Page 1 of Not the Duke's Virgin

PROLOGUE

“Father,” Victoria began tentatively, setting down her teacup. “Might I ask what news has you so distracted this morning?”

Lord Newton peered at his youngest daughter over his newspaper. “Nothing that would interest a young lady,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, come now, you mustn’t keep me in suspense!” she cajoled. “Tell me, what has happened?”

With a resigned sigh, her father folded his paper neatly beside his plate. “Very well, if you must know, there is increasing talk of unrest in the colonies. It’s those impudent Americans and their protests against our control.”

“How worrying,” Victoria murmured. “Though surely it is just idle chatter?”

The Earl harrumphed again. “Let us hope so. But I fear they grow more defiant, spurred on by rabble-rousers and agitators, wanting the whole country for themselves.” He lifted his teacup and took a long sip before continuing. “Mark my words, it will come to no good if they continue down this treacherous path.”

Victoria glanced up at her father again, who had returned to rustling his newspaper irritably. She wished Aurora were here. But her elder sister remained sequestered at their country estate.

“I do hope Aurora continues to regain her health,” Victoria ventured. “The house feels rather empty without her, does it not?”

The Earl peered at her over his spectacles with a frown. “Your sister’s welfare is being seen to. We must be patient.”

“Of course, Father,” Victoria murmured, dropping her gaze. Patience had never been her strong suit. She missed Aurora fiercely.

With a soft rustle of footsteps, a footman entered the breakfast room. He bore an engraved silver salver piled with the morning post. Approaching the Earl, he offered a small bow before holding out the platter.

“The post, My Lord.”

“Yes, yes, put it here.” The Earl impatiently flapped a hand at the table, not glancing up from his paper.

The footman slid the salver onto the pristine tablecloth. Then with another bow, he noiselessly exited the room.

The Earl set aside his newspaper and drew the salver toward him. He rifled through the assortment of letters and ornate invitations, flipping through them one by one.

“Banker… merchant… modiste… confounded bills, bills, bills…” he grumbled under his breath as he sorted the post into piles. He set a few personal letters at his elbow to read later when he had time.

Victoria occupied herself by spreading marmalade atop a delicate toast triangle, unconcerned with the post. Any letters addressed to her would not be with her father; they would be delivered by her lady’s maid. Indeed, she half expected Charlotte to arrive any moment with correspondence from Aurora, hungering for word from her beloved sister.

“Ah, what’s this now? Something for you, my dear.” The Earl plucked a cream-colored envelope off the array and extended it toward her.

She noticed the ornate letter H embossed on the front.

“Hayward, it would seem.” Her father quirked a bushy eyebrow.

Victoria set down her toast, suddenly losing her appetite. She took the proffered letter reluctantly. Any communication from that particular family was unlikely to be a matter of joy. Not after her interaction with Lord Oliver at the ball a fortnight ago. The memory of Oliver’s crude insinuations still made her stomach churn.

She slid a butter knife beneath the wax seal and unfolded the heavy vellum within. The invitation was addressed to her father, requesting the pleasure of their company at Hayward Manor for dinner in one week. At the bottom, Lord Oliver had penned a personal note welcoming them to meet his elder brother, the Duke of Hayward.

Victoria’s frown deepened. This seemed like another move in some nefarious game Lord Oliver was playing, though she did not yet grasp the rules or motives. Victoria knew only that she wished to avoid him entirely. But refusing such a direct invitation from his family would be unpardonably rude.

“The Duke of Hayward himself! What an honor.” Her father’s pleased exclamation interrupted her brooding. “We shall have to visit the modiste straight away, have her run up something new for you. I’ll not have you looking anything less than your best for this grand occasion.”

Victoria suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Father.” She tried to inject a note of cheer into her tone, though her stomach churned.

Whatever Lord Oliver was plotting, she could not avoid this visit without casting impertinent suspicion on his family’s gracious motives.

Setting aside the elaborate invitation with its veiled menace, Victoria reached for the next letter on her father’s salver. Plain white paper this time, but her name was inscribed across the front in bold black ink. An unfamiliar hand, she noted, though insidiously confident.

Slitting it open, she quickly scanned the contents.

My dear Lady Victoria,

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