The Duke of Christmas Past

by Kim Bowman

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 KIM BOWMAN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

THE DUKE OF CHRISTMAS PAST

Copyright © 2012 KIM BOWMAN

ISBN 978-1-62135-092-7

Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

To my beautiful sister and biggest supporter, Michele. May Christmas magic bring you your prince charming and that he be as amazing as you. I love you.

Prologue

December 27, 1812

Chairs weren't the only things flying at this year's annual Kringle Ball. Throw in a duke, two appallingly outspoken ladies, an earl, a young naval officer, and enough fists to make Gentleman Jackson proud, and you have successfully recounted every delicious detail of this past season's unmatchable scandal.

One has to wonder how it all started. Some say Gatewood was merely defending his sister's honor. Others say Norcross seduced the wits out of not one but two women in the very same night! And the worst of the gossip, though it pains me to admit to it as such, comes to us in the form of a first-hand account. Miss Tess Warren was seen smiling, yes smiling (such a vulgar act to begin with) at the Duke of Gatewood not minutes before he was beaten with a chair. Now, what the devil (and please pardon my language, it really is inexcusable, but given the circumstances it must be said) does Miss Tess Warren have to smile about? And what, dear readers, has caused the good duke to lose his impeccable manners, not to mention his mind?

~Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers

Chapter One

London, England

December 24, 1820

It had come to this. Confining himself behind the walls of his study to avoid the festivities of the Christmas holiday.

Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, wanted nothing more than to forget this season and all the foolery that went along with it. There would be no wreaths hung on the doors and no candles adorned with greenery would line the mantel. He'd threatened to dismiss Cook if she served him syllabub or Christmas pudding. Even so, I wager one of the servants will at least put a Yule log on one of the fires.

Donovan lounged in his high-back chair, sipping brandy and watching the fire. The snapping and crackling of the logs soothed him, broke the eerie silence of the townhouse.

He glanced sideways at the polished walnut table on his left, and his gaze settled on the silver tray bearing the decanter of brandy. Firelight flickered off the cut crystal and splintered, sending amber glints dancing across the floor. When Lawrence, the butler, had brought the spirits, Donovan had told him not to bother lighting the oil lamps, just one of the candles on the mantel and another on the small table by his chair. The dull glow did no more than place the study in shadow. That was fine with Donovan; the dark ambiance fit his grim mood.

A draft swept through the study, dimming the fire. The flames on the candles swayed, and the darkness swooped closer. Shadows climbed from the corners and loomed over him. He glanced toward the bay window, checking that it was securely latched. But the reflection of the fire in the panes was all he could see.

As he started to turn back toward the fire, a circle of bright light, high up near the top of the glass and just beyond the window, caught his attention and he squinted, trying to make out what the object was. Perhaps starlight? Even as he tried to convince himself of that, the orb grew bigger, floated closer and lower to the ground.

Donovan sat transfixed, unable to look away as an illuminated figure approached the window, passed through without pause as if the glass and wall weren't there, and glided across the room, stopping close enough to the fire to be cast in its light.

Donovan blinked several times, his mind warring with what he saw. He glanced down at the glass in his hand. "I could have sworn this was my first brandy." Lifting his head, his gaze again met the vision. "But I must be foxed and seeing things. Or my eyes fool me."

Dark brown eyes — his dark brown eyes — stared back at him. Had it not been for the fact that he was sitting and the phantom was standing, he could have been looking in a mirror. The vision before him had the same dark wavy hair, broad shoulders that seemed to fill the room, and chiseled jaw.

The apparition crossed his arms. "Could there not be another explanation?"

Hearing the phantom speak with his voice unnerved Donovan, gave him pause. It took a moment for understanding to sink in.

"Ah. Dreaming, then. And not a very good dream, since I'd never wear such an outrageous burgundy tailcoat." Donovan gestured in the specter's direction with his glass. "Then again, I suppose I'm not actually wearing such foppish attire but having a nightmare."

A smile tugged at the corners of the ghost's mouth. "So you'd prefer to reason that you're dreaming—"

"Having a nightmare… and a bad one at that."

"Very well, having a nightmare, rather than actually believe I'm real?"

Donovan drained his glass then reached for the decanter, desperately in need of another. "On the contrary, I'm a logical man. And as such, I know it's impossible for me to be lounging in my chair and standing in the middle of the room at the same time. Not to mention that you cannot be me if I'm me, unless this is a bad dream."

"Yet you see me… you're speaking with me."

Donovan waved his hand. "That proves nothing." He brought the refilled glass to his lips and drained the contents.

"Well then, you won't object if I pour myself a glass of brandy."

"Not at all. Happy to share," he said. The initial shock of seeing a ghost glide through the wall had scared him, had been frightening indeed. But having a drink with himself as if they were old chums from University? Donovan smiled at the situation's inherent humor.

The apparition walked over to the ornate walnut cabinet and retrieved a wineglass. He strode back, hefted the decanter, and poured a generous amount into his glass. Then the specter sat in the black leather high-back chair opposite Donovan's.

"Forgive me, where are my manners. Please, have a seat."

The phantom met Donovan's stare over the rim of the glass. He lowered the drink and smiled. "Think nothing of it. I hardly need an invitation to sit in my own home."

What an arrogant, obnoxious — His home? Donovan opened his mouth to give the ghostly figure the set-down he deserved then shut it almost as fast. I think I need another as well.

He filled his own glass again then watched, a bit surprised, as the spirit swallowed down the liquor. But then again, if this is a dream, he didn't really pour the drink, did he?

"A very nice brandy, your grace."

Donovan chuckled.

"Is something amusing?"

"I was just wondering what I should call you."

"You may call me your grace."

Donovan snorted. "Your grace indeed."

"I see your point. Very well, you may call me Past Duke," the specter said.

"Why should I call you Past Duke?"

"I'm the past you, or rather the you you should have been," he explained.

Donovan furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Isn't the past the reason you're sitting alone in this dungeon of a study on Christmas Eve? Aren't the events that took place, what happened between you and Delia, what didn't happen between you and Tess, the reason—"

Rage coursed through Donovan's veins, the memories once again clawing at his heart. He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. "Silence! Don't speak of them." With a trembling hand, he set the glass on the tray and stood. "I believe my imagination has been entertained enough for one evening. It's long past time for me to retire."

Past Duke rose slowly. "You don't think I'm real."

Donovan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His anger drained away, leaving him with a heavy heart. He had enough demons to fight without adding arguing with himself to it.

Past Duke drew his foot back and planted a hard kick to Donovan's shin, making him curse.

"Whyever did you do that?" he demanded, rubbing his throbbing leg.

"This isn't a dream. Although I'd be more than happy to punch you in the nose if you need more convincing."

Donovan glared at him. "I don't advise that."

"Avoiding me won't make me disappear. I'm here to grant you one wish."

"Then I wish for you to go away."

The room fell silent; the other him seemed to blur, become faint. The embers in the fire dimmed to no more than tiny sparks. Both candles went out. A draft swept through the fireplace, sending a chill through Donovan's body. He shivered.

"What the devil?"

The room fell black and the air stopped moving, forcing Donovan to draw in deeply to fill his lungs, making him dizzy. He tried to move but was frozen in place. Almost as if he'd been glued to the spot, as if the darkness was a prison.

Panic spiked through him. His sanity had clearly deserted him, leaving him trapped in this nightmare. Wake up. Wake up now.

Donovan seemed to be spinning, then suddenly the fire crackled to life and the candles again illuminated the study. He whirled around, searching the shadowy corners. Relieved no demons were lurking about, he let out the breath he'd been holding. Just as I suspected. A dream. A drunken hallucination, had to be. One that sobered me quite fast.

Conversing with myself. What a ridiculous notion. He retrieved the candle from the table. When he turned toward the door, Past Duke was there. Donovan's body trembled and his heart thumped erratically, seeming to skip more than beat. The lightheaded sensation from a few moments earlier returned with a vengeance, and he dropped to his knees. The monster blocking his exit was Death, come to collect him. He had to get out of there, get away before the demon took his life.

But isn't that what you want? To leave this world? Leave the loneliness of having lost all those you love?

The fear coursing through his body seemed to answer back, No! I want to live! Get up!

Past Duke tilted his face toward the ceiling. "Why did I think this would be easy?"

Donovan lurched to his feet and backed away. The vision of himself filled the doorway, the room, demanding his full attention. "W-what do y-you want from me?"

The ghost stalked him. "I want the same thing you want. The life I should have had — could have had, if you hadn't been such a fool."

"I-I-I don't understand." Donovan collided with the wall. His body shook so violently that his teeth banged against each other.

Past Duke stopped in front of him. "You will soon enough. You, my dear fellow, are going to go back to the past and fix it."

"Fix the past? Fix what?"

"You're going to set right what you did wrong."

"I've gone mad," he whispered.

"Your heart cries with the regret and sorrow from the past. I'm the person you should have been, still can be. But only if you can set the future on the right course," Past Duke said.

A shiver ran up Donovan's spine. "What foolishness is this? I beg you for mercy. Let me awaken from this nightmare."

"You've spent eight years punishing yourself far more than I ever could." Sorrow crossed the past duke's face. The lines on his brow deepened; his lips turned down slightly.

"So your intentions are to make my suffering worse?" Donovan snapped. No one needed to remind him of what he'd lost… what he didn't have.

"Of course not. I intend to send you back to Christmas Eve 1812."

Donovan hrumphed. "And how would that be?"

"Like this."

Past Duke shoved him hard in the chest, pressed so forcefully Donovan was sure the apparition's fingers touched his heart, causing it to momentarily stop. Then his thoughts ceased and darkness consumed him.

Chapter Two

December 24, 1812

Donovan's heart cried as bits and pieces of images from his past danced through his mind. Each one somehow tied to the next, as if leading him somewhere specific. Where he couldn't guess, because his eyes refused to open, no matter how hard he tried.

One by one, the conjured memories flashed in front of him. Strange memories… ones that showed sadness. But a mind remembered as it wanted. Surely the sadness he saw on his sisters' faces was just a reflection of his own heartbreak. Daphne and Diana had been given secure futures with men highly respected by the ton. Wasn't a good marriage the ambition of all women? Yet the pictures parading through his mind depicted a very different reality.

His older sister Daphne's wedding. She'd been eighteen and he'd been a boy of fifteen. The bubbly enthusiasm that had always sparkled in her brown eyes seemed to disappear with each tear that rolled down her cheek, leaving behind shimmering pools of anguish. On her wedding day? Why had he never realized they weren't tears of joy?

Having grown into a man of twenty and learned the ways of the world, he'd assumed Diana's solemn expression and dead eyes reflected her fear of the wedding night. After all, she'd been but a girl of seventeen. But now… now he saw things more clearly. He'd stood at the back of the church after the ceremony. Rather than stay by her new husband's side and greet their guests, Diana had hidden in a small alcove with Tess, crying. They'd been whispering, and he hadn't been able to make out the words. But it had been tears of agony his sister cried, not panic.

Tess's angelically beautiful face swam into view again. Her baby blue eyes held him mesmerized, pulling him in completely. He drew closer, unable to resist the warm invitation in her penetrating stare, not that he wanted to resist it. He had to taste her, had to touch his lips to hers.

She drifted closer and he reached out to her. His fingers met nothing but air as the image vanished, leaving a black void. The boisterous boom of his father's voice filled the empty space.

"An advantageous marriage is a must."

"Can't see how I could possibly top these marriage matches with little Delia!"

"A daughter's place is to marry the best suitor for the family."

"Donovan, you get the notion of marrying anyone less than the daughter of a duke out of your mind. Must keep the dukedom pure with only noble bloodlines."

It grew quiet. Only darkness filled his mind, and he was able to open his eyes. Relieved to be waking from such a horrid dream, he let out a sigh.

The fog of sleep cleared. Overbright light pounded against his eyes, and he squinted to protect them, blinking several times. His walnut desk with the black tooled-leather blotter sat against the wall opposite the fireplace. In the corner, to the left of his desk, was the small writing desk his secretary used. In front of the fireplace stood the two black leather high-back chairs with side tables. This was definitely his study. And yet…

He'd been sitting in near-dark, hadn't he? But now, wall sconces as well as several candles illuminated the room. Six candles resting in beds of evergreen shone brightly atop the mantel. The size of the roaring fire indicated a Yule log had been placed on the grate.

Blasted servants! I made myself clear about Christmas.

"It's quite an extraordinary experience, traveling through time, I know. But I assure you, the feeling is temporary."

Donovan jumped from his chair and spun around. Dread washed over him. This cannot be.

The ghost with his face, his voice, stared back. He still wore the outlandish burgundy tailcoat with gold trim and buttons. The poor man had no sense of style, truth be told. Why else would he wear such a foppish jacket with black boots and black satin breeches—

What madness is this? The worn brown pantaloons and slippers he'd been wearing were gone, and he was now dressed in the same formal finery as the ghostly duke. Except for the wine-colored tailcoat. Thank the stars he'd been spared the torture of wearing the hideous thing. But how had he come to have different clothing on? And why did the attire seem so familiar?

"Delia always was your favorite. And we both know you never married because you always loved Tess."

"You know nothing. I—" He clamped his mouth shut. How could he have an argument with himself and win?

"It might be prudent to gain control of your senses, old man. If memory serves, Delia will be charging through that door any moment."

"Nonsense! You blabber nonsense! No one more than I wishes Delia had not perished. And Tess… So unless I, too, have met my demise, I—''

"In 1820 she is dead. But in this time, in 1812 — more specifically, Christmas Eve, 1812 — she is well and in good spirits and looking forward to Lord and Lady Kringle's ball at Holly Hall. And Tess is quite single."

Hope had the pace of his heart quickening. Tess is still single. Delia is still alive. He shook the thoughts from his mind, scolding his heart for believing such nonsense. "This foolishness has gone on long enough." Donovan made a fist and prepared to slam it against the other duke's jaw. "It's time I — ah, I understand." He unclenched his hand and let his arm fall to his thigh. "My grief and guilt have tricked my mind into believing that the impossible has happened. That I am again standing in my study in 1812." As he spoke, he walked around his desk.

"What are you doing?" Past Duke asked.

"Arguing with myself has done little to pull me from this nightmare. Mayhap a glance at the missives and ledgers on my desk will aid the voice of reason in understanding that 1812 has long since passed and this is 1820. Thus sending you back where you belong. Wherever that may be."

"And if you're wrong?"

Donovan paused long enough to wave a hand at Past Duke. "Do be quiet. Your attempt to distract me shall be in vain." He resumed his search, shifting papers on the desk for several moments before finding what he wanted. With a smirk, he looked up at the other him. "Ah, here we are. The notes my secretary needs me to sign, dated…" He glanced at the letters, unbelieving. "This cannot be. There must be a mistake. I'm certain there's a missive here from my friend John Dickens."

"Unless I'm telling the truth," Past Duke suggested.

Eyes narrowed, Donovan glared at the specter. "You are not real." He tossed the pages to the desk and jerked open the ledger book. Nothing had been written past December 24, 1812. He shoved the book aside and frantically searched the other papers littering the desk. None of them had a date past 1812 either. "This cannot be. I don't—"

His other self was gone.

Now he disappears.

With a sigh, he sank down into the desk chair. He propped his elbows on the leather blotter and dropped his head into his hands. How could his mind make sense of this? The only logical explanation was he'd died and his destination had not been heaven but a home of eternal torment.

But I don't feel dead…

Rest. I just need to find my bed and get a good night's sleep. All will be well come morning.

He rose and started for the door.

"Of course he's in his study. He's always in his study."

He stiffened, and fear mixed with excitement held him frozen in place. It couldn't be. Then the door opened and she was there — really there, standing in the doorway…

Delia.

Chapter Three

Terror and joy gripped him. He didn't know whether to be afraid she was real or scared she might not be. How he'd give anything to carry this image with him. Her face alight with happiness and excitement, a smile so contagious it infected all around her.

The study came to life in a way it hadn't in years. Still, Donovan couldn't reconcile that he was back in 1812, reliving Christmas Eve, when in reality it was 1820. Traveling through the wall of time just wasn't possible.

This Delia had long since faded from his memory. Replaced with the image of her cheeks stained with dried tears, her bright blue eyes dulled from crying, pain etched across her beautiful face… pain he'd caused.

That had been the last time he'd seen her. March 12, 1813. She hadn't even celebrated her eighteenth birthday.

But she was here now. Standing in front of him. Alive and happy. He closed the space between them and embraced her, grabbed her to him tightly, wanting to never let her go. It had been so many years, too many. It no longer mattered if this was a dream or not. He was holding Delia, his baby sister, and she was alive and she was real.

"My gown!" She pushed at him. "You're wrinkling my gown."

Heat flickered across his face, and he reluctantly released her. "Sorry."

She scowled and ran her gloved hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles he'd caused. He stared, unspeaking. The bold red of the satin dress — made more noticeable by the gold and white of her pelisse — shimmered about her, bringing out the deep blue of her eyes.

Delia lifted her face. "Are you — why are you staring at me like that?"

How did he explain? He couldn't find the words. How could he tell her that he'd missed her when she didn't even know eight years had passed? Had eight years passed? For him it had, and every day without her had been torture. And he'd never stop blaming himself for her death. How did he tell her she'd be dead in a few short months? What could he have done differently? What can I do differently to keep her safe? Is this it? Is this why I came back?

"Donovan…"

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Delia placed her hands on her hips. "Honestly, what has gotten into you this evening? You still aren't wearing your gloves, hat, or the burgundy tailcoat I had made for you."

"Tailcoat?"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't going to make a fuss over it, are you? Black is such a dull color."

This isn't real. She's not real. No matter how much his mind screamed at him that this wasn't possible, that he couldn't be seeing his long-dead sister, he couldn't deny what was right in front of him. Her eyes shining, dancing with laughter and life. He hated that that light had been taken from her.

Rage boiled in him again. It was this dreadful holiday. It brought back all the memories, made him relive it all again. All the sadness, all the pain. The hurt in Delia's eyes, the tears streaming down her face. He couldn't go through that again, couldn't bear it. Perhaps if they'd never gone to the ball…

"Do hurry, brother dear. We mustn't be late picking up Tess."

"I'm not at all certain that spending Christmas Eve at a ball is the best use of our time. Perhaps we should stay home with Mother instead."

Her face fell and her hands dropped to her sides. "But we have to go. We just have to. You promised."

He couldn't. He just couldn't take her to the ball, knowing what would happen. They'd stay home and enjoy a quiet Christmas Eve with their mother. He'd relish the evening with his baby sister, before she disappeared from his life again or he awoke.

"My mind is quite made up. I'll send the carriage for Tess and inform her we are unable to attend."

"It's not fair." Delia stomped her foot. "You don't want to go because you know—" She clamped her mouth shut.

Yes, he knew. Knew she only had a few months to live. How he wished it wasn't true, and he envied her the gift of oblivion.

"I'll never forgive you if you don't take me. Never!" She fled the room, yelling for their mother.

The words were like a punch to his gut. She'd said that to him at the ball. And had meant it. She'd gone to her watery grave hating him. He couldn't let that happen again.

The room fell cold. A strong current of air swept through the study, extinguishing all the candles and lamps, casting the room into darkness save the flickering of the weak flames in the fireplace. Chills raced up and down Donovan's spine, raising the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You aren't allowed to change the future, only fix it."

He jerked around, startled. Past Duke stood beside one of the high-back chairs with his arms crossed, the bright light illuminating from him almost blinding in the darkened study.

Donovan cursed. "What does that mean?" The blasted man could go to the devil for all he cared. How was he supposed to fix the past if he didn't change it?

Past him narrowed his eyes. "It means you have to face what happened and fix it. Not try to manipulate things so they turn out the way you want. And the only way to do that is for you to go to the ball — again."

Of their own accord, his feet moved toward the door, his body full of dread. This was surely eternal damnation, having to relive the pain and suffering of the people he loved the most.

Chapter Four

Time never stopped, waited for no one. Just moved forward like the hands on a clock, uncaring about what was left behind. Second by second. Minute by minute. It could no sooner return to the past any more than turning an hourglass over would actually reset time or make it move backward.

Except in dreams. That's the only place where time didn't exist but took the weary dreamer where he wanted to be… sometimes where he didn't want to be.

When sleeping, every detail, every nuance, everything that had happened that night constantly replayed in his mind. Tortured him. And if he were being honest, the nightmare often continued when he was awake. Yet in the end, everything always remained unchanged. Logic reasoned that this time would be no different. But his heart kept arguing, What if it is? What if you truly can change the past?

The jostling of the carriage as it moved toward the Warren townhouse in Mayfair pulled him from his thoughts. Surely the mind wasn't capable of creating the sensation that he was bouncing about, jerking to and fro as the coach wheels struck the occasional rut or stone in the road.

He glanced at the seat across from him, half expecting to find it empty, yet not surprised at all when his gazed landed on Delia. Head bent, she was searching for something inside her reticule, humming softly. Already several of the pins holding her hair in place had come loose and dark curls spilled over her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face.

Donovan had to check himself, ignore the inclination to reach out and give a gentle tug on one of the ringlets as he'd often done. Perhaps pull a bit harder as repayment for the outrageous burgundy tailcoat he now wore. With a matching hat, no less. He rolled his eyes. Could be worse… could be the same bold red as her dress—

Black… he'd worn black. He distinctly remembered wearing a black tailcoat when he'd attended the Kringles' ball the first time in 1812. He stared down as if looking at a ghost. His ghost. The past duke — the other him — had been wearing a wine-colored tailcoat. This tailcoat.

How is this possible? How can I be back in 1812?

Lost in his reflections, he didn't notice that the carriage had stopped until the footman opened the door. With a mixture of hopeful anticipation and anxious trepidation, he alighted to assist Tess inside the coach.

Like his own brownstone, the Warren townhouse had a wrought iron fence out front as well as on the second- and third-floor balconies. Wooden columns painted white bracketed the black door. He hadn't been back to her home… not since that night — this night.

Donovan kicked the carriage step, releasing some of his frustration.

"I'll be sure to give the Kringles your regards, Mama."

Tess! Her singsong voice poured over him like warmth from the sun. Please let her be there, let me see her beautiful face. Donovan swung around. His heart skipped then pounded rapidly, taking his breath away.

Her white satin pelisse fluttered ever so softly, billowing out around her feet as she glided down the path. A golden ribbon held her light-colored curls in place, a style that reminded him of an angel's halo. And that's what the lovely creature strolling toward him resembled. An ethereal being.

That feeling. That overwhelming, intoxicating feeling that she was tugging on his heartstrings washed over him, leaving him with the sensation he was floating. He had to check himself. Refrain from running down the walk and scooping her up in his arms.

How he'd missed spending the evenings with her, playing chess, cribbage, and confiding in her some of the more outrageous things being bet on at White's. Even placing a few anonymous bets for her in the book.

He'd had no secrets from her — well, save one. Never had he let her know his true feelings, that he wanted to spend his life with no one but her, loved her deeply. Donovan wasn't even sure when it had happened. One day he'd just realized she was his world. Yet he'd never told her. Had let fear of disappointing his father with a less-than-perfect marriage match silence him, even after the man had died.

Tess stopped in front of him, lifted her hand to his chin, and pushed his mouth closed. "It's impolite to stare, Gatewood. Especially if it's unclear whether the look is one of male appreciation or disapproval."

He longed to take her in his arms, hold her tight, and tell her how much he loved her. But he had to settle with lifting her gloved hand to his mouth for a kiss, letting his lips linger a bit longer than needed, squeezing her fingers ever so softly so as not to alarm her.

"I assure you, m'lady, the appraisal was one of admiration. You are a diamond of the first water."

She smiled, revealing the dimples in her cheeks. "Thank you. I must say, that's quite a compliment, coming from you."

One I should have given you before now. How he wanted to take her lips in a devouring kiss, yearned to feel her skin next to his without the barrier of gloves, to feel her body pressed to h—

"Do hurry, you two. We're already late." His sister let out a sigh as she sat back in her seat.

Blasted Delia. Donovan would be sure to mention to Lord Stanchbach how much she hoped he'd escort her to supper. Perhaps an evening of listening to the man's nose whistle would teach the mouthy chit to keep her tongue.

As he helped Tess into the carriage, the sweet scents of honeysuckle and rosewater enveloped him, penetrated straight to his heart. He wanted to breathe her in, pull her close and let the essence of her pour into him until they were one.

Once Tess was settled, the driver continued down Berkeley Street, turning left onto Piccadilly. No sooner had they crossed St. James when the pungent smells from Paxton and Whitfield, a couple of streets over, washed through the carriage. The foul odors of vinegar and sour curds turned his stomach, reminding him why he'd never acquired much of a taste for cheese.

But if this was a dream, would the sweet aromas of Tess's honeysuckle and rosewater have tickled his nose so? Would his stomach have recoiled against the putrid stenches emanating from the cheesemonger's shop? Surely one didn't have a sense of smell in a dream?

"Don't tell me you're pouting already, Gatewood. It's so unbecoming for a duke to sulk."

"He's losing his touch, Tess. He never even complained once about my dress or insisted I change."

"Oh, the poor man. Must be his age," Tess said.

Tess and Delia's laughter echoed within the confines of the carriage. The sound was unfamiliar yet at the same time soothing. Streetlight spilled in through the window, casting their faces in its luminous glow. Just as suddenly, shadow once again overtook them as the lantern was left behind.

He locked eyes with Tess, wishing the interior of the coach held the brightness of a few moments ago. Unlike Delia, who loved to shock the ton by being straightforward and blunt, Tess held all those around her captivated with her candid eloquence. Him most of all. When she looked at him with those sapphire blue eyes, he wanted to devour her and give her the world at the same time. She hated the freckles that dotted her nose, but he found them endearing and wanted to kiss each of them, hoped all of their daughters—

Time hadn't stopped for Tess either. She'd married someone else.

Only him.

It had only stopped for him. Forever stuck in that moment when he could have done something different but hadn't.

The closer the carriage approached to Holly Hall, the more his anxiety grew. His time with Delia was running out. He didn't want to relive it again. Perhaps he should just return home and lock her in her room. She'd be safe that way.

Delia let out a long sigh. "I do feel sorry for his wife."

"Yes, but at the rate he's going, he'll never have a wife," Tess replied.

He opened his mouth to snap at them, but couldn't. Something tickled at the back of his mind. A memory. One long forgotten. What had he answered? What had he said? Like a wave hitting the shore, he remembered…

"Perhaps I haven't married of my own choosing. As it is, I have yet to find a lady to marry of noble enough birth who doesn't annoy me or bore me to tears," he shot back.

The coach fell quiet. No one spoke another word. When they reached Holly Hall, Tess walked past him without a glance, and they didn't say anything else to one another that night.

Delia had not been so quiet. "You are the foulest creature I've ever known."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Poor sweet Tess. What you said was mean and spiteful."

He was taken aback. He hadn't insulted Tess, hadn't spoken of her at all.

"Are you that dimwitted? Can you not see it? Why do you think we escort her?"

He shrugged. "I assumed it was because her mother is in ill health and her father has passed away, so there is no one else to offer her an escort."

She stared at him, mouth agape. "And you think she couldn't go with someone else and avoid your foul moods?"

He'd never thought of it. His mother and Tess's had been close since childhood. It only seemed natural for Tess to be an extension of their family.

"It would serve you right if she accepted one of the marriage proposals she's received."

If memory served him, other than a few pleasantries exchanged when they met at social outings, they'd never truly talked again after that night. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, just assumed that with Delia gone…

But now, thinking back, when she'd walked past him, she'd seemed… hurt. He clearly pictured it now. Her face had been somber, eyes downcast, lips even, not a hint of a smile. Could it have been something he'd said? They'd both been so animated and gay before his comment. Had he been that harsh? Had he been the reason her face had looked so sad?

He couldn't — wouldn't do that to either of them again.

"Well, ladies, there's nothing for it. I shall rely upon the two of you to school me in the proper way to behave so that I'm not such an undesirable sort. Perhaps I should fawn over the ladies as Lord Filton does? Declare my undying devotion as Lord Marreck is often prone?"

Eyes wide, Delia and Tess exchanged glances then burst into laughter.

He lifted his eyebrows. "I assure you, I'm quite serious."

"W-who are you and w-what have you done with my brother?" Delia asked between bouts of laughter.

"Whatever do you mean? I'm a perfectly agreeable fellow!"

This made the girls laugh harder, and he found himself chuckling as well. When had he laughed last? His heart warmed, melting the frost around it. The heat seemed to spread quickly through his body, and for the first time in eight years, peace filled him. Despair and loneliness had been his companions for so long he'd forgotten the welcoming feel of happiness.

All too soon the carriage came to a stop and the footman was opening the door. Donovan wanted to jerk it shut again and scream at the driver to keep moving, to take them as far from London as possible. Gretna Green. He'd marry Tess and they'd move to the country with her mother, his mother, and Delia. His sister would be angry for a while, but she'd be safe and alive.

Delia stuck her head back inside the carriage. "Do hurry, brother. We're already late."

He let out a sigh and exited the coach. Even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He'd had no choice about returning to the past… and he had no choice about what he did now that he was there.

Chapter Five

The Kringles' home shone like a beacon. Oil lanterns lined the drive and the cobblestone walk leading to the front door. Candles burned in every window, bathing the rooms in inviting warmth. Laughter and festive music drifted from the house, drowning the clip-clop of the horses' hooves as the carriage pulled away.

"How beautiful! Daphne and Diana always raved for days after this ball." Delia bounced on the balls of her feet, eyes full of wonder.

"I'm so glad you've made your come-out and can now attend. I do miss having Diana here to get into mischief with," Tess said, draping her arm through Delia's and leading her up the walk ahead of him.

Why weren't Daphne and Diana here? Why hadn't they come? More specifically, why had he never bothered to wonder before? True, Daphne now had five children who were too young to attend, but surely the governess could watch them for the evening. Diana had but one son, and the lad stayed with his father's parents quite a bit. Come to think of it, Diana spent a great deal of time in Bath for treatments of some sort. When had his sisters last attended a social outing?

Donovan darted a glance toward Tess and Delia. It was as if they were walking out of his life again, and a rush of sorrow and panic settled over him like a thick blanket of fog. Fear had him too terrified to move and alarmed enough to run after them at the same time.

He wanted to yell at the girls not to go inside, scream that no good would come of it. Yet he couldn't. They didn't know what the future held, how things would turn out. The past eight years hadn't happened for them. So how could he possibly explain not only what was going to happen but how he knew it? Delia and Tess would think he'd gone nobbed in the head.

Tess glanced over her shoulder. "Well, Gatewood, do you intend to escort us inside or stand on the lawn?"

The path in front of him stretched on forever. Each step he took came slower than the next. But all too soon he was passing through the door with Delia and Tess, greeting their host and hostess. Blasted time is even more determined than Past Duke to keep me on the same path as when I first attended this ball, whether I like it or not.

"Glad you could make it, Gatewood. Lady Delia and Miss Warren, I'm pleased to have you as guests in our home. Lady Kringle has outdone herself this year." Lord Kringle beamed at his wife. His jovial chuckle echoed around the entryway.

"A ball on Christmas Eve simply must be the event of the season. We're so pleased to have you here." Lady Kringle's gown was as colorful and bright as the decorations.

Delia and Tess handed their pelisses to a waiting maid and then dropped into elegant curtsies.

"Everything looks marvelous." Delia twisted her head in every direction, gawking.

The Kringles had certainly outdone themselves. Even the entryway had garlands and pine boughs on every available surface.

"My lord, my lady, thank you so much for having me," Tess said, smiling.

His breath caught in his throat and that familiar tug on his heart set in. The swirl of pink silk clung to her slender frame. A cream-colored satin ribbon gathered the gown at her waist, accentuating her very female figure. Her gown might not show as much flesh as Delia's scarlet one, but it was definitely more provocative.

"…Christmas pie you like so well, your grace."

Heat crept into his face. He'd missed half of what Lady Kringle had said. With no other choice, Donovan took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Thank you, my lady."

The woman's rosy cheeks took on a darker shade. "Oh, your grace." Her eyes perused him in a way that had him squirming. She held onto his hand as if she had no intention of releasing it.

Delia sniggered. Insolent chit. Thank goodness Tess had the mind to lead the girl toward the ballroom.

"I say. The Duke of Bramblewood Green has just arrived. And he's not alone," Lord Kringle said.

Donovan's hand was released as if it were a hot coal. Lady Kringle dropped into as deep a curtsey as she could without losing her bosom. "Pardon me, your grace." She followed her husband out the front door. "Who has he brought?"

Glad to have his hostess's attention focused elsewhere, Donovan set out in the direction of the ballroom. How he hated having to relive the rest of the evening. If only there was a way to avoid it. If only—

He stopped. Delia and Tess had already joined the party. They'd walked arm-and-arm toward the ballroom, whispering and laughing. Happily. If he avoided the rest of the festivities, perhaps that's how the evening would end.

No one was about, and Lord and Lady Kringle hadn't yet returned to their post at the front door. He retraced his steps back outside, careful to make sure he wasn't seen. Once on the porch, he scanned the yard. The Kringles were greeting new arrivals, but they were far enough from the house for him to exit the porch without notice. He walked down the stairs and stepped onto the dewy lawn, into the shadows. Inch by inch, he made his way to the side of the house and disappeared into the night.

Several windows had been opened, and the smell of burning oil and wax mingled with the fragrance of winter foliage. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent languish, amazed when it did. The aromas were so strong, denying their existence wasn't an option.

Laughter bubbled up from a few feet in front of him and he stopped. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed the light shining just ahead. A short stone wall surrounded a small patio. Two girls — he wasn't close enough to tell who they were — sat on the wall, whispering.

As quietly as possible, he stepped close to the house and pressed against it. The cool damp stucco was rough beneath his gloved hands.

"Did you see the Duke of Cumberland lead Miss Kirkhoven from the gallery?"

"Yes! Where do you suppose he's taking her?"

The girls had to be speaking of the Honorable Anne Kirkhoven, the youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, for she seemed to be the duke's desire of late.

"Somewhere improper, by the look on Lady Wotton's face."

The girls giggled. More like screeched, with the way the sound offended his ears. He was glad when they hurried to the French doors and back inside, taking their cackling with them.

"You do realize you can't fix the future by hiding out here."

Donovan jerked around, startled.

Past Duke stood a few feet behind him. The light surrounding the specter was sure to draw attention to Donovan's hiding spot. The thought of being found in the shadows sent his senses reeling.

In two strides, he reached Past Duke's side and slammed the man against the building, unable to control his rage or his sorrow. "What sorcery is this? What demon are you?"

Their eyes locked for several seconds, and then Past Duke was gone. Sweat beaded on Donovan's face and his hands trembled. Had Past Duke really been here? Had his sanity completely left him? Now to make haste and—

He turned to see Past Duke straightening his jacket. Would he never be rid of the ghostly irritant?

"That was quite rude, considering I'm trying to help."

Disgust and frustration had him quacking. "Help how? By showing me what I've missed over the past few years? Letting me see my sister again, knowing her fate? And Tess… That's cold and heartless. I have no intention of helping me torture me."

"You can't leave. If you do, the future won't be fixed."

"Oh, but I can. If I don't talk to anyone, avoid people altogether — if I do nothing, I can't make the same mistakes again." Donovan puffed out his chest and smirked.

A solemn expression clouded Past Duke's face. Sadness swallowed the light in his eyes, even seemed to dim the halo surrounding him. "Unless doing nothing is what messed up the future in the first place."

Donovan raked his fingers through his hair and cursed. "This is madness. You obviously haven't the slightest notion why I'm revisiting Christmas Eve 1812, either. Thus proving my point that this is a dream — a nightmare. So what I do — or don't do — will have no bearing on events that have already happened… things that can't be undone."

Sparks flashed through Past Duke's eyes. "Did I not prove anything by striking you in the leg earlier? I should be very happy to kick you on the other shin to convince you that you are not dreaming."

Donovan narrowed his eyes. "I wouldn't advise that. My leg still—"

He broke off. His left shin did hurt. Surely that was just a trick of the mind, wasn't it?

The obnoxious apparition tapped his index finger on his chin. "Hmm… there's a paradox in there somewhere."

Did it matter if this was a dream, if it was real? Delia was here. She was laughing and happy… and alive. And Tess. How he'd missed her friendship over the years. What could it hurt to play along if it meant a few more moments with them?

Donovan met Past Duke's gaze. The man — ghost — certainly appeared to be considering a kick to Donovan's leg.

Of course he is. He's me, after all.

"This would go much faster if you'd just tell me what I'm supposed to fix."

"Don't you get it? It isn't about snapping fingers and barking out orders to get the results you want. There are real consequences for the decisions you make and the actions you take."

The ghost duke's words struck him like a knife. "I'm well aware that Delia's death is on my hands."

"No, Delia made the decision to run away. We are all responsible for our own actions. Until you realize that, you will be stuck in the torturous world you've created for yourself," Past Duke said.

"Enough with the riddles. Just tell me what I have to do."

Past Duke shrugged. "Make the right decision to fix what you did wrong."

Donovan gritted his teeth. "How will I know when the past is fixed?"

"When your heart no longer hurts." With that, he disappeared.

I'm really starting to dislike him — myself — me — oh for heaven's sake. He let out a string of curses and stomped to the patio and into the ballroom.

Chapter Six

Donovan stepped through the doors of the terrace. The ballroom seemed to resemble the lawn more than a fancy assembly room. All shades of greenery covered every column, candlebra, and wall. Pinecones and sprigs of fir served as centerpieces on the refreshment tables. The fresh scent of evergreen wafted through the air, filling the room with the minty aroma. Tiny pieces of needle-shaped leaves littered the beautifully polished marble floor.

He surveyed the crowd. How things had changed in the past eight years. Did Lord and Lady Kringle still hold their Christmas Eve ball in 1820? Was he still included on their guest list? His secretary Brooks had been informed to decline most of the invitations he received. Attending social events hadn't interested him since—

His blood boiled. Rage coursed through his body. He glared at the dancers. Where was she? No doubt dancing with that scoundrel Roland Melwyn, Fourth Earl of Norcross. Brilliant colors of violet and white and blue flashed in front of him followed by an array of green and red and yellow as the pattern reformed. No pink silk whirling about. None in the second set either. Perhaps in the third — no, there Tess was. And she was indeed dancing with Norcross. How could she have married that lackwit?

He started for the couple only to stop after a few steps. Was he insane? Given that he had not only shared a brandy with himself in his study but was actually reliving Christmas Eve 1812, it was highly possible he had lost his senses. But was he actually about to go so far as to cause a scandal in front of the ton over a dance? What was he going to do once he reached them? Challenge the earl to a duel? And why? Because he was jealous?

Like a hot poker stabbing through his heart, the memory of learning Tess had accepted Norcross's marriage proposal flooded him. He'd been wrong. This wasn't a nightmare. He'd died and gone to his fiery home.

He changed directions and headed to the refreshment table, in need of a stiff drink. To his disappointment, he had to settle for a punch made of champagne and crushed peaches. Tiny pieces of the fruit stuck to his tongue, leaving a tart taste on his palate. What he wouldn't give for a goblet of strong brandy. Perhaps two goblets.

He averted his eyes from the dancers, unable to witness the budding romance between Tess and the earl, and there at the end of the table stood Delia's friend Lady Ivy Plumthorne. She was striking in her purple gown, but she eyed the ballroom door as if contemplating her escape. A sentiment Donovan understood all too well.

He walked toward her, pausing when he reached her side. "Lady Ivy, I trust you will keep my sister in line this evening."

She smiled and curtsied. "I shall try my best, your grace. But Delia rarely makes that an easy task."

"Indeed." He took another sip of the punch and had to resist the urge to smack his lips together to dislodge the errant bits of peach from his teeth. Against his will, his gaze slid over the dancers, again seeking the pink of Tess's gown. "How are your parents?"

"Very well, thank you for asking. Is something amiss, your grace?"

Without taking his eyes off Tess, he replied, "Donovan, call me Donovan. I'm perfectly fine. Why do you ask?"

Lady Ivy laughed. "Because you are scowling at the dancers with a frown so deep it almost goes past your chin."

He stood up straighter and cleared his throat. "Forgive me. My manners seem to be lacking tonight."

"Fortunately, Miss Warren has enough for both of us."

His body warmed at the mention of Tess and he smiled at Lady Ivy. "And what social indiscretion did you commit tonight?"

The young girl blushed and averted her eyes. "I danced the first two with Lord Norcross, being polite, hoping then I could avoid him for the remainder of the ball. Instead, I fear I gave the man a bit more encouragement than I had intended, and he was quite determined that we share a third dance…"

"And Miss Warren…"

"The next thing I knew, she was beside me, squeezing my hand. She smiled at me and then inquired if the earl intended to make her ask him to dance. He bowed and said of course not and led her to the dance floor. As they walked away, Miss Warren winked at me over her shoulder."

So many emotions warred within Donovan that he hardly knew which one to feel first. Pride in Tess's selflessness; her willingness to always put others ahead of herself. Fear that perhaps she did carry an affection for Norcross. The thought had jealousy washing over him like a fiery flame. What a fool he'd been. How had he not seen until now what she meant to him, that he loved her — was in love with her?

He'd played this night over and over in his mind, yet until now had never realized what had been right in front of him. But now… now when facing the truth without having the memories misconstrued by his own interpretation of the events, the torture of realizing what he'd lost was unbearable.

The music came to a stop, and he again scanned the dancers. Even through the scattering aray of colors, he easily spotted his prey. Norcross was leading her back to the chairs. Her eyes met his, and she smiled. The tug on his heartstring was so strong he nearly toppled over to get to her.

A jaunty quadrille started, and couples lined up in pairs. Had he even asked her to dance that night? Not that he recalled. One of the many mistakes he'd made with her. If he'd known that would be his last chance, he would have danced three dances with her, giving her no choice but to marry him. If he had it to do over—

Excitement had his heart thrumming. He did have it to do over! He'd been given a second chance, and he had no intention of letting Norcross have her.

Then he heard it. Faint but strong. High above the crescendo of music. His father's voice, and his heart withered and withdrew deep into his chest.

"…Baron DeRosso to encourage his daughter to set her cap for you. But don't mistake your brotherly affection for Tess Warren as more. Wouldn't want to give the girl false hope. No, for you nothing less than a duch—"

"And where have you been hiding, your grace?" Tess asked, pulling him back to the present.

Norcross cackled. A truly undignified racket. "Hiding indeed, Miss Warren. As if one could hide while wearing such a flashy tailcoat. Your tailor has outdone himself, your grace. For surely a strutting peacock with his feathers spread would attract far less attention."

Lady Ivy gasped. "Please excuse me. I do believe I hear my mama calling." She barely took time to curtsey before hurrying away.

Donovan bristled. Heat flooded his face and poured out his ears. Had the earl gone dicked in the nob? Surely the man knew to insult a duke was to commit social suicide. He clenched and unclenched his fist, prepared to knock the smirk from Norcross's face.

"Lord Norcross, I would so enjoy a cup of Lady Kringle's famous punch." Tess's voice was shaky, her face pale.

The earl took her hand and kissed it. "Please, allow me."

Once he was out of earshot, Tess glared at Donovan. "Were you honestly about to engage in fisticuffs with Lord Norcross? You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Me? Madam, I am the injured party."

"Well, what did you expect after you provoked him so?"

"Me? Provoke him?"

"Yes, you provoked him. You glared at the poor man the whole time we were dancing. I was quite certain daggers would fly from your eyes and strike the earl down. What possible reason do you have for such vulgar behavior?"

Because you married him. Not that he could tell her that. The other truth then. That he loved her. "I—"

"No wonder you and Delia always come to blows. Neither one of you can keep your temper in check. And neither one of you can be bothered to say you're sorry, even when wr—"

Delia!

Chapter Seven

Donovan made his way down the row of chairs to the open door of the conservatory. If memory served, she'd be in there with that navy officer, Henry McDaniel, listening to him profess his undying love.

He tsked.

The man had certainly proved how much he cared for Delia by marrying the youngest daughter of a baron a few months after the ball. The heartbreak had been too much for his sister and she'd run off…

He shook his head, trying to clear the image of Delia's pain from his mind. He'd been right to forbid the two from marrying. The swine would have spent Delia's inheritance and left her penniless.

Fists clenched, he stormed through the doorway. It wasn't hard to spot Delia's red dress and the blue of the young man's navy uniform among the jungle of foliage that lined the room. Even knowing he'd find her in the arms of McDaniel didn't ease his temper, and the sight of the two embracing sent his fury plummeting into blind madness.

Slapping twigs and leaves aside, he advanced toward the unsuspecting pair, removing his gloves as he reached them. Without warning, Donovan swooped down on his prey and punched McDaniel, unleashing all the hurt and rage he'd carried toward the man on Delia's behalf for eight years. McDaniel stumbled backward and crashed to the floor, taking a potted plant with him.

"Henry!" his sister screamed as she dropped to the fallen man's side and helped him sit up. "Look what you did. His eye is already swelling shut."

Donovan stood transfixed, shocked and humiliated that he'd let his emotions trigger such barbaric conduct. What had he done? How had he come back to the past and made things infinitely worse than before? He'd known full well what would happen, had lived it — still lived it every day. But instead of the knowledge working to his advantage, it was a hindrance. The scene he'd caused would be the talk of the ton for the next month. His mother would be beside herself when she found out.

"Let's go, Delia. I'm taking you home." If he could just get her away from here, away from McDaniel, maybe he could reason with her and convince her not to make a hasty decision.

Delia stood and glared at him, a defiant gleam in her eyes. "I'm not going to just leave Henry. I love him. You can't make me."

"You should do as your brother says, Delia. I'm fine. Go on home." He touched the area surrounding his right eye and winced.

She sat back down and took his hands. "No. I won't leave you."

"Donovan!" Tess yelled.

"Have you gone quite mad, Gatewood?"

Donovan wheeled around. Lord Norcross stood in the doorway, glaring at him. Tess averted her gaze and hurried to help Delia, but not before he saw the disapproval radiating from her liquid blue eyes. Had the earl's arm been around her waist?

He'd lost Tess to Norcross. Eight years of living with that finally boiled over. He unleashed it on Norcross with a vengeance, hitting the earl full force in the nose.

Lord Norcross jerked back, staggered, grabbed the doorjamb, and kept his feet. Glaring, he whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at his bloody nose. Then he threw down the soiled linen and drew his arm back, coming at Donovan. The gentlemanly thing to do was to let Norcross have the satisfaction of landing a blow in return, to take the punch. But he was past the point of feeling generous tonight. So just as Norcross swung, he ducked and uncoiled, driving his fist into the man's face. Blood spewed, and the earl crumbled to the floor, holding his nose.

Donovan shook his hand and cursed violently. An intense sting burned his hand to the bone. Oh but it was a good, satisfying sort of hurt. Probably he'd just broken his knuckles. And it had been worth it—

A sharp pain spiked through his shin — the one Past Duke had kicked earlier — and he grabbed his leg.

"That was for Henry." Delia had jumped to her feet. She drew her foot back. "And this is for me."

Donovan whirled around and danced back. An inch; his poor bruised shin escaped by an inch. "Stop that, you hoyden!"

There was a loud whoosh, and then his skull split in two, sending him spiraling into darkness.

****

Donovan's senses prickled at his consciousness, pulling him awake. People chattered in hushed tones, pottery pieces pinged as they clanked against each other, probably a maid cleaning up the broken pot, and ever so quietly, music played. Something cool and soft dabbed at his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, and Tess's face swam into view.

"It serves you right," she scolded, pressing a cold compress to his cheek.

"W-w-what happened?"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "Lord Norcross took exception to your unfounded attack on his person and broke a chair over your head."

Over her shoulder, Lord Kringle tsked. "I expect this type of behavior from Paisley. But you, Gatewood?"

The thrumming in his skull made it impossible for him to speak, much less express regret to his host for such behavior. He tried to sit up. Searing pain shot through his head and he groaned.

"Take it easy. You took a nasty blow to the head." Tess tried to push him back down, but he wanted none of it and sat up.

The room swirled in every direction, making him sick at his stomach, and he dropped his head in his hands. He definitely should have stayed down longer. Almost wished he was still unconscious. Then he wouldn't have to face what an utter fool he'd been, how shamefully he'd acted. Let me wake up. I beg you, have mercy and let this nightmare end now.

"I say! You've gone quite pale, Gatewood. Best I send for the doctor," Lord Kringle said.

"That's very gracious, but not necessary. I'll be fine in a moment." He'd created enough scandal for one night. It was past time that he leave.

He glanced around. "Where's Delia?"

"I'm sorry, Donovan. She left."

"Of course she did. Do you know where she went?"

Tess bit her lip. "Promise you'll hold your temper when I tell you."

He knew. Heaven above, he knew where they'd gone. And it was all his fault. To say he'd made a mull of it was putting it lightly. "They headed to Gretna Green, didn't they?"

She sighed. "Delia said it was the only way, because you'd never consent to letting them marry."

Cursing under his breath, he staggered to his feet. "Lord Kringle, would you be so kind as to have my carriage brought around and see that Miss Warren gets home safely."

"The footman is already fetching the coach and my wrap," Tess said, handing him his hat and gloves. "I'm coming with you."

"I appreciate the offer, but—"

"You've just sustained a nasty injury to the head and could very well have a concussion. You are in no condition to travel alone." She pulled her gloves on. "Not to mention that when you find Delia, she's going to be in no mood to listen to you."

Guilt stabbed at his conscience. Her reputation had already been tarnished tonight because of him. The last thing he wanted was to cause her more scandal. But what if he never saw her again? Things with Delia had already turned out far worse than they had the first time he'd attended this blasted ball. Now that he knew what he'd be losing, the thought of letting Tess out of his sight — out of his life — was unbearable.

Maybe that's what he deserved.

Chapter Eight

No good had ever come from this blasted holiday. Past Duke had told him he had to come back to fix the future, and he'd tried, truly he had. But just as she'd done the first time on Christmas Eve in 1812, Delia had run off with McDaniel.

Soft laughter drew his attention. In the seat across from him, Tess had propped her arm against the side of the carriage and placed the back of her hand over her mouth.

"May I ask what you find so amusing?"

Tess wiped the tears from her eyes. "Do forgive me, Gatewood. But surely you see the irony? You've worried since Delia had her début that she'd somehow cause a scandal. Yet… yet… oh the look on Lord Kringle's face when he saw you unconscious on the floor of the conservatory — and then when he saw the chair splintered on the floor, he turned as white as my pelisse. I could barely contain my mirth when the poor man said, 'I say, Lady Kringle will be in a state over her hall chair.' But when Delia told him you'd be more than happy to reimburse him if he'd send an itemized accounting of the damages, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud."

Donovan narrowed his eyes. "She said what?"

"Come to think of it, I believe she mentioned you'd buy two new chairs so Lady Kringle would have a matching set."

"Two chairs — madam, I was the injured party, in case you've forgotten," he snapped.

She tilted her head to the side and furrowed her brows. "But you started it."

"I did nothing of the sort! That imbecile Norcross insulted me then accosted me when I had my back turned!"

"You punched him in the nose — twice. And attacked poor Mr. McDaniel for no reason." She tsked. "You really should learn to control your temper."

Donovan gritted his teeth and slapped the palm of his left hand with his gloves. "Innocent indeed. I found him all but having his way with my sister. What sort of man carries on secret liaisons with innocent girls? Delia's but a child who just had her come-out. What was I supposed to do?"

"But he loves Delia. And she loves him."

He snorted. "Loves her. A respectable man wouldn't have left the Kringles' ball with her, causing a scandal."

"Need I remind you that the scandal tonight was entirely of your doing? And what should the poor man have done? Let her leave alone, possibly coming to harm?"

Bile rose in his stomach, burned. He knew all too well what harm awaited Delia in a few short months if he didn't find a way to set things right.

"And furthermore, Mr. McDaniel didn't run off with Delia, but ran after her."

He waved his hand in the air. "Irrelevant. If what you say is true, then the honorable thing for McDaniel to have done is to see Delia home safely. Furthermore, I—"

"Henry McDaniel is the fourth son of Earl Ralston. It's commendable that he sought his own income by joining the navy. Delia told me he asked for her hand right after her début and you refused him—"

"Yet he still pursues her behind my back and against my wishes!"

"Has he any other choice?"

"He—" Donovan clamped his mouth shut and slapped his leg with his gloves. Trying to reason with Tess was proving to be as effective as arguing with Past Duke.

She sighed. "I do believe you've taken it into your head to dislike Mr. McDaniel for no other reason than his affection for Delia."

"That's preposterous! I—"

The carriage lurched. Donovan's head bumped against the window. He hissed and let out a curse, grabbing the back of his head.

Tess leaned forward and picked up his hat, placing it on her seat. Then she crossed to sit beside him and pulled off her gloves. Her soft fingers gripped his head and pushed his chin aside. "Let me see. You really should have permitted Lord Kringle to send for the doctor."

The gentle touch of her fingers as she ran them through his hair and inspected his injury made him shiver. Her warm breath against his neck sent an electric current pulsing through him, making him forget the throbbing in his head. Innocent though her ministrations were, the passion they aroused combined with the eight years of pining after her had him burning with desire. The dam broke, and the floodgate of suppressed emotions and sensual craving swept logic and willpower away. He twisted and pressed her against the seat.

A surprised gasp escaped her. Even in the dim light of the carriage, Donovan could tell her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. His gaze rested on her full, voluptuous lips.

"Is it true you've turned down every marriage proposal you've received?"

"Wh-who told you that?"

"Delia mentioned it. Is it true?" A bit of guilt gnawed at him for not being completely honest. But his sister had confessed it to him. He didn't see a reason to point out it had been the first time he'd lived through Christmas Eve 1812 and not tonight.

Tess shrugged and glanced over his shoulder. "I-I suppose it is."

"Why?" His voice was no more than a whisper.

She looked down. "Several reasons."

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she had to meet his gaze. A fiery surge of emotion overwhelmed him as he stared into the sapphire depths of her eyes, and unable to contain it any longer, he claimed her mouth with a tender vengeance. She twined her arms around his neck, returning his ardor with the same passionate fury, and he deepened the kiss. The way her lips clung to his only intensified the exquisite feeling of having her in his arms.

Breathless, Donovan reluctantly pulled back, but didn't break contact. He trailed kisses up her cheek, afraid to stop touching her. Terrified if he did she'd vanish and he'd once again be alone in his study, consumed with the aching emptiness that had haunted him for the past eight years.

He tipped his head back and looked at her. "Promise me you won't marry that dimwit Norcross." He had no right to ask — demand — such an assurance. But, heaven help him, he couldn't bear the thought of her with anyone else.

"M-m-marry Lord Nor — I — he—"

Donovan tightened his hold, closing the gap so that his lips grazed hers. "Just promise me."

"I-I promise," she said, her voice shaky.

He captured her lips again in a hungry kiss, parting them effortlessly. A wave of hot desire swept over him. The uncontrollable flame coursed through his blood like an amorous fire. She raked her fingers through his hair, returning his passion with sweet fervor. Donovan had to have her completely, needed to feel her skin next to his. He loved her with all his being… he knew that now. And he had to make her his in every way.

"…And what should the poor man have done? Let her leave alone, possibly coming to harm…"

"…Mr. McDaniel didn't run off with Delia, but ran after her…"

The words broke through his sensual haze, sending cold shivers down his spine. He leaned away from her.

"Donovan?"

"A few minutes ago, you said they didn't run off together, that McDaniel went after Delia." He straightened and sat back on the seat, watching Tess.

"Oh… I suppose I did, didn't I." She let out a sigh.

"You lied to me." He was surprised to hear the ache in his voice.

She placed her hands on his chest, her eyes beseeching. "I didn't — could never — lie to yo—"

"When I came to, I asked you where Delia was, and you told me she and Henry said something about heading to Gretna Green to marry."

"No… what I told you was that Delia said they should just run off to Gretna Green because you'd never consent to letting them marry. I just didn't mention that he refused. She screamed he was no better than you and left. Mr. McDaniel said to tell you he'd see her home safe."

Donovan was at a loss. A complex mixture of anger, hurt, bitterness, and disbelief warred within him, making his senses reel. "Why?"

Tears glistened in her eyes and she averted her face. "Because I thought perhaps I could help you see reason — and not just for Delia. Mostly I did it for you." She looked at him. "If you succeed in separating Delia and Mr. McDaniel, the spirit will go out of her eyes and she'll hate you. But not nearly as much as you'll hate yourself." Her shaky hand came up to rest on his cheek. "Sometimes the right decision isn't always the best decision."

A deluge of agony ripped his heart in two. If she only knew. "And sometimes we aren't given a choice at all." He leaned forward and tapped on the roof of the carriage. "To my townhouse."

Chapter Nine

Every detail of Christmas Eve 1812 had been etched into his memory, but he'd foolishly forgotten that in this 1812, none of those things had happened yet.

Just like tonight, Delia had run off. Only then it had been after the ball when they'd had a heated argument in his study. She'd gone to McDaniel, and the man had refused her. He'd told her he couldn't go against her brother's wishes and he'd escorted her home.

Donovan's hand was on the latch opening the door before the carriage came to a stop. He couldn't look at Tess. If he hadn't let his feelings for her cause him to disregard the fact that he should have been with Delia instead…

"Donovan, wait!" she yelled in a pained, choked voice.

Ignoring Tess, he ran to the townhouse and shoved through the door as Lawrence opened it, nearly knocking the startled butler over.

"Delia!" His voice boomed through the townhouse.

"Your grace—"

"Delia!" He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"She's in the parlor with Mr. McDaniel, your grace," Lawrence announced.

He stopped and jerked around. "And my mother?"

The butler cleared his throat. "Her grace said to inform you that you mucked it up and you could fix it without her. Then she retired to her suite with strict orders she wasn't to be disturbed."

Of course she did.

Tess stood in the entryway. As he passed her, she grabbed his arm. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "Donovan, I—"

The agony and dread he'd lived with for the past eight years slammed through his body with an unbridled fury, stopping him in his tracks. He'd thought his battered soul couldn't be hurt more, but the pain and sorrow marring Tess's beautiful features ripped him to shreds. Every smell, every emotion, every sound… every nuance was ten times more powerful. And that made the anguish of knowing what he'd lost — would lose once more — an unbearable torture. He couldn't live through that again.

Yet that was exactly where things were headed.

What am I doing? He was right back where he'd ended up the first time. Once again losing the chance to be with the woman he loved, pushing her straight into Norcross's arms. And Delia… she'd run away from him, hated him just as she had before. He'd fixed nothing. Made things worse, actually.

He was trying. Heaven help him, he was honestly trying to do what was right—

"…sometimes we aren't given a choice at all."

But he had been. He'd been given the chance to fix everything. And curse it, he wasn't about to let his sense of right — his father's beliefs — cause him to make the same mistakes again.

One breath. Two, and his heart resumed a steady, even thumping. Her beseeching gaze never left his face, and as they stared into each other's eyes, her pain faded, her eyes widened, and her intriguing lips opened.

He couldn't just walk away from her. But he couldn't allow Delia's situation to languish a moment more either. He rubbed her cheek with his knuckles then touched his lips to her forehead. "Trust me."

Not waiting for an answer, he continued to the parlor. Definitely a room for the ladies. Pink-and-yellow flowered wallpaper decorated every wall, heavy draperies of the same pattern hung from floor to ceiling at the bay windows, an Oriental rug with a similar design covered most of the floor, and the two high-back chairs and sofa were covered in a pale blue silk.

His prey sat huddled together on the couch. McDaniel rose slowly, his hand resting on a sobbing Delia's shoulder. She lifted her blotchy, tear-stained cheeks, and Donovan's helpless fear nearly brought him to his knees.

That look. He'd seen that same pained look slashed across her face. Those eyes. The same loss and misery had clouded her eyes right before she'd run off to America, only to die.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again. If he did, Past Duke would probably curse him to repeat this blasted holiday over and over until he got it right.

The air shifted ever so slightly, and a warm prickling caressed the right side of his body. He glanced sideways. Tess smiled at him and squeezed his arm, giving him the reassurance he needed.

Did Delia love McDaniel as much as Donovan did Tess? She'd certainly gone to extreme lengths to be with the man, had even… died. His sister had been so devastated to learn the man had married another that she'd ended up on a ship that had sunk. The realization cut through him like a jagged knife. What if he agreed to let them marry and McDaniel again broke her heart?

"Sometimes the right decision isn't always the best decision."

He'd made what he'd thought had been the right choice the first time in 1812. The one his father would have made. It had caused him to lose his sister and the woman he loved. So had it been the best decision? One worth repeating? He'd been helpless to save Delia before. But now…

Donovan strode forward, not quite certain how to start or what to say. Not at all sure what he should do.

McDaniel's face blanched. His eye had swollen shut and had already turned a deep purple. "I'm completely to blame for what happened. I should have stayed away as you request—"

"Yes, you should have. I made myself quite clear." Donovan crossed his arms. "I'm of the same mind, and have no intention of letting the fact that you left the ball with her sway my decision."

McDaniel bent and retrieved his hat and gloves from the sofa. "I understa—"

Delia jumped to her feet. "No!" She glared at Donovan, contempt clear in her eyes. "I'll never forgive you for this. I hate you."

Tess let out a gasp. "Delia."

"And I'll spend the next eight years hating myself more than you ever could." Had he just said that out loud?

The room fell silent. Delia and McDaniel furrowed their brows. They exchanged a look that clearly said they thought he'd gone daft. I'm inclined to agree.

Donovan's heart stuck in his throat, making speech impossible. His tattered nerves had his whole body twitching. Would this blasted night never end? And what would he find when it did? He knew what he'd find if he didn't allow Delia to marry McDaniel. And that was a future he had no intention of returning to.

Still unable to speak, he closed the distance between him and his sister and pulled her into his arms. In the end, keeping her alive was all that mattered.

"Donovan, I can't breathe."

"Oh… sorry." He released her, a bit shocked at himself for such an emotional reaction. "Er… um… as I was saying, I'm of the same mind. But I find myself in an awkward predicament. I find I'm also no longer able to forbid you two from marrying."

Delia's hand went to her chest and she whipped her head back and forth between him and McDaniel. Hope danced in her eyes, lighting up her face. "W-we can marry?"

"I haven't agreed to that. Not yet. I'm just willing to withdraw my rejection of the marriage for now. I'll make my final decision after I speak with McDani—"

Delia squealed and flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Yes, your grace. Thank you," McDaniel said, a splitting grin covering his whole face.

"Don't be so quick to thank me. You haven't heard my conditions yet." He set Delia away from him and locked eyes with her. "And don't think you've gotten out of the tongue-lashing you deserve, young lady. It was very foolish of you to run off tonight." A part of him wanted to tell her that one day she ran off and never came back, but how? How could he tell her such a horrific thing? He prayed to God he never had to hear that news again. If that meant he had to let her marry McDaniel, then the choice was easy.

Her face turned as red as her dress, and she lowered her head. "I-I know. I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to get the notion that you've somehow forced my hand and that's why I'm willing to reconsider." I'm doing this to save your life.

Delia's only answer was to nod.

"McDaniel, I'll have a word in private in my study." Donovan gestured for the young man to follow him from the room.

McDaniel bowed. "Of course, your grace." He touched Delia's arm. A deep affection swam in the man's eyes. In that moment, nothing else mattered. McDaniel was offering his sister something worth more than all the riches in the world. He truly loved her.

Donovan finally understood. This fourth son of an earl, with nothing more to offer Delia than the salary of a navy lieutenant, would provide a more secure future for her than Daphne and Diana had in loveless marriages.

Because that's what they had… he knew that now, saw it for what it was.

He turned to escorted McDaniel to his study, and his gaze landed on Tess. Her eyes tugged his heart into a tender embrace, and warmth enveloped him. He'd never experienced such a comforting assurance with anyone but her. Could that be why he'd never married?

Donovan stopped in front of her and took her hands in his. "Thank you."

She furrowed her brow and tilted her head sideways. The tiny smile on her lips was enough to bring out the dimples in her cheeks. "I-I don't understand…"

He smiled and brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. "When I'm finished speaking with McDaniel, there are some things I need to say to you…" He broke off, unable to get past the emotion in his throat.

She touched his face with her other hand. Liquid heat pooled in the pit of his stomach. "Of course," she whispered softly.

Reluctantly, he released her, but didn't break contact until he had to. Never wanted to let her go again. He knew that now.

Once inside the study, Donovan sat behind his desk and motioned to the chair beside it.

"Sit."

McDaniel sank slowly into the chair. "I want you to know I only followed Delia because I felt I had no choice. My only intention was to see her home safely; I never touched her."

Donovan stared at him in silence, enjoying, just a bit, how the uncomfortable quiet caused McDaniel to squirm. After a few moments — probably what seemed an eternity to the young man — he leaned back and crossed his arms.

"Do you love my sister?"

McDaniel sat up straighter and looked Donovan in the eyes. "Yes, with all my heart."

"Enough to give up your naval career?"

Obviously taken aback, McDaniel blinked several times and furrowed his brow. "O-of course, if that's what you require. But I won't marry her if I can't give her a secure future. I love her too much to give her anything but stability."

Donovan gave him a curt nod. "That brings me to my next question. Do you agree to never touch Delia's inheritance?"

"Yes. You have my word. Her money will be her own."

Donovan opened the desk draw and retrieved a sheet of folded foolscap, a pen knife, and a stick of sealing wax. Using the knife, he slit the paper in two. "I'm going to write my friend Captain Alexander Fleming. He has connections with the port admiral in Devonport, and I'm going to request that he help secure you a position there." Donovan blew on the missive to ensure the ink was dry and then folded it. With care, he warmed the wax over the candle then sealed the letter with his ducal stamp.

"Th-thank you, your grace."

"I'm also going to write you a personal letter of recommendation." When finished, he sealed the second letter and then handed it to McDaniel. "I believe Captain Fleming is in port, so I'll have a messenger deliver his letter immediately. Once I receive his response, I'll send you word to report to the port admiral with my reference."

A smile spread across McDaniel's face as he took the missive with a shaky hand. A comical expression, considering his swollen, bruised eye. But the happiness was unmistakable. "I can't begin to repay you for such a gesture, your grace."

"You can repay me by taking care of my sister and never making me regret I went against my better judgment." Please let this be the right decision. Please let Delia stay safe and happy.

"I swear it." McDaniel's tone said he meant it with all his heart.

Donovan pulled the cord behind his desk. Almost before his hand released it, Lawrence opened the door.

"Give me a few moments and then show Miss Warren in. Make sure the carriage is ready for me to see her home once I've spoken with her," Donovan said, subtly dismissing the young man.

"Thank you again, your grace." McDaniel stood, bowed, and headed for the door.

"McDaniel!"

He froze and turned slowly.

"There is one more thing. I'll have your word that you will never take Delia anywhere that requires travelling by water."

His features contorted in confusion. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"Your word. Or I won't permit you to marry her."

Without hesitation, and without losing the joy in his face, McDaniel nodded. "You have my word. Thank you."

Lawrence opened the door wider ahead of McDaniel. Delia and Tess stood in the hall, holding each other. His sister straightened and glanced first at McDaniel then at him. A mixture of anticipation and wishfulness filled her beautiful face with the slightest glimmer of light. But when he nodded at her, the faint glow burst into a sun-bright shine.

Delia squealed and threw her arms around McDaniel. She smiled at Donovan and mouthed, "Thank you."

His heart fluttered as if to say, No, thank you.

Whole-hearted approval lit Tess's smile. A soft, almost affectionate radiance filled her sapphire eyes, sending a jolt of love through his body.

An ecstatic Delia hauled Tess into a hug, breaking their moment. Then Lawrence finished closing the door.

Donovan let out a sigh of relief. He covered his face with his hands. The heavy burden that had pressed against his heart for the past eight years had all but diminished. He breathed easier than he had in a long time. More amazing, the worry, the brutal terror that he'd wake to find his sister was still dead had all but disappeared.

What an amazing feeling! His heart was so light he seemed to almost float with the giddy sensation.

"Why the softening of your heart?"

Donovan started and whipped around, sending a sharp pain through his head. He winced and touched the spot where the chair had made contact. "I'm still of a mind that McDaniel isn't good enough for Delia. But I've ensured she won't be getting on ships bound for America. I pray that's enough to spare her life."

Past Duke walked up beside him. "Ah, so your hope is that she'll come to her senses and break her engagement to the young man. That's a nasty bump. Allow me to fix it for you."

Before Donovan could object, Past Duke covered the injury with his hands. A warm tingle pricked at his head, relieving some of the throbbing pressure. After a few seconds, the pain had completely subsided.

"How did you do that?"

The other him chuckled. "I've made it possible for you to return eight years into the past and you're astounded I can heal a little bump."

Donovan smiled and stood. The heavy bonds that had held his heart captive for so long had loosened, and he knew a moment of peace he hadn't for years. "I see your point. Now do go away. Tess will be joining me any moment, and I really don't think I can explain how there are two of me here."

The laughter vanished from Past Duke's face. "The time to depart is at hand. We must make haste and return you to Christmas Eve 1820 before midnight."

Donovan bristled. "Not until I speak with Tess. I have to tell her how much I love her."

Past Duke shook his head. Remorse darkened his eyes. "I'm sorry, but you cannot. It's not your place. You cannot cause the course of the future to be departed from."

What the deuce did that mean? That he wouldn't marry Tess? That he couldn't, or he'd ruin everything? Well, devil take him if he'd stand for that.

Past Duke reached for him. Donovan recoiled and backed away. "Curse you! You're the one who forced me to come back here. You can't make me leave. I haven't fixed everything yet. I need more time."

The clock began chiming, and his heartbeat quickened. How many rings did that make? Three? Four?

Tears glistened in the other duke's eyes. "If you change even an instance of the future that was not meant to be, then all of this will have been for naught."

Ding.

"I can't leave. Not now. I have to speak with Tess."

Dong.

Past Duke advanced on him so fast Donovan didn't have time to react. The squeezing sensation on his heart pitched him forward and he clutched his chest. The room spun around him, and in his agony — from being refused the chance to see Tess one last time or from the apparition's tight grip, he wasn't sure — he could no longer suck air into his lungs.

Ding.

Dong.

Ding.

Dong.

The swirling grew faster, and then he ceased to know anything.

Chapter Ten

December 24, 1820

Donovan jerked to alertness. His breath came in shallow gasps and he had to force the air down his throat. He was afraid to speak, afraid to move for fear time would resume and he'd find it had all been a dream and that the warm joyful feelings he'd experienced had been but an illusion.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and gazed around the study cautiously. The bright light from the oil lamps and candles made his eyes ache, and it took several seconds before he could see the room clearly.

The chair opposite now had a rose and white flowery pattern. The black leather was gone from his as well. A sitting chair with the same design, along with a small table, sat in front of the bay window. Greenery lined the mantel, the smell of evergreen and pine heavy in the air.

Frantically, he searched his memory but remembered nothing. It was as if his thoughts had been wiped away. The only thing in his mind was darkness.

I've no control of my mind. This cannot be.

He stood to better survey the room. A flash of burgundy caught his attention. Past Duke sat on the edge of the desk, an amused light gleaming in his eyes.

The apparition chuckled. "Give it a few moments and it will all come back to you."

Donovan clenched his fist and let out a curse. "You!" In three strides he was on the past duke, grabbing the lapels of his tailcoat and shaking the man so violently the desk creaked. "Tess. What happened to her? Why did you take me away before I could apologize? Before I could see her one last time?"

The candle on the desk rocked, sending wax flying onto some of the papers. Past Duke alternated between grabbing the edge of the desk and trying to break Donovan's hold on him.

"If — you — look — your hand… see?" The specter fumbled off the side of the desk. The momentum was enough to break Donovan's hold. Past Duke straightened and smoothed down his tailcoat front.

Donovan advanced on him, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up. When he managed to grab his other self by the neck, he'd snap it like sealing wax on an envelope. "I intend to enjoy pushing your teeth to the back of your throat."

Past him sidled around the desk, out of reach. "If you would just listen to me for a moment, I can explain. You're just overwrought from the time travel. I assure you, beating yourself to a pulp will not make you feel better. Being your own adversary will serve no purpose."

"I'm willing to take that chance." Donovan lunged for Past Duke, grabbing nothing but air. "Blasted apparition."

"I could say the same. Why do you insist on making things more difficult than necessary?" Past Duke propped his right arm on the back of one of the high-back chairs. He let out an exaggerated sigh, lifted his left hand, and wiggled his ring finger.

A gold band glistened in the firelight.

Instinctively, Donovan glanced at his own hand. He, too, wore a ring on his left hand… a wedding band.

"I-I-I don't understand." Dare he hope…

"Perhaps if you stopped trying to cause me bodily harm and let me explain—"

"I thought you said I couldn't change the future."

"Well… you didn't change it. You fixed it. There is a difference, you know."

Shock and amazement washed over him. Had he truly changed things? "How do I explain this to everyone?"

Past Duke shrugged. "Explain what? There's nothing to explain. You set things right, and now the future is as it should be. A pity though… living such an amazing adventure yet having no one to share it with. John and Elizabeth Dickens' son Charles loves a good tale. His imagination is remarkable. He could turn this into quite a parody."

Donovan harrumphed. "If I start babbling nonsense about returning to the past, everyone will think I've gone daft. I'm still not certain I haven't." But he wanted to talk about it — needed to talk about it. Yet finding the words to explain it seemed an impossibility. Perhaps he would share the story with young Charles.

The other him rubbed his chin. "True. True. Best to keep it to yourself." He dropped his hands and bowed. "Well, it wasn't easy, but my work here is done. Have a care with our future, Donovan Ellis. I'm sure you have about as much interest in seeing me again as I have in seeing you."

The glow around Past Duke intensified, and he floated toward the bay window. "Wait!" Donovan yelled.

The beam of illumination grew brighter and the figure within it became dull, indiscernible. Then nothing.

Blasted ghost! The least he could have done was tell me if I really fixed things. He could leave his study to find out, but what if—

"There you are."

That voice. That honey-sweet voice. Her voice. Behind him, speaking as naturally as if…

As if they really had married.

Donovan spun around. "Tess," he whispered.

She stood in the study doorway. The white gown with pale blue lacing hugged her curves. "We really should be going."

He started toward her then paused. Was she real? Or was she a figment of his imagination, a dream? He stumbled forward and reached out to her. When his fingers touched her arm, a jolt of exquisite delight rushed through his body. She was here and she was real. He jerked her to him in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off her feet.

"Donovan Ellis, what has gotten into you? Are you foxed?"

He laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. The sound was foreign to his ears. When was the last time he'd laughed? "You are the third person tonight — myself included — to make that accusation."

Tess furrowed her brow. "Um… the third per—"

He took her mouth in a hungry kiss. One he'd been waiting eight years to bestow upon her. With the slightest bit of urging, she let him deepen the kiss. Her warm fingers caressed his cheeks and he moaned. The touch of her, the smell of her had him on fire with desire.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. "How I've missed you."

Tess laughed. "Is that a jab at how long it took me to get ready?" Her hands drifted to his chest. His pulse soared. "You could have used the time to dress for the Kringles' ball, you know."

"Will, umm…" He stopped, cleared his throat. He tried to force himself to say the words, but he couldn't do it. Heaven help him, he couldn't do it, didn't want to know.

Tess lifted her brows. "Yes…"

"Will… will Delia be there?"

Tess furrowed her brow. "Of course not."

Grief exploded in his heart. Donovan stumbled backward. His hand grazed the edge of the desk, and he sank to the floor. Dread seeped into the pit of his stomach. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to rip the traitorous heart from his chest. How could he be so happy, even overjoyed, when Delia's fate hadn't changed? She'd still died.

"Donovan!" Tess dropped to her knees in front of him, took his face in her hands. "What's happened? Are you unwell? Should I send for the doctor?"

He stared, unseeing. Her voice was no more than a faint whisper. How could this be? It had all been for naught. How could he be happy when Delia had still died? How could he—

"…Delia and Henry tomorrow. They can make our excuses to John and Elizabeth Dickens. I'll send word we must delay—"

Donovan grabbed her hands. "What did you just say?"

"I said we can't possibly make the trip to Guildford if you've taken ill."

Memories rushed back to him so quickly he became lightheaded. The room started spinning, blurring everything. Delia was alive and well and living in Guildford, awaiting the arrival of her third child. And she was happy. Deliriously so. Almost as happy as he and Tess. Their son was in Guildford with Delia and Henry. He had a son. The lad had fair hair and blue eyes like his mother. Donovan Henry would be six this year.

He jumped to his feet and swung her up into his arms, laughing so hard tears streamed down his face. It seemed even his heart chuckled.

She squealed. "Put me down this instant."

"Never."

She scowled. "You are foxed!"

"I'm only drunk on you." With that he headed out the study door and up the stairs.

"Wh-what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm taking my wife to bed."

Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. "What about Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve Ball?"

"I've attended enough of Lord and Lady Kringle's balls tonight."

"I beg your pardon? Are you quite certain you don't need me to send for the doctor?"

"I've never been better. I'll tell you everything on the way to Guildford. Right now, I want to hold you."

How would he explain to her how he knew what it would be like to live without her and how he couldn't bear it? How did one explain that he'd gotten a second chance and now he intended to make the most of every single second? Perhaps not the real truth then, but just how much he loved her. He'd think of something. She wouldn't believe the truth anyway. He hardly believed it himself.

Once in their room, he set Tess on her feet and shut the door. She eyed him suspiciously. He starting toward her, pulling his cravat loose and unbuttoning his shirt.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm taking my shirt off, then I'm going to help you out of that beautiful gown, then I'm going to make love to my wife." He removed his shirt and tossed it on the settee at the foot of the bed.

He took Tess's face in his hands. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"No, I really love you. I'm a better person because of you. You breathe the life into me."

Donovan turned her around and loosened the buttons of her dress. With a gentle tug, the gown slid down her shoulders and dropped to the floor. Goose flesh covered her ivory skin around her chemise. He leaned close, breathed her in. Honeysuckle and rosewater. Lips barely touching her, he placed feather-light kisses on her shoulder, up her neck, stopping behind her ear. The tiny bumps spread, and she shivered.

"Donovan…" Tess leaned into him, let her head fall back against his chest.

He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and placed her in the center of the bed. Her breath came in tiny pants. Passion shone bright in her sapphire eyes.

Never letting his eyes leave hers, he joined her, covering her body with his. "Merry Christmas, my love."

Her only answer was to pull his mouth down to hers for a sensual kiss.

Author's Note

I so hope you enjoyed The Duke of Christmas Past. I assure you, it was made much better by the imaginations and some of the characters from the Regency Christmas stories of several of my fellow Astraea Press authors.

Thank you so much, J. Gunnar Grey, for allowing me the honor of mentioning Ernst Anton Oldenburg, the Duke of Cumberland, and the Honorable Anne Kirkhoven from Scandal on Half Moon Street. And a special "thank you" for allowing me to mention Captain Alexander Fleming from A Different Sort of Perfect. You are a dear and I can't say how much I appreciate your help. Believe me, this story wouldn't be near as good without your advice, editing, and willingness to share your vast knowledge of the writing craft and Regency period with me. My hat is off to you, lady!

As in J. Gunnar Grey's story, I, too, have "borrowed" Lady Ivy Plumthorne and Roland Melwyn, Fourth Earl of Norcross, from Kay Springsteen's The Toymaker. Kay, I had so much fun allowing my duke the privilege of punching your earl in the nose. And any time I can combine my writing with yours, mine is better for it.

I couldn't resist the humor behind Ruth Hartman's character Lord Stanchbach in Time for a Duke, and I'm very happy that she let me jab fun at him as well. Charles Hamilton Douglas Wade, the Fourth Duke of Bramblewood Green, created quite a stir in Ruth's story by bringing Isabella Hodgkin, an American (gasp!), to the Kringles' ball. So of course, I had to mention the scandal in my book as well! Thank you so much, Ruth.

Leah Sanders, I so appreciate you letting me make fun of Paisley from your Christmas story Two Turtledoves. The man simply asked for it, letting his fists fly the way he did!

A special thank you goes to Rachel Van Dyken for graciously writing the Prologue to my story. The witty, eagle-eyed Mrs. Peabody's Society Paper was the perfect addition and an ingenious way to poke fun at my characters with gossip from Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve ball. It was greatly appreciated! I also want to extend a huge "THANK YOU" for your graciousness in adding your voice and charm via the wonderful Mrs. Peabody to all of Astraea Press's Regency Christmas stories. Your kindness and willingness to help your fellow authors never ceases to amaze me.

About the Author

Kim Bowman lives in Indiana, where she was born and raised. For the past thirteen years, she has been married to her best friend, Tony. She has four wonderful, awesome children. Three she was lucky enough to inherit from her husband and one she was given by the grace of God. They live on a small farm with two of their four kids, five horses, and Lex the lovable pit bull.

Although she has notebooks full of songs, poems, and short stories she has composed, it wasn't until she started doing technical writing for her job that she really got the bug and decided to take her English professor's advice and write novels for a living. Find Kim on Facebook and at her blog: http://kimbowmanauthor.blogspot.com/

Also from Astraea Press!

Chapter One

Tuesday, December 8, 1812

The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the windowed front of the linen draper's shop, and there stood sweet Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he'd ever chewed. A stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally brilliant smile flashed a moment later.

An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of her new husband beside her.

And of course their swift, smiling recognition had been spotted. Dear Lady Gower's hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The matched greys smacked the phaeton's front wheel against the sidewalk's edge before she returned to her own affairs.

And of course, by then the new husband had whisked sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant's wife now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her husband's arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again into a dull winter's day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn't bother to hide his satisfied smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her shoulder.

Well, he'd done what he'd intended for her. His Grace could honestly say, he'd made sweet Dorcas' dream come true.

Leaving him free for a new adventure.

Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across the way.

In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect rose-hued flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid's-bow mouth curved in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as their daughters' mischievous innocence allowed.

And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room's corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton's sight, sat the young solicitor the daughter admired and the mother scorned.

Time to play.

His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere, bowed, and opened the door for him.

Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set less from the quality of the conversation and more from the strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.

As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele, conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.

And let the mothers hide their daughters if they didn't.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.

Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed, his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the dead. And kept them that way.

Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a delightful surprise."

In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an "unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."

Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.

She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from the wrong side of the blanket.

And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam, neither would he.

A full page from every society rag in town, that would be. Should he ever need one, of course.

"A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent." Satisfied with his sally, he turned away.

Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the man's privacy. He'd ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his way.

"Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise."

If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden. He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his gloves and umbrella.

"A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately a brief one."

Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed someone else had had the same plan and target.

Well, Culver had never been able to stand competition.

Nor could he compete.

As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.

Indeed no, that one wouldn't mind at all.

His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored Trent's pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his chair.

Staring at Anne.

Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup, focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female. Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving her pale as death.

The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued, horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as he'd made his actions, surely they'd had no trouble tracing his stare.

Finally she glanced at him.

He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and lifted his cup.

And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.

But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile and gaze hadn't shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate, swan's-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.

Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess the young solicitor's expression, hidden with him in his dark corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace didn't surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class professional man, watching a titled one far above his station admiring the woman upon whom he'd set his heart.

Or at least, that's what he should imagine if the rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn situations.

The volume eased back to normal conversational levels around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by the onlookers' flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel coffee shop. Doubtless they were watching the solicitor, and their reaction provided His Grace all the background information required.

Finally — finally! — Lady Wotton's volubility snagged, as if the twisting atmospherics had shaken her from her chattering reverie. A glance at her daughter, a measured following of her daughter's attention, and Lady Wotton's gaze crossed his own. She started. As well she might; she'd missed his entire posturing display. Shame on her.

His Grace smiled, lifting his cup to Lady Wotton, and her smile bloomed even as her eyes narrowed. Oh, he'd seen that expression countless times before, in the six years he'd lived in London: the assessing stare of a predator facing a new, previously unknown variety of prey — or a mother with a daughter of marriageable age, discovering an unmarried, rich, titled man staring at said daughter. The expression of a mother calculating his intentions to a nicety, without ever permitting anything so unpleasant as a frown to cross her face and potentially discourage his suit.

But then — and his glee quivered at her movement — then Lady Wotton lifted her gaze a fraction higher. Her smile twisted into a scowl.

She'd spotted the solicitor.

And nothing was going to save the lovers now.

Lady Wotton tugged on Anne's slender arm, and the two ladies prepared to abandon their teacups. But as they rose, His Grace started to his feet as well. They'd been introduced at Lady Forester's rout earlier in the year, so he wouldn't flout propriety by speaking with them.

Not that he'd ever allowed that to stop him. And indeed, no mother with a marriageable daughter would allow his attentions to come to naught without a fight.

And so the game began.

****

The man couldn't be serious.

Anne didn't dare breathe as the most notorious rake in the ton lifted her hand and kissed the air a hair's breadth from her glove. She couldn't feel the actual touch of his lips, but he may as well have scorched her with his heat, and her entire arm threatened to quiver in his hand. His admiration took in her hair, her face, the fur around the neck of her pelisse, her — attributes, and she would certainly die before he was done. The atmosphere in the coffee house thickened, deepened, and she didn't have to look to know every eye in the place followed his assessment, seconded his assessment, with avid interest.

Forget him. Her mother couldn't be serious.

And thankfully Mama's lips started to purse, her smile to wane, and her eyes to narrow. The Rake — well, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland to the world, but The Rake in effect — finally released her hand, murmured something — was it "Delightful" or "Delicious"? couldn't be certain — and asked—

—and asked Mama if they'd be at Lady Baldwin's concert tomorrow.

Had he ever actually pursued anyone before consuming them? Didn't he rather corner innocent young ladies (like her) in boxes at the theater or opera and there did whatever it was he did with them that utterly ruined their reputations? If he pursued her first, did that mean—

No. It couldn't possibly mean he was serious. He was a rake, The Rake, he'd earned the sobriquet as surely as Messrs. Harding and Howell of Pall Mall carried the most exquisite muslin within miles, and if she asked around doubtless she'd find herself provided with names and horrifying details. Why she hadn't asked before now, she couldn't imagine. She should already know all about him, and—

—and behind him, sweet, adorable Frederick watched the spectacle with agony etched into his brown spaniel's eyes.

Oh, it was all beyond mortifying, and seeing Frederick hurt gave it an extra layer of mortifying-ness. Truly, it was like something from a really good Gothic romance — standing in a coffee house under assault by a notorious duke, indeed — and once Frederick wrote that one, it would compete with The Romance of the Forest, The Castle of Otranto, The Old English Baron. With any of them. Frederick's romances were always the best. He could call it The Wicked Duke and the Baronet's Daughter. After he finished the one he was working on, of course. He'd described his current progress last week as "grimly pushing ahead" and the printer had been awaiting the completed manuscript for more than a week now.

Hopefully this agony would give him a stimulating creative push, rather than a push down.

And surely she contributed something, something somewhat intelligent, while Mama and His Grace exchanged banalities. But the very ordinariness of their conversation completed its transformation as it drifted past into a horrifying, distant, buzzing blur. His Grace was precisely the sort of match Mama had been seeking for her. As if she were incapable of selecting a suitable husband for herself. Merely because Mama was no longer willing to even discuss Frederick and had forbidden Anne to see or speak with him, making their assignations all too brief and far between. He'd met her behind some trees in Hyde Park last week, and for a few blissful minutes, it had been heaven on earth.

What was a duke, any duke much less this one, in comparison to Frederick Shaw, Esquire, barrister, solicitor, writer of the best Gothic romances in England, and future member of Parliament? And why could Mama not see how perfect their match truly was?

Then she blinked, and she was walking along Fleet Street with Mama, safe and anonymous among the bustling sidewalk pedestrians and with Gregory, their safe and anonymous footman, at their heels. The carriage awaited them down Fetter Lane, and as the corner opened before them, the coachman lifted the reins and his two matched chestnuts mouthed their bits and stepped forward.

She hadn't even been sufficiently aware to glance a goodbye to Frederick before she'd left. And that would hurt him most of all.

Under cover of their turn, Anne risked a look back toward the coffee house; Mama was too busy talking to notice. The pedestrians opposite the jeweler's shop parted like a curtain, and Frederick strode across that impromptu stage, his long restless strides clipping across the sidewalk, coattails flapping and his hat catching a brief flash of light from the fickle sun. Then the clouds closed in again, they turned the corner, and he was gone, leaving behind the usual dull, ugly, yearning ache in her heart.

And Mama continuing to talk.

"Oh, of course you know the sort of thing I mean, girl, you're no fool despite your silly ways. You know how to draw a man on without encouraging any nonsense from him."

Right. That explained everything. Whatever she was talking about.

Even without a word in response, Mama rattled on. "It's a matter of fluttering your eyelashes at him without — without fluttering your eyelashes. Meeting his eyes without your look devolving into a stare. That sort of thing."

Oh, well, yes, that sort of thing. She should have expected this topic of conversation to dominate, all the way back to Half Moon Street and probably for the rest of the year. As if Mama were Polonius and she Laertes, and His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, was the answer to all of life's mysteries. More to the point, as if Mama were serious but not as much as she could have been.

And Anne thanked her otherwise sleeping guardian angel for that small mercy.

Check out all of Astraea Press's Regency Christmas titles!

Available now!!!

Astraea Press

Pure. Fiction.

www.astraeapress.com