Ten Days with a Duke
Olive Harper's family has been feuding with the Westons for decades. The Westons’ stud farm is the biggest, but the Harpers’ is the most famous... and she's the sole heiress. Or was, until her father brokers a truce by offering the Weston heir the Harper farm. The only way to get it back is to marry the knave who kissed her and humiliated her, twice—or prove to her father that some rifts can never be healed.
Scholar and botanist Elijah Weston is dreadful at feuding. For one, he prefers horticulture to horses. For two, he's been desperately in love with his mortal enemy ever since he kissed her—and, yes, publicly destroyed her—all those years ago. When he's given ten days to win Olive's heart, he arrives with marriage license in hand. But where lies and double-crosses abound, how can lifelong rivals learn to trust their hearts?
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. Twelve delightful romances… and plenty of delicious dukes!
Cressmouth Gazette
Welcome to Christmas!
Our picturesque village is nestled around Marlowe Castle, high atop the gorgeous mountain we call home. Cressmouth is best known for our year-round Yuletide cheer. Here, we’re family.
The legend of our twelve dukes? Absolutely true! But they may not always be who—or what—one might expect…
Chapter 1
Christmas Day, 1814
Miss Olive Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter, but the shaking of her shoulders gave her away.
“It’s true,” protested the Duke of Nottingvale. “She flew out of that tree without a single care for gravity.”
As was time-honored tradition, all of the other guests at the duke’s annual Yuletide party launched into equally fantastic tales of gossip they’d read about Olive and the famous Harper horses, or antics they’d witnessed with their own eyes.
She turned to her father, who stood between the pianoforte and a table full of treats. “His Grace claims he saw me drop from a tree branch onto a passing horse.”
Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Sidesaddle or low pommel?”
“Low pommel, of course.” Papa was the one who had taught her how.
She and her father had been inseparable for as long as she could remember. Not only were they the best of friends, they’d worked side-by-side on their stud farm from the moment she was out of leading strings. Olive had learnt to ride before she’d learnt to read.
Local blacksmith Sébastien le Duc groaned. “And then there was the time she wagered Lucien her horse could leap further than his.”
Olive tamped down a smile. The Harpers and the le Ducs lived across the street from one another, at the edge of the only road leading into the village.
She repeated his comment to her father in sign language. Papa could read the lips of one speaker if the circumstances were right, but it was impossible to watch everyone at once in a crowd.
“I do not race with Mademoiselle Olive anymore,” Lucien le Duc admitted grudgingly. “I already know la démone intrépide will win.”
“Perhaps it’s not Olive who has preternatural talent,” teased another friend. “Perhaps it’s the horses who have preternatural powers.”
Olive interpreted as quickly as she could.
Papa gave a wicked grin in response. “Who do they think trained our horses?”
“Horses like Duke!” crowed another friend, turning the teasing to the party’s host. “The Harpers’ prized stud is more famous than you, Nottingvale!”
The Duke of Nottingvale affected faux outrage. “I don’t know whether to take umbrage at being compared to a horse, or to pout because I did not emerge the victor.”
“Neither did Prinny.” Sébastien turned to Olive. “Is it true you refused to sell Duke to the Prince Regent?”
Olive batted her eyelashes innocently, whilst interpreting for her father.
“I refused three times,” she assured the party, to the delight of all. “For the good of the country, of course. Duke won’t let anyone but me ride him. He would toss Prinny into a lake at the first opportunity.”
“When has common sense stopped Prinny?” laughed a friend. “I wager it was Olive who chased him away. The Regent is more terrified of you than Napoleon.”
“As he should be,” she agreed primly.
The Harpers were not only renowned horse breeders and trainers, they were also champion grudge-keepers. Had Prinny tried to take Duke from them by force, they would have done everything in their power to get Duke back... or make the Regent regret his actions. Their horses meant the world to Olive and her father.
Fortunately, no such dire circumstances had come to pass. She was having one of the best Yuletides—nay, one of the best years!—in recent memory.
As her father aged, he’d entrusted more and more of the farm’s operations to Olive. She was no longer “Mr. Harper’s daughter” but a respected horse trainer and business owner in her own right.
Oh, very well, she didn’t own anything yet. But she and Papa were each other’s only relatives, which made Olive the estate’s sole heiress. Their farm was her kingdom, and she its Queen. Her horses’ well-deserved fame had long proved her talent and success in an arena dominated by men.
What more could a lady want?
One of the new faces here tonight turned to Olive. “Would you sell Duke to me?”
“I wouldn’t sell him to anyone,” she replied.
She allowed certain customers to mate their mares with her stallion or purchase a foal, but she would not part with her favorite horse. Duke was part of the family.
“What if I offered...” The stranger named a figure five times higher than Prinny’s best offer and gave her a hopeful grin.
“Not even for ten times as much,” she informed him and quickly glanced away.
Her tight-lipped smile wasn’t because she found the question offensive—a stud farm was meant to breed and sell horses, after all—but because Olive didn’t want the cheerful stranger to see what she hid behind her smile.
When she was younger, Papa had assured her she’d grow into her too-wide mouth and over-large teeth.
Olive had not.
It was the only lie Papa had ever told her.
She knew it was because he loved her. To Papa, his daughter was beautiful. He probably thought she had grown into her features. But there was no reason for her to subject strangers to her oversized teeth. Or to open herself up to ridicule.
Instead, she smoothed her hands over her prettiest gown and did her best to smile with her eyes instead of her tightly closed mouth.
The sound of champagne popping filled the air.
“A toast.” Nottingvale held the foaming bottle aloft. “To my sister, on her betrothal.”
Glasses clinked and cheers filled the air.
Olive was thrilled for the duke’s sister, she really was. But Olive was even more glad that she need never worry about being in the same shoes.
Her fulfillment came from her work. Olive wasn’t missing anything. Papa was the best companion anyone could ask for. They had each other, which was more than enough.