Книга - Cinderella And The Duke

Cinderella And The Duke
Janice Preston


Falling for a duke in disguise!Never welcomed into society circles, Rosalind Allen gave up her marriage prospects long ago—life has taught her she’ll only get hurt. So she’s shocked when an encounter with a mysterious stranger makes her long to reconsider…Little does Rosalind know that her mystery man is Leo Beauchamp, Duke of Cheriton, travelling in disguise to evade the ladies of the ton! Impoverished Rosalind is the first woman to captivate Leo—but can he persuade this wary Cinderella to trust him with her heart?







Falling for a duke in disguise!

Never welcomed into society circles, Rosalind Allen gave up her marriage prospects long ago—life has taught her she’ll only get hurt. So she’s shocked when an encounter with a mysterious stranger makes her long to reconsider...

Little does Rosalind know that her mystery man is Leo Beauchamp, Duke of Cheriton, traveling in disguise to evade the ladies of the ton! Impoverished Rosalind is the first woman to captivate Leo—but can he persuade this wary Cinderella to trust him with her heart?


Hard fingers gripped her upper arm, pulling her around to face him. Rosalind’s breath grew short as Leo gazed down at her, and her cheeks heated.

She swallowed, and tentatively tugged her arm from his grasp. He released her immediately, but she remained pinned in place by the command of those silver-grey eyes. Up close, she could see the shadow of dark whiskers on his jaw and cheek. It gave him a dangerous, almost piratical air, and yet her fingers twitched with the urge to feel their rasp.

‘What is your name?’

His voice was low. Rosalind caught the faint scent of cologne—musky, with a trace of orange and cinnamon—beneath the smell of fresh air, horse and leather. Her insides swooped like a swallow in flight and her breathing hitched.

‘Rosalind.’ It emerged as a croak. She frowned, cleared her throat, and spoke with more force. ‘Rosalind.’

‘Rosalind…’ The mellifluous way he rolled the syllables of her name created shivery waves over her body. ‘It is a beautiful name.’

His eyes darkened and Rosalind felt another quiver run through her.


Author Note (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

I’ve long had a soft spot for Leo, Duke of Cheriton, who has appeared in three of my earlier books as a secondary character. I knew I must tell his story one day.

As the title of this book suggests, it is a Cinderella-type story, with a powerful, charismatic duke as the hero and a thirty-year-old spinster who has sacrificed the chance of marriage for the sake of her siblings as heroine. The importance of family is central to the story, with a message that it’s never too late to find love—and in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Leo is a wealthy widower, with three adult children and an unmarried sister who runs his household. He has no need to marry again and neither does he wish to: his first wife’s infidelities have left him with trust issues and it seems every female he meets has her eyes firmly on his title and his wealth.

When Leo meets Rosalind Allen—who is posing as a widow—he’s travelling as plain Leo Boyton. There is instant mutual attraction, and Leo feels that here at last is a woman who likes him for who he is, not what he is. But Rosalind is not what she seems. She has her own secrets, and she dislikes and distrusts the aristocracy—with good cause.

I hope you enjoy the ride as Leo learns to trust again and Rosalind overcomes the prejudices of her past.


Cinderella and the Duke

Janice Preston






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-05381-5

CINDERELLA AND THE DUKE

© 2017 by Janice Preston

Published in Great Britain 2017

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Version: 2018-04-17


JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor—vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!

Books by Janice Preston

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Beauchamp Betrothals

Cinderella and the Duke

The Governess Tales

The Governess’s Secret Baby

Men About Town

Return of Scandal’s Son

Saved by Scandal’s Heir

Linked by Character

to Men About Town duet

Mary and the Marquis

From Wallflower to Countess

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


To Dad—with much love.


Contents

Cover (#ucb1afbd9-89d4-52db-a1ef-c18757f18ade)

Back Cover Text (#u177bc0d6-443a-54f4-81b3-3aa66d5dbfc1)

Introduction (#udc0f663e-a73e-537a-8031-beb96999a50f)

Author Note (#ud4ffe328-7c38-55d0-a054-a1ce13b71cc9)

Title Page (#u4864bf3f-0b6c-5caf-aa79-6c63be6ab267)

Copyright (#u1cb09e77-49b2-55cf-8fa7-ea49f8ec2544)

About the Author (#u067068b8-cd81-552b-8834-b0c81f51fa1c)

Dedication (#u84c021eb-b27c-5e56-9c92-12721a05c89a)

Chapter One (#u9e5d4ef4-db4c-598e-a0a0-f09c04fe4738)

Chapter Two (#u6465b565-36ae-5fb2-80cf-f293691c38df)

Chapter Three (#u876f75ec-b831-51d8-966e-1d2a0c968bfb)

Chapter Four (#u6d1ecadd-2fd6-5188-ac7b-9927884dbb16)

Chapter Five (#uc381be41-9200-5302-bd02-47e347a126be)

Chapter Six (#u5e460770-492c-55a0-a85c-06ff0d69db22)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

February 1812—Buckinghamshire

‘For pity’s sake!’

The sheep darted on either side of Rosalind Allen, ignoring the open gate into the field where the rest of the flock grazed. Rosalind whirled around to see them scatter up the lane.

‘Stupid ani—’

Her jaw snapped shut at the sight of an approaching horse and rider: a stranger. Instinctively, she tugged her shawl tighter around her head and body. But at least the sheep had wheeled around on spying the horseman and were dashing back in her direction. Rosalind threw her arms wide and waved the stick she had been throwing for Hector, to try again to divert the sheep through the open gate. This time the sheep swerved through the gateway and galloped, baaing loudly, to the far side of the paddock to join the rest of the flock, who were being discouraged from joining the runaways by Hector, Rosalind’s dog, still sitting on the spot where she had commanded him to stay.

Rosalind trudged to the gate, which listed drunkenly on its solitary hinge. She tucked the stick under one arm as she hefted the gate up and struggled through the mud to close it. Only when it was latched did she recall her hoydenish appearance. Conscious of the approaching rider, she pulled at her skirts, silently cursing. When she had set out on her walk, she had hitched her skirt to mid-calf level, using a belt, to keep the hem from soiling. Apart from old Tom the shepherd, she had never seen anyone else on her walks, but now—too late—she recalled a hunting party of gentlemen from London was staying at the nearby recently sold Halsdon Manor. She’d heard the huntsman’s horn earlier in the day, but had forgotten it until now... This man must be one of that hunting party.

‘Oh, no, don’t cover up those pretty legs, dear heart.’ The voice slithered through the silence. ‘Does a man good to see such an enticing sight after a hard day.’

Rosalind stiffened as, behind her, the squelch of his horse’s hooves ceased. A worm of fear wriggled in her belly. Nothing would surprise her about the so-called gentlemen of the ton after her family’s experience with Nell’s guardian, Sir Peter Tadlow, and his cronies. Thank goodness Nell—her stepsister—was no longer at Stoney End; she had departed early that morning in their family coach to stay with her aunt, Lady Glenlochrie, in London to prepare for her debut into society. Hopefully she would be safe in her aunt’s care until the start of the Season.

The visitors to Halsdon Manor would not recognise Rosalind or Freddie, her brother, for they had never been welcome in society circles, but Nell was a different matter. Heaven knew who she had come into contact with whilst staying with various family members over the years.

Willing herself to stay calm, Rosalind finished fixing her skirts and only then did she turn to face the horseman, Hector’s stick hidden in the folds of her skirt, the rough bark reassuring against her palm. The gentleman was tall and dark with classically patrician features. His skin was unusually swarthy and he sat his sweat-stained black hunter with insolent grace. His finely moulded lips were stretched in a smile that did not touch his eyes, the darkest Rosalind had ever seen. He raked her from head to toe with a gaze full of cold calculation that left a trail of wariness and vulnerability in its wake.

‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’

Head high, Rosalind moved to pass the horse and rider, to head back up the lane in the direction of her home. Her attempt to brazen it out failed. The man backed his horse sharply around in front of her, blocking her path—so close the smell of the animal filled her nostrils and waves of heat from its sweat-soaked skin washed over her face.

‘Not so fast, m’dear.’ The rider’s tone was sharp, his eyes intent. ‘I simply wish to introduce myself.’ He raised his hat. ‘Anthony Lascelles, at your...service.’

Rosalind’s stomach clenched at the oily insinuation in his tone.

‘I am the new owner of Halsdon Manor,’ Lascelles continued. ‘And you are...?’

‘Mrs Pryce.’ Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to adopt the guise of a widow when they moved to Buckinghamshire. Her false identity boosted her courage. ‘Now, if you will excuse me...’ She attempted once more to bypass Lascelles’s horse.

Again, he reined the black round to block her path. Rosalind gritted her teeth and glared up at him, then jerked away as he reached down to tug at her shawl. She brandished the stick, ready to do battle, then recalled Hector—no doubt still patiently awaiting her call. She smiled inside at the thought of Lascelles’s shock. She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled.

Behind her came the scrabble of claws on wood, then Hector was by her side, hackles raised, snarling in defence of his mistress. A dog of the type developed to hunt wolves in Ireland many centuries before, Hector was a magnificent animal, his head level with Rosalind’s hip. Lascelles’s horse sidled and plunged, throwing his head in the air, tail swishing in agitation as his rider paled, his eyes wide and lips tight. A skilled horsewoman herself, Rosalind sensed the black’s reaction was due as much to the tension of his master’s hand on the rein as to Hector’s appearance.

Surely Lascelles would detain her no longer?

‘Quiet, sir!’

The sharp voice sounded above Hector’s growls and the silence was sudden and absolute. Amongst the confusion, Rosalind had failed to notice the arrival of three more riders. Her nerves strung tighter. Even Hector could not withstand four men if they were intent on harm. Rosalind grasped his collar, more for her own comfort than by the need to restrain the dog, for he had responded to that autocratic command and now stood, mute but alert, his gaze locked on to Lascelles. Rosalind concentrated on breathing steadily and maintaining her outward calm, despite the tremble of her knees.

‘How much further back to the Manor, Anthony?’

It was the middle of the three—chisel jawed and broad-shouldered, with a haughty, aristocratic air—who spoke, his voice clipped. He sat his huge bay with the grace of one born to the saddle, his mud-spattered breeches stretched over muscled thighs, his gloved hands resting casually on the pommel. The hard planes of his face were relieved by his beautifully sculptured mouth, his eyes were an arresting silvery grey under heavy lids and straight dark brows, and his hair, glimpsed under his hat, was very dark, near black.

Rosalind’s racing heart thundered in her ears as her palms grew clammy. She swallowed past a hard lump in her throat and raised her chin, still fighting to hide her panic.

‘A mile or so down there.’ Lascelles pointed with his whip.

‘In that case let us proceed. It is getting late and I for one am tired and hungry. If you really wished to spend your time on that sort of hunting, I suggest you should have remained in London. I’ve no doubt the quarry there is less well protected.’

With that, his gaze swept over Rosalind, who experienced an instant tug of attraction despite the arrogance of his perusal—he had not even bothered to glance at her face. His indifference as he viewed her muddy boots and shabby attire stirred her resentment, but his words, and his tone of voice, had reassured. Surely this was not a man to turn a blind eye to a woman in jeopardy?

Then the man’s attention moved to her face. Rosalind sensed a subtle shift in his bearing as his silvery eyes narrowed, boring into hers with such intensity her insides performed a somersault. She felt a blush creep up her neck to her cheeks. Despite her aversion to his kind, she could not deny his magnetism. Try as she might, she could not tear her gaze from his, even though the slow curve of his lips in a knowing smile made her blood simmer.

The spell he cast was broken when Lascelles, who had finally brought his horse under control, manoeuvred it between Rosalind and the other men, blocking her view of all but the man on the right of the three, who had removed his hat to reveal thick, brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes.

‘You three ride on to the Manor,’ Lascelles said. ‘I won’t be long: I simply wish to reach an understanding with the charming Mrs Pryce.’

The brown-haired man threw a look of disgust at Lascelles. ‘Leave her alone, Lascelles,’ he said. ‘I’ll wager there are willing women aplenty around here, but she don’t seem to be one of them.’

‘Ah, but therein lies the attraction, my dear Stanton. I find I enjoy a spot of resistance in my wenches—it adds spice to the chase and makes the ultimate reward all the sweeter, don’t you know?’

He made her skin crawl. How dare he talk about her like this, as though she were not even present? Wench indeed.

Lascelles swivelled his head, assessing Rosalind with his chilling black gaze and a humourless smile. ‘And I always do get my reward, you know,’ he added.

‘Get him out of here, Stan.’ Quiet words, spoken with menace, by the man with those hypnotic silver eyes.

Stanton spurred his horse alongside Lascelles, jostling the other man’s horse so it faced in the direction of Halsdon Manor as Rosalind sidestepped out of their way, tugging a still-alert Hector by the collar.

‘Let us go, Lascelles. You lead the way.’ Stanton shot an apologetic look at Rosalind as he rode past her, tipping his hat.

But Lascelles, with a snarl, hauled his horse round to confront the remaining two men.

‘You have no right—’

His venom was clearly directed at the silver-eyed man, but it was the third man who kicked his horse into motion. He was handsome, with green eyes and chestnut-coloured hair, and bore such a striking likeness to the first newcomer and, to a lesser extent, Lascelles that Rosalind could not doubt all three were related.

‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ he muttered, placing his hand on Lascelles’s forearm. ‘You know how Leo feels about such matters. Leave well alone.’

Lascelles hesitated, his lips a thin line, his brows low. Then he gave an abrupt nod, wheeled his still-fretting horse around and followed Stanton down the lane. The green-eyed man hesitated in his turn, glancing at the man called Leo, who ignored him, his attention still fixed on Rosalind. The other man shrugged, raised his hat to Rosalind and gave his horse the office to proceed.

Leaving Rosalind facing Leo.

She met his gaze, suppressing the quiver that chased across her skin as he looked deep into her eyes—his expression impassive—for what seemed an eternity. Finally, goaded, she tilted her chin and raised her brows.

‘I am grateful, sir.’

His lips flickered in the ghost of a smile and he tipped his hat as he nudged his horse past Rosalind.

‘Good day to you, madam.’

She watched him go. Unfamiliar sensations swirled through her, provoking a sense of loss she could not begin to explain. Unbidden, her hand lifted to her chest. There, outlined beneath the wool of her gown, her fingers sought and found the oval shape of the silver locket made for her by Grandpa for her sixth birthday. Her most treasured possession, representing her father’s world, and her only link with his side of the family. Her mother had severed all links with the Allens after Papa was killed.

The gentleman riding away from her was of the world that had moulded her mother: a world of entitlement ruled by strict codes of behaviour and an unshakeable belief in class—a world that neither accepted nor acknowledged Rosalind and Freddie, even after their widowed mother had been welcomed back into its folds.

A hateful, unforgiving world that Rosalind wanted no part of.

But the emotions those silver eyes of his aroused in her paid no heed to reasoning. Those emotions picked her up and tossed her around until her head whirled as giddily as her stomach. Those emotions hinted at possibilities—they raised the promise of pleasure, disturbed a desire for the touch of a man’s hand and lips.

And not just any man.

This man.

She should be shocked at herself for such scandalous thoughts, but she was intrigued. Never before in her thirty years had a man aroused such feelings in her breast. Those eyes. They penetrated, seemingly, into her soul and, for the first time in her life, she had the inkling of an understanding of passion.

A nudge at her hand shook her from her reverie.

‘You’re right, Hector. It is of no use mooning after a handsome face.’

She was unsettled with being forced to leave Lydney Hall, that was all. It would pass. All things did pass, given time.

‘Come, let us go home.’

Hector trotted up the lane ahead of Rosalind, stopping at intervals to investigate an interesting smell. Rosalind tramped in his wake and contemplated her future with little enthusiasm.

Thirty years of age, and the past fourteen years of her life spent raising Freddie, their stepsister, Nell, and stepbrother, Jack, after their own mother died of childbed fever. Rosalind had long accepted she would never marry or have children and she had always been content with her lot until her beloved stepfather had died quite unexpectedly last spring, leaving chaos in the wake of his passing.

Step-Papa had made his will, leaving pensions for both Rosalind and Freddie and making provision for a generous dowry for Nell. The title and estates now belonged to fourteen-year-old Jack, Eighth Earl of Lydney, and those estates were held in trust for him until his twenty-first birthday. But the late Earl’s younger brother—named in his will as guardian to his children—had predeceased him by three short months and the Court of Chancery in London had appointed Nell and Jack’s maternal uncle, Sir Peter Tadlow—their closest male relative—as their guardian.

Yes, Rosalind had been content, until Sir Peter had descended upon Lydney Hall to ‘fulfil my obligations to my dearest nephew.’ It had not taken long for his true nature to emerge. Lydney Hall was soon plagued by visits from Sir Peter’s friends and acquaintances, with Jack’s inheritance paying the bills. Sir Peter did not hide his utter contempt for Rosalind and Freddie and their humble parentage—their father had been a soldier, the son of a silversmith, who had eloped with the granddaughter of a duke—and he and his visitors viewed Rosalind as ‘fair game’ and Freddie as an object of ridicule. They would have remained at the Hall and tolerated any amount of unpleasantness, however, had it not been for Sir Peter’s plans for Nell.

Rosalind swallowed down her impotent rage at the thought of seven long, frustrating years with Jack’s estates and future under the control of that...wastrel.

As she arrived at the gate of Stoney End, the modest house they had called home for the past fortnight, Rosalind tore her brooding thoughts from her long-term future, directing them to the next few days instead. Immediately, a handsome face with a mesmeric gaze and sensual lips invaded her thoughts and that peculiar blend of yearning and curiosity swirled through her once more.

Leo.

Would they meet again? Should she fear such a meeting? Should she fear him?

Her intuition told her no...at least, not in the way she might fear another meeting with Lascelles. But there remained a thread of unease. Even as an innocent, she sensed the danger of a different kind that he posed.

To her. To her heart. To her peace of mind.


Chapter Two (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

Leo Alexander Beauchamp, Sixth Duke of Cheriton, reined his horse to a halt and twisted in the saddle to peer back along the lane.

The woman—back straight, head high—continued on her way, her shawl wrapped tightly around her form, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips as she walked. Her face materialised in his mind’s eye. Not a predictable youthful beauty, but a hypnotically attractive woman. She had met his gaze with challenge but, more enticingly, with a welcome lack of calculation and coquetry—two traits he had become adept in recognising in the ladies of the ton in the thirteen years since Margaret, his wife, had died. A titled, wealthy widower—even one who was a father of three—was always of interest to the fairer sex.

Mrs Pryce. Presumably there must be a Mr Pryce somewhere. He should put her from his mind, then.

And yet...there had been a definite spark when their eyes had locked, as when a hammer struck stone. He huffed a near-silent laugh—an apt metaphor, perhaps: the clash of a mighty force against an unyielding substance. She had certainly exhibited a steely resistance to Lascelles. The thought of his cousin triggered the sudden awareness that he was sitting on his horse in the middle of a country lane, staring after a stranger. He squeezed Conqueror into motion.

And there was Vernon, waiting for him, a wide smile on his face.

‘Whatever you’re about to say...don’t.’

‘Me?’ Lord Vernon Beauchamp—Leo’s brother and his junior by four years—feigned a look of innocence. ‘I am only concerned you may not find your way back to Halsdon without my guidance.’

‘I’m not in my dotage yet,’ Leo growled. It was something of a sore point, as he had recently passed his fortieth birthday. ‘My homing instinct is as keen as it ever was.’

Vernon glanced over his shoulder, then quirked a brow at Leo. ‘I can see that.’

Leo narrowed his eyes at his brother. ‘She’s married.’

Having been in the position of cuckolded husband himself, Leo was not about to inflict that indignity on any other man.

‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we are only here another ten days. If I stay that long.’

‘Still fretting about Olivia?’

‘I do not fret.’

He was a duke: head of a large extended family, wealthy, powerful. Nothing could threaten him.

‘Cecily is wise to Olivia’s wiles and tricks,’ Vernon went on, in complete disregard of Leo’s obvious wish to be done with the topic. ‘Lord, that girl is a minx, Leo.’

Leo knew it. His only daughter and youngest child, eighteen-year-old Olivia was on the brink of her introduction to polite society. Her upbringing alongside her older brothers had instilled in her a deeply felt sense of injustice at the unfairness that allowed them so much more freedom than she could now enjoy. Leo had left her in London in the care of his sister, Cecily, who had raised Leo’s children after their mother was murdered.

‘I said I do not—’

‘And Beauchamp House is more secure than the Tower of London,’ Vernon went on, seemingly oblivious to Leo’s growing irritation. ‘They will be safe without you for a couple of weeks.’

Leo curbed his exasperation. Families! They saw too much and they understood too much. He might have no need to fret, but that did not stop him worrying about his children, and Vernon knew it. ‘And Alex?’ he said. ‘Who will keep a tight rein on him?’

The younger of his two sons, Alexander was twenty, and growing more sullen and secretive by the day.

‘Avon will keep him out of trouble...at least he gives you no cause for concern.’

Dominic, Marquess of Avon, was Leo’s eldest son and the heir to the dukedom, who indeed gave Leo little cause for concern. In fact, he was almost too serious for such a young man. Leo’s heart clenched. Was it because his children had lost their mother so early in life that he worried so about them? An unusual feeling stirred, deep in his gut.

Fear. No, not fear. Vulnerability. That was it. He didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. How he wished he could keep them all—particularly Olivia—shut away safely at Cheriton Abbey for the rest of their lives, even though the Abbey hadn’t proved a place of safety for Margaret, who had been violated and strangled in a summerhouse. The impossibility of completely controlling his family’s surroundings was a constant worry. Leaving London to come to Halsdon Manor—against his natural instincts to stay put and to protect—was how he proved to himself he would not succumb to this irrational fear.

Uncomfortable with such feelings and thoughts, he thrust them aside.

‘Come, let us catch up with the others,’ he said and nudged Conqueror into a trot.

They soon caught up with Richard, Lord Stanton, walking his horse on a loose rein, a preoccupied look on his face. A look, Leo guessed, that had everything to do with his new wife, Felicity—Leo’s cousin and former ward.

‘Where’s our esteemed host?’ Vernon asked.

‘Rode on ahead,’ Stanton said, with a curl of his lip. ‘That poor animal of his won’t last another year if he carries on riding him so hard. He can’t even be bothered to walk him home to cool him off gradually. Mind you...’ he slanted a look at Leo ‘...it’ll give him a chance to get that temper of his under control before you two meet again.’

Leo shrugged. ‘Anthony always had a nasty streak and it seems he hasn’t improved since he’s been away, not if that little interlude is anything to go by.’ His cousin had spent several years in the Americas, returning to England only a few months previously. ‘I suspected this trip was a bad idea, but I thought I owed him the benefit of the doubt when he invited me.’

Plus—although he would not admit it to the other men—he was a little relieved to leave London behind for a while. He could not bear yet another simpering young miss being thrust in front of his nose by ambitious parents keen to ally themselves with the house of Beauchamp. He did not want, or need, another wife. His first marriage had cured him of any desire to wed again.

‘You owe him nothing, Leo,’ Vernon said. ‘It’s hardly your fault Uncle Claude refused to marry his mother.’

‘But if he had married her, Lascelles would be the Duke now.’

‘He was right not to marry her,’ Stanton said. ‘An actress and a whore for a duchess? And can you imagine a man like Lascelles with that amount of power and wealth?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking of.’

‘We can always go home earlier than planned if Anthony becomes too obnoxious,’ Vernon said. ‘There’ll be nothing else to keep us here once Stan’s had a look at those ponies for Felicity.’

Leo grunted in agreement as they rode through the gates of Halsdon Manor.

Stanton had been searching for a pair of ponies suitable for Felicity to drive and Lascelles knew of a suitable pair for sale by his neighbour, Sir William Rockbeare, a renowned horse breeder and trainer, prompting Stanton to join the hunting party. Unfortunately, on their arrival two days before, they had learned Sir William was away from home and not expected to return for almost a week.

Nothing else to keep us here...

The memory surfaced of the woman, stick in hand, facing up to Lascelles. Leo found himself hoping that there was indeed a Mr Pryce. There was no sense in getting entangled in anything unnecessarily. No sense at all.

* * *

‘You were gone a long time, Ros. Did Hector run you ragged?’

Rosalind hooked her shawl over a peg by the back door and smiled at Freddie, who was scratching Hector’s shaggy ears.

‘He tried to,’ she said. ‘Then, on the way back, the sheep were out in the lane again and it took an age to put them back into the field.’

She thrust the encounter with the gentlemen from Halsdon Manor to the back of her mind, determined not to trouble Freddie with what had happened. It would only worry him to no purpose, for there was nothing he could do. Hopefully Lascelles would remain occupied with his guests and then the Season would start, the hunting party would return to London to continue their lives of idle pleasure and Lascelles would forget all about their meeting.

‘I hope Sir William appreciates you keeping his sheep safe.’ Freddie lurched awkwardly down the passage, leaning heavily on his crutch, and disappeared through the door leading to the main rooms of their temporary home.

Rosalind followed her younger brother to the front parlour, where a welcoming fire flickered, lending a homely charm to the shabby room. It could not match Lydney Hall for comfort and space, but at least it was somewhere to call home.

‘It’s the least I can do when he refuses to accept any rent for this place,’ she said. ‘I do not know what we would have done had he not offered us sanctuary.’

Sir William Rockbeare was an old friend of their late stepfather—the Earl of Lydney—and it was to him they appealed for help when forced to flee Lydney Hall two weeks before, together with their stepsister, Nell, Lady Helena Caldicot. Thankfully their young stepbrother, Jack, the new Lord Lydney, was safely at school. Rosalind was still petrified Sir Peter would discover Nell’s whereabouts before she made her come-out.

Would he...could he...force Nell to marry that awful toad, Viscount Bulbridge, to whom—Freddie had discovered—Sir Peter was deep in debt? When Sir Peter had bartered Nell’s dowry against those debts without a care for the future happiness of his niece, Rosalind had seen no other option but to remove her from his control immediately. She had written to Step-Papa’s eldest sister, Lady Glenlochrie, to beg her to come down from her home in Scotland to take Nell under her protection and present her to society. And now Nell was safely in London and Rosalind and Freddie were here—for the time being at least. What a messy situation it was to be in...and how precarious.

Freddie had turned at her words, and, as he did so, he stumbled. Rosalind darted forward and clutched his arm to prevent him falling.

He shook her away. ‘I can manage.’

Rosalind bit her lip. Would she never learn? But she could not help herself: with Freddie, her instinct always was to help and to protect, as she had done his entire life. ‘I am sorry.’

As usual, when his lameness was mentioned, even obliquely, Freddie ignored it. He returned to their previous conversation as he lowered himself on to a chair.

‘We would have coped. Jack is safe at school and we could have continued straight to Lady Glenlochrie in Scotland, if necessary. Sir Peter will not dare to flout her: she might be widowed, but she still has influence. And as for you and me, my dear Ros...as usual, we are of no interest to anyone. That is one benefit of being the product of such a shocking mésalliance,’ he added, with a wry smile.

After Papa and Mama had eloped, Mama’s father—Lord Humphrey Hillyer, youngest son of the Duke of Bacton—had disowned her, refusing to relent even after Papa was killed in the same carriage accident that had maimed one-year-old Freddie for life. Rosalind’s hand crept to her locket, her throat aching with the memory.

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The only benefit, as far as I can see.’

Freddie shot her a sharp look and she cursed her loose tongue. Five years older than her brother, Rosalind had always shielded Freddie from the truth of their parents’ marriage, with its vicious quarrels and their mother’s frequent tears. The last memory Rosalind had of their mother and father together had been of their bitter argument as they travelled home from a visit to Grandpa, a visit her mother had hated.

Her sixth birthday. The day her darling papa was killed.

Her mother had bloomed after Papa’s death. Confused and distraught, Rosalind had mourned alone. She had lost Grandpa, too, that day. She had no idea if he was even alive still...no idea how or where she might find him. Mama had made certain of that.

‘Are you envious that Nell will have the opportunity denied to you?’ Freddie watched her intently.

‘No, I am not, if by opportunity you mean marriage to a gentleman of the ton.’ She could think of nothing more likely to bring her misery. ‘Besides, the opportunity was not denied me, Freddie. Step-Papa offered me a Season when I was nineteen, with the idea of finding a husband, but I declined. And I am happy I did so.’

Or I might have ended up with an unequal union such as Mama and Papa’s.

Love had not been enough for her mother. Papa had tried to keep her content and happy, but Mama had hankered after luxuries poor Papa could not afford. Mama’s second marriage, to the Earl of Lydney, had been much happier than her first and that, to Rosalind’s mind, proved that no good comes of marrying outside one’s own class.

The late Lord Lydney had been a generous and loving stepfather and, when Mama died of influenza, he had continued to support Rosalind and Freddie as if they were his own children, even though their maternal relatives continued to disown them. When his second wife had died after giving birth to Jack, Rosalind, then sixteen, became a replacement mother to Freddie, eleven, Nell, four, and baby Jack and, three years later, when presented with the chance of a Season in London in order to find a husband, she had opted to stay at home with her family. She had never regretted her choice. The thought of facing her maternal relatives and their censorious friends, with their contempt and their snubs, filled her with dread even now.

The poor relations. The nobodies. The spinster and the cripple.

No, she held no envy in her heart for Nell and her forthcoming debut into polite society.

‘Well, with any luck,’ Freddie said, ‘Nell will find herself a husband during the Season and he will keep her safe.’

‘I do hope so.’ Rosalind sank on to the sofa with a sigh. ‘I cannot be easy that we have left Sir Peter in sole occupation of Lydney, Freddie. Heaven knows what havoc he will wreak. If only Step-Papa had realised the danger of him being appointed guardian, I am sure he would have altered his will as soon as his brother died.’

Her fingers were twisting together in her lap and she forced her hands to lie still. The weight of responsibility lay heavy upon her. Her stepfather would expect her to protect Jack’s inheritance, but although she and Freddie had both tried to stand up to Sir Peter, in the end they’d had to admit defeat.

‘We couldn’t have stayed there, Ros,’ Freddie said. ‘We were right to leave. If we had not, poor Nell would be married off to Bulbridge by now. But I agree. If Tadlow is left on a free rein, Jack won’t have much of an estate to take over when he reaches his majority.’

Rosalind silently cursed their lack of power. ‘Maybe I should ask Sir William’s advice on it all?’

She had been reluctant to burden their benefactor with more of their troubles. They did not know him well, though he had been a lifelong friend of the late Earl.

‘I will consult him as soon as he returns from his visit to his daughter,’ Freddie said.

Sir William had left Foxbourne the day after their arrival, on a long-planned visit to his widowed daughter and his grandchildren, who lived in the north.

Freddie’s quiet statement penetrated Rosalind’s thoughts. ‘You need not bother yourself, Freddie. I will deal with it.’

Freddie had his sketching, his insatiable appetite for books and his interest in politics to occupy him. She did not want him troubled. He had enough to contend with and the mockery he’d endured from Sir Peter and his friends had only increased Rosalind’s determination to protect him from the harshness of life.

She stood up. ‘I will go and ask Penny to make some tea.’ She caught sight of Freddie’s scowl, prompting her to add, ‘Unless you would prefer something stronger?’

‘No. Tea is fine.’

Rosalind was distracted by the door opening before she could question his brusqueness.

‘Oh, how lovely. Thank you, Penny. I was about to come and request tea. You have saved me the bother.’

Penny—who had been Freddie’s nursemaid and had agreed to accompany them to Buckinghamshire to keep house—smiled as she placed the tray on a table. ‘Shall I pour, ma’am?’

‘No. I shall do it.’

By the time she handed a cup and saucer to Freddie, and sat down with her own cup, Freddie had resumed his customary expression of good humour. When they had drunk their tea, Rosalind worked on her embroidery whilst Freddie picked up his book and opened it.

As Rosalind set her stitches, she tried to ignore the slow, uneasy coil of her stomach. That anxiety had been present ever since they had arrived at Stoney End, but today there was a different edge to it. A foreboding. Was it because Nell had gone to London, leaving the future for herself and Freddie even more uncertain? She would love nothing more than to go home to Lydney Hall and to live out her days there in obscurity, but would that be possible with Sir Peter in residence? Surely not.

Or was it that meeting with Lascelles that had increased her apprehension?

Leo’s face materialised in her mind’s eye—handsome, strong, assured—and a very different feeling stirred...tension of a sort she had never experienced before today, as though something deep within her had recognised him and now stretched out...seeking...yearning.

Humph!

‘Is there anything amiss, Ros?’

Startled, she looked up to find Freddie regarding her with raised brows. Her cheeks heated, realising she had allowed her snort of exasperation to sound aloud.

‘I am quite all right, thank you.’

Rosalind bent her head to her embroidery once more, pushing all thought of Leo’s lean face and silver grey, penetrating eyes from her thoughts. He might be the most attractive man she had ever met, but he demonstrated a remarkably poor choice of friends and, worse, he was obviously a member of the conceited and condescending world of the haut ton. The world she detested.


Chapter Three (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

Three days later, Leo strode into the local village of Malton, leading one of Lascelles’s hunters, a fine gelding, his coat as black as Leo’s mood. The horse—recommended to him particularly by Lascelles—had thrown a shoe within half an hour of the hunt starting and a swift examination of the animal’s remaining shoes had revealed their sorry states. Leo cursed himself for not examining the horse more thoroughly before they left Halsdon Manor. His cousin was doing a fine job of pushing Leo’s temper to the limit, the bad blood between the two smouldering beneath the surface urbanity.

This trip to Buckinghamshire had been a mistake. The days were just about acceptable, with outdoor pastimes to occupy them, but the evenings were a trial, the atmosphere fraught. More than once Leo had been within ames ace of leaving and returning to town, but Stanton had arranged to view those ponies the day after tomorrow, and Leo was damned if he would give Lascelles the satisfaction of believing he had driven him away. No. He would stay put and return to London with Vernon and Stanton in a week’s time as previously arranged.

Disinclined to wait for a fresh horse to be sent from Halsdon, Leo had instead elected to lead Saga the mile and a half to Malton for reshoeing, savouring the solitude. It was a bright morning, with frost still lingering in pockets where the sun had yet to reach and a chilly breeze. As he waited in the February sunshine, Leo felt his irritation dissipate as he watched life in the quiet village of Malton unfold before him. The farrier—Benson by name—chattered nonstop as he worked, calling out greetings to passers-by, regaling Leo with their life histories once they were out of earshot. During a lull in the man’s discourse, Leo’s attention was drawn by a light grey Arabian, complete with side-saddle, tethered a hundred yards or so down the street. The horse had exceptional conformation and a flowing snowy-white mane and tail.

‘That is a spectacular animal,’ he said, thinking how much Olivia would love the Arabian.

Benson peered along the street before fixing his attention once more on Saga’s off fore. ‘Ah, yes, a fine beast, sir, a fine beast indeed.’ He placed the red-hot horseshoe on the animal’s hoof, removed it and deftly pared the scorched areas level before nailing the shoe in place. ‘’E belongs to Mrs Pryce, so he does. Poor young lady. A widder, sir, so they say.’

Mrs Pryce? Leo kept an eye on the horse and, before long, a figure dressed in a peacock-blue riding habit and matching hat emerged from a nearby doorway, followed by a man who laced his fingers for Mrs Pryce to step on to in order to mount the Arabian. If Benson had not already identified her, Leo would never have recognised her. She looked very different to the shabbily clad woman of a few days before.

A widow. Anticipation rushed through his veins, stirring his blood...except...so they say? Gossip and conjecture, not fact.

‘Has she not long lived here?’

‘Only a couple of weeks, sir. She rides in most days to fetch a newspaper and the post, but the others keep themselves to themselves, they do. Living out at Stoney End, they are. That’s a house on the Foxbourne estate, sir, seeing as you’s a stranger yourself to these parts.’

Foxbourne. That was Rockbeare’s place, where they were due to go on Thursday to inspect that driving pair for Stanton.

‘They?’

‘She lives with her brother and sister, sir. Or so I’m told—no one’s seen a hair of their heads since they moved in.’ Benson filed the wall of Saga’s hoof, sweat dripping from the end of his nose. ‘There.’ He put the horse’s foot down, and straightened his back, wiping his forehead with one sweep of his beefy forearm. ‘All done.’

The Arabian stepped daintily down the street in their direction and Leo retreated into the gloom at the rear of the forge as Benson raised his voice in greeting. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Pryce, a fine day it is, is it not?’

Mrs Pryce responded to Benson with a stunning smile that slammed into Leo with the force of a kick from a horse.

‘Good morning, Mr Benson.’

She cut a graceful figure, her skirts draping elegantly to conceal her legs and feet. Her appearance and manner proclaimed her a lady—unlike her former attire—but she did not move in Leo’s circles. He would not have overlooked such a female, with her clear, direct gaze and her full soft lips. His body responded to the memory of the provocative sway of those rounded hips with the spontaneity of a youth. It was too long since he’d had a woman. A dalliance with a comely widow might be just the remedy for his boredom and help lessen his exasperation with Lascelles.

Mrs Pryce disappeared from view, and Leo swung up on to Saga and set off in pursuit. Her reaction the other day suggested she might not welcome his company, but he enjoyed a challenge. He recalled his cousin’s words with a twist of disgust. Most definitely not the kind of challenge Lascelles had hinted at. Vernon had been right—Leo could not stomach any kind of coercion, but neither did he particularly relish bedding the readily available widows he came across in society. They had no interest in him as a man. As a person. Their avaricious eyes fixed on his title and his wealth and rendered them oblivious to all else.

Mrs Pryce presented a rare opportunity. The true identities of the guests at Halsdon Manor had been concealed in an attempt to keep the matchmaking mamas of the county set at bay and Leo was visiting as Mr Boyton, Viscount Boyton being one of his many minor titles. Most parents of marriageable-age daughters were unable to resist the lure of an unmarried duke in their midst and it was easier not to receive invitations to hastily planned balls and parties than to offend the local gentry with refusals. So Mrs Pryce would have no idea of his true identity.

He could play a part.

Leo Boyton the man—not the Duke with a vast fortune and extensive estates to gild his appeal.

Saga’s ground-eating trot carried them around a blind bend, beyond which was a river spanned by a bridge. Leo was so deep in conjecture he failed to notice the Arabian had halted as, in the absence of any contrary instructions from his rider, Saga trotted on until they were almost upon the smaller animal. The Arabian let out a shrill neigh and, half-rearing, plunged away from the oncoming threat, causing its rider to lurch violently to one side. As Mrs Pryce scrabbled to gather the reins, a sheet of paper flew from her hands, helped on its way by the breeze. Her hat tilted and slid from the crown of her head, carried on a heavy fall of soft golden-brown waves that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. The hat, with its white feather, came to rest at a lopsided angle at her nape, seemingly hanging by a single pin.

‘Oh!’

That breathy half-squeak triggered a visceral reaction deep inside Leo, setting his pulse pounding. He watched in admiration as Mrs Pryce expertly brought the skittish Arabian back under control. She stared at Leo for several seconds, her eyes wide, then her brows snapped together and she turned her horse, urging him towards the bridge. Before they reached it, however, she halted again, wildly scanning the surrounding area.

‘No!’

She lifted her right leg clear of the pommel and slid to the ground, revealing a glimpse of slim calf as her skirts rode up.

‘Stand, Kamal.’

She hoisted up her skirts and ran to snatch up the letter the breeze had deposited on the riverbank, where she teetered for a few seconds before regaining her balance. Her back to Leo, she straightened her shoulders and shook out the skirt of her riding habit. She then attempted to bring some order to her hair as it wafted around her head in the breeze, but in doing so she dislodged her hat. It whirled into the air, raised on a sudden gust that promptly dropped it straight into the river.

‘Oh!’ Mrs Pryce bent to gather the draping skirt of her habit again and then hesitated on the bank, one foot raised. She stamped her foot back to the ground, dropped her skirts and whirled to face Leo, narrowed eyes shooting sparks. ‘Now look what has happened. That...’ she waved towards the hat, floating off downstream ‘...was my favourite hat.’

She was all womanly wrath, full breasts heaving.

She is magnificent.

Leo tore his attention from her, leapt from Saga’s back and ran along the bank until he was level with the blue hat, whirling in the current, feather fluttering. A nearby sapling grew close enough to the water’s edge to provide an anchor so Leo removed his own hat, locked one arm around its trunk and leaned over the water, stretching towards the hat with his hunting crop.

There. Almost. He snagged the hat, pulling it close to the bank, then released the trunk and stepped forward to fish it from the river. He registered the subtle shift of soil beneath his foot too late. Before he could retreat, the bank gave way and his right leg plunged knee-deep into the bone-chilling water of the river.

‘Hell and damnation!’

He grabbed the hat, dropping his crop in the process, and hauled himself back on to the bank. Thank God it was just the one foot. He looked back at the river, hoping to retrieve his crop, but it was already several feet away, spinning in an eddy.

A splutter assaulted his ears and he turned slowly. She must have followed him, for she was closer than he expected, her full lips pursed tight, her eyes dancing. Leo straightened to his full height. How dare she laugh at him? He had done her a favour by rescuing her hat...was it too much to expect a little gratitude...concern even? He’d wager she would soon sober up if she knew his identity.

Coming the Duke again, Your Grace? Vernon’s jibe—thrown at Leo whenever he was in danger of becoming pompous—whispered in his brain. What was the point in travelling as Mr Boyton if he flaunted his title the minute he was treated with less than due deference?

‘Oh, dear.’

Mrs Pryce’s gaze locked on Leo’s boot, which squelched as he walked towards her. Her brows shot up, her lips quivered and another laugh gurgled forth. Leo’s irritation melted away as his own lips twitched in response.

He stopped in front of her and bowed. ‘Your hat, Mrs Pryce.’

He proffered the hat and she took it, holding it away from her as it dripped. She smiled up at Leo, a dimple denting one cheek, her eyes—a beautiful golden-brown, exactly the same shade as her hair—sparkling.

‘I thank you, sir. That was most...er...chivalrous. But I am afraid you have the advantage of me, for I do not know your name.’

‘Boyton, ma’am. Leo Boyton, at your service.’

Her expression clouded. ‘At your service...’ Her voice dripped scorn.

She spun on her heel and marched towards where their horses now cropped the grass side by side. Halfway across the intervening gap, she stopped and whirled around to face Leo. ‘Do not imagine I am not grateful, Mr Boyton, but I cannot be easy here with you, in view of the company you keep. Your choice of friend, sir, does you no favours.’

Friend? Leo followed Mrs Pryce who, having reached the grey, now hesitated. She bent her head, looking down for a second or two, then sucked in a deep breath, her shoulders lifting as her lungs filled.

‘Would you be so good as to assist me, sir?’ The words sounded as though they were forced between gritted teeth.

Leo grinned, safe in the knowledge she could not see. ‘Of course...but...first, allow me to defend myself.’

She turned, her narrowed gaze that of a lioness about to pounce. ‘I am pleased you find my predicament so amusing.’

Leo sobered. How could she tell, from those few words he had uttered?

She crossed her arms. ‘Pray, continue.’

‘You claim, justifiably, that my choice of friend does me no favours, but will you so readily condemn a man for his family, over whom he has no choice?’

‘Family? You are related to my neighbour?’

‘Yes. We are cousins. We are not close, however.’

A wry smile curved her lips. ‘I, of all people, cannot judge you by your relations. As you say, one has no choice to whom one is related. But, nevertheless, you have chosen to accept your cousin’s hospitality.’

‘That is true. My cousin has lived in the Americas for many years. He returned to England only a few months ago and invited my brother and me to enjoy a few days’ hunting. It seemed churlish to refuse.’

‘And your other friend? Mr Stanton?’

‘He is searching for a safe pair of ponies for his new wife to drive and there is a pair for sale locally.’

‘I see.’

‘And what of your family?’ he asked. ‘It sounded as though you also have relatives you do not care for.’

‘My immediate family is delightful.’

‘So you do admit to some less than agreeable kin?’

‘One or two.’

She half-turned from him, towards Kamal, then glanced over her shoulder and raised a brow. He ignored her silent command and indicated the letter she held.

‘Is that letter from one of them?’

The paper crackled as her fingers flexed.

‘Not from one of the less than agreeable members or I should have happily relinquished it to the river and we...’ she faced him again ‘...would not be having this conversation.’ Her gaze travelled—lingeringly—down the length of his body, leaving a fiery trail of desire in its wake. It came to rest on his boot. ‘Should you not remove your boot to drain the water from it?’

His foot and lower leg were numb with cold and he would dearly love to do as she suggested, but...

‘I fear I would struggle to remove it without help. Unless, of course, you care to offer your assistance?’

Her brows rose, as did her gaze, which locked with his. ‘That would hardly be appropriate, sir. Why, I hardly know you.’

‘That can soon be remedied.’

He stepped closer, effectively trapping her between his body and that of her horse. A faint gasp—intrinsically feminine—whispered past his ears and his heart responded with a lurch and a yearning he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. He studied her: her fine, creamy skin, the peachy blush of her cheeks and her straight yet delicate nose, the lush pink lips, the fine golden-brown threads of her brows. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, gleamed as they held his gaze. There was curiosity in their depths. No hint of fear or apprehension.

Leo stripped off his glove and touched his fingertips to her jaw. Her skin was silky-smooth, soft and warm. The scent of jasmine and warm woman weaved through his senses and blood surged to his loins. Then, on a swiftly indrawn breath, she looked down and away.

Leo stepped back and her lids flew open. Her gaze sought his again, questioning, and he smiled reassuringly. There was no hurry. She might be a widow, but he had no intention of rushing her. Over the years, he had found the preliminaries—the intricate dance and the anticipation—almost as enjoyable as the act itself. Delay only served to enhance the pleasure.

There was only ever one first moment of recognition.

Only one first kiss.

Only one first time to lie together.

They were times to savour.

He slid his hands either side of her ribcage, then smoothed his palms down her sides to the indent of her waist. He tightened his grip and lifted her, the narrowness of her waist and the womanly flare of her hips imprinting in his memory as he raised her to the saddle. She hooked her leg around the pommel, settled her skirts, placed her sodden hat upon the Arabian’s withers and finally tucked her letter inside her bodice. She cast him an unfathomable look, then nudged Kamal towards the bridge. Before they had taken a dozen paces, however, she halted him and reined him around.

‘My home is not far, Mr Boyton. Would you care to come with me and dry your foot? You must be frozen and I should hate for you to catch a chill after so gallantly rescuing my hat.’

Her smile radiated, feeding his lust, but he was conscious of a ripple of disappointment that she had cut short the fun of flirtation. Still...mentally, he shrugged. He wouldn’t refuse her. She was a lovely woman and it appeared she was willing.

‘Thank you. That would be most welcome.’


Chapter Four (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

Rosalind watched Mr Boyton mount his black gelding. The flex of his shoulders within the fine cut of his hunting jacket and the bunch and flex of his thigh muscles as they propelled him into the saddle made her mouth go dry. She could still feel the secure grip of his fingers at her waist, the effortless power with which he’d lifted her on to Kamal’s back, his gentle fingertips along her jaw, the intensity of that silver gaze as it penetrated deep into her soul.

He had been going to kiss her.

She had almost allowed it.

She had wanted him to kiss her.

Strange sensations swirled deep inside, the same sensations as before but stronger, more intense. Nervy, intoxicating waves that washed through her—promising, enticing, persuasive—feeding her regret that she had stopped him and feeding her regret that she had never experienced a kiss.

And now she wondered—how would it feel? To feel a man’s lips on hers? No. Not any man. This man. To feel his lips upon hers?

She swallowed, suddenly unsure. Why had she issued that invitation? She had ridden away. She had intended to keep going. He would not be in the area long and prudence dictated she should avoid him, but with every step Kamal had taken the stronger the urge had become to snatch more time with him whilst she might. That urge had swelled until it was near undeniable.

Flustered, she turned Kamal once more for home. Even though Leo was behind her and out of her sight, every tingling inch of her skin was aware of his presence. The black hunter soon ranged alongside Kamal and Rosalind peeked sideways at its tall, straight-backed rider. Above all else, she sensed she must conceal the confusion he aroused within her. She would not relinquish all control of this—whatever this might be—to a man who was clearly used to authority. She cast around for a neutral topic—anything that would prevent him studying her too closely.

‘I am surprised you are not hunting today, sir. It is the perfect weather for it, is it not?’

‘It is and I was with the hunt, until Saga here threw a shoe,’ Leo replied.

He removed one glove and slowly smoothed the horse’s neck with his bare hand as he spoke. Rosalind followed his movement, gooseflesh erupting across her back and down her arms, as though it were her skin he stroked. Her pulse quickened and her lips tingled. She risked a quick glance at her companion’s face. She caught the gleam in his eyes, and guessed his action had been deliberate...designed to provoke such a reaction.

Take care. Compared with him you are as unknowing and as inexperienced as Nell.

The thought of her sister steadied her.

I might be inexperienced in matters of the flesh...and of the heart...but I am no green girl.

Unconsciously, she raised her chin and, from the corner of her eye, she saw Leo’s lips twitch again. After a couple of beats of silence, he continued.

‘I elected to walk him to the farrier in the village rather than send to the Manor for a replacement.’

Rosalind studied the lane ahead of them, determined to give him no further opportunity to distract her. ‘I, too, was in the village earlier. I recall seeing a black horse in Mr Benson’s forge as I passed. That must have been you.’

He glanced down at himself, then at Rosalind, his lips curving. ‘Not me precisely,’ he said. ‘The last time I looked, I was not a black horse.’

Rosalind bit her lip against the urge to giggle. ‘My apologies, sir. I shall endeavour to select my vocabulary with more care in future.’

He grinned. ‘I find it does help to prevent misunderstandings. That is a remarkably fine animal you have there, Mrs Pryce.’

‘Thank you. He is beautiful, is he not?’ Rosalind patted Kamal with pride and affection. ‘He was a gift from my father.’

He had actually been a gift from her stepfather, but the less anyone knew of her connection to the late Earl of Lydney the better. It could only harm Nell’s reputation if it became known that she had not moved straight from her guardian’s protection to that of her aunt.

‘I assumed he must be a gift from your late husband,’ Leo said.

‘No.’ The less she said about her fictional dead spouse the better.

‘Have you been a widow for long?’

Rosalind shot a swift sideways glance at Leo before answering. ‘I would prefer not to talk of it.’

‘You are not in mourning, I see.’

She tweaked the peacock-blue skirt of her riding habit. ‘You are correct.’

She was uneasily aware that Leo was studying her closely. She kept her attention firmly on the lane ahead.

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘We moved here two weeks ago.’

‘We?’

‘My brother and I.’

‘Just the two of you, then?’

‘Yes.’

Thankfully, Leo fell silent. A sideways glance revealed a thoughtful expression. His questions... Rosalind’s nerves jangled. Why had she invited him back to Stoney End? For the sake of a wave of longing that had temporarily robbed her of her wits? None of the gentlemen at Halsdon Manor must connect her and Freddie with Jack Caldicot, the new Earl of Lydney and, through him, with Lady Helena Caldicot, on the brink of making her debut in society. Who knew what lords and knights and so forth Leo was acquainted with? Without doubt he must know Sir Peter. All these society people knew each other, or knew of each other.

Donning the mantle of a widow had seemed a sensible precaution when they fled Lydney Hall, in fear of pursuit from Sir Peter and Lord Bulbridge and, for the same reason, both Nell and Freddie had stayed hidden at Stoney End. They were far more memorable than Rosalind, with Freddie’s lameness and Nell’s silver-blonde beauty. One careless word and all their plans could come to naught. If it became known Rosalind had taken Nell from her legal guardian’s care to live here under assumed identities—even for so short a time as two weeks—it would surely create a scandal, which could ruin Nell’s chances of making the splendid match she deserved.

At last, the chimneys of Stoney End came into sight. Rosalind led the way into the stable behind the house.

‘You can tether Saga in there.’ She pointed to an empty stall. ‘There is an old blanket at the back, to stop him catching a chill.’

Leo loosened Saga’s girth as Rosalind led Kamal into his stall and started to unsaddle him.

‘Where is your groom?’

‘We do not have a groom at present, but a lad from Foxbourne Manor comes in twice a day to help.’

Before she knew it, Leo was inside Kamal’s stall, setting her nerves tingling again as he brushed past her to take over the unsaddling.

‘I can manage.’

‘I make no doubt you can, but a lady should not have to do this sort of work,’ Leo said, removing the saddle and starting on Kamal’s bridle. ‘Could your brother not take over during the absence of your groom?’

‘No. Freddie is... He is not strong.’

She moved back to give Leo space, still jittery over her reaction to his touch.

‘Does he not ride?’

‘Not at present. He took a fall shortly before we came here and he has not ridden since.’

Yet another thing she could thank Sir Peter for...him and his cronies...mocking poor Freddie and deliberately spooking his horse until it bolted in sheer terror. Pure rage at that memory burned in Rosalind’s heart. She hated that Sir Peter had won...had driven them from their home... She had failed to protect Freddie, deserted their loyal servants, abandoned Jack’s inheritance. But at least she had protected Nell from marriage to that lecher Bulbridge. Her come-out had been all planned for last year, before Step-Papa became ill. Surely Sir Peter could not object to Nell coming out with her aunt as chaperon?

Rosalind gradually became conscious of stillness and silence, and refocussed on the present to find Leo standing in front of her, Kamal’s bridle and saddle in his arms. He was studying her face and she quickly schooled her expression.

‘The harness room is at the back,’ she said, pointing.

‘So you only have Kamal to care for?’ Leo spoke over his shoulder as he went to the saddle room.

‘Yes.’

Rosalind turned to leave, but Leo lingered, gazing around at the empty stalls.

‘No carriage horses? No vehicle of any kind?’

‘Not at present.’

The Lydney carriage and horses were now at Nell’s disposal in London. She sensed Leo’s attention on her.

‘Come.’ She gestured to the stable door, eager to forestall more questions. ‘Let us go indoors and dry your boot.’

She felt him on her heels as she crossed the yard towards the back door. ‘I hope you will not object to entering the house this way?’

‘Not at all. Before we go in, however...’

Hard fingers gripped her upper arm, pulling her around to face him. Rosalind’s breath grew short as Leo gazed down at her and her cheeks heated. She swallowed and tentatively tugged her arm from his grasp. He released her immediately, but she remained pinned in place by the command of those silver-grey eyes. Up close, she could see the shadow of dark whiskers on his jaw and cheek. It gave him a dangerous, almost piratical, air and yet her fingers twitched with the urge to feel their rasp.

Leo touched the tip of her nose—gently, fleetingly—with his forefinger.

‘What is your name?’

His voice was low. Husky. Rosalind caught the faint scent of cologne—musky, with a trace of orange and cinnamon—beneath the smell of fresh air, horse and leather. Her insides swooped like a swallow in flight and her breathing hitched.

‘Rosalind.’ It emerged as a croak. She frowned, cleared her throat and spoke with more force. ‘Rosalind.’

‘Rosalind...’ The mellifluous way he rolled the syllables of her name created shivery waves over her body. ‘It is a beautiful name.’

His eyes darkened and Rosalind felt another quiver run through her, as though he had gently tugged on an invisible cord attached deep within her core. It was as though she were a musical instrument and a mere look, or the sound of his voice, could tease a tune from her body as surely as a harp would respond to the plucking of a string.

This will not do. This is dangerous.

The thought that she was out of her depth swam through her thoughts. She squared her shoulders, spun on her heel and marched over to the back door. She would dry off his boot and then send him on his way.

Her steps faltered. Was that a chuckle? Arrogant rogue. Exasperation flamed at her involuntary responses to him and her inability to hide them. More than ever she wished she had left him standing by the bridge, wet foot or no wet foot.

‘Penny,’ she called as soon as she set foot over the threshold. ‘Penny, where are you?’

He was right behind her. She could feel him. She cast her still-wet hat on to the kitchen table and then crossed to the fireplace, where a lazily steaming kettle hung to one side. She swung it over the centre of the fire and bent to grab the poker to stir up the coals, conscious the entire time of his eyes upon her. Where was Penny when she had need of her?

‘Take a seat, sir.’ Rosalind indicated the Windsor chair set to one side of the hearth, keeping her attention on the fire. ‘I will help you—’

The door flew open, interrupting her, and she glanced round as Freddie came in, Hector at his heels.

‘Ros, have you seen my—’ Freddie fell silent. His brows lowered. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’


Chapter Five (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

Roused from his appreciation of Rosalind’s beautifully rounded derrière, Leo twisted to find a scowling young man of slender build standing in the kitchen doorway. There was enough resemblance to Rosalind for him to guess this must be Freddie. The swish of fabric and her jasmine scent told him Rosalind now stood next to him. The dog he had seen the other day in the lane padded around the table. He appeared not to share Freddie’s misgivings, for he swaggered over and thrust his wet nose into Leo’s hand.

‘Freddie! That is no way to speak to a guest.’

‘And I,’ said Leo, scratching behind Hector’s ear and curbing his instinct to slap down the young man’s presumption, ‘cannot imagine what I have done to arouse such...er...vitriol.’

Freddie’s scowl lifted, but only slightly. He moved away from the door, rounding the table awkwardly, supported by a crutch jammed into his right armpit. Was that the result of the tumble from his horse Rosalind had mentioned?

‘My apologies,’ Freddie said as he approached Leo. ‘For a moment, I thought...that is, you have the look of our new neighbour, Mr Lascelles, but I see now you are not him.’

A gasp, quickly stifled, whispered past Leo’s ear and he sensed the woman by his side stiffen. She was right to be wary of his cousin.

Leo smiled at Freddie. ‘Ah...in that case, I shall excuse your caustic welcome. I am Boyton. Cousin to your new neighbour, although I hope you will not hold that against me.’

‘I shall endeavour not to do so.’ A fleeting smile crossed Freddie’s face. ‘We all have family connections we should prefer to forget.’

Almost the exact same words his sister had used. Leo tucked that knowledge away for the future. They shook hands.

‘Allen. Frederick Allen.’ The younger man’s cheeks flushed. ‘Of sound mind, if not body.’

‘Fr-e-e-ddie...’

Rosalind’s protestation suggested this was not the first time her brother had used self-mockery in such a defensive way. A mixture of hurt and anger flashed across Freddie’s face. Sympathy for the young man bloomed as Leo concluded Freddie’s impairment was of longer standing than the recent fall of which Rosalind had spoken. At close quarters the lines of stress on Freddie’s face were visible. They made it hard to guess his age, but Leo would lay odds he was younger than his sister.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Allen,’ he said, ‘and I apologise for this intrusion, but my boot is full of river water and your sister kindly offered me the opportunity to dry off.’

Freddie’s brows rose. ‘River water?’ He surveyed Leo’s buckskin breeches, one knee of which was noticeably wet. ‘Dare I ask what you were doing in the river? It is hardly the weather for paddling.’

‘Mr Boyton very kindly rescued my hat.’

‘That is a great deal of kindness for one day,’ Freddie observed. ‘And your hat, dear sister? Might one enquire exactly how it ended up in the river?’

‘Never mind that, now, Freddie. Where is Penny? Mr Boyton needs help removing his boot.’

Rosalind’s brusque dismissal of her brother’s question again set Leo wondering at the relationship between brother and sister. He contemplated his own sons’ reactions if he should speak to them as though they were boys rather than the young men they now were, and he bit back a smile at the likely result. Alex, in particular, would take immediate affront.

‘She is not here. The cook at Foxbourne sent her a message inviting her to raid the herb garden and offering her surplus preserves from her larder. I do not believe I have ever seen her move with such speed. She could be heard muttering about rosemary and pickles as she bobbed up the path.’

Leo remained quiet, observing as brother and sister shared the joke. It was obvious they were close, despite Rosalind’s tendency to take the reins. Freddie appeared an easy-going young man who accepted her assumption of control rather than cause a fuss.

‘Oh...well...it appears I have no choice but to assist you myself, Mr Boyton.’

A blush tinted Rosalind’s cheeks. Was she, like him, remembering their earlier, similar conversation? At the memory of that almost kiss, blood pounded Leo’s veins, pooling in his groin. How long since his body had reacted with such unruly eagerness? She was so near, almost touching him, her scent weaving through his senses...the very air seemed to crackle between them. Freddie would have to be blind not to notice the frisson.

‘Perhaps your brother might help?’

Rosalind’s eyes brimmed with sympathy as she caught her brother’s eye. Freddie’s lips twisted and Leo cursed his own insensitivity.

‘Would that I could,’ he said, after a moment’s fraught silence, his tone suspiciously airy, ‘but with my appalling balance...or lack of it, I should say... I should end up on the floor.’

Rosalind again indicated the chair by the fire.

‘If you would care to sit, sir?’

A gentleman, surely, should at this point decline the offer and be on his way. But Leo was not ready to leave: he was intrigued by both Rosalind and Freddie. He sat.

‘Please raise your leg.’

She was close enough that her scent again wove its enchantment around him. He could hear her breathing, surely faster than it should be? She could not conceal her body’s reactions—she was as affected by their nearness as he. She moved to stand by his extended foot and grasped his boot at the ankle. Leo smiled at her fierce determination as she heaved until the boot came off with a slurp and a splatter of drops on to the flagstone floor. Rosalind looked up and their eyes met. She touched her upper lip with the tip of her tongue and he responded with a surge of lust so powerful he could barely stop himself from reaching for her there and then.

Her blush deepened and her lashes lowered.

‘There. Now, if you care to remove your stocking, sir, I shall hang it by the fire to dry.’

Leo did as he was bid. Freddie’s scowl had returned as he looked from Rosalind to Leo and back again.

‘Do you care to partake of some refreshments whilst your boot dries?’ Rosalind asked. ‘A cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger?’

‘Thank you. Tea would be splendid.’

‘I will fetch the tea caddy and brew the tea,’ Freddie said.

‘There is no need, I can do it.’

Again, Leo caught that flash of irritation from her brother as Rosalind hurried to a door at the other end of the kitchen and then emerged with a caddy and a teapot.

‘Would you show Mr Boyton to the sitting room, please, Freddie? I will bring the tray through when it is ready.’

‘Might I trouble you to remove my other boot, in that case, Mrs Pryce?’

About to add a jest about having to hobble to the sitting room, Leo caught his words, having no wish to add to Freddie’s discomfort and, again, his heart went out to him. How must it feel to a young man to be unable to do the things others took so much for granted?

‘I will find you a pair of slippers to prevent your feet becoming chilled.’ Freddie started towards the door.

Rosalind, who had positioned herself to tug at Leo’s other boot, almost snatched it from his foot. ‘I will do it, Freddie.’ She rushed across the room to forestall him. ‘There is no need for you to struggle up the stairs. If you show Mr Boyton to the sitting room, I will bring the slippers there.’

‘If you would care to follow me, sir?’

Freddie’s wooden expression and voice revealed his resignation. Could Rosalind not see how damaging her cossetting ways were to the young man’s self-esteem? Leo could not doubt it was kindly meant, but was she really so blinkered as not to recognise the effect upon her brother?

Freddie led the way to an over-furnished, old-fashioned sitting room and gestured to one of a pair of chairs by the fire before sitting on the other. Hector, who had followed them, flopped in front of the fire and stretched out on his side with a sigh.

‘You mistook me for my cousin before,’ Leo said, when Freddie seemed disinclined to begin a conversation. ‘I feel it incumbent upon me to apologise for the offence he caused.’

The preoccupied frown lifted from Freddie’s face and he grinned. ‘You do not doubt he caused offence then, sir?’

‘I do not. Quite apart from your reaction upon your first sight of me, I know my cousin and his...shall we say, quite unique way of endearing himself to others.’

The frown returned. ‘I cannot say I am overjoyed at the prospect of having Mr Lascelles as a neighbour.’

‘Was he intolerably rude?’

‘Not quite intolerably. I consider myself something of an expert in the art of exercising tolerance in the face of others’ unthinking comments.’ A smile lit Freddie’s countenance and then was gone. ‘Name-calling cannot, after all, hurt.’

Leo had never believed the truth of that statement. Name-calling, thoughtless comments, sly looks: they could hurt as much as physical pain.

‘I should have anticipated he would discover your sister’s whereabouts after our previous encounter.’

Freddie sat forward. ‘Previous encounter?’

So Rosalind had not told her brother, presumably protecting him.

‘Mrs Pryce did not mention our meeting the other day?’

‘No, she did not. Will you tell me what happened?’

Leo would not patronise the other man by shielding him from the truth. ‘My cousin was, I fear, quite objectionable to your sister. Although, to be fair, we all thought she was perhaps a farmer’s wife or daughter. She was rounding up sheep when we came upon her in the lane.’

‘Ah. Now, she did tell me about that.’

‘My cousin had ridden ahead of the rest of us—’

‘Rest of you? How many?’

‘Four in total. We are visiting for a couple of weeks. Next week we return to London.’

‘Lascelles, too?’

‘As far as I am aware...yes, Lascelles, too. It might set your mind at rest to know he is not a country lover. He purchased Halsdon Manor for its nearness to London, to enjoy the occasional hunting and shooting trip. He is unlikely to pay frequent visits.’

‘I doubt we shall be here much longer anyway,’ Freddie said. ‘What did he say to my sister, Mr Boyton?’

‘I did not hear his precise words, but suffice it to say that when we came upon the two of them your sister had raised a stick to my cousin and your dog appeared on the brink of attack.’

He should have found out exactly what had passed between them. Knowing Lascelles had taken the trouble to find out where Rosalind lived did not bode well. The past few days had revealed more of his cousin’s character than he would wish to know.

Freddie’s hands clenched into fists. ‘I should be able to protect her.’ The words sounded as though they were wrenched from him. ‘Rosalind has spent her life helping to raise us, but even though I am older than the others, it is I who will continue to be a burden upon her.’

The others? Who else was there? Where were they?

‘I am sure your sister does not view you as a burden.’

Freddie’s eyes glittered, and he blinked rapidly. ‘She is too selfless to think of me as such, but that does not stop me feeling useless.’

‘You mentioned others—have you more brothers or sisters?’

Rosalind had spoken only of Freddie, but Benson had mentioned another sister.

Unease flickered across Freddie’s face. ‘There are two others, but it is just me and Rosalind now.’

Leo did not pursue the subject. He had quite enough to ponder as it was.

* * *

‘Why did you not tell me you had already made the acquaintance of our new neighbour, Ros?’

Bother! Why did I not warn Leo not to mention our previous meeting?

Rosalind took her time before replying, putting the tea tray on the table and handing the slippers, which she had tucked beneath her arm, to Leo. He took them with a smile and a deep murmur of thanks that melted through her like butter on warm toast.

Only as she poured the tea did she say, ‘I did not wish to trouble you.’

As she handed Leo his cup and saucer, she could not miss the knot of muscles on either side of Freddie’s jaw.

‘It is not about troubling me, but about sharing your worries.’ His words rang with bitterness. ‘Can you not accept that I can provide moral support even if I am unable to protect you physically?’

Rosalind paused in the act of handing her brother his cup of tea. When had he become so irritable?

‘Oh, Freddie.’ The ever-ready guilt flooded her. Why had it not been she who was injured? Why had she escaped with mere bruises whilst Freddie’s life had been altered beyond measure? ‘I am sorry. You are right. I am thoughtless. I am so accustomed to... I simply do not think at times...after all this time it is hard to remember you are a grown man and not just my younger brother. And after all that has happened—’

With a lurch of horror, she bit off her words. What was she thinking, running on so in such an ill-considered fashion?

‘I apologise, Mr Boyton. What must you think of us?’

Freddie took his cup from her with a look of reproach. Well, she deserved that. She forced a laugh.

‘That is more than enough about our family. Tell me, Mr Boyton, are you familiar with the countryside around here?’

They indulged in stilted small talk whilst they drank their tea, Rosalind painfully aware of the speculation in Leo’s eyes every time they alighted upon her. Thankfully, it was not long before he rose to his feet.

‘I have trespassed upon your hospitality long enough.’

‘Not at all,’ Rosalind said, but stood up and led the way to the door lest he changed his mind. ‘It was the least I could do after you rescued my hat. I am certain your stocking will be dry by now.’

Leo made his farewells to Freddie, who made no attempt to follow them from the room.

As soon as she entered the kitchen Rosalind hurried over to the fireplace and snatched at the stocking. ‘Yes, this is dry.’ She bent to scoop Leo’s boot from the floor. ‘And although your boot is still damp, it is an improvement, I am sure. And it is not so far to Halsdon Manor. I am sure you will—oh!’

Leo had followed her across the room and, as she straightened, he was right beside her. He lifted her chin with one finger, tilting her gaze to his.

‘I understand you are anxious, Rosalind, but there is no need to fill every second of silence. You may tell me “all that has happened” if you wish, but I shall not interrogate you.’

Conversely, his words fuelled her apprehension. He saw far too much with that keen silver-grey gaze.

Leo released her chin and sat down to pull on his stocking and his boots. ‘Your brother mentioned, though, that you are unlikely to remain here much longer. Where will you go?’

‘Oh. I do not... That is, I am not certain.’

She had avoided thinking beyond their immediate future. She had not planned much further than ensuring Nell was safe. She and Freddie could not impose on Sir William’s hospitality for ever, but where were they to go? Back to Lydney? The idea was unpalatable, with Sir Peter—as far as she knew—still in residence, and yet she could not leave him in sole charge, and what of the school holidays? Jack must return in the summer and she would have to go back then. She could not leave him to Sir Peter’s care.

She sighed. Indecision. It had plagued her ever since they fled Lydney. She did not know what to do for the best. The only decision she had reached was to wait until Nell’s Season was complete. Maybe that would show her the way forward.

‘What is it?’ A gentle finger feathered between her tight brows. Leo had finished pulling on his boots whilst she was lost in thought and now stood before her. ‘You are troubled. Allow me to help.’

Rosalind swallowed the ache of tears at those gentle words. How she wished...but there was nothing he could do to help.

‘I am sorry. It is nothing.’ She stretched her lips in a smile. ‘We might stay here. I have not decided yet.’

‘You have not decided? Does your brother not have a say in what you do?’

‘It was a figure of speech. I meant we.’

‘Your brother... He is a man. He has a man’s pride.’

Rosalind frowned at him. ‘He is my brother. You have only just met him.’

Leo regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I had no intention of annoying you. I do wonder, however, if—’

‘It is not your business to wonder at what my brother and I do or how we live, sir.’

Nerves fluttered within as his brow lowered. That had been rude. Nonetheless, she stifled her urge to apologise. Her family was her business and no concern of anyone else. Particularly someone they had only just met and who could have no idea of what life had thrown at them.

‘What happened to your brother’s leg?’

The abrupt change in conversation took her by surprise and she answered without any censorship of her words.

‘It was a carriage accident. Freddie’s leg was crushed and our father was killed. My mother and I were uninjured.’

‘I see. And how old was Freddie?’

She did not care for the understanding in those silvery eyes. It made her feel like weeping. ‘He was one year old.’

‘And you were...what...three? Four?’

‘Six. I was six.’ Her birthday. She stamped on the memory of that terrible day even as her hand crept, without volition, to the comfort of her locket and the memory of Grandpa, of sitting on his lap as he told her stories.

‘Your father was killed, you say. Where is your mother now?’

Rosalind grabbed the poker and stirred viciously at the fire. ‘She died when I was nine.’

‘And Freddie would have been only four. Do you have other brothers or sisters?’

That deceptively simple question hovered perilously close to matters Rosalind wished to avoid. She dropped the poker on to the stone hearth with a clatter, and marched across the kitchen to haul open the door.

‘It was kind of you to retrieve my hat, Mr Boyton. I make no doubt you long to return to your friends at Halsdon.’

Leo raised a brow and scrutinised her from head to toe. Then he smiled.

‘We will meet again, Rosalind, before I leave Halsdon. On that you may depend.’

He strolled across the kitchen, taking his hat from the table as he passed. As he neared Rosalind, her breath quickened under the magnetic pull of those extraordinary, omniscient eyes. Might he try to kiss her? Touch her? He did neither. And she was left shaken and bereft as he strode from her sight.

She used her pent-up energy to tidy the kitchen, before taking Freddie his newspaper—ordered daily from London—and the letter she had collected from the village.

‘There was a letter from Jack,’ she said, on entering the room. ‘I could not tell you whilst Mr Boyton was here. Jack writes that Sir Peter visited the school and quizzed him as to Nell’s whereabouts.’

Freddie held out his hand. ‘May I read it for myself?’

‘Of course you may.’ Rosalind handed him the letter. ‘It is addressed to us both. He suggested to Sir Peter that you had expressed a desire to visit Brighton and that he might enquire for us there.’

She laughed, trying to catch Freddie’s attention, but he appeared disinclined to share the joke, managing only the slightest smile in response. Mentally, she shrugged away Freddie’s bad mood. He appeared edgier by the day. Being forced out of Lydney must be affecting him more than she realised.

‘Jack thinks it a fine jape to hoodwink Sir Peter like that, but I pray it will not rebound upon him. Sir Peter is, like it or not, his guardian. He could, if he chooses, impose sanctions or punishments. I worry—’

‘You worry too much.’ Freddie’s vehemence cut short Rosalind’s words.

‘Well, yes...but that is, surely, understandable, Freddie. I worry about you all.’

Freddie did not reply, but the mutinous set of his mouth did not imply agreement.

‘What is wrong, Freddie? I hate to see you so out of sorts. Do you miss home?’

‘Of course I do. Don’t you?’

‘Well, yes, but I make the best—’

‘Do not—’ Freddie levered himself to his feet ‘—tell me to make the best of this...this half-existence.’

‘But...Freddie...we agreed...’ Rosalind trailed into silence at Freddie’s scathing expression.

‘Since we arrived here two and a half weeks ago, I have been stuck in this blasted house and seen no one other than you, Nell and Penny until today. I have been nowhere and now, with the carriage in London, I cannot go anywhere even if my appearance wasn’t likely to set people talking and risk bringing Sir Peter post-haste to our door. Can you not realise how that makes me feel?

‘And, for all my sacrifices, it seems as soon as you make the acquaintance of some random gentleman, all your strictures about me lying low are forgotten and you bring him home. That is quite apart from your attracting the dubious attention of our new neighbour, Lascelles.’

‘That was not my fault, Freddie. And, as for Mr Boyton, mayhap you are right to feel aggrieved that I brought him home, but I simply wished to show my gratitude for a favour. Nell is no longer here to be recognised, after all. Sir Peter cannot harm us, Freddie, even if he does discover our whereabouts. The danger is past.’

‘You know that her reputation could still suffer if it became known we had removed her from her guardian’s care and brought her here, with only us to chaperon her.’ Freddie limped to the door as he spoke. ‘You said yourself that nothing must be allowed to taint her if she is to make the marriage she deserves. Why can you never admit to your mistakes? You like to think yourself infallible, Ros, but you are not.’

Knowing he was right made it hard for Rosalind to be angry with him, but still she was loath to admit herself in the wrong.

‘There is no reason for Mr Boyton to make the connection between us and Lady Helena Caldicot, even if they do meet in London,’ she said. ‘She knows not to speak of us or to mention running away from Sir Peter. And he will not make a fuss. It can be of no advantage to him to harm Nell’s reputation.’

‘Let us hope that you are correct, Sister.’

Freddie left the room, snapping the door shut behind him.


Chapter Six (#ud2c796cb-950f-5cc9-aa9e-adcca302eeea)

Leo waited until he could speak to his cousin in private. After dinner that evening, the other two men disappeared in the direction of the billiards room, Vernon having challenged Stanton to a rematch following his defeat the night before. Leo and Lascelles lingered over their port in the dining room, where the table had already been cleared.

Leo pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out under the table. Lascelles eyed him through a haze of cigar smoke.

‘Such a shame you missed most of the chase today,’ he said. ‘I do hope you contrived to amuse yourself.’

Leo shrugged. ‘There is always another hunt, if not this season then next.’

‘There should be another opportunity before we leave here.’ Lascelles leaned forward to stub out his cigar, then fixed Leo with a narrow stare. ‘Something on your mind, Coz?’

Leo raised his brandy glass to his lips and swallowed, savouring the fire of the spirit as it slid down his throat, before answering.

‘There is. I understand you did not stay with the hunt the entire day, either.’

A fleeting smirk crossed Lascelles’s countenance. ‘My mare was unable to stand the pace. I decided to retire. To save her for another day, don’t you know?’

A memory surfaced, of Stanton haranguing Lascelles about his treatment of his horse after their first outing with the hunt. The day they met Rosalind.

‘I am pleased to find you have your animal’s welfare at heart. Did you spend an enjoyable afternoon?’

Lascelles shrugged. ‘It was agreeable enough. I decided to familiarise myself with the neighbourhood and to make the acquaintance of some of my new neighbours.’ The smirk returned as Lascelles locked eyes with Leo. His look suggested there was more to his news than one objectionable visit to Frederick Allen. For the first time, Leo wondered if his cousin was aware of his own activities that afternoon.

‘I heard you called upon Mr Allen.’

‘Allen? Allen? Do I recall...? Oh, yes, indeed. The cripple. His name...somehow...slipped my mind.’

Distaste at his cousin’s sneer clawed at Leo. He would not continue to tiptoe around, guest or not.

‘You are aware, of course, that Mr Allen is the brother of Mrs Pryce?’

Lascelles’s dark eyes widened, mockingly innocent. ‘No, is he, Coz? Well, I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the Delectable Dorcas.’

His use of the nickname they had bestowed upon Rosalind—‘Dorcas’ after Shakespeare’s shepherdess in The Winter’s Tale—irritated Leo, but he held his temper in check. Lascelles was a complex and difficult man, a fact that was becoming more apparent by the day. It behoved Leo to tread carefully around this subject, even though his instinct as head of the family was to lay down the law.

‘You are unused to the customs here and of the behaviour expected of a gentleman.’ He rose to his feet and paced around the room. ‘You do wish to fit in here? You want to be accepted in society?’

Lascelles remained sprawled on his chair, but his eyes were watchful. ‘The widow and her crippled brother are hardly prominent members of society. Why, if you came across them in town, my dearest Coz, you would not even deign to notice them, they are so far beneath your touch.’

Again, Leo reined in his temper, distracting himself by examining a model of a Chinese pagoda displayed on a side table. It was exquisite, the ivory carved in intricate detail.

‘Ming,’ Lascelles said. ‘The Prince has one very similar, I am told. Now, that is the mark of a gentleman.’

Leo crossed to the fireplace, and settled his left shoulder against the mantelshelf, folding his arms.

‘You are mistaken. The mark of a gentleman has nothing to do with money or with fine possessions. Birth is, of course, important but it is manners that mark the true gentleman. Manners and the treatment of others and, in particular, the treatment of those of lower birth. If you do not understand that, Anthony—and believe it—you will never earn your place in society.’

Even as he spoke the words, Leo questioned whether Lascelles could ever be a true gentleman. It was not something that could be learned but was, in Leo’s opinion, something intrinsic in a man’s character. Looking at his cousin, at his insolent sprawl, he doubted Lascelles possessed that trait. Rather, he was more than ever convinced there was something rotten at the man’s core...something more than just bitterness over his illegitimacy. Stanton had been right: Uncle Claude—Fourth Duke of Cheriton—had been right not to wed Lascelles’s mother, and not only because of her profession. She would have made a terrifyingly unsuitable duchess with that temperament of hers. Leo still could not help feeling some guilt, however, and it was that guilt that had prompted him to accept Lascelles’s invitation to Halsdon Manor, to find out if their relationship could somehow be redeemed.

It seemed not.

He pushed away from the mantel. ‘I am going to see how Vernon fares in his revenge on Stan.’ He paused by Lascelles’s chair, steeling himself against the urge to wipe the mocking sneer from his face. No matter his aversion to Lascelles, he was family and he was also, for now, Leo’s host. ‘Will you accompany me?’

There was a pause. ‘Not for the moment, Coz. I shall join you directly.’

As he strode in the direction of the billiard room, his muscles tight with anger, Leo knew he should leave Halsdon and go back to London before he and Lascelles came to blows. It had always been thus between the two men—that constant vying for supremacy. Leo’s hope that his cousin had changed—mellowed—had not been realised: Lascelles was merely an older, more confident version of his younger self. He still knew what he wanted and, it appeared, cared even less about the means by which he got it.

Yes. A wise man would leave now before the antagonism lurking beneath the surface erupted.

A memory swirled and coalesced—bringing to his mind not only her image but the smell of her, the feel and the sound of her voice...low and musical, sending quivers of need chasing across his skin.

Rosalind.

No, he would not, could not leave. Not yet.

He was intrigued. He wanted more, wanted to learn more. And yet...

He paused outside the billiard room, ostensibly to examine a painting hanging on the wall opposite the door. His eyes were looking inward, however. His mind was filled with her. His blood stirred and his heart beat faster. Her desirability—his desire for her—was without question, and yet, beneath that craving lurked a whisper of disquiet.

Lies. Deceit. Secrets.

Could he trust her? He had already caught her out in one lie and he sensed there was something else. A secret. Something important to her that she withheld, cocooning it deep within.

He abhorred lies and deceit. He’d had his fill of those particular traits with Margaret.

When Leo’s father became the Fifth Duke, his health was frail and he had fretted over the continuation of the Beauchamp line. To give his father peace of mind, eighteen-year-old Leo had married Margaret, three years his senior. Looking back, he had been hopelessly naïve. Oh, Margaret had done her duty and presented him with two sons and a daughter, but her only interest from then on was the social whirl. She was a duchess and she wanted to live the life she believed her new station warranted. She lost all interest in both Leo and the children. For most of the year, she had stayed in London, only returning to Cheriton under duress.

And she had lied. Constantly.

And taken lovers. Many lovers.

Leo locked down his memories. The past was done. Long ago he had trained himself not to dwell on what could not be changed. And, after all, what did it matter if Rosalind held secrets? He would soon return to London and there was one thing of which he was certain: never again would he accept an invitation to Halsdon Manor. Once he left, whatever lies she told and secrets she held would have no power to hurt him.

He spun on his heel and walked into the billiard room.

‘Leo! Stan is a blasted bandit! I happened to glance out of the window and, whilst my attention was diverted, I swear he moved the balls.’

Stanton grinned and bent to take a shot, his ball hitting first Vernon’s cue ball and then the object ball—a cannon.

‘With skill like this, I have no need to cheat,’ he said. ‘That’s another two points and I win again. It is time you taught your brother how to lose gracefully, Your Grace.’

Vernon laughed and slapped Stanton on the back. ‘Good shot.’

‘Seems billiards just isn’t your game, Vern.’ Stanton shot a look at Leo. ‘Where’s our esteemed host? You two been locking horns again?’

Leo shrugged. ‘That’s putting it a bit strong, Stan. I should rather describe it as a robust exchange of views on a certain matter.’

‘His Grace—’ Lascelles had entered the room unnoticed ‘—proffered his advice on the behaviour expected of a gentleman and I, in deference to his position as head of our family, have given that advice my due consideration.’ He flicked a ball across the billiard table, then settled his dark gaze on Leo. ‘I shall call at Stoney End and tender my apologies to the cr—to Mr Allen. And to his entrancing sister.’ His eyes gleamed, malice in their depths. ‘She is entrancing, is she not, Coz? She certainly appeared to mesmerise you when I saw you earlier. Or was it the sun on the water dazzling you?’

Leo’s gut tightened. His instinct was right: Lascelles had seen him with Rosalind by the river. Quite without volition, the fingers of his right hand curled into a fist.

‘Sister?’ Vernon nudged Leo. ‘Have you found yourself a woman already, you sly dog?’

‘Oh, not just any woman,’ Lascelles said. ‘It was none other than the Delectable Dorcas. I believe my dear cousin is somewhat smitten. Oh, not that I blame you, Coz. She is an appetising morsel. I quite fancy a taste myself. Yes, I believe I must pay them a visit, make my apologies and then...let the best man win.’

He smirked. Fiery rage erupted inside Leo and he battled to damp it down. He sensed Vernon’s eyes on him, then his brother shifted, moving towards Lascelles. Good old Vernon—ever since boyhood, always ready to intervene when Lascelles pushed Leo close to the brink.

‘Dorcas didn’t seem too impressed with you the other day, Anthony,’ Vernon said, slapping his cousin on the shoulder. ‘Now, if I was a betting man, I’d call it a lost cause. It’ll take a mountain of grovelling on your part to change her opinion of you and—with the greatest respect, Cousin—you are not the grovelling type.’

Lascelles smirked. ‘Is that what you think, dear boy? Well, I might take you up on that challenge. I have time on my side.’ He caught Leo’s eye. ‘After all, the lovely Mrs Pryce is going nowhere and neither am I. I am sure I can persuade her to forget our most unfortunate introduction. It was quite out of character, isn’t that so, Coz?’

Leo held Lascelles’s gaze in silent challenge until a muscle bunched in Lascelles’s jaw and he looked away. ‘Stanton, would you care to try your skills against mine?’

‘Certainly.’ Stanton set up the table.

Leo wandered over to the window to stare into the dark night. He wondered what Rosalind was doing. How did she pass the evenings? Did she think of him, as he did her?

Vernon’s reflection joined his in the window as the click of balls announced that the game had started.

‘Is she a decent woman, this Mrs Pryce?’

‘She is.’

Vernon drew in a deep breath. ‘I do not know what Anthony saw, but—’

‘Her hat blew into the river and I retrieved it. Anthony, as usual, is making something of nothing.’

‘But I do know what he thinks,’ Vernon continued, as though Leo had not spoken. ‘If you should happen to see the lady again, do warn her to take care. Anthony always coveted what was yours and he has not changed in that respect. Do you not recall how he tried to ingratiate himself with Margaret?’

He did. He would see Rosalind tomorrow and he would warn her against Lascelles, even though he was convinced she needed no such warning to be cautious.

* * *

The next day Rosalind left Stoney End for her daily ride, trying not to hope she might see Leo again. The visitors at Halsdon would not hunt again today and she could not help but wonder how they—Leo—might pass the time. She had already forgiven his criticism over the way she protected Freddie. She should not have risen to his provocation. It had not been deliberate. He could not possibly understand how central her family was to her entire life.

She guided Kamal into the lane that led to Malton and there he was. Leo, astride the same huge bay he had been riding the first time they met, waiting at the edge of a stretch of woodland. Excitement fizzed inside Rosalind. There was no surprise on Leo’s face when she came into view—this was no coincidence and he was clearly not about to pretend otherwise. He had been waiting. For her. Her mouth dried and heat erupted through her as her heart thumped against her ribs.

She inclined her head. ‘Good morning, Mr Boyton. It is a pleasant day for a ride, is it not?’

His lips twitched. ‘It is indeed, Mrs Pryce.’ He raised his hat, his black hair gleaming in the light of a stray sunbeam. He manoeuvred his horse alongside Kamal. ‘A pleasant day that can only be improved by such agreeable company.’

Presumptuous. Full of confidence. But Rosalind liked that he did not beg permission to ride with her. He accepted it as his right. It was, she decided, refreshing. As long as he did not decide it was his right to criticise her relationship with Freddie again.

She smiled at him. Heavens, but he was attractive. Not just handsome, but...his whole being: his appearance, his attitude, his ease in himself. Even though she appreciated his assumption of control, she instinctively reached for the metaphorical reins.

‘Would you care to ride with me, Mr Boyton? I am heading for the village. You are very welcome to accompany me, if you wish.’

‘You are most gracious, ma’am,’ he murmured, a hint of laughter in his voice. ‘I should be delighted to ride with you.’

They rode in silence for several minutes.

‘I am forgiven, am I not?’

Leo’s sudden question made Rosalind jump. And then laugh, for it was so close to her earlier thoughts.

‘There is nothing to forgive. On my part, at least. I should beg your pardon for taking offence.’

‘Splendid.’

Rosalind reined Kamal to a halt. ‘S-Splendid?’

‘Indeed. I felt sure you would see the error of your ways if I prompted you.’

‘Why, you...you...’

‘Speechless, Mrs Pryce?’

Rosalind narrowed her eyes at Leo. ‘You are teasing me.’

‘I am? Now, can you be absolutely certain of it?’

She could see by the quirk of his lips that she was right. She laughed and shook her head at him. ‘It would serve you well if I sent you away for such impertinence.’

‘Impertinence? I am not a schoolboy, to be dressed down with a scold.’

‘Then kindly do not behave like one.’ Rosalind nudged Kamal into a trot, leaving Leo behind, but he soon caught up, his huge bay dwarfing the dainty Arabian.

‘And now we have broken the awkward silence, I shall allow you to lead the conversation if you will,’ Leo said. ‘That way, I shall not get into trouble for straying into territory you consider to be none of my business.’

Rosalind cringed inside as she recalled telling him that Freddie was none of his business.

‘I am sorry for saying that. I am protective of my brother. I have cared for him ever since he was a child.’

‘But he is a child no longer. His body may be damaged, but he appears to be an intelligent, well-educated man.’

‘Oh, he is. I am so proud of him... He has such a thirst for knowledge and to understand what is happening in the world. He is always reading, and he paints and plays the piano exquisitely.’

‘A true paragon of virtue,’ Leo commented drily. ‘If he were female, I might even consider courting him.’

‘Oh...you! You are teasing again. I merely wished you to understand that he is more than a cripple.’

‘You have no need to prove anything to me. I understand that very well.’

Silence reigned once again. As the village came into sight, the sound of crying brought them to a stop. A brick-built store by the side of the road appeared to be the source of the sound and Leo leapt from his horse.

‘Mr Boyton,’ Rosalind hissed. ‘Wait for me.’

‘It would be better if I check inside first,’ he said, then cocked his head as a shout of laughter erupted from within the building. ‘There might be danger. You should—’





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