The Duke’s Improper Bride Read online

  The Duke’s Improper Bride

  Rebecca Paula

  A PROPER SCANDAL

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Paula. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher, Rebecca Paula.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill.

  ISBN: 9780990739586

  The Duke’s Improper Bride is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  About the Author

  Rebecca writes sexy, angsty romances about flawed characters who embrace the messy and complicated bits of life and love. Also, there’s kissing.

  She’s a champion of Byronic heroes and unlikeable heroines, a wanderlust connoisseur, a hopeless romantic, and is epically losing the battle of conquering her TBR pile. Rebecca lives in New Hampshire with her husband and young daughter.

  When not writing or reading, she loves binging ghost hunting shows and true crime podcasts, hiking around New England, and scouring stores for the ultimate find - cute dresses with pockets!

  * * *

  Let’s stay in touch! Share your favorite Tom Hardy gifs with Rebecca on Facebook, follow her on Instagram, or sign up for her newsletter for the latest on new releases, sales, and exclusive content.

  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

  Epilogue

  A Proper Scandal

  Also by Rebecca Paula

  Prologue

  Corisca, Spring 1886

  A hearty dose of Mediterranean sun might have been just what Isaac needed when nursing another broken heart. But the bullets flying in his direction would cancel any effects if the shooter’s aim improved.

  He ducked as another shot ripped through the dense sea air. He threw his body through a small hole, tumbling headfirst into a dark cavern.

  Could he not go anywhere without someone shooting him?

  The rough rock scraped his palms as he pulled himself forward into the darkness, searching for the source of the light flooding overhead just beyond another craggy obstacle. There was a ledge that skirted the cavern’s interior, dropping into absolute darkness below.

  Isaac preferred Corsica’s blue waters without a side of murder. Especially his own. But since he started the day with a gun pressed rudely into his temple, he doubted the rest of this trip would be for pleasure. Then again, he was a spy.

  He had known there would be trouble when he took the assignment six weeks back in London. But he would have done nearly anything to leave Burton Hall and the suffocating bliss between his partner, “The Devil” Bly Ravensdale, and Bly’s new wife, Clara.

  Second chances were hard fought and won, and the pair were so disgustingly in love Isaac could no longer stomach it—Isaac, the infamous Romeo, the man whose heart was easily captured, and most predictably, lost.

  In between the waves battering the cliffside, faint shouts echoed outside the cavern. But they grew closer. Closer still as the voices echoed within. Isaac stilled.

  Two men bellowed as another fired a shot into the air.

  At least they were kind enough to warn him. He smiled to himself, skirting further along the thinning ledge within the cavern. If he could make it to the source of the light a little ways ahead, he could find a way to climb out and slip away without any harm done.

  He would have the map and could leave for Italy. A few weeks on the Amalfi Coast might do him good. He was quite done with the gloomy English moors.

  The ground crumbled under his feet as the sound of footsteps approached. Isaac’s heart picked up its pace. He couldn’t see any other way except to hide, attack, or press forward.

  The sloping rock face grew slippery as he went. He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to spot the black shadow of a man holding out a pistol. The shot rang out before he could reach for his own.

  “You’re done, monsieur,” a voice said from behind him.

  Isaac grinned to himself, anticipation coursing through his body. “I’m not done. We’re simply having a disagreement.”

  “If you hand over the map, then there will be no disagreement.”

  The sharp blade of a knife pressed against Isaac’s neck. This was considerably more than a disagreement.

  He raised his hands as if to surrender, then twisted to view the men ruining his plans to continue onto Italy.

  “Shoot him,” a man snapped in French, approaching from the shadows.

  “I thought I had this morning,” the other barked, refusing to let go of the knife.

  Isaac volleyed his attention between the men, eyeing their weapons. Blood trickled down his neck as he slowly turned to his left. “I’d prefer discussing this without the knife to my neck.”

  But these weren’t the kind of men who dabbled in the art of conversation. No, they weren’t peers like Isaac Barnes, Duke of Ashbornham. They were hired hands, strongarms, with one mission and one mission only—to retrieve the map strapped to his chest. He nearly escaped Corsica with it.

  What his friend Bly lacked in charm and grace, he made up for in grit and brawn. He was a powerhouse. Isaac could only stand next to him, using his sharp wit to talk his way out of trouble. Isaac excelled at gauging social situations and being covert. He hid in plain sight of society, spying on the most powerful men and women of the world. His title bought him luxury; his family passed on that legacy.

  It was a burden.

  Isaac swallowed, closing his eyes as he reached for his gun. Two bullets for three men, and a knife pressed to his throat.

  The knife’s blade plunged into his back before he could draw. He staggered as the third man approached, the largest one of the bunch.

  Damn it all to hell. Why did Clara Dawson ever walk into Burton Hall and break his heart?

  The third man’s fist connected with Isaac’s jaw. Or what was left of his jaw. The cavern faded from view as he balled his fists and threw a punch. But the air was quick to leave his lungs. Metal pierced his ribs, then a snap. The pain blinded him for a moment then dulled as he struggled to keep his eyes focused.

  “I’ll find you,” he shouted. “I always do.”

  The men laughed, dragging him deeper into the cave, closer to the hole in the ceiling. A sharp, copper taste wrapped around his tongue. He battled for air, spitting up a mouthful of blood. His knees gave out from underneath him, his arms too tired to wrench away.

  The waves grew louder. As the light grew closer, Isaac understood why—the cave opened up to the cliffside and the hungry sea below.

  They grabbed his shirt, ripped it open, then tore away the map he had strapped to his chest.

  “I’ll find you,” he spat again, furious. I’ll find every last one of you, you bastards.”

  The men spoke in a flurry of French, but all Isaac could focus on was the sun pouring into the cave from overhead, eroding the last few moments of violence away.

  Then the click of a gun hammer. A shot ripped through the air, piercing Isaac’s chest. He staggered backward.

  It was beautiful.

  Beautiful as the water roared against the rocks below, hungry, desperate for blood. Beautiful as their gun slammed into his temple. Beautiful as the g
round tipped and he fell, fell, then plummeted into the water. The ocean swallowed him up, dragging him deeper, as he forced his eyes open one last time to soak in the light spearing through the azure water from above.

  But I haven’t found her yet, he thought. And now it’s too late.

  Chapter 1

  Hell, Or Someplace Similar; Two Weeks Later

  The sun spilling into what was some sorry excuse of a bedroom made Isaac sick. He labored in another breath, throwing his forearm over his eyes as pain wracked his body. Another shiver, another tug back to unconsciousness clawing deep at his bones as he settled back into the lumpy mattress.

  He heard his boss Grembly throw the door open before he smelled him. The man’s penchant for fine cigars was near unmatched.

  “Dear God, man. It’s a bloody miracle you’re here. All things considered.”

  Any time Isaac’s body decided to pass out from the pain would be good by him.

  “I lost the map.”

  Grembly shut the door and neared the bed, his stance reminiscent of someone approaching a tiger. Isaac would know. Transporting Lucy the Bengal tiger from India to Burton Hall with Bly hadn’t been a walk in the park.

  “You could still die from your injuries. I don’t give a damn about the map.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me now, Grembly. Did you grow a heart on your journey here?”

  Isaac said “here,” even though he didn’t know precisely where in the world “here” was.

  “The doctor informed me—three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, a dislocated shoulder, stab wounds, and a shot to the chest that just nearly missed the heart. Possible internal damage given the bleeding. Then there’s your face…”

  “All I need now is a bullet to put me out of my misery since the last didn’t take.”

  One shot to the chest. He remembered the heat as it tore through his body, and the initial shock. Then the impact as he smacked into the hungry waves crashing against the rocky cliffside. He must have held on to some hope, something must have driven him, but he couldn’t remember any longer. Only, he was alive now and shouldn’t be, and if the doctor was correct, he might still not survive.

  “What happened? It was a straightforward mission.”

  “Straightforward is not a word I associate with the viper pit I had to contend with to locate that map.”

  “Unfortunately, the information we had was inaccurate.”

  “Inaccurate?” Rage vaulted Isaac upright. He whipped his pistol out from beneath his pillow in a flash and cocked it, his voice a low growl. “I was hunted, beaten, shot, tossed into the ocean, and left for dead.”

  Grembly was unphased by the pistol aimed at his head. “It wasn’t a first for you. Ultimately it was their mistake because you’re still alive and clearly upset.”

  Isaac clutched onto consciousness as the pain clawed and burrowed into every inch of his body. A deep cough rattled his chest. Still clutching onto the pistol, he moved to cover his mouth, only drawing it away to spot the bright spray of blood covering the back of his hand. “I’m not a man set on revenge.” He furrowed his eyebrows, willing the strength to continue on a bit longer. “I wanted to do my damn duty, then spend some time in the Italian sun.”

  “We’re in Italy now. Not far out of Cecina.”

  Hardly how Isaac wished to spend time in Tuscany.

  He was tired of his family’s obligation to the queen. But his father would have been disappointed if Isaac ran away from the responsibility to protect the crown.

  Grembly moved toward the door, never turning his back to Isaac. “There’s a chance you might die, Barnes. I’m not here to send you out again, but to see you recovering somewhere safe. You need to get your head straight. This isn’t like you.”

  Isaac sucked in a breath, choking back blood as the fever and pain dragged him into darkness.

  His response, a single shot into the ceiling. Then Isaac fell back into bed, letting go. It didn’t matter anymore. He had been fished from the ocean, but he might as well have died in that cave.

  * * *

  Three weeks later

  Isaac reckoned he was somewhere in Dante’s fifth level of hell as the carriage bumbled and swayed over the road, conveying him deeper into the heart of the Scottish Highlands.

  Grembly sat opposite, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Cigar smoke and the smell of day-old sandwiches cloaked the air. They last spoke in Edinburgh, some four hours back.

  “If your plan was to put me out to pasture, you could have at least let me pick the pasture.” Isaac wiped his forehead. His fever returned after it broke on their sail from France to Scotland.

  Grembly grunted, turning the page as the carriage veered down a rocky path. Isaac leaned forward, catching his breath at the sharp pang radiating in his chest. Beyond the gentle rise of a hill, tucked near the base of a craggy mountain, sat a lone stone cottage with a thatched roof. Smoke poured out of the chimney.

  Isaac sighed, instantly regretting the deep exhale.

  There was nothing but a low-lying fog rolling over deep green. Nothing but gray skies and a raw drizzle. Nothing.

  “Do you treat everyone who takes a bullet for the crown so well?”

  Grembly folded over the corner of the newspaper and arched a brow. “Sometimes I forget you’re a duke, Barnes. And then you complain.”

  If he’d felt better, maybe he’d have laughed. Instead, Isaac hauled himself upright on the seat and pressed his hand against the cool window. “What am I to do here?”

  “Rest. Recover.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not holding you captive. You could have easily returned to Elmside Castle but I doubt you want staff to see you as you are. Or your mother. A holiday in Italy usually isn’t a near death experience.”

  If only Isaac had in fact gone to Italy.

  The carriage jerked to a stop. Grembly folded his newspaper, rolled it, and drummed it on his knee before opening the door and hopping down from the carriage. He reached back to assist Isaac, arching an eyebrow, daring him on.

  Isaac bit back a slew of profanities. He pulled himself forward and slowly lowered himself to the gravel drive, ignoring Grembly’s outstretched hand.

  “You’re damn stubborn.”

  “Hmph.”

  Isaac grabbed the blasted cane he needed to walk with and limped past Grembly. A large twisted oak guarded the house to the west. Its roots wound through the crooked, mossy stone walls that circled the white stone cottage. Daffodils dotted the gardens, most still half asleep this early in spring. It was bucolic.

  “Hmph,” he grumbled again, opening the peeling evergreen door, to reveal a small interior crowded with draped furniture.

  “Mrs. White will be by in the morning. She owns the grand house down the road. She’s an old friend, won’t ask questions.”

  “Hmm.” Isaac pushed aside the haphazard stacks of books as he wove through the small sitting room. A fire burned at the hearth, and beyond, a plate of food and a bottle of claret sat on a table in the kitchen.

  “She’ll be sending her housekeeper by a few times a week,” Grembly said. He selected a book and opened it, running his finger over the pages before slamming it shut.

  Isaac startled, glaring at his boss over his shoulder. The bastard.

  Buckets of paint and plaster piled high in the kitchen’s corner by a door leading to the garden. A ladder leaned by a doorway to a bedroom furnished with a modest bed and chair. An oil painting of a shepherd hung on the wall half covered with soot from the fireplace.

  The cottage might be considered cozy if it didn’t feel as if Isaac were being punished.

  “Rest, Barnes. I’ll write and visit in a month or so.” Without pretense, Grembly whacked the newspaper against the wall and waved goodbye. “Get your head straight. And don’t do anything stupid this time, understood?”

  Isaac swallowed his response. What trouble could he find here anyhow?

  He limped to the kitchen tabl
e where he swiped the bottle of claret, removed the cork with his teeth, then shuffled to the bedroom. He was in bed before Grembly pulled away in the carriage.

  Within an hour, he was drunk enough to feel less pain and a little less lonely, enough that he slipped into sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Nora MacAllen lifted her skirts as she rounded another switchback up the mountain. The air was bracingly cold against her cheeks.

  Everything was perfect.

  Nora could always count on hiking as an escape from her family. No one would dare climb, nor could they keep up. Even the dogs, usually at her heels, were a few paces back. It was an advantage of hers, to have a healthy bodily constitution. Her younger sister Maeve was far prettier and certainly more charming than Nora ever attempted to be. But Nora preferred to be in a constant state of motion—rather than stuck in the corner of the ballroom reserved for unfortunate girls.

  For nearly twenty-two years, her mother—in fact, society at large—preferred to approach Nora and her problem by ignoring it. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Unfortunately, now her mother was desperate to see her married. Nora’s father fought for a seat in Parliament now that he had been elected to the Crofters Party. There were a great deal of titled men willing to fill their coffers by agreeing to marry a woman of worth, even if she was Scottish. Afterall, a hefty dowry could go a long way in sustaining reckless gambling habits and demanding mistresses. Men never could face the truth behind their own ruin.

  Besides, there would be mistresses. She knew no man would want her, not truly. Nora would likely be established in his family’s country seat, where her future husband would dutifully see her impregnated with heirs, and she’d be left to rot. Away from the rest of society.