From Award Winning Author Cassandra Dean comes a short novella set in her Lost Lords world where a passionate lady is forced into a false courtship with the roguish duke she loathes…

Lady Violet Crafers loathes the Duke of Meacham. The sinfully handsome duke annoys her at every turn with his wicked smile and the devilish twinkle in his eye. But when she is caught in a compromising position with the duke and forced into a false courtship, she discovers beneath the beauty and the charm an intelligent, complicated man who might be intriguing rather than infuriating.

Colin Withall, Duke of Meacham, finds Lady Violet’s unsubtle dislike vastly amusing. Exhausted by the search for a wife, his needling of Lady Violet at a ball or three brings welcome respite. When he is forced to offer for her hand, Colin concocts a false courtship to avoid a marriage neither of them desire. However, he quickly discovers Lady Violet’s blusterous exterior hides the vulnerable woman beneath and he cannot help but find himself wholly fascinated.

As they navigate their false courtship, each discovers the other is nothing like they believed them to be. But how can a courtship that was never meant to last lead to a happily ever after?

ROMANCE WRITERS OF NEW ZEALAND KORU AWARD BEST NOVELLA

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London, England
April, 1820

She disliked the Duke of Meacham.

No, that was too tame a descriptor.

She hated the Duke of Meacham.

No. Not harsh enough.

She loathed the Duke of Meacham.

Eyes narrowed, Lady Violet Crafers contemplated exactly how to define her abhorrence as the Duke of Meacham spun Lucinda Cresswell around the ballroom. Bad enough she had to attend this stupid ball, and attend without Lydia as her best friend was currently with her husband at their ancestral estate, but did he have to be there as well?

The Duke of Meacham was so aggravating. Dark hair waved back from a high forehead, and even from here she could see the roguish twinkle in his blue eyes under his bold, slashing brows. Well-shaped sideburns framed high cheekbones and the full, mobile mouth currently quirked into a grin. His fashionable Prussian blue coat clung lovingly to his broad shoulders and slim waist while buff breeches outlined strong thighs.

It could all be padding. From beneath her lashes, Violet studied him. She hoped it was padding but, knowing him, it probably wasn’t. Ugh, he was so infuriating. He was too blasted perfect, damn him to Hades. Hateful man. Absolutely loathsome.

She cursed the day Lydia had met him in Vienna, then even more the day her friend had thought to introduce them. She could have gone the whole of her life with only the very vaguest notion of his existence, but no. Lydia had to like him and invite him to her gatherings including her wedding, and Violet was forced to bear his presence over and again.

He was so…so smug, so certain of his charms and his attractions. His arrogance drove her spare, his smarm raised her hackles, and most days she longed to ball up her fist and punch his perfect face.

Returning Lucinda Cresswell to her mother, he gave her a wicked smile and a perfect bow before flitting to Catherine Pelham to ask her to dance. Miss Pelham laughed as he led her to the floor, the sparkle in his eyes shouting louder than any words he’d said something to amuse her. They lined up with the others, he bowing and she curtseying as the orchestra began to play.

At every ball, he did this. For the past two seasons, he’d escorted every eligible miss to the dance floor, had squired them about town, had taken them for ices and cakes. He’d courted so many women, it was almost a jest. All of the Ton knew the Duke of Meacham sought a bride, and yet he’d shown a marked preference for none. Violet could only presume he must be terrible at romance, however what business was it of hers? She did not care one way or another if he never found his duchess.

Brows drawn, Violet frowned as he whirled Catherine Pelham across the dance floor. Teeth flashing, he executed each move with obnoxious flair, as if he knew he was the most handsome man here and weren’t they all just so very blessed to behold his beauty? Ugh, what was it about him that made her gaze return to him time and again? He annoyed her so much and yet she couldn’t stop herself from searching out his tall form at every event she attended.

Suddenly, he glanced her way and before she could avert her eyes, their gazes locked. The duke stared at her, somehow able to execute the dance steps perfectly even with his attention split. The corner of his mouth tipped up.

Heart racing, she wrenched her gaze from his. From the corner of her eye, she risked another glance. He still stared at her, an annoying grin turning up his full mouth. Gah. How truly horrendous. Not only to be caught starting, but to be caught staring at him by him.

Desperately, she cast her gaze at something, anything, else. The column to the right of the dance floor. The French doors opened to the garden. Her mother.

She frowned. Her mother was…was something. Frantically waving her fan—well, as frantic as her mother ever would appear in public, which meant mild but emphatic gestures—and pointing with her chin, her mother shot meaningful glances to Violet’s right.

She followed her gaze. Oh, for the love of— Her mother wished her to engage Peter Mulgrave?

A roil started in her stomach. She didn’t want to dance with Peter Mulgrave. They had little in common, and each time she attempted conversation, he looked at her as if she were some slimy creature he’d found in his bed and then proceeded to talk over the top of her. Her mother, though, did not care that Peter Mulgrave pulled one about the dance floor with sharp jerks and impatient huffs. Her mother only wanted her daughter wed, and found it a personal affront that Violet had not yet managed the feat. At the conclusion of practically every ball, her mother would lecture her on all the actions she had not performed correctly and all the actions she had neglected to take. She was told to smile more, but not too much; stand straight but not so much a gentlemen would perceive it a challenge; be witty, but not wittier than he; and always, always laugh at his jokes.

Violet raised her hand to her throat. She…she needed air. Ignoring her mother’s glare, Violet turned on her heel. If it were any other ball, she could turn to Lydia and her friend would offer tart reasoning as to why Peter Mulgrave was a bad choice and instead entertain her with the latest scrape into which one of her siblings had managed to entangle themselves, and then Violet would not have to think on how her mother was so desperate to see her wed she would pair her with just about any man who had a vague acquaintance with society and how she was bringing shame to the Crafers name by remaining unwed well into her third season.

But Lydia was in Yorkshire to celebrate her brother-in-law’s marriage and would not return until the season was done.

The garden outside the ballroom was too full of people, and the din in the refreshment room was deafening. There was always one place that soothed her when nothing else could, and so she turned herself to the library.

Her step echoed as she rushed through the darkened corridors. The libraries of most of the great houses of London and beyond were not unknown to her. She often required comfort.

The library was empty, moonlight spilling from the arching window reaching to the ceiling. Taking great gulps of air, she forced herself to calm. She was panicked for no reason. Just because Lydia was not here was no reason for catastrophe. She could stand up to her mother alone. She could.

Slowly, she returned to herself, her stomach calming, her heart again a normal beat in her chest.

Not quite ready to return to the ball, she glanced about. Invariably at a ball or an assembly, she would find herself requiring comfort and a cool, dark room lined with shelves upon shelves of books always brought her calm. This one was more grandiose than most, boasting a tight curve of a staircase up to the mezzanine, the walkway running the length of three walls.

A richly upholstered chaise dwelled before two armchairs, and Violet curled her fingers around the intricately carved back frame as she closed her eyes and breathed in parchment and a thousand different dreams.

Since Lydia’s wedding, her mother had been more determined than ever to see Violet wed. Violet’s success would lead to her sisters’ and the more magnificent a match she made, the better. However, if her mother was contemplating Peter Mulgrave, the youngest son of the youngest son of a mere baron, then her mother must truly be scrambling.

It wasn’t that Violet didn’t want to be married. She saw Lydia with her husband, and she saw a true love match. She wanted to feel about someone the way Lydia had always felt about the Earl of Roxwaithe, and wanted her love to look at her as the earl looked at Lydia: with love, passion, and awe. She wanted that, but she was realistic enough to know she might never find it. And she certainly would not find it with Peter Mulgrave, who only looked at her as if she were something horrid he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.

With a sigh, she turned to the nearest shelf, running her fingers over the spines. She would stay for the length of another dance. Any longer, and her mother would come looking for her and if she found her in yet another library, her mother would let her know in no uncertain terms of her ire.

She didn’t hear the door open, or the quiet snick as it closed. She didn’t hear the footsteps of the person who entered, or the sharp inhale of breath as he discovered her presence.

She did, however, hear the glee in his voice as he greeted her.

“Lady Violet,” the Duke of Meacham said. “What an absolute delight.”

What’s in a name?
As with all the Lost Lords books, I shorted the name of this to the first letter of each word in the title – VLV. Consistency is important?

Bonus Epilogue