Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (42 page)

Her husband shot her a wicked glance, full of laughter—and desire. "After the charades or before?"

"Before," she whispered, leaning over and brushing a kiss on his jaw.

"Tobias!" Leo shouted, leaping to his feet.

His eldest son, a sleek, brilliant version of himself, strolled over.

"Take this scrap," Leo said, dumping Theo unceremoniously into Tobias's arms. "Whatever you do, don't let Phoebe and Lucinda start fighting over him."

Theodore reached up and grabbed at his big brother's chin, giving him his best toothless smile.

"Did he burp?" Tobias asked sternly. He had quickly learned that sartorial standards can be severely threatened by leal

"Yes," Eleanor said, taking her husband's hand. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"The charades begin in one hour," Tobias said, not letting on with even the tiniest smile that he might have some idea what his beautiful stepmother and adoring father meant to do in the interim.

"We should be fine with that," Leo said, grinning down at Eleanor. Unlike his son, he'd lost his ability to appear emotionless.

But he did wait until he was out of the parlor to pick up the duchess in his arms and carry her up the stairs.

Historical Note

My literary debts in this book are numerous. Shakespeare makes several appearances, with particular reference to Sonnet 116. But the unnamed hero of
A Duke of Her Own
is Lord Byron, who lent the English version of his French play,
Salomé,
to Sir Roland. I feel quite certain that he would have resented my gift of his sensual lines to such a young and foolish man. In my defense, Byron himself was not yet forty when
Salomé
was written.

The inspiration for—and some of the invective in—the scene featuring Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy sprang from a play written by Shakespeare's contemporary, Ben Jonson.
Bartholomew Fair
puts Zeal-of-the-Land Busy in the stocks; I gave him both a funeral and a wife, and in this case I would venture to say that Ben Jonson would not disapprove.

And finally, Lisette sings a version of an old lullaby, "Hush-a-bye Baby," that has mixed ancestry.

When my son Luca was born, fourteen years ago, he liked to be sung to sleep. One night I was singing that lullaby when my stepmother peeked in. I confessed to her that I didn't really like the song because it ends with the baby plummeting from the treetop.

She sang two lines of a second verse for me, but couldn't remember any more. So during those long evenings of singing to a fretful baby, I wrote another two lines. I'm including the whole lullaby below, in the hopes that perhaps some of you are still lucky enough to be singing small, delicious-smelling scraps to sleep.

Hush-a-bye Baby, on the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,

Down will come Baby, cradle and all.

Mama will catch you, give you a squeeze.

Send you back up, to play in the trees.

When twilight falls, and birds

Come home to the one who loves you the best.

My books are like small children; they take a whole village to get them to a literate state. I want to offer my heartfelt thanks to my personal village: my editor, Carrie Feron; my agent, Kim Witherspoon; my website designers, Wax Creative; and last, but not least, my personal team: Kim Castillo, Franzeca Drouin, and Anne Connell. A particular thanks for this book goes to Sylvie Clemot for her French translations. I am so grateful to each of you!

About the Author

Author of sixteen award-winning romances, ELOISA JAMES is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New Jersey. All her books must have been written in her sleep, because her days are taken up by caring for two children with advanced degrees in whining, a demanding guinea pig, a smelly frog, and a tumbledown house. Letters from readers provide a great escape!

Write Eloisa at
[email protected] o
r visit her website at
www.eloisajames.com.

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