Unkissable Duke

UNKISSABLE DUKE ANNA MARKLAND UNKISSABLE DUKE THE UN-DUKES BOOK ONE ©Anna Markland 2023 CONTENTS MORE ANNA MARKLANDDisasterFearOut Of The QuestionYou're A Duke?An Unpleasant VisitorChange Of HeartBreatheBloodthirsty WenchSergeant MajorA Long DayFaux PasToo TouchyOnslaughtThe Sky Didn't FallCandorSleeplessToo SoonIn A FogReunionCatharsisFact-FindingLet There Be LightNo EscapeTea PartyA Shaky BeginningDegree Of DifficultyWrigglingPreparationsMale CodeAlarmSafely HomeA ForetasteA Busy DayBridal JittersWedding BreakfastForeplayA Welcome InvasionAn ApologyFlawsA Brilliant IdeaGlass EyeBuoying The SpiritEpilogueThe Undukes SeriesABOUT ANNAHistorical Footnotes “Once you choose hope, Anything’s possible.” ~Christopher Reeve Dedicated to all those devastated by the inhumanity of war. MORE ANNA MARKLAND Anna is a USA Today bestselling author who has authored more than sixty award-winning and much-loved Medieval, Viking, Highlander, Elizabethan and Regency historical romance novels and novellas. No matter the historical or geographic setting, many of her series recount the adventures of successive generations of one family, with emphasis on the importance of ancestry and honor. A detailed list with links can be found at https://www.annamarkland.com/ Unkissable Duke by Anna Markland Book One, The UnDukes © 2023 Anna Markland All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover by Dar Albert DISASTER Waterloo, June 18th, 1815 Across from the Brussels Road near Waterloo, Colonel Alexander Harcourt shifted his weight in Diablo’s saddle as he inspected his regiment. A persistent feeling of impending doom lay heavily on his shoulders. His men stood like toy soldiers as they watched Napoleon’s massive army take up positions on the opposite slopes of the escarpment. His favorite warhorse snorted and tossed his head. Ashen faces and sternly set jaws confirmed the gut-wrenching fear gnawing at every man’s innards. He hoped his earlier speech about courage and perseverance had bolstered their determination to emerge victorious. The crack of a rifle shot broke the eerie silence and produced a ripple of surprised gasps among the troops. It briefly occurred to him the sound was strangely close. There was no opportunity to ponder the matter further when Diablo reared, screeching as he staggered. Heart surging into his throat, Alex tried frantically to disentangle his booted feet from the stirrups and leap free of the terrified beast as it collapsed into the mud. He had a fleeting impression of shock on the faces of his men before he was struck hard in the face as he hit the ground. As pain exploded in one eye, the ridiculous thought crossed his mind that he’d be upset if his nose was broken. An enormous weight sent the air whooshing from his lungs and shattered more than his nose. Gagging on the overwhelming horror of his beloved Diablo’s dying agony, what little remained of his wits told him he was dead before the battle even began. FEARBEVERLEY, YORKSHIRE, THREE YEARS LATER The young groom gaped as if he’d never seen a duke afraid to mount a horse before. Alexander Harcourt fervently wished he was anywhere else but outside the stables behind Harrowby Hall, the ducal mansion where he’d lived in isolated despair for three years. “Take it slowly, Alex,” his one remaining friend advised as Alexander stared at the docile gelding, his jaw clenched, the riding crop in his manic grip. “Easy for you to say, old chap,” he retorted, immediately wishing he could take back the unkind words. Philip Fortescue wasn’t to blame for the fear tightening Alexander’s throat. In fact, it was Philip who’d immediately rallied a rescue party of fellow officers at Waterloo, including Alexander’s distant cousin. Philip had quickly put the horse out of its misery, thus mercifully ending its torment and increasing the likelihood Alex might survive. Before the battle for Waterloo began in earnest, they’d finally succeeded in lifting Diablo off his broken body. Philip and Cousin Derrick had toiled like men possessed to save his life following the freak happenstance of a stray bullet striking his horse. In the eternal minutes of consciousness as he lay in agony beneath the animal’s weight, Alex had resigned himself to death. The dukedom would pass to the second cousin who was part of the desperate effort to free him. Philip had come to the field hospital after Wellington’s stunning victory and shown no horror or shock upon seeing Alexander’s mangled face and body. He had probably asked his friend to pass on his heartfelt gratitude to Derrick, though he didn’t recall much of anything he said under the influence of heavy drugs. He had seen Derrick many times since that fateful day. His cousin made a habit of dropping by Harrowby Hall whenever it pleased him. Somehow, expressing gratitude for his decrepit state always stuck in his craw. There was something about Derrick he’d never taken to, though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The one clear memory Alexander had of the long nightmare of his recovery was rasping heartfelt congratulations to Philip on his newly awarded medal for bravery. Not that he’d ever truly recovered, as evidenced by his reluctance to mount a placid horse for the first time since that dreadful day in 1815. It wasn’t surprising the groom was staring. Alexander never left the house so the lad wouldn’t have set eyes on his reclusive master’s grotesque face before. It was rather like looking at a carriage wreck—impossible to tear one’s gaze away. Philip’s title as Marquess of Clavering