All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke Read Online Free Page B
Author: Delilah Marvelle, Máire Claremont
revealing himself and falling upon a knee despite still being only seventeen, it became rather obvious he was too late. She had found genuine happiness in another. He had never seen her eyes so bright. It went beyond the grasp of what he had been able to do as Mister X. For it was “Philip this” and “Philip that” and how incredibly funny and romantic and wonderful he was and that even if he hadn’t been Mister X, it would have been the same.
So he, Martin, buried Mister X and walked away. For his father would never have approved of their union nor would she have approved of the seventeen-year-old joke that he had been. Not when she had found Mr. Dashing Thirty-year-old Nouveau Riche Robinson.
Only…he wasn’t seventeen anymore. And his father, God rest his soul, was dead. He, Martin, was duke now. He, Martin, decided his fate and his life and his will now.
And he damn well would.
Maybe this was what he had been waiting for. Maybe this was why he had never been able to pursue a woman for anything more than sex. Because of her. Because none of them had ever been her.
Chapter Two
When I am ready to unveil myself, we will meet in the most unlikely of places and commence a most ordinary conversation as two old friends might ever know.
—Mister X
December 16, 1858
Early evening
Regent Street
It was that time of year again when being charitable was fashionable. To many, it was a matter of moral duty to extend a hand to those less fortunate than one’s self, especially during the Christmas season. To Jane, it was a beautiful sentiment she celebrated throughout the year and beyond.
Her giving nature had dwindled her finances to a miserable state, but she honestly didn’t care. Since retiring from the opulent life of the opera house and escaping the outstretched hands of people she could no longer trust, she had become a Samaritan of sorts and spent her days teaching children how to sing whilst finding ways to put smiles on the faces of everyone and anyone who needed it.
In fact, she was on a covert mission to purchase a Barnum & Park spice cake for her elderly friend and neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Apparently, Barnum & Park spice cakes were very popular with the upper crust. Which meant it was going to cost her more than she had to spend. But Mrs. Granger had expressed a particular fondness for this cake. She had to get it. Especially after the woman paid for a full year of her rent.
’Twas the season.
Jane drew in a determined breath and let it out as acrid coal smoke drifted down with the wind from the surrounding brick chimneys and permeated her nostrils and tongue. Endless flakes of snow danced and whirled all around, puncturing the crisp, sooty night air with virginal white.
Switching her reticule from one gloved hand to the other, she stepped beneath the stone colonnade, away from the crush of horses and snow-covered lacquered carriages that loitered on the gas-lit cobblestone street.
She rarely wandered into these parts. It represented her old life. One she didn’t care to remember.
Tugging her wool shawl tighter around her cloak to squeeze out the biting cold, she hurried through well-bundled men and women who swept past with stacks of parcels and woven baskets. Rows of plate-glass windows were illuminated by frosted lanterns that revealed a Paris-green confectionary shop with a brown wooden plaque painted with golden letters that read: BARNUM & PARK .
Edging closer to the window, she tucked herself against the display until the tips of her ankle boots and full skirts touched the wood base of the shop. The brightly lit windows before her were festively trimmed with thick garlands of holly and ivy that displayed a grand tiered variety of honey-glazed spice cakes, marzipan, éclairs, and dried candied fruit towers delicately kissed by sprinkled sugar.
She peered through the window, past the display, to the patrons within and bit back a smile. Boys in dapper caps and girls in fur-trimmed bonnets and
So he, Martin, buried Mister X and walked away. For his father would never have approved of their union nor would she have approved of the seventeen-year-old joke that he had been. Not when she had found Mr. Dashing Thirty-year-old Nouveau Riche Robinson.
Only…he wasn’t seventeen anymore. And his father, God rest his soul, was dead. He, Martin, was duke now. He, Martin, decided his fate and his life and his will now.
And he damn well would.
Maybe this was what he had been waiting for. Maybe this was why he had never been able to pursue a woman for anything more than sex. Because of her. Because none of them had ever been her.
Chapter Two
When I am ready to unveil myself, we will meet in the most unlikely of places and commence a most ordinary conversation as two old friends might ever know.
—Mister X
December 16, 1858
Early evening
Regent Street
It was that time of year again when being charitable was fashionable. To many, it was a matter of moral duty to extend a hand to those less fortunate than one’s self, especially during the Christmas season. To Jane, it was a beautiful sentiment she celebrated throughout the year and beyond.
Her giving nature had dwindled her finances to a miserable state, but she honestly didn’t care. Since retiring from the opulent life of the opera house and escaping the outstretched hands of people she could no longer trust, she had become a Samaritan of sorts and spent her days teaching children how to sing whilst finding ways to put smiles on the faces of everyone and anyone who needed it.
In fact, she was on a covert mission to purchase a Barnum & Park spice cake for her elderly friend and neighbor, Mrs. Granger. Apparently, Barnum & Park spice cakes were very popular with the upper crust. Which meant it was going to cost her more than she had to spend. But Mrs. Granger had expressed a particular fondness for this cake. She had to get it. Especially after the woman paid for a full year of her rent.
’Twas the season.
Jane drew in a determined breath and let it out as acrid coal smoke drifted down with the wind from the surrounding brick chimneys and permeated her nostrils and tongue. Endless flakes of snow danced and whirled all around, puncturing the crisp, sooty night air with virginal white.
Switching her reticule from one gloved hand to the other, she stepped beneath the stone colonnade, away from the crush of horses and snow-covered lacquered carriages that loitered on the gas-lit cobblestone street.
She rarely wandered into these parts. It represented her old life. One she didn’t care to remember.
Tugging her wool shawl tighter around her cloak to squeeze out the biting cold, she hurried through well-bundled men and women who swept past with stacks of parcels and woven baskets. Rows of plate-glass windows were illuminated by frosted lanterns that revealed a Paris-green confectionary shop with a brown wooden plaque painted with golden letters that read: BARNUM & PARK .
Edging closer to the window, she tucked herself against the display until the tips of her ankle boots and full skirts touched the wood base of the shop. The brightly lit windows before her were festively trimmed with thick garlands of holly and ivy that displayed a grand tiered variety of honey-glazed spice cakes, marzipan, éclairs, and dried candied fruit towers delicately kissed by sprinkled sugar.
She peered through the window, past the display, to the patrons within and bit back a smile. Boys in dapper caps and girls in fur-trimmed bonnets and
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