The Duke Who Knew Too Much Grace Callaway Read Online

Table of Contents

Championship Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Affiliate Iv

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Affiliate Eight

Chapter Nine

Affiliate 10

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Affiliate 15

Chapter Sixteen

Affiliate Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Xx

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter 20-Two

Chapter 20-3

Chapter Twenty-4

Chapter Twenty-5

Chapter Twenty-Six

Affiliate Twenty-Seven

Affiliate Twenty-Viii

Affiliate Twenty-Ix

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Xxx-One

Affiliate Thirty-Two

Affiliate Thirty-3

Chapter 30-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Affiliate 30-Six

Chapter Xxx-7

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Heart of Research Series

Other Books by Grace

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Copyright

The Duke Who Knew Too Much

(Heart of Enquiry, Book 1)

by

Grace Callaway

* * * * *

The Knuckles Who Knew Too Much

Copyright © 2015 Grace Callaway

Cover Design © Seductive Musings Designs

* * * * *

A Stranger to Beloved

Alaric McLeod, Duke of Strathaven, is known as the
Devil Duke
for his wicked means. Tormented by his past, Alaric knows amend than to trust a woman yet finds himself ensnared by a spirited, virtuous virgin—who accuses him of a crime he didn't commit. Is she his worst nightmare ... or his salvation?

A Novice to Desire

Emma Kent is an contained land miss bandage adrift in the
ton
. When a depraved see with an big-headed rake lands her in intrigue, Emma's honor compels her to do the right thing. But want challenges her quest for justice, and she must decide: can she trust her heart to discover the truth?

Bound by Passion and Peril

Alaric and Emma engage in a battle of wits and volition. As their attraction flares, the true enemy stalks their every move. With danger looming, will they solve the mystery and find true dear before information technology'due south also late?

P
rologue

As the carriage passed the massive rock gates, Alaric McLeod leaned out the window, trying to go a glimpse of his new home. It was a rare bear witness of excitement for him. At nine, he'd already learned the value of self-discipline, of guarding his responses to the earth around him. 'Twas a simple fact: what people couldn't see, they couldn't hurt.

Yesterday, he hadn't flinched when his da tossed the single, ratty travelling example—the only i the McLeods owned—onto the carriage and said tonelessly, "That'south that, then. Be a skillful lad and no trouble to my cousin."

He didn't motility a musculus when his stepmother bid him a cool farewell.

Still when his younger half-blood brother Will cried, "Why is Alaric leaving? I desire to get with him!" something hot and unexpected pushed backside his eyes.

He pushed back, forcing the estrus to retreat.

"Good adieu, William." He was proud of how grown-up he sounded. "I'thou the ward of a duke now, and so I shan't be returning hither." He glanced at the tidy cottage with its blooming hedgerows and vegetable garden—and the old, stupid yearning pierced him. Though his confidence wavered, he lifted his chin. "My new guardian lives in a castle. I'll have my ain sleeping accommodation. And servants to fetch me anything I desire."

"I want to go with you," Volition insisted.

Will'due south female parent intervened, her arms folding protectively around her little son. She'd never once held Alaric that way. The knots in Alaric's chest tightened—and he ignored that too. He told himself he didn't intendance if his father's new wife was immature and cute with her shining chestnut hair and night chocolate-brown optics—Alaric's own mama had been
more
cute. And his stepmother was a mere milliner's daughter whereas his mother had been a true lady, the youngest daughter of an earl.

Though his mama had died when he was 3, she even so visited him in fragments. The fading olfactory property of gardenias. The whisper of silk backside a closed door. Dampness upon a cheek as absurd and smooth as alabaster.
We don't belong here, Alaric. We deserve ameliorate ...

"You'll stay here, Will," the new Mrs. McLeod said firmly, "where you belong."

Alaric understood his stepmother's message. Truth didn't need to exist spoken aloud: he knew who belonged and who didn't. As if to testify the point, his da came to stand behind his stepmother and half-blood brother. His chest chafed at the picture the three made. Brown-haired and robust, a proud, loving Scots family. He bore no resemblance to them with his black hair and awkward, gangling build, the pale skin and eyes he'd inherited from his English mama.

You've eyes similar the blessed cat,
his stepmother had one time said.

Aye, he had more in common with that mangy stray than the portrait-perfect McLeods. Resentment swelled. They didn't want him? Fine. He didn't want to exist here anyhow. He hated them all—and this backward village, too. The bullies and lack-wits, offspring of farmers who would sooner start a brawl than attempt a math problem. Who'd bloody a lad'southward nose just because he had a head for numbers and sums.

Da cleared his throat. "It's time you're off. Mustn't keep your guardian waiting."

Can't await to be rid of me, tin you lot?
The dark, swirling thoughts burst through the barriers of his control. Confusion and anger swept through him. Even as his fists balled, ice came to his rescue, flowing through his veins, numbing everything else.

Don't allow them come across. They tin can't hurt you.

"Yep." His voice frosted over. "I don't want to keep his grace waiting."

"I'll miss y'all, Alaric." Eyes glimmering, Will tugged on his sleeve. "Yous'll come and visit soon, won't you?"

What for? They have y'all. Their son ... the one that matters.

"Good day, William," he said flatly.

He'd boarded the carriage without looking dorsum. What was the point? He already knew what was behind him—what mattered was looking ahead. His hands cold and clammy now, he gripped the window frame of the carriage. If his eyes stung, he told himself it was because of the dust clouds stirred upwards by the clattering wheels.

Put the by behind you. There's no looking back
—
the hereafter is what matters.

The dust settled and then, like magic, a vision appeared. His jaw slackened. Surrounded by lush green hills and clement skies, Strathmore Castle sprawled with the grace of an ancient behemoth that had fed off fourth dimension itself. Sunshine gilded the stone walls, glinted off stained drinking glass and mullioned windows. Power infused the edifice's every line from the rugged towers to the sweeping wings. 'Twas a identify that could ward off whatever attack—and provide refuge to a chosen few.

Every bit the carriage rolled onto the circular front bulldoze, two figures emerged from the arched entryway. The tall, black-haired human with hawkish features was Henry McLeod, the Duke of Strathaven, Alaric'south first cousin once removed and now his guardian. He'd met the duke merely in one case before, when the latter had come to offering guardianship to ane of the sons of his poor relation. Among the clutter of the McLeods' cottage, the knuckles had seemed like a rex with his fine clothes and pristine elegance. Surrounded by the wealth and power of his ancestral manor, his grace dazzled like a god.

Abreast Strathaven was the duchess, thin and slight as a sparrow, lace quivering at her breast. Alaric had never met her. He knew only that her own son had died of a fever, and she could non bear another.

When she waved her handkerchief in welcome, the ice in Alaric'due south gut began to thaw. Relief trickled through him.

They desire me here. I'll belong. I've come
…
domicile.

His lips institute the tentative shape of a grin, and he waved back with a boy'south eagerness.

Chapter One

Twenty-seven years later

As the strains of a waltz emerged from the orchestra, Miss Emma Kent took get out of her sister-in-law Marianne, who was chaperoning her this evening, and wove through the mirrored ballroom. Her purpose wasn't to discover a trip the light fantastic partner. With all the ladies eagerly convening like a kaleidoscope of collywobbles upon the dance floor, she saw a prime opportunity to visit the necessary without waiting in line.

Born and bred in the country, she was practical by nature. Equally she nudged a path through the heavily perfumed throng, she thought—not for the first time—that the night's attempt was rather pointless. She didn't belong here amongst the champagne fountains and rarefied guests. Not only did she lack the requisite blue blood, she was as well too old, too independent, and too unsophisticated to attract a husband.

These were facts and did non bother her overmuch. She knew her strengths: having managed a cottage and four unruly siblings since the age of xiii, she was resourceful, efficient, and competent in an assortment of skills. She loved her family dearly and had never met a man who'd made her want to relinquish her place at that place—or her firmly established autonomy.

Hence, wedlock was not a top priority.

She had bigger, meliorate plans.

The orchestra began to crescendo, eliciting a great of emotion below her peach silk bodice. Her papa had passed over a year agone, and she nevertheless missed him with every fiber of her being. As the village schoolmaster, Samuel Kent had dedicated his life to educating the young minds of Chudleigh Crest, and he'd been the wisest human being she'd ever known.

It is not living that matters
, he'd taught her and her siblings,
but living rightly. Follow the wisdom of your heart, and it will atomic number 82 you to the truth.

The twirling dancers and opulent surroundings faded as Emma contemplated how to put her papa's moral philosophy into activeness.

After their father's expiry, her eldest one-half-blood brother Ambrose had insisted on moving her and their younger siblings from Chudleigh Crest to London. Emma knew that he wanted to requite them opportunities non found in the country. Marianne, Ambrose's beloved wife, had been a wealthy baroness prior to marrying into the middling course Kent family, and she was more than than happy to use her social cache to give her husband's younger siblings
entrée
into the
ton
.

Marianne had taken them in mitt, polished them up. She'd put in effort and expense, and Emma hadn't the eye to dissuade her sister-in-law's good intentions or puncture the bubbling excitement of her younger sisters Dorothea, Violet, and Polly, who'd taken to city life similar ducks to h2o. Tonight was Emma's kickoff outing in the
beau monde
, and she was supposed to ready a good example for her sisters, who would soon be introduced to Lodge as well.

She didn't desire to let her family downward ... but she didn't desire to be here either. For she'd already discovered her true passion; the problem was how to gain her older brother's support for her plans. Equally she contemplated the puzzler, she passed through the biconvex entryway and suddenly tripped, gasping as she hurtled forrard. She braced for impact—collided with something firm and solid ...

Blinking, she plant herself staring up at the countenance of a ruthless god.

She was far from being a fanciful sort, yet there was no other way to describe the stranger with the dark, gleaming black pilus and face sculpted with vicious perfection. He looked to be in his thirties, his edges chiseled by jaded experience. He had high cheekbones, a blade of a nose, his mentum and jaw arrogantly jutting. Beneath the dark slashes of his brows, his eyes were a startling shade of silvery jade, fringed past the thickest, longest eyelashes she'd ever seen on a gentleman. She stared, mesmerized.

Those arresting eyes narrowed. The brooding mouth twisted into a cynical smiling.

"If y'all wanted to trip the light fantastic toe, pet, y'all might effort asking."

The deep, mocking tones held a faint lilt, something non entirely English. Then the words themselves penetrated her dazed brain. With dawning horror, Emma realized that she'd literally fallen into the stranger'due south arms—and he thought she'd done and so
on purpose
. That she was deliberately throwing herself at him!

Mortified, she tried to disentangle herself. "Let me go."

"Like shooting fish in a barrel at that place," he drawled.

His scent permeated her senses, a blend of forest spice and lather that was ineffably masculine. His muscular arms surrounded her, held her closer than whatever man ever had. Placing her hands against his silver grey waistcoat, she pushed to no avail. Even through the layers of material, his chest felt as hard and unyielding equally a slab of marble.

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