and thought he could get away with it!”

  Croydon drew up beside Bea. “I am the Duke of Croydon, the lady’s escort. And you are?”

  “T. Edgar Grigg, industrialist.” The man smirked. “You may have heard of me.”

  Bea did indeed recognize the name. Grigg was a coal merchant whose showy advertisements were seen everywhere in Town. The papers credited him with advancements in the delivery of the resource to London, which had an insatiable need for coal-driven power. His warehouses lined the banks of Regent’s Canal, and some mockingly referred to the miasma of smoke that hung over the city as “Grigg’s Gold.”

  “’Elp me, milady!” The boy’s pleading gaze latched onto Bea. He couldn’t be more than eight years old, with a mop of brown hair and missing front teeth. “I ain’t done nufing, I swear!”

  “You must put the boy down, Mr. Grigg,” Bea said as calmly as she could over her thundering heart. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “There’s no misunderstanding,” Grigg snarled. “This thief picked the wrong pigeon to pluck.”

  “I swear on me ma’s grave that I didn’t steal nufing. Me pockets are empty, see?” The boy turned out the pockets of his threadbare trousers and jacket. “A wrong against me you’ll regret, but a favor to me I’ll ne’er forget. ’Elp me milady, please. Don’t let the cove ’urt me!”

  The poor child…he’s babbling in pain. I have to do something!

  “The child doesn’t have your purse,” Bea said. “I must insist that you let him go.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Grigg raised his whip in a menacing manner.

  Star let out a whinny, backing away. Bea steadied her mount.

  “Kindly refrain from speaking to a lady in that tone,” Croydon said sharply.

  “Gladly, Your Grace,” Grigg said with a sneer. “If her ladyship will refrain from intruding in my business.”

  After an exchange of stares with Grigg, Croydon turned to her.

  “Let us continue on,” he said in a low tone. “It is not our affair, after all.”

  Bea stared at him in shock. “We cannot abandon this child.”

  “While your kindness is admirable, the boy is a street urchin,” Croydon said curtly. “You haven’t been in Town long enough to know what that sort is capable of—”

  “Bloody hell!” Grigg roared in pain. “The filthy cur bit my hand!”

  Bea’s breath held as the boy, freed from the industrialist’s grip, made a run for it. He darted away, quick as a minnow. Grigg recovered with equal speed.

  Shaking his whip, he shouted, “You’re going to pay for this, you li’l bugger!”

  He urged his mou
nt forward; on instinct, Bea did the same. She was faster, cutting him off as he neared his prey with his whip raised. Barricading his path, she met Grigg’s gaze: whatever she meant to say evaporated at the rage blazing in his eyes. He paused with his whip held mid-air…then brought his arm down viciously, his lash slicing through the air.

  With a terrified neigh, Star reared.

  The mare’s sudden bucking jerked Bea’s grip from the reins. She flew from the sidesaddle, arcing backward, landing with a bone-jolting thud. Stars streaked across her vision, shouts exploding in her ears. She blinked up through a haze of pain, saw a shadow hovering over her face—a hoof, its edge glinting like a scythe.

  A scream burst in her throat as it descended.

  1

  Staffordshire, Seven Years Later

  Wickham Murray entered the ballroom of the country house wearing a domino over his evening clothes and a black demi-mask. Similarly disguised guests were twirling around the dance floor. The females—a mix of sophisticates and ladies of the night—were garbed in a variety of costumes, their jewels ranging from priceless diamonds to artfully cut pieces of glass.

  Wick had selected the masquerade for his night’s diversion because of the anonymity it offered. He was, at the moment, travelling incognito. As the public face of one of the country’s most successful railway companies, Great London Northern Railway (also known as GLNR), he did not wish to be recognized on this trip to Staffordshire.