CHAPTER ONE

“This is not White’s.” Caspian Arundel, fourth Duke of Concord, scowled at the imposing building. The ivory facade glimmered under the lanterns, illuminating the Grecian gods and goddesses with which the architect had chosen to adorn the building. “We’re in Kensington.” 

Caspian’s cousin Leo didn’t even have the decency to appear embarrassed. Instead, he gave a languid shrug. “This is more amusing than White’s.” 

“I highly doubt that.” 

“We’ll only stay a short while,” Leo assured him. “If it’s tiresome, we can leave.”

Caspian crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. “It’s already tiresome.” 

For some appalling reason, Leo’s lips twitched. 

A long line of people, draped in fur shrugs or greatcoats, queued outside the townhouse. Bags dangled from their gloved hands. Bags that probably contain dancing slippers. 

Caspian shuddered. Nothing in the world equaled the terribleness of balls. Balls were filled with women with romance on their minds. Ever since Caspian had returned to London from France, he’d found himself the pinnacle of every matchmaking mama’s marital plot. Something about fighting heroically overseas compelled women to faint in his presence. Eyelashes fluttered with more rapidity, and legs quivered to a degree that would make a newborn fawn smirk.

“Are you going to wait in the carriage, or will you allow Gibson to have a break?”

Caspian sighed. “Fine. But there will be a crush.” 

Leo’s lips curled. 

“Why are you so eager to attend this ball?” Caspian asked.

“I’m going to meet my future wife.” 

Caspian blinked. Leo was an inveterate rake. He wanted to marry?

Leo marched past the group of shivering women toward the entrance.

Caspian scrambled after his cousin. “We’re supposed to wait our turn.” 

“Nonsense. You’re a duke. Dukes don’t wait.” With that, Leo withdrew his invitation and handed it to the butler. 

The butler raised his eyebrow, then looked at the invitation. His expression changed when he noticed Caspian. Evidently, the fact that Caspian ignored attending such events did not mean people didn’t know what he looked like.

The butler swept into a deep bow. “Welcome, Your Grace.”

“Splendid.” Leo flung a satin bag to Caspian. Caspian felt the familiar ridges of dancing slippers and grimaced as he followed Leo to a small adjoining room. 

A servant relieved Caspian of his greatcoat, and Caspian changed into his dance slippers. “I don’t have to change my shoes when I enter White’s.” 

“From the manner in which the white-haired gentlemen scowl when anyone makes any noise, I won’t be surprised if they start implementing that rule.”

“You make it sound like White’s consists only of dreary, tiresome men.” 

“It does.” Leo grinned. “And I refuse to allow you to become one of them. I care too much about you.” 

The ballroom was a maelstrom of red and green. At this time of year everyone seemed to forget any other colors existed, a lack of thoughtfulness and sense unfortunately also applied to normally sensible neighbors who insisted on coming to one’s door to display their imperfect singing abilities. 

The string quartet switched to an unfamiliar melody, and Caspian scowled. Other members of the ton appeared unperturbed. Some of their lips were even pointed in a distinctly upward direction. 

“Isn’t Christmas the most marvelous time of the year?” Leo declared. 

Damnation.

That’s what it was. Christmas music. 

So much for all the great reels and minuets composers had toiled over. At this time of year, they were abandoned for sentimental German nonsense instead.

“I disagree,” Caspian growled. 

His cousin raised his eyebrows, then shot him a placating smile, as if Caspian were a little boy insisting on something ridiculous.

“Normally, you don’t have an idiotic smile upon your face,” Caspian grumbled. 

“Normally, I’m not listening to holiday music. I’m going to find a dance partner. Do not leave.” Leo sauntered deeper into the ballroom. 

His cousin didn’t seem to find it ironic he’d left.

Leo strolled toward a row of giggling wallflowers. Well, they had been giggling. Now their faces were pasted with demure expressions, and they were smoothing their skirts and waving fans over their faces in a manner Caspian assumed the latest Matchmaking for Wallflowers article had deemed alluring. 

 An unpleasant sweet scent wafted about him, and Caspian sniffed. He scoured the room for the source, then his gaze dropped on some oranges some foul-minded person had pierced with cloves. The meat canapés were doused with cinnamon and nutmeg, and red and green ribbons strangled innocent candelabras and candlesticks. 

Caspian marched away. It was only October. Late October, granted. Still, he hadn’t anticipated such enthusiasm for the winter holiday. 

But then, last year at this time he’d been at war. Caspian ignored the now-familiar ache in his leg. 

Women swirled in the arms of gray-haired men and fresh-faced youths from Eton or Rugby who looked stunned to be in the presence of the fairer sex. 

Everyone else was on the battlefields.

Where I should be. 

This time the throbbing in his body stemmed from his chest, rather than his leg. Blast it. He should be used to being in London by now. 

Caspian halted his march. There was nowhere to go. Even his favorite gentlemen’s club was empty, save for the occasional rustle of newspaper pages and thin-voiced proclamations from septuagenarians that they would have done a better job halting Bonaparte, even though they’d lost the former colonies.

“I believe we’re under the mistletoe,” a prim voice chirped. 

Blast. 

Caspian glanced down to discover a petite blond woman with bright blue eyes preening at him. 

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced yet,” Caspian said warily. 

“Mama can do that!” the girl announced, then beckoned an older blond woman in a jeweled turban. 

Caspian’s shoulders sank as the woman glided toward them. This might be his first ball in years, but he recognized her. 

Mrs. Burton. 

The name seemed innocuous, but the assortment of syllables had been enough to strike fear in the heart of the unmarried men of the ton in possession of a modicum of wealth. Judging from the manner in which the jewels of her turban glinted, Mrs. Burton had not been unsuccessful in finding husbands for her eldest daughters. 

“Mama, His Grace is standing under the mistletoe.” The girl glanced meaningfully at her mother. “As am I.”

“Indeed you are.” Mrs. Burton gave her daughter an approving nod. 

“I doubt your mother cares about such traditions,” Caspian said, even though he had the distinct feeling Mrs. Burton might be less inclined to protest than other mothers at the thought of Caspian exchanging a kiss with her daughter. In fact, she seemed the sort of mother who might announce she’d caught her daughter in a compromising position with him in a gamble he would prefer to marry than be tarnished as a wicked rogue. 

“Naturally not,” Mrs. Burton said. “A kiss would be entirely inappropriate.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled. “I find it interesting you are already contemplating kissing my daughter. We Burton women are most intriguing.” 

A lump formed in Caspian’s throat. 

“Why don’t you stroll the ballroom with her?” Mrs. Burton pressed. 

“I’m already occupied—” Caspian halted abruptly, scouring his mind for an excuse. 

Mrs. Burton raised a plucked eyebrow. “Really, Your Grace. You have nothing to occupy yourself with.” Her eyes swept to his foot, and her lips curled. “You won’t be going to war again.” 

That pang returned to Caspian’s chest.

Mrs. Burton stepped closer to him, and her pearls jangled. “You have served your country well, and now you can serve your heirs well by choosing a beautiful wife to be their mother. Lavinia is the best debutante you could hope for. Even the queen herself complimented her grace and beauty. Her curtsying skills are supreme.” 

“I didn’t know curtsying had a range of grades.” 

Mrs. Burton fixed a hard stare at him. “And that, my lord, is why you require a wife. You must be informed of such things.” 

“Darling!” Caspian’s mother rushed toward him, a flurry of red-and-green plaid, thankfully pulling him away from Mrs. Burton and her eager daughter with a cold glare. “You’re here! How splendid!”

Caspian breathed a sigh of relief and glowered back at the Burtons.

“You mustn’t appear perturbed. It makes you less handsome.” His mother smoothed his hair, undaunted by his vast height. “I didn’t struggle through eighteen hours of childbirth so you could spend your time scrunching your handsome features into a scowl.” 

“Mother.” The back of his neck heated. He leaned near her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “People might hear you.”

“Well, of course they might hear. You’re a duke, and I’m your mother. People will naturally be curious of any conversation between us.” She squeezed his hand. “And that’s why you must refrain from scowling. People will think I’m irritating you.” 

“You are irritating me.” 

Mother’s widened her eyes in mock horror, and Caspian sighed. 

“I mean…” He shifted his feet over the floorboards. “Of course you’re not, Mother.” 

“Now say that with a smile.” 

He frowned. 

Mother gave an exaggerated sigh. “Your cousin Leo is better at showing proper respect.” 

“At least he’s skilled at something,” Caspian muttered. 

Mother drew her lace handkerchief abruptly to cover her mouth. “Caspian. That’s very naughty of you.” 

“A frequent complaint.” 

The space between Mother’s eyebrows narrowed. “You seem glum.” 

“I’m—fine.” The last word came like a croak. 

Mother slid her arm into the crook of his arm. “I know you dislike being here. Perhaps you require a wife to make evenings like this more bearable.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“Leo can tell me if he spots any suitable women for you.” 

“I’m certain Leo will want to marry the woman he finds.” 

“Then his next favorite.” 

Caspian gave his mother an outraged look. “You want me to marry one of Leo’s castaways?” 

“I’m quite happy to start the search myself.” Mother surveyed the ballroom with the expertise of a military commander. “One of these women might be a suitable duchess. I’ll have a word with the hostess.” 

“That’s not necessary,” Caspian blurted.

“Oh?”

“I might return to war.” 

Mother raised an eyebrow. Normally, Caspian despised when Mother raised an eyebrow, as if it were a means to point to everything he did that she considered questionable. Now though, the manner in which her eyes suddenly softened indicated something entirely different. 

Mother wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for him. 

No one was.

But lately, people had been displaying grating shows of saccharine sympathy. Their eyes drifted to his right leg with a regularity he despised.

“I have a meeting with Lord Penrose,” Caspian explained, his chin jutting upward.

“Truly?” 

“Naturally.” Caspian fought the sudden irritation she might think he’d concocted a lie. 

“I’m most happy for you.” Mother bit her lip. “But do you think you’re healed?” 

“I assure you, I am ready to return to the battlefield.”

Mother nodded, but the action lacked her customary assertiveness, as if she were uncertain in the veracity of his statement. 

“It’s him!” a high-pitched voice squealed, and Caspian’s heart tumbled downward. 

In the next moment, women swarmed about him, clamoring for him to tell them about his heroics during the war, as embroidered handkerchiefs fluttered to the glossy ballroom floor. Where was Leo?

A grumpy duke, a castle filled with spinsters, and a runaway bride.

Miranda West didn’t plan to flee her own wedding. She didn’t even plan to wed. But when her aunt and uncle tell her they’ve secretly posted the banns on her behalf, she decides to flee. No matter if she looks ridiculous running in her loveliest gown down the streets of London looking for a hack, or if she has nowhere to go except her great-aunt’s crumbling castle on the coast. At least she can finally celebrate Christmas just like her parents always did and create a place for her fellow spinsters and bluestockings to escape their overbearing relatives.

Caspian Arundel, Duke of Concord, is furious. Women have commandeered the castle where his militia were planning to stay. Worse, the women want to celebrate Christmas. Caspian has no time for Christmas or women. Not when that beastly Bonaparte might attack any day. He has a particular dislike for Miranda West, the leader of this despicable group of females. She already ruined his cousin’s wedding, and clearly she has every intention of ruining his militia and ensuring he’ll never be able to return to the front.

If only she weren’t so enticing.

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Bianca Blythe has written over twenty fun and frothy Regency-set historical romances, filled with wallflowers, spinsters, dukes, and rogues. On occasion, she also writes historical mysteries under the name Camilla Blythe.

Born in Texas, Bianca earned her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College and completed a graduate degree in her beloved Boston. She spent four years in England, working in a fifteenth-century castle. Sadly she never spotted dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

Bianca credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. She remains deeply grateful for blustery downpours. 

After meeting her husband in another library, she moved with him to sunny California. On occasion she still dreams of the English seaside, scones with clotted cream, and sheep-filled pastures. For now, she visits them in her books.