A Duke For Lady Eve (Belles 0f Christmas Book 5) Read online

  A Duke for Lady Eve

  Belles of Christmas

  Kasey Stockton

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

  Copyright © 2019 by Kasey Stockton

  Cover design by Ashtyn Newbold

  First print edition: November 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations for the purpose of a book review.

  For everyone who plans to curl up with a book under the light of a Christmas tree. Happy reading & Merry Christmas.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Sneak peek of Unmasking Lady Caroline

  Other books in The Belles of Christmas series

  Also by Kasey Stockton

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  London, 1813

  From her vantage point behind her aunt’s large, imposing feather, Evelyn Trainor could perfectly see the beautiful lace-trimmed and expertly trussed ladies lining up across from their dancing partners in the center of the room. The gentlemen were largely blocked by the ostrich’s contribution to Aunt Edith’s head piece. But the gentlemen were not imperative to Evelyn’s current daydream—or, was it an evening dream—because they were not the high-society debutantes whom Evelyn wished, with each fiber of her being, she had been born to be.

  “Evelyn,” Aunt Edith hissed, drawing her attention away from the well-bred women beginning to dance. “Scratch just below my shoulder bone.”

  Obediently, Evelyn reached forward to the space between her aunt and the chair’s back.

  “Discreetly,” Aunt Edith whispered.

  How was Evelyn meant to manage that? Slowly, she began to scratch under her aunt’s shoulder bone as she inched closer to the old woman’s chair. Her sight was drawn back to the floor of graceful dancers and it was all too easy to imagine herself there among the ornately costumed women as though she belonged.

  Glancing down, she huffed an irritated breath at her own borrowed finery. It was a blessing cousin Harriet had married and left behind her outdated gowns or Evelyn would have been forced to arrive at Lord Trenton’s ball in a walking dress of puce wool. And Harriet’s old costume, designed to resemble a fox, was entirely more appropriate for this masquerade.

  “Evelyn, enough,” Aunt Edith snapped.

  Evelyn pulled back her hand, tucking it into the fold of her gown, her cheeks growing warm.

  The room was not quite as full as it would have been in previous weeks. The majority of Society had returned to their country homes for Christmas weeks before the snow arrived, but Evelyn’s father was determined to remain in Town until parliament disbanded and he could be sure he wouldn’t miss anything. He was dedicated to his place in the House of Commons, and Evelyn did not disapprove of his passion for bettering his country.

  She did, however, mind traveling through England in the wet, muddy snow. But alas, it could not be helped.

  Fortunately for her aunt, they were able to attend one final ball before they returned to Wiltshire and Evelyn’s younger brothers. Evelyn would have been happy to skip the event altogether, but it was Father’s express wish that she attend as many Society functions as possible during her first—and only, if she had her way—Season. He wanted her to enjoy herself. He did not understand that Society was not Evelyn’s idea of enjoyment.

  “If you would step out from behind me,” Aunt Edith said through clenched teeth, “you might very well be asked to dance.”

  Evelyn reached up and adjusted the mask over her eyes. It was a dazzling piece, fairly covered in amber and gold paste jewels with faux fox ears fastened to the top. Her maid had tied it about her head, incorporating the ribbon into her coiffure for the evening. “It is impossible to dance when I know no one here, Aunt Edith. Perhaps it would have been wiser if Lord Trenton had not insisted on a masquerade.”

  “Psh.” Aunt Edith moved her mask away from her face with ease, waving about the stick by which it was held. Her nose wrinkled and her beady eyes took in Evelyn’s own face. “It is a benefit this evening, not a hindrance. The mask covers your face well enough. Any man here would be able to imagine he was dancing with a lovely young woman.”

  Evelyn easily read the words her aunt had implied: these men will dance with you because they cannot know you are plain, simple, and poor. It was more likely Aunt Edith’s austere countenance which kept the gentlemen at bay. Not that Evelyn was complaining.

  “But if I danced,” she said with quiet reserve, “I would not be able to keep you company, Aunt.”

  The old woman snorted.

  Evelyn leaned back against the wall. The first dance of this set would soon come to a close. She tried not to let her imagination run away from her too dearly, but from her vantage point and with her mask covering her face, she could watch the glittering Society with unabashed interest. She couldn’t help but imagine the woman she would be if she had been born to a Peer, and not a common man.

  It was a game she’d been playing her entire life, and she knew it well. If she had been born to nobility, she would clearly be Lady Eve, instead of plain Evelyn. She would be polished, wearing nothing but light blue silk and white muslin instead of the darker, practical colors she was currently forced to wear. She would be asked to dance every dance, and—perhaps the greatest part of all—would be respected, praised, and appreciated.

  “Fetch me some ratafia, Evelyn. I am parched.”

  The older woman’s craggly, strained voice pulled Evelyn from her reverie like a swift fall from an apple tree.

  It was senseless to imagine her life as Lady Eve. For it only made her reality all the more plain.

  “Yes, Aunt,” she said meekly. “At once.”

  The table where a servant stood ready to pour ratafia was only two paces from where they were stationed. It was not a far trek, but she paused before setting off, regardless. French doors which were closed to what was likely the garden in the rear of the house sat just behind the table containing the drinks.

  The doors called to her, though she didn’t know why. She felt overwhelmed by the people and the oppressive heat, and the cool air waiting just paces away beckoned her. It was nothing but dark beyond the square windowpanes within the doorframe; she approached them, glancing over her shoulder at the dancers and patrons, none of whom seemed to be paying her any mind.

  Before she could think better of it, Evelyn opened the door and slipped outside, closing it softly behind her. The bitter, winter air seeped through her ballgown at once and she nearly turned back for the warmth of Lord Trenton’s ballroom, but for a small, stone bench placed against the back hedge which immediately caught her eye. If she had been born a lady, Evelyn would have had a grand townhouse such as this one and a beautiful garden behind her house. She would have spent warm spring days sitting amidst the
flowers and reading a book or drinking tea with a friend.

  She would not have been tending to her brothers or worrying about her father, for they would have had funds sufficient to care for the things they stood in need of and the boys would have undoubtedly been sent to school.

  Crossing the lawn, Evelyn lowered herself onto the stone bench with a huff and watched the dancers within the ballroom, much as she had earlier, though this time she felt far more removed.

  Which was a more accurate description of Evelyn’s life. Though they had little money, she had plenty of happiness in her home. If only Father would quit his work in the Commons and simply retire to their house in Wiltshire, then he would be well.

  But asking him to quit politics and sit about the house doing nothing was akin to begging the king to step down from his throne because of a headache.

  It simply would not happen.

  Humming a tune she remembered her mother singing to her as a child, Evelyn watched the dancers with somber acceptance. She felt silly for dreaming so often of the lot she would have lived had she been born to a Peer, but it was nothing more than a game—a silly way to pass the time and compare her life to those who stood so far out of her reach.

  And it would never be within her reach, for she would never be one of the simpering misses who stood in wait at the balls and dinners and vied for the attention of titled men. Even if she tried, said gentleman wouldn’t have her anyway.

  Evelyn’s humming turned to a low singing. She could not be heard from within the doors, surely, for the instruments could clearly be heard outside. Her alto rang quietly through the garden. Comforted, she continued. Her voice was one of the few things that still connected her to her mother after her mother’s death.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” a man whispered. His low, deep voice came from behind her, forcing shivers down her spine.

  Jumping up, Evelyn glanced around, her breath coming in heaves. Moonlight lit the yard and cast shadows on the lawn from the candlelight in Lord Trenton’s house, yet there was no one there. All that met her was a large hedge lining the back of the garden, just behind her bench. Turning in a slow circle, Evelyn squinted her eyes and raked over the small, enclosed space, but she was completely alone.

  Had she imagined the man? He had sounded so close behind her, but perhaps it was all part of her dreams. Perhaps she’d imagined herself a duke.

  Grinning to herself at the silliness of it all, Evelyn sat once again upon the cold stone bench and settled her hands on her lap. She knew she spent a good deal of time in her own mind. It was one of the things which had concerned her father and forced him to require she attend the Season with him this year. If only he realized that her attendance at this masquerade, and other events like it, would do very little for her social standing and pursuit of a husband.

  “Please,” the deep voice continued, louder this time. “Do not stop on my account.”

  Evelyn froze. So she hadn’t imagined him after all.

  Standing, Evelyn turned around and searched the thick branches of the hedge. Was this man standing somewhere within the hedge, itself?

  “Might I request your name, fair maiden?”

  Flowery speech was not going to sway her to disregard proper etiquette. “I am not that sort of woman, sir.”

  “Surely you will not deny me.” His disembodied voice filtered through the branches. “I merely request an introduction, since there is no one else to do the honor on our behalf.”

  Shaking her head, Evelyn couldn’t help but smile. Whoever this man was, two things were very clear: he was charismatic and quite used to getting his way.

  His deep voice carried. “I can see you do not agree. You needn’t shake your head, you know.”

  She stilled. He could see her. “I am at a disadvantage,” Evelyn said. “You can see me, but I fear I cannot see you.”

  “You are not looking in the right place. Step up on that bench and you will not need to strain your eyes.”

  Dare she?

  Pulling up her gown, Evelyn lifted one foot and settled it securely on the bench. Moments later she had her second foot up and stood looking over the hedge and into the garden of another townhouse. Oh, dear. It was an even bigger townhouse than the one she currently visited. Clearly this man was not someone of low birth or social standing.

  After she was appropriately awed by his house, she glanced down and found a man standing just beyond the hedge, his serious gaze trained on her.

  She paused, caught by his vision. His dark hair was tousled and his jaw unshaven, but he was otherwise well-dressed. She had been correct; he was a man of superior birth. If his clothing had not told her so alone, his bearing certainly did.

  Standing tall, he bent in a distinguished bow. “Duke of Alverton, at your pleasure. Now, fair maiden, please do me the honor of telling me your name, for I must know it.”

  Swallowing a lump which would not allow her to speak, Evelyn faltered. He was not simply a man of high birth. He was a duke. Had she conjured him from her thoughts just moments before? If she knew what was good for her, she would turn around, hop down from the bench and scurry into the ballroom where she could escape from this man and his unwavering gaze.

  But she was rooted to the spot, her feet stuck to the bench as though by paste. He was struck by her. By her. And he, a duke. It was such a fantastical moment that Evelyn nearly pinched herself to ensure she was not dreaming.

  “Your name?” Alverton asked, again.

  “I cannot,” she replied, her mouth dry. What should he do if he knew at once that she was the poor daughter of a title-less man of little land in a distant county?

  Laugh. Surely, this duke would laugh and then retreat.

  He continued, “But how might I speak to you if I do not know your name?”

  A small smile broke out on her lips. “You are speaking to me now, your grace.”

  “Will you sing again?” he asked.

  Was the man mad? It was one thing to sing quietly to herself. It was entirely different to perform. She shook her head softly and her heart leapt at the apparent disappointment he displayed.

  Alverton rocked back on his heels. His eyes flicked to the space behind her and she wondered if he was considering the house she came from.

  “You attended Lord Trenton’s masquerade,” Alverton deduced, “and he is heavily involved in parliament. Do you have a family member in parliament? A husband, perhaps?”

  Evelyn shook her head. The duke was clever, indeed, to find such an unobtrusive way to question her marriage status. If that was indeed what he was doing. But how had he known of the masquerade?

  Her mask. Of course.

  “Then a brother or father?” he asked. “Or perhaps you know Lord Trenton a different way.”

  “My father, your grace. But he—” She bit her tongue, an idea forming on shaky legs in her mind. She would not tell him of Father’s place in the Commons; not yet. With the mask covering her eyes, she was disguised. This was an opportunity which would likely never present itself again.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  Weighing the brilliance of her plan against possible pitfalls, Evelyn did not allow herself to dwell upon the potential problems. She had never met this man before, and she likely never would again. They did not run in the same social circles, and she was about to leave London, anyway.

  And if she had her way, she would not be returning.

  “If you must know,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the ballroom full of people celebrating the close of parliament for the holidays. Lifting her chin, she leveled Alverton with a look. “I am Lady Eve.”

  Saying the thrilling words aloud sent a chill down her neck and she felt alive, as though announcing her title thus straightened her spine and infused within her a degree of polish. She was no ordinary politician’s daughter. She was a lady.

  Alverton screwed up his eyebrows. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Lady Eve.”

  “I reside with my a
unt in the country,” she explained. She also lived with her father and younger brothers, but those details would only incite more questions.

  Adrenaline rushed through her, as if saying the name had transformed her into the woman she claimed to be, and she was filled with courage. “Were you out for a midnight stroll, your grace?”

  His mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I was escaping a demanding inquiry.”

  “Only to force me unwittingly into the same thing?” Her breath caught at the gall of her words, and she seemed to catch Alverton off guard as well. He recovered quickly, however, taking a step closer to the hedge.

  “It was not my intent. I merely tired of my own female relations. They have made it their express resolution to find me a wife. And, you see, I would rather take on the duty alone.”

  “Have you told them so?”

  Alverton paused a moment. “To be honest, I am not sure if I have said so. But I do not hide my irritations.”

  Evelyn smiled encouragingly. “That is not quite the same thing as communicating your discomfort, your grace. Perhaps they would allow you room to take on the duty alone if you but ask.”

  “You are singular,” he said, his tone curious.

  “I must return to my aunt,” Evelyn said quickly, afraid she’d gone too far in her advice, “but I thank you for the compliment, your grace.”

  “Do not leave,” he said, taking a swift step closer to the hedge. He seemed to hesitate before saying, “Perhaps I may call on you.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I am sorry, your grace. You may not.”