The Heir and the Spare

Table of Contents

“If your ankle is hurt, perhaps you shouldn’t be standing on it,” Devon suggested.

“If the doctor had arrived sooner, I wouldn’t have gotten bored and needed to find a book,” Emilia replied, as if everyone knew that boredom was far more painful than a twisted ankle.

He should stay away, he thought, but it would be most ungentlemanly of him to let her fall. In one fluid movement, his arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her steady. They moved slowly, she most likely because of the pain. He because he just wanted to savor the feeling of having her so close. Of course, having any attractive female form pressed up against him was a pleasant feeling indeed. But there was something about this particular one. Emilia fit.

Devon was lowering her onto the couch when reason and honor took their leave. She reclined and he knelt before her. At that point, he really should have released her, patted her on the head, and left to check on the whereabouts of the doctor and her chaperone. But he didn’t . . .

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE HEIR AND THE SPARE

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2007

Copyright © 2007 by Maya Rodale.

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ISBN: 978-1-436-24612-5

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I must thank my mom for absolutely everything. But especially for constant support and encouragement, for romance novels and country music, and for always being just a phone call away. Thank you to Lou for reminding me to be practical, and to my sisters for being awesome.

Thanks to my agent, Linda Loewenthal, for telling me I needed to write romance novels sooner rather than later. You were right. And thank you for continuing to work with me.

Thanks to Mary Bly for a crash course in writing, advice, a fantastic quote, and for welcoming me into the world of romance writers.

A big thank-you to the team at Berkley: Allison Brandau for finding my manuscript amongst all the others. My editors, Christine Zika and Wendy McCurdy, for suggestions and guidance to make this book so much better. George Long for a fantastic cover. And everyone and anyone else I may have missed.

Thank you to Mark Kintzel for being amazingly helpful with everything.

Thank you to all my people who read drafts of this manuscript and offered feedback: Ummy, Gigi, Shelbi, Sarah, Jennifer, Denise, Mark, and anyone else I may have forgotten. Your helpful comments kept me going.

Thanks to my dog, Penelope, for behaving while I worked and for reminding me to take breaks to play.

And a big thank-you to all my people who smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals as I talked through characters, plot ideas, and story lines.

It
was not the first time that Devon Kensington had been mistaken for his twin. Nor was it the first time that their father, His Grace, the 17th Duke of Buckingham, had demanded—for Lord knew the man never asked for anything—that Devon accept the consequences for whatever stupid, reckless act his brother Phillip had committed. It was not the first time that Devon had agreed.

His reason was simple: his hunger for his father’s approval was stronger than his loathing for his twin. But what had once seemed like a natural feeling for a son toward his father now seemed like a perversion on this cold, foggy morning. Dawn. On an obscure field in Hyde Park, a dueling pistol in his hand. He was risking his own life, for what? For a father who sent in his spare son because God forbid the estate lose its heir. Phillip possessed few skills, and hitting the intended target when shooting was not one of them.

The enraged man at the other end of the field certainly excelled at weaponry. The Duke of Grafton, confidant to the regent and secretary of war, was in possession of immense power and influence, as well as a very pretty, young wife. Devon had never seen her, but apparently Phillip had seen very much of her—sometime between her wedding ceremony and her wedding night.

As the two men took the requisite twelve paces away from each other, it occurred to Devon that there was a very good chance he could die this morning, for a sin he did not commit, on behalf of a brother he despised. He was not particularly enamored of the thought. Which was why, when it came time to shoot, his pistol was not aimed to the left, or to the right, or to the sky, but straight at the Duke of Grafton’s heart.

Devon learned later the next morning that his own wound, in his arm, would heal, and he would be perfectly fine. He also learned that the Duke of Grafton’s life was in peril, for he battled a raging fever and an infection in his wounded shoulder. They did not expect him to live. In the event that he expired, no one expected Devon to live either.

A duel between a duke and an heir to a dukedom (or so it was assumed), over a woman, drew quite a crowd. It made the papers and came to the attention of the prince regent, who, though he generally cared little to enforce the law against dueling, would certainly be inclined to do so if it resulted in the death of his close friend.

The truth might come out, or it might not. Devon did not remain in England to find out. Perhaps it was cowardly, perhaps it was an effort at self-preservation, or perhaps he was simply sick of being the spare, but he boarded the next ship to America.

Miss
Emilia Highhart was forever tripping and falling. Literally. This time, however, she tripped, and rather than ending up with bruises on unmentionable parts of her anatomy, she fell in love. She knew it had to be love if such a hackneyed thought came to mind. Truth be told, she was just happy that any thoughts remained in her head at all.

It happened thus: It was the very first ball of her very first London season, and Emilia, with her appalling tendency to trip and fall at every opportunity, was dreading that curved, marble staircase that descended into the ballroom before her. Inside her pale pink, beaded satin slippers, her toes curled anxiously. Pausing there atop the stairs and mustering her courage, Emilia admired all the other ladies who managed to glide like swans on the serene lake of a freshly waxed floor. Her aunt and chaperone, Lady Palmerston, seemed to float down the stairs ahead of her without looking at her feet or holding on to the railing, and even smiling at acquaintances. Since Emilia had been standing there for too long, she took a deep breath, grabbed the railing, took one tentative step, and prayed.

She was halfway down and doing remarkably well when it happened. For one second, she glanced up from the task at hand and saw him—a man so captivating she had to pause. He looked as if he had stepped right from the pages of one of the popular novels she was often reading. That is to say, she had never seen a man so . . .
manly
in real life. But it was not simply his broad torso clad in the stark black and white of evening dress, or his firm features, nor was it the crop of dark short hair rakishly pushed back, accentuating cheekbones that seemed to have been chiseled from granite. He was handsome; only a fool would argue that he wasn’t. It was the way that he carried himself that caught her heart. He moved with determination and strength, with a purpose, with an unshakable confidence that his body would never betray him. She envied him.

He took one power-laden step up; she took one tender step down. Their eyes met, locked, and looked nowhere else. And like that, step-by-step, they moved closer. Emilia was vaguely aware of an orchestra playing, of hundreds of guests talking and waltzing, of her aunt waiting impatiently for her at the bottom of the stairs.

And then she was overwhelmed by that all-too-familiar sensation—the stomach lurch, the sharp intake of breath, a foot desperately searching for something steady, and that wave of dizzy panic that swept her from head to toe when she was about to fall. She could feel her arms waving inelegantly, trying for balance. Her cheeks became hot from the fear of falling and mortification. She closed her eyes. She was going to fall down a flight of stairs, in front of the entire London ton, but even worse, in front of the most stunningly handsome man she had ever seen. She hoped that she would tumble to the bottom of the stairs and either die (more likely from embarrassment than injury) or at the very least be knocked unconscious.