Good Duke Gone Hard | Paperback

She remembers everything, the love, the loss, the pain…

He remembers nothing.

Can love find two separated souls a second time?

Lady Margaret is a restless soul staving off love until she finds a purpose in life that can fulfill her in more ways than a husband can. She's had love and lost it with her brother's best friend who went missing after they shared a summer of passion. When he shows up unannounced on her doorstep three years later, she's not convinced that giving him a second chance will have a different outcome.

Jonathan, the Duke of Somersby, has amnesia. When he wakes up remembering the name Chatsworth, it takes him to the one woman who holds the key to unlocking his deepest memories and possibly opening his hard heart.

But how can he convince the woman who wants to hide his secrets to finally share them?

1815, England

OF ALL THE POSSIBLE reactions Margaret could have imagined she would have upon seeing Jonathan again, she would never have predicted the combination of hugging with all her heart and then slapping with all her strength.

Hugging, yes. Slapping, also yes. But to run up to him, fling herself onto him, hang on for dear life, and then to pull back and slap him for all she was worth? She shook her head at her impulsiveness, for even that behavior surprised herself. Although, truth be told, how can anyone predict their reaction to someone returning from the dead?

With those thoughts racing through her mind, Margaret sat restlessly on her chair as she watched their other houseguest, Mr. Lyle Fairfax, take his oh sweet time to consider his next move on the chessboard. There were only so many possible moves. Didn’t he realize how long he was spending on this one inconsequential move in the grand scheme of life?

Not that she had callers, luncheons, or balls at the moment. In fact, she was dreadfully, but not irrevocably, bored. Another rainy morning had passed, locking her indoors with her painting. But a woman could only sketch and then paint a bird so many times in so many variations of teal and then chartreuse. Again, a seemingly inconsequential pursuit for someone hoping to be a productive member of society. And although painting was a passion, even that couldn’t prevent her restlessness today.

“Dear daughter, that’s the third time you’ve shifted in your seat in the last two minutes,” Her Grace, the dowager duchess of Wellingford, Ainsley Campbell chastised. “Please.” The single word was half plea half encouragement to sit still or seek out another activity. Mother and daughter being well attuned to each other’s moods and communication methods meant small gestures and simple words could convey complex thoughts, even fully plotted schemes, without anyone the wiser.

Margaret raised her eyes to Lyle as he sat leaning forward in his chair with his index finger indenting his chin.

He was lost. Again.

Margaret let out a deliberately long and heavy breath.

No reaction.

She repeated the action, this time adding a vocal hum to the breath.

It was enough to tear his eyes away from the board where she should have been strategizing for her next move. “We can continue this later.” He waved her away with a dismissive gesture, far too informal to reflect their roles, but much more representative of the sheer amount of time they’d spent together since Lyle and her brother had gone into business together. Her brother, Gregory, the Duke of Wellingford, had become an investor in Lyle’s Vauxhall this past summer. While Gregory was away, Lyle was staying on as their houseguest to offer male camaraderie for Jonathan, along with some moral support.

Indeed, much had happened this summer. But Margaret didn’t want to dolefully recall losing her best friend, albeit in marriage to her brother, and being left all alone for the cold, dull winter months. She had no one to blame but herself, since she had just spent the last few months behind the scenes, plotting for Mary and Gregory to finally declare their undying love for each other. Took long enough.

She popped out of her seat. “I’m going out.”

Her mother inclined her head and tilted to the gray clouds outside.

“For a short walk.”

“Yes, dear,” her mother mindlessly answered as she continued her needlework.

What more needlework could their estate need? It had to be going to a charity of some kind.
***
JONATHAN WOODS SAT ON the stone bench overlooking one of the large ponds on the Chatsworth House estates. The pussywillows swayed in the breeze against the flat gray backdrop. It felt like his whole life was flat right now.

Yet the water drew him every day. Sometimes twice a day. And every day, sometimes twice, he answered the call. He had no idea why he came, except that he knew he was searching for and waiting for answers.

Until just recently he had been staying at Glaston Hospital, just off the Bristol Channel, where he knew no one, and no one knew him. More to the point, he remembered absolutely nothing before Glaston. Doctor Phillip Walker became his only reasonable, sane, acquaintance, since Glaston Hospital accommodated the mentally unstable.

He didn’t feel unstable. He couldn’t feel unbalanced because there was nothing to balance—well, almost nothing.

Dr. Walker had become his friend, so close in fact, that for the last few months, after a near three year stint in the hospital, he stayed with the kind, elderly doctor, helping him around his house and on his calls.

And then one day he woke up and finally remembered something: the name Chatsworth House. Upon telling Dr. Walker, Jonathan was determined to find out what it meant. He had no way of knowing what to expect. Since he wouldn’t have been able to sign with his own name–not knowing it–he didn’t send a letter first. He just wanted to show up and see it. Impulsive, certainly. Was he impulsive? He didn’t know. He could be.

He dropped his head in his hands. He could be anything.

MARGARET HEADED TOWARD THE pond. It was her favorite place to think. If she was feeling warm she could always dip her feet in the water to cool off, and when she was feeling particularly spritely, she just disrobed and dove in for a quick swim.

As she meandered toward the pond, she recalled when she first saw Jonathan back from his disappearance of three long years. She happened to be walking past the front door when fate presented him. He was just standing there in all his golden glory, as if three years hadn’t passed, as if her world hadn’t turned upside down, deflated, and squeezed of all life.

When she saw him, she stared for a full ten seconds. She knew because she made herself count. Well, she intended to count to ten. She made it to about four when she broke into a run and flung herself at him. All she could think of was that he felt the same, but different. And he smelled…different. But he was the same man. She was touching the familiar nape of his neck, grasping at his hair, pressed against his chest. Her body confirmed that he was indeed the same man that had been her closest friend and heartiest competitor. And so much more. He was the same man, but so, so different.

As she clung to him, she quickly realized his arms hung, unmoving at his sides, so she slid down and looked up into empty eyes. How could his eyes be so blank after all they had been through? How could he bottle up all of his emotions and hide them within such a hard exterior? If only she could take that bottle and smash it. She would love to see what he would do then.

But she didn’t have a bottle to smash, only a face to smack. And with no response from him, her reaction escalated to compensate. And then after the slap, she ran. She couldn’t bear to let him see her so vulnerable while he remained so stoic. She couldn’t let him see her holding in all the memories of all the tears she had shed over him.

Only later did she find out he was suffering from something called amnesia. That’s what the doctors were calling it anyways. He didn’t remember anything. How could he not?

And now he was here, but not. He remembered nothing but the name Chatsworth. Well, what good was that? And, and, and, to top it all off, Gregory, Jonathan’s best friend, who would have been the person to help him unlock his memories, was away on his honeymoon. Who knew when they’d be back? Summer. And then everything would change again.

At first Mary and Gregory refused to leave, saying they would help with Jonathan. But Jonathan insisted that they take their honeymoon and spend the winter somewhere warm. He didn’t want to be a burden. Gregory had already shared as much as he could with Jonathan, and Jonathan reassured him that he wasn’t going anywhere. The doctor that he had been communicating with, recommended that Jonathan stay in one place, undisturbed for a while, in hopes that some memories would come back.

The doctor had no other reasonably helpful advice, just keep him relaxed and around familiar, or what should be familiar, environments. He was not to be upset, jarred, or overstimulated. He was to slowly settle back into whatever memories naturally returned to him.

With Gregory and Mary gone, it all fell to Margaret. Ugh. An impossible task. There were memories she could share, but there were others, precious, that she wanted to keep safe and hers. And far too many memories to sift through all at once.

The pond came into view, and with it, a memory of her and Jonathan.

When she was ten, she had been following Gregory and Jonathan around all morning. At first she tried to be sneaky, but once she knew her efforts were futile, she simply traipsed along behind them, waiting for opportune moments to strike.

Her chance came much later in the day than she had expected, long after any grand schemes she had plotted turned to mush. Standing on the bank, Gregory and Jonathan were arguing over who could swim the fastest when verbal arguing turned physical. At the precise moment that Gregory decided to lash out and shove Jonathan into the pond, Margaret had been directly behind him. So instead of Jonathan splayed out in the pond, Margaret was.

Gregory was bent in half, incapacitated, laughing himself senseless. Jonathan’s lips twitched unsure whether to laugh or show concern.

As payback, she decided to take advantage of how little Jonathan knew her. “Help! Help! I can’t swim.” For effect, she thrashed her arms and kicked her legs. No one was jumping in after her. But she was too far into her prank to let a silly thing like pride, or the need to breathe, pull her out of it. She stopped her thrashing and went belly down in the water, motionless. One second, two seconds, three seconds…

And then a huge splash and strong arms were pulling her up out of the water against a lanky but sturdy body. She began flailing her arms again. He deserved it for waiting that long. She didn’t care that he was fully clothed and she might be giving him bruises. She was sure they’d be small.

Jonathan bellowed, “Be still!” But then close to her ear, he whispered, “It’s on.”

She was ten, he was sixteen. It was all innocent fun. The pranks. The challenges. They competed to outdo each other over everything. Fishing, racing, swimming, riding, climbing trees. Of course he always won. Except when he didn’t. In those cases he’d always say that he had let her win. She had no way of knowing the truth for certain.

She remembered those days fondly. She would share those memories with Jonathan. Probably. Maybe.

But she would definitely not share all the pond memories with him.

It was nearing the end of summer, right before Jonathan disappeared and right after Margaret had entered society. Margaret was seventeen and Jonathan four and twenty. They were in the middle of an anomalous heat wave.

Margaret had just spent hours tangling herself in sheets, to stay modest, but waking up sweating. Nothing was cooling her down, and she couldn’t imagine sitting another second in her damp, dank room. She had woken up just before dawn, so she scrambled to grab a shawl and raced on tip toe out of the house toward the pond. It was calling her. Beckoning her to find relief in its delectable waters.

Down to her nightshift, she slipped into the water. The waters cooled her toes, her thighs, and her thoughts.

Until she heard someone clearing their throat.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming here.” It was Jonathan.

What the hell was he doing here? When did he arrive at Chatsworth? Why can I see his bare chest? And when the devil had his arms grown so large?

Her heart started to race. Mayhap the water was too cold. But then why were her thighs on fire? And why did she feel as though there was a hook in her stomach attached to a line that Jonathan was reeling in to himself?

“I’ll leave.” She began to pop out of the water, unaware that her nightgown was now entirely translucent.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

She moved toward him in concern. “Are you alright?”

“Please,” he threw his hand over his eyes. “For the love of all that is holy, do not move.”

“Why?”

“Just let me think.”

“Think–”

“For one second.”

“For one second. One!”

“Just–”

“Oh!” Margaret grew alarmed. Something slimy had wrapped itself around her foot. “I’m caught.”

“Margaret, please.”

“I’m serious, Jonathan. I think my foot is caught in some weeds.” He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, as if he was counting now.

“Listen to me. Do not move. Even one inch.” He removed his hand from over his eyes.

“That’s impossible. I have to move to stay afloat.”

“Just. Don’t.” He pushed his hands up his face and off his cheeks, in a washing motion. “Please. Let me.”

His staccato syntax bewildered Margaret into acquiescence. She tried folding her arms across her chest in defiance, but found her best bet was to swirl her arms, slowly churning the water while she held her legs as still as possible.

As she found her stride of stillness, Jonathan gave her a look. Had she known it was the last look of innocence that would pass between them, she may have tried to memorize it and lock it away into her stash. Instead, she saw some combination of dread, angst, and something else she didn’t quite recognize.

Then he ducked his head under the water, and she was never the same again.