The Ugly Duckling Debutante (House of Renwick #1)(61)

Samuel grinned. “Dad, did you have that problem?”

“Samuel, I—“

“Because Mum said that lots of girls liked you even though you—“

“Enough.” Nicholas didn’t even want to know what Samuel had to say next. “Go find your sisters and apologize.”

Samuel nodded his head and trotted back up the stairs, rather cheerfully to Nicholas’s mind. It was as if he was staring at himself as a young boy. When Samuel reached the age to court, he was locking him in the upstairs attic. He had too much charm to do him any good at that age, especially with women.

He walked over to his study and smiled. Sara had redecorated it when she was pregnant with the twins. Her nervous energy came in swift bounds during those months, making it nearly impossible for even Nicholas to sit still around her.

“What are you smiling about?” Sara’s voice whispered behind his ear.

He jumped slightly then turned and pulled her into his arms. “Oh just about you, and the girls, and Samuel’s upstairs apologizing, by the way.”

“I still can’t believe he fed the doll hair to the chickens. You do know that the gardener is still pulling it out of the coop, right?”

Nicholas tried not to laugh. “Yes, and on behalf of men everywhere, I apologize. I don’t know what gets into him.”

“Oh I do!” She said without taking time to think. “He’s his father’s son, that’s what, plus Duncan isn’t the best influence when it comes to pranks. Did you know that just last week he brought a frog to church?” Sara’s eyes closed in absolute horror. “It was awful, especially when he handed it to Mother and asked her to hold it during the sermon.”

Nicholas laughed. Lady Fenton was the picture of elegance and grace, to envision her holding her grandson’s frog was the most amusing thing he had heard in ages. “What did she do?”

“What could she do?” Sara exclaimed. “You weren’t there to rescue her since you were gone on business all week, and I was still feeling ill! The poor dear sat there for an hour, Nicholas; an entire hour with the slimy thing in her lap. Oddly enough, it didn’t move.“

“Probably fell asleep,” he muttered under his breath.

Sara swatted him. “Be nice!”

“That was me being nice,” he grumbled. “That old vicar needs to be replaced and you know it.”

Sara huffed. “Well, yes, but I don’t see any volunteers, plus we’ll be leaving for London soon. We won’t have time to aid in the search.”

He nodded, then a thought popped into his head. “How about we stay for a while?”

Sara looked at him through thick lashes. “Whatever for?”

“Well, wildflowers for one thing,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“Hmm I guess.” She wiggled against him.

“And I did promise you ducks,” he whispered huskily into her ear.

She pushed him away. “That was so long ago, how do you remember?”

“I remember everything about you, my little duckling.” He kissed her nose. “My beautiful, beautiful, perfect little duckling.”

She answered him by kissing him on the mouth. He looked down and caressed her swollen belly. “It’s a boy you know.”

“Well you have been right about every other one.”

He smiled. “I know, so what do you say?”

She winked at him then turned away. “I say we stay for the ducks.”

“Perfect,” he whispered as he watched his wife saunter outside.

He was left alone in his study to contemplate how utterly blessed he had been when a dark figure approached the door.

“Yes what is it?” he asked. A small maid had entered the room. Her face was red and splotchy, her hair a mess.

“You have someone wanting to see you, my lord.”

“Who?” He asked looking back at his desk.

“Well my lord, it’s, it’s…” The color on her face seemed to heighten with each word.

“Oh, I’ll introduce myself, thank you….” A deep voice came from the hall.

It couldn’t be.

Impossible. He had been in France for two years.

Before his thoughts could get any further he looked up at the doorway.

“Sebastian St. James, Duke of Tempest, at your service.” His old friend gave a low bow before continuing with, “I need your help.”



To be continued…





Also by Rachel Van Dyken





Oh no. This is not happening, not happening!

I wipe my hands over my pleated skirt, a nervous habit. Sweaty hands aren’t attractive, or so Brad Macintosh said when he held them during couple’s skate my seventh grade year.

It’s my first choir solo ever. Why couldn’t it be our fall concert instead of our Spring Spectacular? I feel ridiculous standing in front of the entire school with my mouth gaping open trying to find a middle C. Not to mention the fact that my mother, who is standing up in the front of the audience waving with video camera in hand, forced me to wear a pleated skirt. Thus the outfit is now screaming “uncool” on my lanky body.

Never am I this mean. But when I get nervous, I tend to snap at people. All week I’ve been at odds with my mom for taking pictures of me. She was literally documenting every day of my life up until the big solo or as she puts it, “my discovery!” Leave it to my mom to turn a junior high solo into the performance of a lifetime, which will not only get her daughter discovered, but will make her a best selling artist all before her eighteenth birthday. Somehow I don’t think MTV is going to be knocking on our door anytime soon for the professional footage my mom shot in order to do a “diary” on my life before I was famous.