A Steamy Historical Romance Holiday Novella

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Also by Grace Callaway

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Mrs. Peabody and the Unexpected Duke

  (A Steamy Historical Romance Holiday Novella)

  * * *

  © Grace Callaway, 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-939537-94-2

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) or used for the purposes of machine learning without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  When former lovers Hawker and Mrs. Peabody are paired on a spy mission over the holidays, the pair battle a deadly enemy…and a desire that neither can deny. As they surrender to passion, secrets emerge that could destroy their chance at happiness. Can they work together to vanquish their foes and win the love of a lifetime?

  Thank you for checking out my book! If you’d like to stay apprised of my new releases and bonus content, be sure to sign up for my newsletter:

  gracecallaway.com/newsletter

  * * *

  Let the adventures begin…

  Mrs. Peabody and the Unexpected Duke

  © Grace Callaway, 2022

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  One

  1850, Christmas

  Everyone knew him simply as “Hawker,” and that was the way he liked it.

  He had shed the legacy of his bloodline the way a snake sloughs off dead skin: wholly, allowing no trace of his past to cling to the man he’d become. If some might question why a man would leave behind all the privileges that came with the Reid name, Hawker knew those people were fools.

  Money and power did not buy happiness. More often than not, they bought the opposite and gave no refunds. You were stuck with misery, greed, and an endless craving for power. Hawker wanted none of that. What he desired—what he’d earned with honest sweat over the past sixteen years—was peace. At one-and-thirty, he knew himself to be a simple man with simple tastes.

  He enjoyed his job as a butler for Lady Charlotte Fayne. To the select few in the know, he also played another role in her household: he provided training to her secret organization of lady investigators. Over two years ago, Lady Fayne had founded the Society of Angels which, on the surface, was a genteel charity. While she and the four spirited young protegees she’d recruited—known as the “Angels”—were, indeed, helping women in need, they were doing so by unconventional means. They carried on detective work for their female clients, taking on cases that involved everything from blackmail to murder.

  That was where Hawker came in. Working in the seediest parts of London, he’d acquired a certain set of skills which he, in turn, imparted to the Angels. When he’d first met the well-bred chits Olivia Wodehouse, Glory Cavendish, Fiona Morgan, and Pippa Cullen, he’d had doubts about their ability to learn the finer points of tracking, lockpicking, and making clean flits.

  To his happy surprise, the ladies had proven him wrong. They had taken to his instruction like ducks to water. These days, when he accompanied them on missions, his protection was often superfluous: the Angels could take care of themselves. Nonetheless, he felt responsible for his pupils and would defend them with his last breath.

  Luckily, it wouldn’t come to that since the Angels were trained in combat and could take down a man twice their size. Hawker couldn’t take credit for their fighting prowess, however; they had learned their maneuvers from their other instructor, Mrs. Peabody, who also served as Lady Fayne’s housekeeper. Mrs. Peabody was an exacting woman who kept everyone on their toes, Hawker included.

  He knew little about Pearl Peabody, despite living under the same roof as her for over three years. There were rumors that her fighting ability came from years spent as a female prizefighter at some secret underground club. Which was extraordinary for various reasons, including the fact that she couldn’t be more than five feet tall in her stockinged feet and weighed perhaps seven stone dripping wet. Of course, no one dared to ask Peabody about her past. If she were an omnibus, she would be plastered with signs that read, “Keep your distance.”

  Normally, Hawker steered clear of prickly females. Being a simple man, he liked his companionship easy, yet there was something about the housekeeper that pulled at him. Perhaps because she seemed as alone in the world as he was. While Hawker enjoyed the freedom he’d fought and bled for, of late he’d felt a certain restlessness.

  The malaise struck even when he was engaged in his favorite pastimes. In the middle of re-reading Hamlet last week, melancholy had seized him. A sudden realization that while he’d managed to outrun his past, he wasn’t running toward anything. He had no lover, no family, no children. No goal beyond the mundane tasks of life. No place to call…home.

  Tonight was Christmas Eve, and Lady Fayne had held a small holiday supper for staff who, like Hawker, had no other place to be. He had enjoyed the feast, which included mincemeat pies, roasted goose and joint of beef, and flaming Christmas pudding. Champagne had flowed, and the company had been merry…except for Pearl Peabody.

  Unlike the others, she hadn’t dressed to match the occasion. She’d worn her usual practical black bombazine which covered her diminutive figure from neck to ankles. She hadn’t bothered with a lace collar, jewelry, or any frippery to liven up her appearance. Her brown hair had been scraped back into its usual severe knot, which looked so tight that it had given him a megrim. Her style was more funereal than festive.

  It wasn’t just her clothes that had projected gloom. She’d pushed the food around on her plate, speaking only when spoken to. Any smiles she’d summoned had clearly been forced. And her eyes, which were golden brown and her best feature—not that he noticed her features—had revealed flashes of melancholy that caused a corresponding clench in his gut.

  To Hawker’s mind, Peabody was aloof, competent, and sometimes annoying. A stubborn female, she locked horns with him over the Angels’ training and the running of the household. She thought he was too casual and lenient in his approach to both; he thought that she was wound tighter than a clock and a tad obsessed with order and cleanliness. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t amuse himself at her expense from time to time. Yet he had never thought of her as…sad.

  Sadness made her seem more human. It made him wonder if he’d misjudged her; perhaps her standoffishness was merely a shield. He could understand that. After all, he used his burly, rough-and-tumble appearance to ward off company when he wasn’t in the mood for it. Perhaps he and old Peabody had more in common than he realized. Moved by that thought and the holiday spirit, he decided to leave the after-supper festivities in the servant’s hall and check on his erstwhile colleague, who’d slipped away as soon as supper had ended.

  Finding the housekeeper’s room next to the kitchens locked, Hawker knew where to go next. He proceeded to the cobblestone courtyard behind the mansion. It was chilly outside, the night sky unusually clear and sprinkled with stars. Up ahead, he saw faint light seeping from the curtained windows of the former carriage house that now functioned as training quarters for the Angels. He followed the faint thuds, passing empty rooms until he arrived at the sparring chamber.

  He knocked on the door. When no reply came, he turned the knob and strode into the dimly lit space.

  “Are you in here—Christ.”

  Hawker found his arm caught in a grappling hold. When he instinctively jerked back, he stumbled…over his opponent’s well-placed foot. He lost his balance, crashing backward onto the mats with an oath. The next instant, he was pinned down, tawny eyes glinting down at him.

  “Bloody ’ell.” The words emerged as a wheeze due to the arm pressed against his windpipe. “If this is the way you greet a man, no wonder you ain’t hitched, Peabody.”

  Annoyance etched twin lines between her straight sable brows.

  “You startled me, Hawker,” she muttered.

  She moved her arm off his throat with notable reluctance. Hawker blinked. He didn’t know if it was the rush of air into his lungs or his colleague’s appearance that made him feel oddly lightheaded. Old Peabody looked…unlike her usual self.

  Freed from its habitual knot, her hair cascaded around her face in loose, chestnut-brown waves that made her look younger than her twenty-nine years. One long tendril brushed his cheek, as silky-soft as a kiss. Roses bloomed in her pale cheeks, and her mouth, when not pinched with disapproval, had an alluring shape. Her whisky-colored eyes swirled with intoxicating secrets.

  She wore a training outfit of loose cream linen, the tunic and trousers draping her diminutive curves as she straddled him. Because he was a big man, her knees were splayed wide to brace his torso; her sleek thighs hugged his sides, and her feminine cove pressed into his abdomen. At the contact with her feminine heat, his stacked muscles turned rigid.

  Two facts arrowed into him. First, Pearl Peabody was an attractive woman.

  Second, he was getting hard.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

  Her tone was as crisp and starchy as fresh bedsheets. Truth be told, he’d always liked their banter, even when it bordered on bickering. With her sitting atop him, he appreciated it even more. Although he was curious…why was Peabody perched upon him as if she hadn’t a care in the world?

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  She straightened her shoulders, and the way she wobbled, nearly losing her seat upon him, gave her away. He clamped his hands on her waist to steady her. At the same time, he studied her more closely. The pink in her cheeks and unrestrained gleam in her eyes had an obvious cause.

  “You’re drunk,” he said with dawning amusement.

  “I am not.”

  “Well, you ain’t sober.”

  She frowned at him. “I can handle my drink…”

  To Hawker’s everlasting delight, his prim and proper colleague let out a tiny belch. The delicate sound was accompanied by the unmistakable fumes of cognac. The indomitable Pearl Peabody had a vice after all.

  “At least when you overindulge, you choose the good stuff.” He cocked a brow. “Care to share?”

  Heaving a sigh, she swatted at his hands. He let go of her waist, and she immediately clambered off him. Although he regretted her absence, he told himself it was for the best. His honor would not permit him to take advantage of a woman in her cups. Moreover, his personal rule was to avoid entanglements in the workplace.

  As he sat up, he saw that Peabody had been drinking whilst practicing her fighting moves. The heads of decapitated wooden dummies littered the sparring ring, and the target board had a dozen daggers planted in the innermost circle. The woman had a fierce streak, and he knew this from first-hand experience, having been trounced by her during demonstration sessions for the Angels. Of course, he hadn’t really fought back; he couldn’t hit a female, especially not one who stood a full foot and a half shorter than him and was half his weight.

  From beneath half-lowered eyelids, he watched as Peabody bent over to retrieve her knitting bag. Her linen trousers revealed that she had a fine, heart-shaped bottom. He jerked his gaze back to her face as she returned. Kneeling gracefully beside him on the mats, she pulled out a bottle of cognac.

  “And ’ere I thought you carried needles and yarn in that bag,” he said.

  “A bag, like a person, ought to be capable of more than one function.”

  His lips twitched. Even sauced, Peabody sounded as dignified as the Queen.

  Brow furrowing, she plucked a small glass from her satchel. “I only brought the one.”

  He snagged the bottle from her. Opening it, he took a swig, enjoying the smooth burn.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You have the manners of a cave-dweller. Were you raised by wolves?”

  Little did she know how close she came to the truth. The Reids were predators one and all. He’d been lucky to get out alive…although not unscathed. The muscles behind his eye patch twitched, a reflex to hold on to something long gone.

  “It tastes better from the source,” he said with a shrug.

  “How am I supposed to enjoy the cognac now that you’ve contaminated it?”

  “Like this.” Reaching over, he held the bottle to her pursed lips. “Try it, Peabody. Relax and let your hair down.”

  “My hair is down.”

  Peabody’s literal nature was part of her charm. It made teasing her even more enjoyable.

  “Prove it,” he coaxed. “Take a drink.”

  “I do not have to prove anything to you.”

  Nonetheless, she snatched the bottle from him, and after a pause, tipped it to her lips.

  “Doesn’t it taste better that way?” he murmured.

  “The cognac tastes excellent because it was aged twenty-five years.”

  When she swiped her tongue over her lips, catching a stray drop, his groin burgeoned with heat. He discreetly adjusted his frock coat to hide his arousal. Devil and damn, he ought to have better self-control, but work had kept him preoccupied. He hadn’t bedded a woman in months.

  Which likely explained his current predicament and the problem that was, quite literally, growing larger by the moment. When Peabody passed the bottle back to him, their fingers brushed; awareness sizzled through his veins. With her long, sable lashes shielding her eyes, he couldn’t tell if she’d felt their electric connection. But when he closed his lips around the glass where hers had just been, he thought he heard her breath catch.

  His own breathing wasn’t quite steady. Dormant seeds of attraction had burst into sudden, irrevocable bloom, and his senses were inundated by all that was Peabody. Her delicacy and strength. Her subtle yet undeniable sensuality. Her scent combined starch with something floral and intrinsically feminine, making his mouth water. As he took another swig from the bottle, he fancied he could taste her along with the cognac.

  Get a hold o’ yourself, man. He battled his lustful urges. You work together. Do not do something you’ll regret.

  “Why are you drinking alone, Peabody?” He kept his tone casual and conversational.

  “There was nobody I wanted to drink with.”

  Although her flat reply would have deterred some, he heard the wistfulness in her tone.

  “The place ain’t the same without the Angels,” he replied.

  Peabody’s silence confirmed his hypothesis. She missed their charges, who were celebrating with their families, and he didn’t blame her. Truth be told, the house felt empty without the lively chits.

  “I hate Christmas,” Peabody said.

  Passing her the cognac, he asked mildly, “Why?”

  She took a swallow and shrugged. “I just do.”

  This sort of answer was typical of her. Absolute and unapologetic, as if she did not feel the need to justify herself to anyone. And, damn, if he didn’t admire her for it.

  “Is it the plum pudding?” he asked. “Never fancied it myself.”

  Her lips curved faintly. “Dousing anything with brandy improves the taste.”

  “Waste o’ good brandy, if you ask me.” Seeing the smile reach her eyes, he leaned closer. “Why else do you hate Christmas?”

  A shadow doused her spark of amusement. “That is my business, Hawker.”

  “You’re missing the point o’ the holiday, Peabody. We celebrate the Savior’s birth by sharing and giving. By unloading one’s burdens and helping others.”

  Her lashes veiled her gaze. “Is that what you’re doing, Hawker…trying to help me?”

  He sensed a trap. From their past interactions, he knew that she was an independent female who didn’t appreciate interference.

  “Are you wanting help with something?” he countered.

  “Perhaps.”

  She eyed him in a way that made his blood pound in his veins. Was he imagining her sultry invitation? She moved toward him until they were mere inches apart. With her kneeling and him sitting, their faces were level. His throat went dry when she touched his cheek with a hand that was delicate, small, and capable of breaking a man’s neck.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9