The Duke's Secret Heir

  ‘This, madam, changes everything.’

  Years ago, in the Egyptian desert, Ellen Tatham fell wildly in love and exchanged vows with Max Colnebrooke. But, when made to believe Max could not be trusted, she fled...

  Now, Max is back in England to take up the reins as Duke of Rossenhall. And when he spies Ellen at a ball, the sparks are hard to contain! Little does Max know, though, that Ellen has a secret... And soon, he must learn to embrace an unexpected heir, and an unexpected—and disconcertingly defiant—duchess!

  ‘Mama! Mama!’

  Max stopped and looked back to see a small, golden-haired boy standing halfway down the stairs. Ellen gave a little cry and rushed up to catch the child in her arms. The child laid his head on her shoulder but for a moment he looked directly at Max, a long, unblinking stare, before his eyelids drooped. He was already asleep as Ellen handed him to the nursemaid.

  ‘Take him back to bed, Hannah. And this time please make sure the door is properly closed.’

  Max’s brain was working frantically. When he had first seen the boy on the stairs he had been forcibly reminded of the portrait hanging in the drawing room at Rossenhall, the one of Hugo and himself as children. When he had been barely four years old. Then he had seen the child’s eyes, green as emeralds, and suspicion hardened into certainty. He stared at Ellen as she turned and made her way back down the stairs toward him and his simmering anger turned again to ice-cold fury. He forced out his next words through gritted teeth.

  ‘This, madam, changes everything.’

  Author Note

  When I finished writing The Infamous Arrandales there was one character who just wouldn’t go away. Little Ellen Tatham, the spirited young heiress who appears in the books, was quite adamant that she wanted her own story.

  So that is how The Duke’s Secret Heir came about. We have moved on several years and Ellen is now in her midtwenties and enjoying her life as a rich and independent young woman when she meets Major Max Colnebrooke. The setting, on the banks of the Nile, is perfect for romance, so is it any wonder that Ellen falls head over heels in love with the dashing major?

  Unfortunately, the course of true love does not run smoothly for our lovers, but Ellen is not one to sit and pine, and she makes a new life for herself in the north of England (quite a contrast from the Egyptian desert), content to be the diamond of Harrogate society until one day she comes face-to-face with Max again. Only, now he is the Duke of Rossenhall.

  After four years, can our lovers put the pain and misunderstandings of the past behind them and find true happiness?

  I do hope you enjoy Ellen and Max’s journey, and if you would like to share your thoughts on the story with me, then do feel free to contact me on my website, sarahmallory.com, or on Twitter: @SarahMRomance.

  Sarah

  Mallory

  The Duke’s

  Secret Heir

  Sarah Mallory was born in the West Country but now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades, mainly historicals set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award for The Dangerous Lord Darrington and Beneath the Major’s Scars.

  Books by Sarah Mallory

  Harlequin Historical

  and Harlequin Historical Undone! ebook

  The Infamous Arrandales

  The Chaperon’s Seduction

  Temptation of a Governess

  Return of the Runaway

  The Outcast’s Redemption

  Brides of Waterloo

  A Lady for Lord Randall

  The Notorious Coale Brothers

  Beneath the Major’s Scars

  Behind the Rake’s Wicked Wager

  The Tantalizing Miss Coale (Undone!)

  Stand-Alone Novels

  The Earl’s Runaway Bride

  To Catch a Husband...

  Bought for Revenge

  The Scarlet Gown

  Never Trust a Rebel

  The Duke’s Secret Heir

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  For lovers everywhere

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Sold to the Viking Warrior by Michelle Styles

  Chapter One

  High Harrogate was in a state of excitement. A most illustrious visitor was expected to grace the ball at the Granby that evening. True, the rumours had not been confirmed, but the visitor was an old friend of a regular patron, so everyone was in high hopes. To add to the excitement, it was known that the golden widow had returned from London. Some might wonder why such a rich and attractive young widow as Mrs Ellen Furnell did not choose to make her home in the capital, where she would doubtless be one of the top society hostesses, but admirers such as old General Dingwall were only too happy that she did not and declared gallantly that London’s loss was High Harrogate’s gain.

  The lady in question was currently at her desk in her house on Paradise Row, looking through the correspondence that had accumulated during her absence. Ellen had only yesterday returned from her annual stay in London. To be accurate, she had hired a house just outside the capital, in Kensington, where she resided very quietly, no invitations, no callers. However, from there she might walk into town if she wished, or go to the theatre or museums. And it was convenient for visiting the fashionable modistes and warehouses she patronised to replenish her wardrobe.

  The bills and notes from tradesmen she put aside for another day and after a brief hesitation she added to that pile the letter from Lady Phyllida Arrandale. Ellen was sincerely attached to her step-mama, but her letters always exuded an air of calm domestic felicity, and this morning Ellen did not wish to read about such things for it would exacerbate the vague feelings of dissatisfaction that had been growing over the past few months. Ellen pushed aside such thoughts, refusing to indulge in self-pity. She had chosen her life and she did not regret anything she had done since she had stepped off the boat at Portsmouth four years ago. She was very happy living in High Harrogate. She was.

  Ellen began to sort through the remaining papers and cards in front of her. There was an invitation to join a house party in Leicestershire for the summer, a politely worded note from the Reverend Robert Mitton soliciting her attendance at a forthcoming recital—which would naturally involve making a generous donation towards the repair of the chapel roof—and numerous invitations for tea-drinking, breakfasts, balls and evening parties. Ellen decided against the house party in Leicestershire, but the rest she would most likely attend, including tonight’s ball at the Granby Hotel. After all, that was what she did in Harrogate: attend lectures and debates, support charitable causes and go to parties. As a wealthy woman of independent means she must always be welcome and her many admirers declared she was a jewel, the brightest ornament of Harro
gate society. Ellen might laugh when they paid her fulsome compliments, admired her ready wit or went into raptures over her golden-haired loveliness and sparkling blue eyes, but it would have been false modesty for Ellen to deny her beauty, when her looking glass confirmed it.

  ‘And you should be thankful for it,’ she muttered, scooping the invitations into a tidy pile. ‘Your pretty face has always made life much easier for you.’

  Except once.

  She was aware of a sudden contraction of the heart and an unexpected lump in her throat, and she found herself blinking back tears. Perhaps she should stay at home, claim she was fatigued from her journey.

  ‘But who would believe it?’ she argued with herself. Since her arrival in Harrogate four years ago she had worked hard at her image, becoming an important part of every social event whilst maintaining a spotless reputation. ‘So now everyone knows Mrs Ellen Furnell is indefatigable.’

  Because you are afraid to stop and remember.

  Ellen rose and made her way upstairs to the nursery. This was where her heart lay now. Not in some distant memory. She reached the top floor and went quietly into the nursery, where a grey-haired woman was sitting on the floor helping a very young boy to build a castle with wooden blocks. The blocks went flying as the child jumped up and ran towards Ellen as fast as his little legs would allow.

  ‘Mama!’

  ‘Jamie!’ Ellen dropped down and opened her arms.

  With a shriek of delight, the little boy ran into her embrace. The maid climbed slowly to her feet, tutting.

  ‘You shouldn’t encourage him, ma’am. He’s wild enough as it is.’

  Ellen scooped up the boy and carried him across the room. ‘Nonsense, Matty, he is only three, still a babe, aren’t you, my pet?’

  ‘Aye, and in my day he would not yet be breeched.’

  ‘And you would probably have left his hair to grow,’ laughed Ellen, ruffling the short curls that were even fairer than her own. ‘Now what are we doing here, are we building a house, Jamie? Perhaps you will let Mama help you.’

  * * *

  Playing with her son did much to restore Ellen’s spirits and she remained in the nursery until it was time to change into her ball gown. She had no qualms about leaving Jamie: Matlock had been Ellen’s own nursemaid and later, her dresser. Matty loved the little boy as much as she did.

  After a solitary dinner Ellen went back up to the nursery. Little James was tucked up in his bed by then and fast asleep, so she dropped a gentle kiss on his golden head.

  ‘He looks like an angel,’ she murmured, gazing lovingly at her son. ‘I could stay here looking at him for ever.’

  ‘And what good would that do either of you, ma’am?’ asked Matlock, bustling around the room. ‘You go off and enjoy yourself. Master James will be perfectly safe with Hannah and me.’

  Ellen sighed. ‘Ah, Matty, do you really think I enjoy these parties?’

  ‘Well, you says not, ma’am, but there’s no doubting you need to mix with people and to have some sensible conversation, which you won’t get with a three-year-old, and that’s a fact.’

  Ellen laughed. ‘Sensible conversation! There is little enough of that to be had in society, Matty, I assure you. But you are right, it will serve no one if I become a recluse.’

  With a smile and a wave of her hand she went downstairs and out to the waiting carriage.

  * * *

  ‘Your Grace? Duke?’

  Max started and turned to his hostess, quickly begging her pardon. He had been Duke of Rossenhall for over a year, but he had still not grown accustomed to the title. His hostess brushed aside his apology, not at all offended by his inattention. It was as if polite manners were unnecessary for a duke.

  ‘I was merely saying that it is time we were leaving for the Granby, Your Grace.’

  ‘Must we, Georgiana?’ Max grimaced, but followed it quickly with a smile, to show he meant no offence. ‘I would as lief enjoy a quiet evening here with you and Fred.’

  ‘Well, that ain’t possible,’ Frederick Arncliffe told him bluntly. ‘Georgie promised that she’d bring you to the ball tonight.’

  Max threw him a look of pained reproach. ‘And I thought you were my friends. I am beginning to regret my decision to visit you.’

  ‘You know Georgie and I would do anything for you, old boy, but your presence here ain’t a secret. Dash it all, Max, you are even staying at the Granby!’

  ‘I had little choice, at such short notice,’ Max retorted. ‘If my business in York had not been concluded so swiftly I should not have come at all.’ Which they all knew was not the truth. Georgiana had written to him, explaining that Fred’s health was deteriorating rapidly, and Max had always intended to cut short his visit to York and call on his friend. Not that he would ever admit as much to Fred, of course, so now he scowled and added, ‘I should not have come near Harrogate if I had known you would want to show me off in this absurd fashion.’

  Fred grinned. ‘What is the point of being acquainted with a duke if we can’t make use of him?’

  ‘And everyone knows you are here to visit Frederick, so they would naturally expect you to attend the ball with us,’ added Georgie. ‘Think what an honour you will be conferring on the hotel.’

  ‘I am thinking of it,’ said Max bitterly.

  Frederick laughed. ‘I know you are not one for dancing and gaiety, my friend, but it will look very odd if you shut yourself in your rooms while Georgie and I are in the building.’ He sobered a little when he saw the look on Max’s face. ‘Do you think that because I am dying I should spend my remaining months hidden away?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t think that,’ said Max at once. ‘I beg your pardon, Fred. I am being odiously selfish, but having read Georgie’s letter I expected to find you at death’s door.’

  ‘And so I am,’ said his friend with brutal frankness. ‘I can no longer exert myself on the dance floor, but I love to sit and watch, and to see Georgie enjoying herself.’

  Max regarded him in silence. Frederick Arncliffe was a former shadow of the strong soldier Max had known, but although the doctors had only given him months to live his zest for life was undimmed, and Max knew that any attempt at sympathy would offend him, so he offered none.

  ‘So I am to be paraded through the rooms,’ he said as they made their way out to the carriage. ‘Like some strange creature in a menagerie!’

  ‘That’s right.’ Fred chuckled, taking his arm. ‘You’ll be courted and toadied as if you were Prinny himself.’

  Max shot him a look. ‘I am growing accustomed to that.’

  Was he really? As a younger son he had never expected to succeed to the title. His father had bought him a commission in the army and convinced Max that his presence at Rossenhall was unnecessary. Even when the old Duke died Max was informed by his brother that he was not needed at home. That had caught Max on the raw, but Hugo had only recently taken a bride and Max understood that they would want time alone together. Everyone had expected an heir to follow the marriage, it was just a matter of time. Five years later there were still no children and Hugo’s untimely death just over a year ago had been a shock. For six months Max had refused to accept that he was now Duke of Rossenhall and continued with his military duties, convinced that the estates could go on very well without him. In his decision he was supported by Atherwell, his chief steward, and he had left the administration of his affairs to him and the Duchess, his widowed sister-in-law. The new Duke of Rossenhall was content to let the world pass him by.

  Unfortunately for Max, the world had other ideas. He had thought remaining in the army would protect him from scheming parents with daughters to marry off, but he soon realised his mistake. Everywhere he was courted, fêted and pursued as England’s most eligible bachelor and he hated it. Even his best friend was not above matc
hmaking. Fred had written to Max, hinting that his little sister would make a fine duchess. Since Clare Arncliffe was barely sixteen, more than ten years Max’s junior, he had ignored the suggestion, but the subsequent letters suggested that Fred had taken his silence for acquiescence.

  Max had always planned to tell Fred at some point that such a match was out of the question, but had never got around to it, deciding it was something that should be done face to face. Now Georgie’s most recent letter, informing him that the doctors had given Fred only months to live, had put paid to that. He had come to High Harrogate, determined to spend what little time was left with his friend, and if that involved accompanying him to the odd ball, then so be it.

  Having resigned himself to the inevitable, Max climbed into the carriage with his friends for the short journey from their rented house in Low Harrogate up the hill to the Granby. The approach to the hotel was already choked with carriages when they arrived and Fred muttered darkly, ‘Confound it, Georgie, you must have told the world and his wife His Grace the Duke of Rossenhall would be present tonight.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replied comfortably. ‘I told only Lady Bilbrough.’

  ‘Which means it was all over Harrogate within the hour,’ retorted her fond spouse. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we had best go in. Never mind, Max, you can tell them you do not dance tonight and sit at the side with me.’

  ‘Oh, no, he cannot,’ said Georgie as she prepared to alight. ‘Max is the best dancer I know and I intend to have him as my partner at least for the first dance!’

  * * *

  The Granby Hotel might be more than two hundred miles from London, but the ball was no different from all the others Max had attended. Too many people squeezed into a warm room and all talking far too loudly for comfort. It was not in his nature to be rude or impolite, so he smiled as he was introduced to an endless line of guests, exchanged civilities with gushing matrons, avoided toadying sycophants and, after leading Georgie out for the first two dances, obligingly stood up with any number of blushing debutantes. He had done it all before, so many times, and when there was a break in the dancing he went in search of Georgie and Fred, wondering how soon they could leave without causing offence.