CHAPTER 1
Mirabelle
England, 1827
Mirabelle, Duchess of Wembury, sat on the window seat, watching the snowflakes fall gently to the ground. The quiet before the storm, she mused, as her tempestuous family was about to descend on the castle for Christmas dinner.
A roasting fire crackled behind her, the sitting room alight with lamps and candles. Fresh greenery had been brought into the keep to adorn the mantle, and the distinct scent of pine filled the air.
Mirabelle inhaled a deep breath. Pine and oranges and lemons, all nestled together, a festive display of colors and aromas to tantalize the senses. She had come to love this time of year. She especially reveled in the few still moments just before the guests arrived.
A tall figure appeared in the doorframe, reflected in the glass, and a different kind of warmth settled over her. It was not an outward fire, penetrating through flesh and bone, rather an inward one, radiating from the center of her soul. The heat spread through every part of her, and she shuddered with delight. Her husband still affected her in a profound way. She wondered if her response to him would ever change. She hoped not.
Mirabelle turned away from the window and smiled. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Damian Westmore, Duke of Wembury, and the former “Duke of Rogues,” returned her smile with a sensual one of his own, proving he hadn’t quite retired his notorious epithet.
“It would be an even better evening,” he said in a low voice, “if it was just the two of us for dinner.”
Again a prickling sensation skimmed across her skin, spiking the fine hairs on her arms. From the first night she had met him aboard her family’s ship, Mirabelle had known Damian would change her life forever. She hadn’t wanted to believe it then, had tried desperately to fight her feelings for him, but her love for the duke would not be ignored, much less denied. She was grateful her fear and stubbornness had not won out. Otherwise, she would have missed the last six wonderful years of her life.
“Give me treat,” demanded Henry.
“No, it’s mine,” cried his five-year-old sister, Alice, holding up a custard tart.
Henry toddled into the sitting room after his sister, both dressed in their long white sleeping gowns. He pursed his two-year-old lips, whimpered, then belted a wail that shook the stone fortress.
In that instant, Mirabelle sighed, her seductive play with her husband shattered. Damian tried not to laugh, but humor glistened in the pools of his dark blue eyes. He was really much too lax with the children, she thought. They were growing into hobgoblins.
In her most authoritative voice, Mirabelle demanded, “Alice. Henry. Why aren’t you both in bed?”
The commotion stopped and two sheepish gazes rested on the duchess. The children had taken after Mirabelle with their fair locks and golden eyes, but their wild temperaments . . . those must have come from their father.
“We wanted to see our uncles,” said Alice with the innocence of a babe.
But Mirabelle had learned her daughter was far more intelligent and mischievous than her beguiling eyes revealed. “Oh, really? And it had nothing to do with stealing tarts from the kitchen?”
The impertinent girl actually licked the custard before avowing, “Not a bit, Mama.”
With a sigh, Mirabelle stood up from the window seat and stretched out her hand. “Give me the tart.”
The girl pouted. “But our uncles?”
“You will see your uncles in the morning. Give me the tart, Alice. Now.”
Alice made a moue before she sulkily pressed the tart into her mother’s palm—custard side down.
Mirabelle gasped. “Alice!”
The two sprites dashed from the room, well, Henry waddled, both shouting, “Goodnight, Papa! ’Night, Mama!”
Mirabelle stared at her husband, incredulous. “That hoyden!”
The duke removed a kerchief from his coat pocket, his lips twitching as he approached his wife. “We’ve both done much worse as children.”
“How can you laugh? She’s turning into a—”
“Pirate? Like her mother?”
Mirabelle glared at her husband as he removed the mushy tart from her hand, setting it aside on a nearby table.
“Do not say that word,” she hissed. “You know I don’t want Alice to learn about my past.”
If the rebellious girl discovered her mother and all four of her uncles had once been pirates, there would be no end to her obstinacy.
“Whatever pleases you, my love,” he murmured, leaning forward.
Mirabelle expected her husband to wipe the custard from her palm with the kerchief, but he brought her hand to his sensuous lips instead.
Her breath hitched. His hot tongue laved the creamy sauce from her skin, sending shivers of unanticipated pleasure down her spine.
“The tart tastes far better served on you, my dear.”
The rogue.
And yet she didn’t protest the diversion. Her frustration softened. She closed her eyes, lost in the intimate moment with her husband. “I think Alice had the right idea. You and I should steal a few tarts from the kitchen—for later tonight.”
Damian chuckled, a throaty sound, before he bussed her lips, feather soft, sugary vanilla on his breath.
“Do you ever think about having more children?” she wondered.
His smile dropped. “No.”
“Really?” She took the kerchief from his fingers and wiped her hand. “I sometimes think—”
“No,” he said again, his features taut. “No more children, Belle.”
She wasn’t surprised by his rigid response. She had come close to death giving birth to their son two years ago. It had taken her several months to recover from the trauma and many more months before her husband would touch her again. Even now, Damian refused to have any relations with her unless they took measures to block another pregnancy.
“I know it can be dangerous,” she said softly. “But I grew up in a large family. I can’t recount the trials we suffered or the joys we celebrated. And without the support of my brothers, life would’ve been even more difficult. I just want Alice and Henry to have the same fellowship.”
“I know, Belle, but the children have us, their uncles, their cousins. They won’t want for strong kinship.”
“Yes, they have us, but my older brothers are so often at sea, while the youngest are newlyweds and just settling into marital life. Meanwhile, your brother and his children live near the coast.” She sighed. “I wanted a big family under one roof.”
“I’m sorry, Belle, but you and I will never have another child.”
Her inherent, headstrong nature butted forth then, and she was prepared to challenge his autocratic ruling when the dong of the front bell echoed throughout the keep. “Hell’s fire. They just had to be punctual. We’ll discuss this matter at another time, Damian.”
“The matter is decided, Belle.”
“Damian—”
“I will not risk losing you again.” His voice cracked, ever so slight. His eyes darkened, glistened, even. “I lie awake every night, watching you sleep, counting your breaths. I listen to your every movement as you roll under the sheets or murmur in your dreams. I smell the perfume on your skin, the life in your veins—and I will not tempt fate again, not even to have another child as beautiful as you.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, the briny moisture spilling down her cheeks. “Damian, I—I had no idea you felt this way.” She wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and squeezed him tight. “I don’t want you to live in fear of losing me,” she whispered.
“I don’t think that fear will ever leave me,” he returned, his voice hoarse with emotion. “But I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
At his heartfelt confession, Mirabelle knew she would never have another babe. A part of her mourned the thought, but another part of her was moved beyond measure by the depth of her husband’s love for her.
“I understand,” she assured him, dabbing at her eyes. “And as you said, we shouldn’t tempt fate. We might just have another hoyden.”
A robust laugh rumbled in the duke’s chest. “I love you, Belle.”
“And I love you.”
Soon a resounding hail of booted footsteps and spirited voices filled the grand hall.
“You will behave, I trust,” she admonished her husband. “I don’t want any rows between you and my brothers.”
Damian snorted, neither confirming nor denying her request. A man once titled the “Duke of Rogues” had not inspired confidence in her brothers, and they’d downright thought her mad for marrying the duke. But, as Mirabelle had learned, love was never sensible.
She hadn’t a moment to upbraid her husband when her brother, Captain James Hawkins, entered the room.
The eldest at forty-two, James also had the most fearsome expression. It had wholly suited him when he’d roamed the high seas as the infamous pirate Black Hawk, but as a gentleman of high society and a respectable merchant captain, the long black hair tied in a queue and stormy blue eyes as threatening as the devil were a source of apprehension and gossip.
And yet those eyes softened when they fell on her, and she simpered, for she sensed his tender regard toward her. “Happy Christmas, James.”
He opened his arms, and she walked into his embrace.
“How are you, Belle? Is the bounder treating you well?”
“Very well,” she affirmed.
An exotic woman with dark brown hair, sharp brown eyes and a resplendent, brocade amber dress next stepped into the sitting room, her smile broad. “Happy Christmas, Belle.”
Mirabelle returned the festive greeting and embraced her sister-in-law. Born and raised on the island of Jamaica, Sophia was a strong, spirited woman who matched her brother in every way. The couple had married over a year ago, and it was something of a sensation that the most forbidding of all her siblings had actually wed—and was happy.
“How was your journey?” asked Mirabelle.
“Uneventful,” returned Sophia.
Mirabelle lifted a teasing brow. “No dalliances in the carriage, James?”
James balked at her outlandish remark, and damn if a little red hadn’t crossed his wicked brow.
Sophia chuckled, a rich, husky sound, but her husband remained silent—and glowering.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” said Damian, crossing the room to greet his guests. “The infamous pirate speechless. Well done, Belle.”
She winked at the duke. “And where are the others? At your heels, I hope?”
“Right at our heels,” assured Sophia.
“I’ll oversee the luggage, then,” said Mirabelle.
Her family would be staying at the castle until Twelfth Night. She had prepared their usual rooms, but she wanted to make sure all the details were addressed. Besides, James needed a moment to regain his wits. The duchess had clearly not retired all of her piratical ways either.