Dukes By the Dozen

He closed the few inches between them, and kissed her.

Their kiss in London had been urgent and fevered, unexpected. This one was slow, leisurely, private. Behind them, the laughter and music floated, faraway and small. In the garden, all was silence but for Ash’s breathing and the whisper of a breeze over autumn blossoms.

Helena rose into the kiss, her chest tight, hands finding Ash’s shoulders. He tasted of brandy, smelled of cheroot smoke and the night.

Just when she thought he’d push from her, Ash brought her closer, arms around her back. His stiffness fell away, as though Ash the duke had disappeared, and Ash the man took over.

Helena rather liked Ash the man. He held her securely, his body fluid grace, as it had been while they’d danced. His stumble had been an anomaly.

Ash’s mouth warmed, caressed. Helena parted her lips, letting him in, and she daringly tasted his tongue.

The flicker—brief, hot, intense—snapped Ash back to stiffness. He jerked his mouth away from hers but steadied Helena before she lost her footing.

They stared at each other for a long moment, things between them forever changed. Ash’s chest rose sharply, his exhalation fogging in the chill air.

“Helena.”

Her name was a faint whisper—Helena, not Mrs. Courtland.

Helena longed to respond—Ash. But her voice did not work, and her lips, burning from his kiss, would not move.

“You’re cold,” he announced.

Helena was hot all over, never noticing the sharp bite of the strengthening breeze. Ash adjusted her shawl, his movements quick, exact, but his hands were shaking.

“Thank you,” she managed to croak.

Ash said nothing. He gazed down at her a long moment, his eyes lost in shadow.

Then he put firm but polite fingers on her elbow. “You should be indoors, out of the weather.”

Without further word he led her back to the house. His pace was swift, and Helena scurried next to him, her beaded slippers landing in mud. They’d be a sad ruin, but Helena’s practical voice was a distant echo.

Ash halted when they reached the terrace. He turned to her, a look of vast anguish on his face.

“Helena …”

“Never you mind,” Helena said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “We won’t speak of it.”

“That’s not—”

“Ah, there you are, Ash.” Guy Lovell stepped through a doorway with his usual vivacity. “Thought you lost in the dark. Your aunt is hunting for you.” He caught sight of Helena and bowed. “Mrs. Courtland. Forgive me, I did not see you there.” He looked Helena up and down, eyes glittering with interest.

Ash scowled, but Helena began chattering before he could speak. “Of course, you must go to your aunt, Ashford. And mind what I said about the lanterns and too many sparks. The garden should resemble a paradise of fairies, not be forbidding, like in a novel from Minerva Press. Tell the footmen.”

She lifted her head and swept past Guy, giving him a little nod as she went. Helena felt Guy’s knowing gaze on her back, and the more intense one of Ash.

Somehow, she made it into the warmth of the house but she did not stop until she reached a withdrawing room. There she sank down and stuck out one damp foot, the beads on her slippers coated with mud.

“I knew it. Ruined.”

Then for some unaccountable reason, she burst into tears.

ASH DID NOT SEE Helena for the remainder of the night. She managed to elude him at every turn, and finally he stopped himself pursuing her. Guy already guessed something had happened between them, and Ash did not need to give his friend more fuel for gossip.

He moved through the rest of the ball in a haze, avoiding more dancing by securing himself in the card room. In his distracted state, he lost every game but paid over his losses without fuss.

When the interminable ball was over, and the final guests at last departed, Helena long gone, Ash threw himself into bed, but sleep eluded him. He did not so much relive the kiss as be submersed in it, feeling Helena’s warmth around him, her scent, the press of her body, the taste of her mouth. The sensations gripped him and would not let him go.

He rose early the next morning and groggily plunged into the business of the estate, taking himself to its far corners, inspecting cottages and farms. At one point Ash stripped off his coat to assist roofers hauling thatch into place.

His mind remained so full of Helena—the way her mouth softened to his kiss, her fingers pressing his shoulders, her body pliant in his arms—that he forgot the most basic things, like resuming his coat after the thatching, and riding off straight into the rain.

The result was, the next day, a very unromantic cold in the head that did not let him out of bed. Aunt Florence and Edwards, in great alarm, sent for a physician. The long-faced doctor examined him and proclaimed that the Duke of Ashford was very ill indeed and should make certain his affairs were in order.

CHAPTER 5

“DYING?” Helena stared at Millicent, her heart compressing into a cold knot of fear.

Millicent, her cap trimmed with so many ribbons they careened when she so much as breathed, nodded. “I had it from my lady’s maid, who had it from Ashford’s aunt’s maid, who says he’s flat in bed and cannot rise. A physician bled him and dosed him, and proclaimed there was nothing more to be done.”

Helena had been sipping tea with Millicent and fidgeting, unable to settle herself. Now she rose, hand on her throat.

“Nothing more to be done, my foot. I wager one of my concoctions will do the trick. I must go to him at once.”

Helena called for Evans and hurried to the kitchens and the old-fashioned still room, where herbs were dried and home remedies for everything from an annoying itch to croup were prepared.

She seized herbs, licorice, honey, and brandy willy-nilly, for a moment unable to remember what went into her mixtures and how much. Fortunately, Evans helped Helena shake together the correct ingredients and pour the results into clean bottles. All went into Helena’s basket, along with fresh baked bread and grapes—perfect foods for lightening the humors.

Helena bundled up against the cold that had engulfed Somerset and sent for Millicent’s landau to trundle her down the lane and across the park to Ashford’s mansion.

ASH PRIED OPEN HIS EYES, wincing as the darkness of his bed was pierced by sudden daylight.

A large basket overflowing with grapes and dark bottles had been plunked to his writing table—the sound had awakened him. Now his bed curtains were wide open, as were the drapes at the window. Late autumn sunlight streamed through, the air clear, the sky very blue.

His head and eyes ached. “What …?”

“Shutting yourself up in a dark sick room is never good for you,” came Helena’s breezy voice. “Light and air is what you need, along with my remedies. No one in my house remains ill for long.”

“ … are you doing here?” Ash finished, voice rasping. “There is contagion …”

“Nonsense, I never take sick. Brisk walks and eating a hearty dinner is all that is required for good health. Now, what does the doctor believe it is? Consumption?”

Helena, her curves hugged by a light-blue cotton gown, bustled about the room, tying back drapes, poking up the fire. A lace cap covered her dark golden hair, its tapes flying as she moved. She opened the basket and proceeded to stand at least a dozen bottles across the writing table.

“No one has mentioned consumption,” Ash managed before he coughed, his body spasming.

“Smallpox? Yellow fever?”

“What are you going on about?” Ash dragged in a breath and lay back down. “A chill, Mrs. Courtland, nothing more.”

She turned in surprise. “Truly? I had it from your aunt—albeit in a roundabout manner—that you were at death’s door.”

“If my physician is putting that rumor about …”

“Surely he ought to know.” Helena opened a bottle and poured a dark, thick liquid into a glass. “He is a doctor.”

“A quack, you mean. He barely looked at me before he was opening my vein.” Ash coughed again, his sides aching with it. “If I die, then Lewis is duke. A physician can pry many fees out of those who’ll pay to keep the boy healthy.”

“Very cynical.” Helena brought the glass to him in bright determination. “On your part, and on the physician’s. Drink this, and you’ll be right as rain.”

Ash clutched the bedcovers, holding them to his chin. He wore a nightshirt and nothing else, and already felt his blush rising.

“What is that?” He eyed the glass in suspicion.

“All sorts of good things. Plus plenty of brandy to make it slip down well. I know how to dose a gentleman.”

“Oh? How many gentlemen have you dosed?” He felt a twinge of irritated jealousy.

“My father, gardener, butler, footmen, friends’ fathers and brothers and their servants. They all swear by my remedies.”

“Or swear at them,” Ash muttered.

“What was that?” Helena leaned closer. “I beg your pardon—I did not hear you.”

She should not bend over him so. Ash’s already unsteady heartbeat sped as her bodice sagged to show a sweet round of bosom. She smelled of mint with a touch of honey, making Ash want to pull her down to him and discover if she tasted of those things as well.

He had to have been mad to kiss her in the garden. And yet … The warmth of her lips, the brush of breath on his skin, the way she fit into his arms … The sensations had never left him.

Helena shoved the glass under his chin. The bite of brandy, mint, and whatever else she’d included burst through his clogged nose and made him wince.

“Drink up,” she said. “You’ll feel so much better.”

Ash doubted it. The physician had given him a purge after bleeding him, which had made him even more weak. His aunt had then shoved broth down his throat, followed by an extremely bitter tea. Ash had drunk all to be polite, but he balked now.

“Take that away,” he ordered. “And go. I truly do not wish to make you ill.”

“I told you, I never take sick. Don’t be such a stick, Ash. My remedies are far better than what a physician will give you. My patients get well.”

It was clear that Helena had great confidence in her potion. It was also clear she’d not leave the room until he drank it.

Suppressing a sigh, Ash raised himself on his elbows and reached for the glass.

“You are ever so pale,” Helena said, studying him. “Except for your red nose. I have another physic to fix that.”

Ash clenched the glass, held his breath, and drank.

She was right about the brandy, which made up about two-thirds of the concoction, sweetened with honey to take out the sting. Ash tasted more herbs under the mint, though he wasn’t certain what.

All in all, it was far more pleasant than what Aunt Florence or the physician had given him. More like a brandy punch, but Ash decided not to say that. The liquid soothed his throat—he decided to keep that to himself as well.

Helena plucked the empty glass from his hand and carried it to the writing table, before returning to shake out the bedcovers.

Ash jerked the blankets up again. “Have a care for your modesty, madam.”

Helena looked surprised. “My modesty? I am completely dressed. You are the one in your nightshirt. You are also flat on your back with illness—I doubt anyone would believe you’d leap up and ravish me on the spot.”

Ash went hotter than the fever had ever climbed. He was more awake now, and feeling stronger. If she continued to lean over him, smoothing the bedclothes, he might just drag her down to him and forget he was a gentleman.

He stopped himself because of his sickness—he truly did not want to pass it to her. Ash remembered how quickly Olivia had caught her fever, how she’d taken to her bed, still weak from bringing Lily into the world not a month before that.

“Please go,” Ash said, gritting his teeth. “These things happen rapidly—I was fine one moment, the next, quite ill.”

“You worry so, Ash. Perhaps that is why you are adamant about your schedules, fearing you’ll forget something if you don’t mark it down.”

More warmth flooded him as he realized she called him by the name his friends did: Ash. Not Your Grace or even Ashford. No one had ever used his given name, Augustine, not even his mother. Before he’d become duke, he’d had Lewis’s title, Marquess of Wilsdon, and had been called Wils.

“My schedule has gone to the devil with this illness.” Ash coughed again, but it didn’t hurt as much this time. “Pardon my language.”

“Well, the devil can enjoy it.” Helena busied herself at the table, and Ash heard another clink of glass and trickling liquid.

“There is nothing wrong with a timetable,” he argued. “I prefer it to chaos.”

Helena brought the refilled glass to the bed. “A little chaos now and then is not a bad thing. I admit I have a timetable as well, my dear Ash. During the Season, I must remember what invitations I have accepted and to what place I am going and when. But constant rigidness is not good for you. You’d never have taken sick if you were less unbending.”

Ash listened to the last in incredulity. “I am in this bed because I did not adhere to my schedule. I let my aunt talk me into hosting a ball, at which I grew frustrated and tramped about the garden in the freezing cold. This weakened my constitution so that when I went about without my coat the next day, I had no defenses. I’d have noticed it was cold in the garden and gone back inside if you hadn’t followed me …”

He trailed off. He knew good and well he’d not noticed the icy air because he’d taken Helena into his arms and kissed her.

Helena flushed. “I worried about you wandering in the dark …”

She too trailed off, her cheeks pretty with her rosy blush. Ash found himself reaching to stroke one.

Helena jumped. She mistook the reason he’d lifted his hand and pushed the glass into it. “This will ease your stuffed nose.”

She turned quickly away, agitation in every line.

Should Ash speak of the kiss? Or continue to pretend it hadn’t happened? That he hadn’t realized what a beautiful woman she was?

Helena, at the table, moved glasses and bottles purposefully, her movements graceful. The tapes on her cap caught in her golden curls.

Ash closed his eyes and sipped the next concoction. This one was not as sweet, but pleasantly mellow. Again, it soothed his throat, and its aroma drifted into his nose, clearing it a bit.

“What is in this?” he asked.

“Nothing exotic. Drink it all.”

Ash complied. He swallowed the final drops and thumped the glass to the bedside table. “I am not cured yet.”

Helena gave him an exasperated look over her shoulder. “Of course not, silly. You must take all my doses over the course of several days. Then you’ll be fine.”

She returned to the bed, more composed after this exchange, and set a plate of grapes next to the empty glass. “These will fill your stomach and lighten the humors.”

Ash ate a few grapes after she turned away, depositing the seeds on a clean dish she’d left for the purpose.

“I’ll not marry any of those ladies, Helena,” he said quietly. His voice sounded almost normal, without the scratch of the last two days.

Helena continued to fuss about the table. “We’ll talk of that when you’re well.”

“It is unfair to the young ladies. From the looks I caught, everyone at that ball believed I’d hosted it to search for my next duchess.”

Helena faced him, resting her hands on the table behind her. “Because everyone knows you need a wife. Including your children, which was why they went to such lengths to compose that letter to you.”

“Lewis’s doing.” Ash couldn’t help a surge of pride. “He is growing up faster than I realize.”

“That is why this time with them is so precious. Lewis will go to school soon, and find his own friends, his own interests. Gracious, my husband barely knew his father and mother, only seeing them from afar until he was quite grown up.”

Helena rarely spoke of her husband, a good-for-nothing fop. If Courtland hadn’t managed to break his neck, he’d have broken her heart with mistresses, gambling debts, and duels.

“He was never good enough for you,” Ash heard himself say.

She stilled. “Pardon?”

“I know I should not speak ill of the dead, but your husband was not a good match for you. You need someone who will listen when you rattle on, who will match you in wits and sense.” And passion, he added silently. He’d sensed much of it in her when he’d kissed her.

Helena moved her gaze to the window, sunlight catching in her dark eyes. “Many felt he was the perfect match for my wit—as in, between the two of us, we had little.”

Ash grew indignant. “They were wrong. You can certainly talk, but you aren’t a featherhead. You have much good sense, which you disguise by hedging around it. You hide your intelligence, though I cannot fathom why.”

“No one wants a clever lady,” Helena said. “Quite irritating, is a woman who claims to be intelligent.”

“Well, it does not irritate me.”

The smile she gave him lit fires in his heart. “How kind of you. But I’ve always said you were kind.”

Kind? The formidable Duke of Ashford, who demanded perfection of the entire world, was kind?

He wasn’t. He knew full well that Merrivale had suggested Ash retreat to Somerset because he was making everyone in the ministry spare with his meticulousness. His expectations were high, his disapproval swift.

“Very good of you to say so,” Ash said stiffly.

“You do not believe me, I see, but it is true. You adore your children and take every sort of care for them. Your servants are well treated and paid a good wage. You indulge your friend, Mr. Lovell, though he is as unlike you as another gentleman can be. And you’ve allowed me to come and nurse you without bodily showing me the door.”

“I couldn’t at the moment if I wanted to.” Ash cleared his throat. “I’m pathetically weak.”

“Indeed, no. Laid up, yes, but weak, never. You are the strongest man I know.”

They shared another look, Helena’s deep brown eyes lightened with flecks of gold. If Ash had been well, he’d have already pulled her into the bed with him to kiss her, drowning in her softness. Perhaps boldly rolling her over to the mattress and showing her what he’d dreamed of in the night.

If he’d been a well man, however, she would not be in his bedchamber at all. She’d only entered because at this instant, he was harmless.

Helena returned to him and smoothed the covers once more. Ash liked the warmth of her hands through the sheets, comforting and arousing at the same time.

She patted his arm, unaware of the incandescence she stirred within him. “Now then, you take four of these draughts a day—morning, afternoon, evening, and before you sleep—and that nasty chill will be gone in no time. I’ll tell Edwards.”

Ash suppressed a shudder. Edwards, who had a soft spot for Helena, would obey her instructions to the letter. Then again, the concoctions weren’t so bad. They were sweet yet with underlying vigor, like Helena herself.

“Sleep now, dear Ash.” Helena pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips cool on his hot skin.

“Are you returning home?” Ash asked, trying to make the question casual. “At least, to the cottage of your friend?”

“Do you wish me to?” Helena also pretended nonchalance, but Ash caught the trepidation in her voice.

“No.” Ash realized the word was brusque, and softened his tone. “No. The children would love to see you.”

Her answering smile held relief. “Then I’ll stay. Give me a shout if you need me.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned away, straightened the bottles on the table one last time, and breezed out.

Ash imagined himself, well and strong once more, standing on the landing of the great hall and calling her name. Helena! Darling. I need you. Her answering voice, as natural as breathing. I’ll be there directly, dear Ash.

The picture was so heady he closed his eyes tightly to shut it out.

HELENA REMAINED at Middlebrook Castle for two days, at Lady Florence’s insistence. So good for the children to have her about, Florence said. Helena agreed and promised to stay until Ash grew better.

He healed in a remarkably short time. Ash spent only one more day in bed. The next, he was up and bellowing for Edwards to help him dress. He remained in indoor clothes—light suit covered with a banyan and slippers, and shut himself into his library.

Edwards assured Helena that Ash was taking the remedies as instructed, which the valet believed led to his quick recovery.

Ash ordered that Lewis, Evie, and Lily be kept from him until the danger of contagion had passed. The children were not happy about that, but Helena kept them busy writing Ash letters expressing good wishes for his health.

Lily showed Helena her finished letter, executed in stilted handwriting.

Dearest Papa, Please grow well so you can read to us again, and do not leave the exciting bits out anymore. I am old enough for them now. The very best wishes and tender feelings from your dearest Lily.

“If you married Papa, he’d never be ill,” Lily declared after Helena had praised the letter.

Helena gave her a startled look. “Gracious, I do not believe your papa would be happy with that idea.”

“Why not?” Evie put in. “The only lady he ever speaks of is you. And you fit all our requirements. First of all, you are tall.”

“Perhaps.” Helena could not find the words to argue with her and tried to turn them to other activities.

Lewis, a bit older than his sisters, said nothing, but he looked morose. His scheme for getting his father married off was failing, and he knew it.

The next morning, Helena told herself it was high time to leave. Ash had dressed to go out riding, hale once more, his schedule resumed.

Helena could not stay without causing scandal—any more than she already had by rushing to his bedside the moment she’d heard he was ill. Thank heavens she had the reputation for being a busybody and pushing her remedies on all and sundry. No one believed her to be a scheming seductress—which was a bit insulting when she thought about it.

Ash politely saw her out to Millicent’s waiting carriage, and began to hand her up into it. Helena felt his strong fingers on hers, looked down into his gray eyes, and knew she did not want to leave.

She longed to stay in his house, have him return after riding his lands and tell her all about what he’d done that day. They’d sit by the fire while he sipped brandy and she did his mending.

Helena wanted this so much she put on a frozen smile. “Good day, Your Grace,” she said, the words stilted. “I will have your aunt call on me at Millicent’s to continue discussing your potential nuptials.”

Ash stiffened, his grip tightening. “I remember telling you to give up the idea.”

“Indeed, no. I made a promise to Lewis, and I never go back on my word.”

Ash’s eyes blazed with sudden fury—his vigor had certainly returned. He pushed Helena up into the carriage, and to her amazement climbed in with her, slamming the door and ordering the driver to start.

CHAPTER 6

ASH WAS QUITE elegant in his greatcoat, riding togs, and tall hat, Helena thought as she faced him across the small space of the carriage. He skimmed off the hat and slammed it to the seat beside him, his hair pleasantly mussed. No longer unshaven and flushed with fever, he looked most civilized, yet robust.

He was handsome either way, Helena reflected, even when he had a drippy nose.

The nose today was perfectly dry and no longer red, his eyes glittering over it.

“I will speak to Lewis,” Ash said. “You must drop this nonsense.”

Yes, he was feeling much better. “You are going to upset your children, are you?” Helena asked, more abruptly than she meant to. “Tell them they must adhere to your plans without any regard to their feelings? I’ve been acquainted with you for years, Ash. You used to be far more carefree—you laughed, you danced, you played with your children. Now you are out of temper if you don’t walk a rigidly straight line down the road or if Edwards is thirty seconds late with your coffee. I wager even your sickness fled according to your schedule.”

“For heaven’s sake, woman, I was ill. I had no control over it.”

“The heart of the matter, I believe,” Helena said, trying to look wise. “You are so very angry if you do not control every person and event around you. All must behave as you wish, when you wish them to.”

“You exaggerate,” Ash answered tightly.

“Do I? You were severely polite to your guests at the ball, tried to hide in the card room, and fled into the garden at your first chance. I imagine no one was dancing evenly enough for you. Or was it because you tripped over your feet during our dance? Embarrassed that the perfect duke was the slightest bit imperfect?”

“You know nothing at all.” Ash’s rumble filled the coach. “Damn and blast you, I know why you hurried to my home when you heard I was ill—so you could control me. I could scarcely fight you when I was flat on my back, too weak to move. You dosed me so we could race back to this absurd scheme of getting me married.”

“Good gracious, your bellowing might convince me to give up the matter. I feel sorry for your bride already.”

“Excellent, then we will hear no more about it.”

The carriage bumped out through the gate and turned down the lane to Millicent’s cottage.

“If it were up to me, I would drop the question,” Helena said. “But the idea is Lewis’s, with his sisters behind him. The choice is not mine to make.”

“That is rubbish—Lewis is a child.”

“He is your child. Have you thought it through, Ash? Why they want you to remarry? Given it deep and careful thought as you seem to do problems in the government? Or did you simply dismiss your son out of hand? Let us recall Lewis’s points, shall we? Several indicate that you lose your temper—throwing your shirts at Edwards, objecting when the children are too loud and not always punctual, and adhering to timetables too much. Lewis paints an excellent portrait of you.”

“Because he is young,” Ash growled. “He does not comprehend—” He broke off, his face reddening.

“Comprehend what?” Helena asked. “Please tell me. I truly wish to know.”

For a moment, Helena thought he wouldn’t answer. Then Ash began, his voice hard. “He does not understand that if I leave off being efficient and romp about laughing, as you believe I should, I would go mad. Why do you think I plan for every minute of every day? So there is no time to sink into melancholia and dark thoughts—I did it to keep myself alive and to continue. So I could take care of my daughters and son. For them.”

He snapped his mouth shut and dropped back to the seat.

“Ash.” Helena, stunned, gentled her voice. “I understand. Grief is painful, can consume you …”

“I know you lost your husband,” Ash said stiffly. “I had much sympathy for you.”

He had, Helena granted him that. Many people believed Helena had never grieved her husband—most of London whispered about her for coming out of mourning so quickly.

“Yes, so please believe that I understand what you felt,” she said. “I know my marriage was a mistake, but I had fallen thoroughly in love with my reprobate husband. His accident took away any chance for him to fall in love with me, to make our marriage one of equal minds, to see both of us happy. I mourned, indeed, and indeed, I put off mourning as soon as I could, because wallowing in my grief endangered me of becoming as mad as you feared you would be. Donning bright clothes and accepting invitations for balls and nights at the theatre is the equivalent of you deciding you must meticulously account for every minute of your days and nights. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.”

She stopped, out of breath, realizing she’d said far too much.

Ash only gazed at her, his eyes a mystery. The carriage bumped and jounced over the rutted lane, the wheels loud in the sudden stillness.

“Be that as it may, madam,” Ash said in a low but fierce voice. “Me acting like a jackanapes is not a reasonable solution.” He snatched up his hat. “I conclude that you and I understand each other not at all.”

He banged his stick on the coach’s roof, and when the vehicle slowed, Ash flung open the door, leaping out before the carriage stopped. He slammed the door without looking at Helena and strode away through the tall grass.

Helena watched him through a blur of tears, as he walked purposefully—in a straight line—back toward his home.

ASH REMAINED in a foul mood the rest of the day. He rode to his farms—bundled up well, as Aunt Florence, Edwards, and his children chided him to—following the routine he’d established for himself.

Helena’s words wouldn’t fade, however, and in fact haunted him at every step. The heart of the matter, I believe. You are so very angry if you do not control every person and event around you.

The devil of it was, she was not wrong. No wonder gentlemen were put off by Helena—she was not only clever, but shrewd, and knew exactly what was wrong with a fellow. No gentleman wanted to hear such things from the lady he wooed.

Of course Ash was not wrong either—he had taken up his timetables and rigidity to keep himself from the insanity of grief. He’d had to remain whole in order to look after his son and daughters.

But Helena understood that too. We are much the same, Ash, whether you believe it or not.

Damn the woman.

Ash spent his morning speaking to the steward about the harvest, looking over tenants’ cottages that still needed repairs, and making plans for those repairs to be done before winter set in.

Back to the house for the midday meal. Guy, who’d abruptly left for London after the ball, had returned, and he joined Ash, his always hearty appetite whetted further by his journey.

“Business to see to,” Guy told Ash as an explanation of why he’d gone, though Ash would not dream of asking for one. Guy’s affairs were his own. “Heard you were low. Glad to see you better.”

Ash slid away his empty plate and reached for his tea. Guy intercepted Ash’s cup and dropped a dollop of whisky into it from his flask.

“Enforced rest and home remedies,” Ash said as he sipped the doctored tea. “Aunt Florence, my valet, and Mrs. Courtland were my jailers.”

Guy’s brows shot upward. “Mrs. Courtland? Interesting. You look the better for their tending.”

“I am quite cured.” Indeed, Ash hadn’t felt this well in an age.

Ash firmly changed the subject, and they spoke of mutual acquaintance and Ash’s plans for his estate until they finished tea, and Ash headed for the garden. The children would be out any moment, ready for their afternoon’s respite.

“Is Mrs. Courtland about?” Guy asked as he followed Ash. “Or did she race back to London as soon as you were cured, to continue ferreting out a wife for you?”

Ash scowled. “I have no idea. I saw her off this morning—back to her friend’s house on the other side of my park.”

Guy studied him with interest. “Saw her off? She was staying here?” At Ash’s nod, Guy’s tone softened. “Was she, indeed?”

“To nurse me,” Ash said abruptly. “Aunt Florence recruited her.”

“Ah, I see.”

Ash lost his patience. “It is clear that you don’t.” He turned abruptly, hearing the voices of his daughters.

He bent down, his troubles falling away as he waited for Evie and Lily to run to him. Ash rose with one daughter in the crook of each arm and carried them along the path, Lewis running behind. Guy joined them as they tramped to the wide space in the middle of the garden, where a lawn around a fountain made a soft place for the children to play.

Again, Helena’s words came to him. You adore your children and take every sort of care for them.

She’d told him her husband had only known his father from afar. Ash’s father had been a bit less stand-offish, but when Ash had been young, the custom had been to keep the children quiet and out of the way as much as possible. Ash’s father had been plenty busy running the estate and sitting in the House of Lords—as Ash was now—but Ash had vowed that when he had children, he’d not be a stranger to them.

Ash had ordered a few cricket bats and balls to be left on the green, and now he slid off his frock coat and spent a pleasant time showing his daughters how to bat the easy balls Guy tossed them, and teaching Lewis how to refine his pitch.

Lily enjoyed the game, though Evie was more content watching the others. Evie read much, and as her sister and brother ran about, she whisked a book from her pocket and buried herself in its pages. Ash did not admonish her—he for one, thought women should be well-read and learned. The gentlemen Helena described who were put off by it were idiots.

As they rested on the grass, Lewis had to pull out the be-damned letter describing Ash’s perfect match. Ash had sworn the letter had been thrown away or burned—Edwards had taken it at his request—but here it was in Lewis’s pocket.

“We have been thinking, Papa,” Lewis said in his serious Marquess of Wilsdon manner. “About whom you should marry.”

Ash sat up abruptly but tamped down his impatience, not wanting to snap at his son. “I believe I have said we should forget all about the matter.”

Lewis nodded. “I was in error when I proposed that Mrs. Courtland should help find a wife for you. Evie, Lily, and I have discussed it, and we have concluded that your perfect match is Mrs. Courtland herself.”

Ash went still. All three children watched him anxiously, Evie with a worried expression, Lily in hope, Lewis remaining solemn. Ash expected to hear Guy laugh, but his friend was strangely silent.

“Lewis,” Ash said warningly. “No.”

Lewis took on the stubborn look Ash often saw in his own reflection. “You told me that when I faced down opposition in the House of Lords, I should be ‘clear, concise, and unafraid’. And so I put it to you.” He lifted the paper, his fingers shaking a bit. “She must be tall—Mrs. Courtland is only a few inches shorter than you. I saw you kiss her in the garden, and she did not have to stand on her tiptoes at all. She must not be too thin or too wide. Mrs. Courtland is right in between, as you would have discovered when you put your arms around her. She must like children—she does like us, even when we are unruly and late for supper. She does know how to sew—when you were sick, she sat with Aunt Florence and mended your shirt.”

Ash could not stop himself touching the sleeve of his shirt—he’d torn it while helping fix the thatch. He imagined Helena’s eyes on her competent stiches as she and Aunt Florence gossiped and sewed.

“She must not adhere to timetables, and must teach you to leave off them,” Lewis continued relentlessly. “I have heard Mrs. Courtland argue with you about your timetables, and I believe she will persuade you to leave off them. You ought to propose to her very soon, perhaps marry her by Christmas. That way, you can start the Season with a wife.”

Lewis folded the paper, his face holding dogged resolution. Evie peered at Ash more fearfully, Lily lifting her chin. Guy, lounging on his side, said nothing at all, tactful for once.

Ash’s jaw was so stiff he could barely move it to reply. “I believe I told you to leave it alone, Lewis. Now give me that letter and go to the nursery. Take your sisters with you. Return to your studies, and we will speak no more of this.”

On the rare times Lewis angered his father, he’d duck his head and say a quick, “Sorry, sir,” and all was forgiven.

This time, he kept his gaze on Ash, with a strength Ash had seen budding in him for some time. “When you were ill, sir, you stayed far from us for our own good,” Lewis said. “I am insisting on this for the same reason.”

Ash shook his head before Lewis finished. “Not the same thing at all. You do not interfere with another man’s personal business, or his life, or choose his path to happiness, no matter how well-meaning you might be.”

Lewis pushed out his lips, rendering him a sullen little boy instead of the well-reasoned man he strove to be. “You interfere with our lives all the time. We want a mum and someone to look after you. Why must you be so unyielding?”

“Unyielding,” Lily echoed in a whisper.

Ash climbed to his feet. “That is enough. Go.” He pointed to the house

His children had learned to obey when he took that tone. Lewis and his sisters rose, all looking more unhappy than chastised. Lewis clasped Evie’s and Lily’s hands and they started together down the path. Lewis had retained the letter, Ash noted.

As they went, Lily looked over her shoulder, the sorrow on her face enough to break Ash’s heart.

“Well,” Guy said, coming to stand next to him. “That seems to be that.”

“It is. I am finished with this. If Mrs. Courtland is still staying with her friend, I will have her sent back to London.”

Guy wrinkled his forehead. “A bit much. You can’t order her about, you know, unless you do make her your wife. Then again—I don’t readily picture Mrs. Courtland obeying your orders, no matter what.”

“Her friend lets the cottage from me—it is part of my estate,” Ash managed to answer. “They stay or go at my pleasure.”

He squared his shoulders and marched for the house. He heard Guy’s voice behind him— “This will be interesting …” but Ash resolutely ignored him.

A FEW DAYS LATER, Helena was pleased to accept Lady Florence’s invitation to a garden party at Middlebrook Castle.

She’d heard nothing from Ash after their quarrel in the carriage, hadn’t even seen him, though she’d kept an eye out for him everywhere. She knew he surveyed his estate each morning, but she hadn’t been able to contrive a reason for turning up at one of his outbuildings, or at the home of one of his tenant farmers. Nor had she been able to glimpse him riding across the fields, upright and handsome on a horse.

She was bewildered then, as she strolled a path in Ash’s beautiful garden, very near to where he’d kissed her, for Mr. Lovell to fall into step with her and exclaim, “Good heavens, you’re still here, Mrs. Courtland?”

Helena blinked at him. They were relatively alone, Millicent having charged off to gossip with Lady Florence. Helena had preferred to wander, lost in wistful memory. “Still where?” she asked Guy.

“Here. In Somerset. I thought you fleeing back to London.”

Helena halted in puzzlement. Ash’s neighbors milled around them, enjoying a spate of warm weather that had returned with late September and engendered the impromptu garden party.

“Why should I be fleeing to London?” Helena asked. “Millicent has invited me to stay through Christmas, and I saw no reason not to accept.”

Guy looked confused. “Didn’t Ash tell you to go?”

“Ash? No. I haven’t seen him since he declared himself well and fit again.”

Helena did not add that he’d stormed at her and had kept himself scarce ever since.

Guy opened and closed his mouth a few times in a comical way, then he took on a look of grim determination. He seized Helena by the elbow and steered her toward an empty part of the garden.

“In that case, may I speak to you a moment, Mrs. Courtland? I have a very important question to ask you.”

“PAPA!”

Lewis’s urgent whisper took Ash’s attention from a bishop he politely listened to—and thank heaven. The man was pompous and deadly dull.

Ash caught sight of his son crouched in the deep shadow between a hedge and a fountain. Lewis beckoned to Ash furtively but desperately.

“Will you excuse me, sir?” Ash said, cutting through an explanation of finances in a parish in Buckinghamshire—the man was trying, in a roundabout way, to touch Ash for money. “A visitor I must see to.”

The bishop looked annoyed but bowed his head on his thick neck. “Of course.” He moved on in search of the next guest he could beleaguer.

Before Ash could demand, “Lewis, what is the matter?” his son tore free of the bushes and bounced on his toes in agitation.

“You must come, Papa. Quickly, before it is too late.”

“Why? What has happened?” Ash’s heart raced, fear for Evie and Lily clawing at him. Were they hurt? Lost? Fallen into the stream? He started for the end of the garden, but Lewis caught his hand and pulled him back.

“This way, Papa. It’s Mrs. Courtland. And Mr. Lovell. He’s proposing to her. This very minute!”

CHAPTER 7

HELENA WITHDREW with difficulty from Guy’s grasp. He’d walked her to a remote area of the garden and halted behind a trellis of roses that climbed over the path, shielding them from view of the rest of the party.

“Whatever are you doing, Mr. Lovell?” she asked him worriedly.

“Only declaring my devotion.” Guy put a hand over his heart then fell dramatically to one knee. “Ash is a fool, Mrs. Courtland. He does not see that you are a beautiful, kindhearted woman whom any man would want as a wife. Do tell me you’ll make me the happiest man in the world, Mrs. Courtland. Helena …”

Helena stared down at him in shock. What on earth had she done to make Ash’s closest friend spring out with a proposal? Had he observed her stolen kisses with Ash, perhaps believing her a lightskirt?

No, then his proposal might be of a more repugnant kind. Or had he truly loved her from afar? And now that Ash was furious with her, even banishing her—

But then, Ash hadn’t banished her. Had Mr. Lovell got that wrong? Or was he inventing things to make her angry at Ash?

Dear heavens, what a muddle.

Helena’s mouth had gone dry, but she called to mind the phrases she’d used when gentlemen had badgered her when she’d first been widowed.

“I apologize, Mr. Lovell, if I ever gave you cause to think my feelings for you tender—”

Her words cut off with an “Oop!” as Guy jumped to his feet and seized her hand. He didn’t pull her close, but he gripped her hand very tightly.

“You never did one thing that was inappropriate,” he said. “It is my heart that is unruly. You captured it without a word. Do say you’ll marry me, dear, dear Helena.”

“No,” came a quiet voice.

Helena jumped, her heart banging. Ash stood near the trellis, one booted foot resting on a stone bench. Lewis hovered a few yards behind him, Lily and Evie clumped around him.

“Ash,” Guy said, sounding unsurprised. “My old friend, you are interrupting.”

“I know. I meant to.” Leisurely Ash came to them, took Guy’s hand, and pried it firmly from Helena’s.

Guy glared at him. “Damn it all, man. You’re interfering with my proposal of marriage.”

“Mrs. Courtland is not marrying you,” Ash said in a hard voice.

“I am not?” Helena barely could find her breath. Ash had released Guy’s hand, but not hers. He held on to Helena’s, possessing it. “That is, no, of course I am not.”

“I see no reason I oughtn’t propose to her,” Guy said in a huff. “I’m a perfectly good catch and in need of a wife. Why shouldn’t she marry me?”

“Because she’s marrying me.”

Helena stared up at Ash in amazement. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you’re marrying me.” Ash focused his intense gray gaze upon her. “If you’ll have me.”

Helena continued to stare, her voice gone. She tried to speak, but only a croaking sound emerged.

Marry Ash? Have him look at her like this always, with softness behind his strength? Kiss her as he had before, with passion and slow warmth? Curl up with her in his bed, as she’d longed to do when he lay with nothing but his nightshirt over his well-muscled body? Only the fact that he’d been quite unwell had prevented Helena from flinging herself on him and begging shamelessly for his embrace.

“Will you?” Ash asked her, sounding less certain. “If you do refuse me, please do not give me the pain of seeing you married to my closest friend. I could not bear that.”

“Ash.” Helena found her breath, and her voice, which rang louder than she meant. “Yes! You just try and stop me marrying you.”

Lewis whooped. The girls joined in his shouts of joy, then all three began running about, turning cartwheels, Lewis kicking his legs in a handstand.

Guy grinned, looking strangely elated. “Thank you, Mrs. Courtland. Whew. For a moment there, I thought you were going to accept.”

“Oh, did you?” Helena’s bewilderment fled in a wash of indignation. “You mean you had no intention of marrying me?”

Guy held up his hands. “I’m a lifelong bachelor, me. The offspring and I had to come up with some way to remove the stick from Ash’s backside and make him propose. Not that it would be a bad thing to share a harness for life with you, Mrs. Courtland,” he added quickly. “I did not lie when I said you were a beautiful and capable woman.”

“Lovell,” Ash said in a quiet voice. “Depart.”

Guy grinned. “Right you are. Lewis—girls. Come along now. The lovebirds want to be alone.”

Lewis righted himself and saluted. Evie and Lily rushed around the trellis to Helena, a scent of late roses wafting as they flung their arms around her knees.

“Thank you!” Evie cried, and Lily said a softer, “Thank you. Mama.”

Tears stung Helena’s eyes. She sank down and gathered them close. “Oh, my girls,” she whispered. “What a gift you are.”

They hugged for a long, tender moment, then the girls swung to their father and latched on to him. “Thank you, Papa!” they cried in overlapping voices.

Ash held Evie and Lily in turn, closing his eyes. Helena hadn’t been wrong when she’d told him she knew he loved his children.

There was a jostle, and Lewis flung himself into the pile, abandoning dignity to share the embraces.

At last all three untangled themselves and dashed for the house, Evie and Lily swinging their twined hands. Guy herded them along, his rumbling voice echoing back to them.

Helena and Ash were left alone ... awkwardly. They faced each other a few feet apart, both breathing hard. Ash’s cheekbones were flushed, but his eyes held determination.

“You won’t take it back?” Helena ventured once all was quiet. “You did not ask me simply to make Mr. Lovell go away?”

“No, I do not want to take it back.” Ash’s answer was fierce, and Helena’s heart turned over. Things would never be dull between her and Ash. “Damnation, I need you to marry me.”

“Good.” Helena tentatively reached out and took his hands, her body heating when he caught hers in a firm grip. “My dear, Ash—”

She broke off as Ash dragged her to him, cupped her head in his strong hand, and kissed her.

The kiss was slow but fervent, Ash taking his time. It promised things to come, nights of passion, his hard body over hers, the two of them holding each other in the dark, staving off the autumn chill.

Ash caressed her lips with his thumb as the kiss ended, his breath on her cheek. “Helena. Love.”

Helena melted toward him then she abruptly pulled back, remembering something. “Mr. Lovell said he thought you’d commanded me to return to London.” She frowned. “Not that I would have taken any notice.”

Ash shook his head, his expression softening. “I meant to. I couldn’t bear to see you. My thoughts whenever I was with you ... The way I wanted you ... I knew my family was right that you should be my wife.”

Helena gave him a puzzled look. “Then why didn’t you tell me to leave? You could have sent Edwards with a note.”

“Because you might have gone.” Ash looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “And that would have been worse.”

“Oh,” Helena whispered, every hesitation dissolving. She slid her arms around Ash once more, feeling something complete in her as they came together. She drew him down to her and lost herself in another kiss.

This one lasted longer, roses scenting it, the sounds of laughter and the guests a long way off.

When the kiss eased to its close, Ash held Helena in a warm embrace, her head on his shoulder. She could reach up and kiss his chin whenever she wanted, feeling the brush of dark whiskers his razor could never quite take away.

“A moment.” Helena raised her head. “If I marry you, that means a wedding, which means months of planning. Weeks at the very least. We’ll both have to keep to a timetable. I believe the idea of this marriage was to dispense with schedules.”

Ash chuckled. “That is easily solved. We’ll take my coach to Gretna in the morning.”

Helena blinked. “Goodness, Ash, are you certain? An elopement? How impetuous of you.”

His smile radiated heat. “You make me impetuous, Helena. And impatient. I do not want to wait weeks or months and wade through incessant plans before I can have you.”

Helena’s body thrummed pleasantly. “I do not want to wait either.”

“Then we will go?”

“I will have to pack, of course,” she said. “But I believe I can agree to that—impetuously.”

Ash pulled her close, his arms strong, his body powerful. His next kiss stole her breath, and Helena clung to him and enjoyed it.

“I love you, Your Grace,” she whispered.

“I love you, Mrs. Courtland,” Ash said in his low rumble. “Helena. My fine lady. Thank you.”

He did not say for what, but Helena understood. Her loneliness fled in a wash of joy, and she knew his shattered as well.

More yells pulled their attention toward the house. Lewis and his sisters were leaping into the air, waving, laughing. They’d seen the kissing. Guy looked on, arms folded, appearing very pleased with himself.

Ash laughed. Helena hadn’t heard such a jubilant sound in a long time. He waved at his family, then caught Helena around the waist as the two of them headed for the waiting children, and home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Ashley has written more than 95 published novels and novellas in romance, fantasy, mystery, and historical fiction under the names Jennifer Ashley, Allyson James, and Ashley Gardner. Her books have been nominated for and won Romance Writers of America's RITA (given for the best romance novels and novellas of the year), several RT BookReviews Reviewers Choice awards (including Best Urban Fantasy, Best Historical Mystery, and Career Achievement in Historical Romance), and Prism awards for her paranormal romances. Jennifer's books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have earned starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist.

More about Jennifer’s books can be found at

https://www.jenniferashley.com

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DEAR DUKE

OCTOBER

ANNA HARRINGTON

PREFACE

When the new Duke of Monmouth, decides to put through a canal, he isn’t prepared for an old mill owner and his stubborn—but beautiful—daughter to stand in his way. War is declared, and the only person who seems to understand him is the anonymous pen pal to whom he’s been pouring out his heart, a woman not at all who she seems…

CHAPTER 1

October, 1808

Little London, Lincolnshire

OH, that man! That horrible, arrogant, power-hungry—

“Son of a duke!” Cora Bradley bit out as she stomped down the lane that wound its way along the river. The same river that the Duke of Monmouth now wanted to turn into a canal to aid the factory owners whose works were being built upstream on the River Welland in Spalding. Because while the Welland flowed fast enough to run their machines, it didn’t allow for carrying to port the products those same machines produced. The new duke’s answer? Build a lock. One that would permit barges to move easily along the river and join in with the new canal recently constructed from Boston.

The same lock that would destroy the free flow of the river through the village and put her father’s grist mill out of operation.

Apparently, the new duke was a staunch believer in progress and innovation. Her father’s mill, with its creaking old timbers and humming grindstones—a mill based upon the ancient Greek mills, in fact—was certainly not that.

Apparently, Monmouth also believed he could run roughshod over anyone who got in his way.

She reached into her pocket to give a good squeeze to the letter that she’d already crumpled in her fist that morning when the duke’s latest attempt to close her father’s mill arrived at their doorstep by liveried footman. The same letter that had snapped her patience and sent her stomping right up to Monmouth’s fancy front door at Bishopswood, demanding to speak with His Grace.

She grimaced at herself. She shouldn’t have confronted the duke like that, leaving the mill in such a hurry that she hadn’t changed and still wore her heavy work apron over her worsted wool dress. Should have given herself a day or two to tamp down her anger and reply in writing instead of confronting him. Should have been able to formulate enough words to make her case for why the mill needed to remain in place, even if just until the end of the year, instead of the angry We will never surrender! that tore out of her as if she were a British general facing down the French and had him staring at her as if she’d just sprouted a second head. Should have stayed rather than turning red with mortification and fleeing from the house. Even now she shouldn’t be cutting across Monmouth land and giving the duke or his agents cause to have her arrested for trespassing.

Instead, she should have gone to her local member of Parliament, a man who had always fancied her and would fall over himself in his rush to provide assistance. In fact, only Samuel Newhouse’s interference on her behalf had kept Monmouth from forcing construction of his lock before now.

But this letter—oh, this one had been the last straw!

To think that he could threaten her by convincing Parliament to pass a new canal bill, giving him rights to destroy whatever structures necessary to ensure the building of His Majesty’s canal, just so he could earn a pretty penny in profits from tolls and warehouses—well, His Grace certainly had another think coming! Not when her father had dedicated his entire life to that mill, not when the next closest mill was nearly ten miles further downstream and therefore difficult for most of the villagers to use. Not even when the duke had offered to buy the mill and at far more than its fair value, which was decreasing more and more every day as a result of her father’s sickness. So much so that she feared the mill would soon be in debt and its grindstones up for auction to the highest bidder.

Certainly not when her father was now dying and had only his memories of a life lived in that mill to cling to. Memories of his late wife most of all, when they’d lived and worked right there on the mill site, which had been the happiest days of Cora’s life. If the mill was destroyed, her last connection to that time would also be destroyed, and happiness for her father’s last days right along with it.

She swiped an angry hand at her stinging eyes. If the newly minted Monmouth thought he could simply bully her and her father into—

Her toe caught. She pitched forward and lost her balance as she stumbled three giant steps forward before she as able to right herself. Stopping, she glanced down.

A small, dirt-covered circle stuck up from a small bump in the path. She reached down for it and brushed away the sod clinging to it.

“A ring?” Or at least, she thought it might be a ring. The oddest thing…a ring, fashioned out of what looked like an old spoon handle that was bent to encircle a woman’s small finger. Surely it had once been silver, complete with an etching of some kind on its surface. But time had tarnished it to black, covering the etching until it was no longer recognizable.

Her heart panged as she turned the ring over in her hand. A token of love. A real love that required the man to make this ring rather than simply buy a fancy one from a shop in Lincoln. That was the same kind of love her own parents had shared before her mother died three years ago. Before her father grieved so hard for her that he was soon to follow her to heaven.

She glanced around, holding her breath and listening—

Nothing. No one was near who might have dropped it.

She bit her lip. She couldn’t keep it, wouldn’t keep someone else’s token of love. But she also couldn’t take it to the manor house to inquire of its owner without admitting that she’d been trespassing on Monmouth land. God only knew what kinds of crimes the duke or his agent would accuse her of committing, simply so he could remove her from Little London and have no one to stop him from tearing down the mill. Worse—to have no one there to take care of her father.

But if she returned it to the ground or placed it on top the stone wall, would it become lost again, never to be found by its owner when she realized it was gone and traced back her steps to hunt for it?

No. Monmouth might be a vile, selfish peer who gave no consideration to a person’s property. But she would never be like that.

Taking from her pocket the pencil she used to mark the orders at the mill, she unfolded the crumpled letter and tore off a strip of paper across the bottom of the page. She laid it onto the rock wall and wrote,

I found this on the path. I hope the love it symbolizes leads you back to it.

Not daring to write her name for fear of being arrested if Monmouth found the note before the ring’s owner, she removed a pin from her hair and speared the note to the trunk of the nearest tree. Then she slipped the ring over the pin, to let it dangle in place by the note, and hurried on toward the mill.

JOHN DANIELS, Duke of Monmouth, called to the dogs to stay close by his heels as they ran ahead down the lane. He rolled his eyes when they glanced back at him, then ignored him and went bounding onward.

But of course they did. Even the hounds were smart enough to realize that he was nothing more than an imposter in duke’s clothing.

The pretense of his new life would have been laughable, if not for the fact that it was killing him.

Christ! How was he supposed to lie around, doing nothing? But that was exactly how his new life as a duke was meant to be led. Sitting around Bishopswood like a damnable piece of furniture. Having servants waiting on him at all hours, answering whatever tiny need he had and acting offended if he dared do it himself. Being told that a man of his newly acquired rank and influence wasn’t supposed to do anything even remotely resembling work, including running his estate and overseeing his business interests when he employed land agents and accountants to do it for him.

He was a man of action, his body built for hard work, and that was exactly how he’d spent most of his life—picking up a sledge hammer, a pick or shovel, an axe…whatever tool was needed as he built a series of warehouses across England that capitalized on the country’s improved transportation during the past two decades. The son of a mercantile owner, he’d started into business with only a shovel and the muscles in his back, saving his money until he had enough to buy his own warehouse along Bridgewater’s newly built canal from Birmingham. Only four walls and a questionable roof, but it was enough to earn a trickle of income that he could roll into purchasing another warehouse, which led to another and another, until he had a string of them. Soon he’d moved beyond the canals and bought several buildings in the port towns along the coast. More buildings, more income—enough to live a life of comfort.

But that life had been nothing compared to the unfathomable wealth that buried him alive last winter when an unknown cousin he’d never met died unexpectedly without an heir, slamming a fortune and dukedom onto his shoulders.

Overnight, he went from being a man of work and accomplishment to one of forced leisure, a peer who not only never had to work again but was expected not to. And he hated every moment of it.

His secretary Watson assured him that he couldn’t refuse the title. That no one in the history of England had ever refused the inheritance of a dukedom. It simply wasn’t done! Wasn’t certain it could be done, even if he insisted on it. Then the man had stared at him as if he’d fallen off a turnip wagon and wasn’t smart enough to get out of the road.

Something had to change in his new-found life, or he would go mad. He had to do something…work, build, put his mark on the world beyond adding his name to a long list of dead Monmouth dukes. Which was why he was championing the canal project through Little London. Beyond the undeniable good it would do for the surrounding area, the additional jobs and income it would bring to workers and their families, it would give him the sense of purpose he craved.

If the frustrating woman at the mill would simply get out of his way.

Miss Cora Bradley. The woman was beautiful, no doubt about that, with eyes that could see right through a man and a smile so brilliant that it could cut glass. She was an undiscovered jewel in an otherwise ordinary village who could have given any fine lady in London a run for her money when it came to raw allure. Even when she’d stormed into his house that morning to confront him about his latest offer regarding her father’s mill, dressed in a brown worsted wool dress and dirty apron, her toffee-colored hair piled loosely on top her head, she possessed a spirit that was breathtaking.

But with that beauty also came the obstinacy of a mule.

In aggravation, he snatched up a stone from the lane and hurled it into the woods to set the dogs on chase.

A more stubborn, outspoken woman he’d never met, one unafraid to face down a duke and raise all kinds of trouble for him in Parliament with the local MP. One so committed beyond reason to keeping that little mill in operation that she’d refused to listen to logic about how the village would benefit by the dozens of new jobs that would be created by the factories further upstream. She’d flat-out refused his offer to buy the mill and the little freehold parcel of land on which it sat, at a price so far above what it was worth that any other reasonable business owner would have jumped gleefully at it.

But oh no. Not her. She stormed past his butler and right up to his desk, jabbed her finger in the air, and boldly declared, “We will not surrender!”

When she spun on her heel and marched out, he stared at her, stunned speechless. He knew then that this fight was a long way from finished.

A movement by the trees caught his attention, and he halted in his steps.

A bright whiteness, small and fluttering. Surely nothing more than a leaf stirring in the afternoon breeze. But as he walked closer, he saw the note pinned to the tree trunk, along with a tiny metal hoop—

No, not a hoop.

A ring.

He lifted it from the pin and examined it, and nostalgia twisted at his lips. Then his smile blossomed into a full grin when he read the note. After his encounter with Miss Bradley that morning, it gave him a needed lift in spirits.

So did the ring. He turned it over in his hand, and a distant memory emerged from the far back of his mind. His grandmother’s ring. She’d had one just like it, fashioned by his blacksmith grandfather, who’d been unable to afford anything more expensive. But that ring was more precious to her than all the jewels that his new-found dukedom could have bought, because it was made specifically for her. A ring as unique as their love.

Lost so long ago that the engraving was illegible, with the black tarnish most likely permanent, the ring’s true owner would be impossible to find. Certainly not through an unsigned note pinned to a tree. But whoever had left it here was optimistic enough to believe it could be reunited with the woman who had worn it and completely forgiving to whomever had lost it.

“If only Miss Bradley could be that forgiving,” he muttered before continuing his walk and whistling to the dogs to follow.

He couldn’t have said why three hours later he returned to the tree with a thank you note that he pinned to the trunk, or why he slipped the ring into his pocket to take it back to the house with him. But he knew exactly why he left his note unsigned. Because he wanted to be someone other than Monmouth. Because he wanted to be nothing more than a man whose grandmother wore the same simple ring.

CHAPTER 2

AND SO BEGAN a back and forth of pinned notes…

My grandmother had a ring like the one you left on the tree. My grandfather made it in his own blacksmith shop, and I remember playing with it as a child in front of the hearth fire in their little cottage while she told me stories about ghosts and fairies. My grandfather died young, but my grandmother lived until an elderly age and never tired of telling me how much I reminded her of him, just as strong and determined, just as hard-working…

You are so very fortunate to have those memories. I never knew my grandparents on either side. My mother passed away a few years ago, although my father tells me that I remind him of her. I have her hair and eyes, her temperament. Not a day passes in which I do not think of her. You will probably consider me foolish, but at night when I cannot sleep, I talk to her, sharing my problems and little triumphs of the day. I would like to think that she is proud of me…

I am certain she is…I am rereading Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Do you like to read the old books? There was a copy tucked onto a shelf in my bedroom, and I could not resist opening it.

Re

-reading Spenser? My! You did not lie about being hard-working and determined. Yet surely you garnered enough sermons on virtue and goodness the first time through. A second heart-felt reading would undoubtedly elevate you to the level of saintliness fit for a vicar! I tease in good-natured fun, having enjoyed many hours reading Spenser…many,

many

hours. (Unless you are a vicar. In which case I give my sincerest apologies.)

P.S. – I dearly hope you are not a vicar.

I am the furthest thing from a man of the Church, as you would notice the moment you saw me. I am somewhat unnerved to hear how good of an education you must possess to have read Spenser—and understood it. You will catch me out now for a lack of a formal education and will see through my façade to label me what I am…a simple man to whom fate has either been amusingly capricious or incredibly cruel. It is too soon to tell either way.

Well…as long as you are not a vicar.

WITH EVERY NEW DAY, a new note…

Fall is my favorite time of year. The poets say that it is a dying time, but how wrong they are! Nature’s bounty in all its goodness, the labors of a hard-worked summer finally bearing fruit, the crackle of frost and change in the air…Can you feel it?

If I knew where you lived, I would bring you a basket filled with apples and pears, chestnuts and figs, even a small pumpkin—and I would place a new journal on top so that you could write your own poems and prove all those other poets wrong.

My poetry is lacking in…well,

everything

. I lack the wit of Chaucer, the depth of Shakespeare, the allegory of Milton…

Not with your perceptions of the world. Did you not only a few days ago describe the blue morning haze over the fields at dawn so vividly that I felt the chill of the damp dew? You will have to try much harder to convince me that you lack a poet’s soul.

Ode to a Country Field (Mouse)

The morning sun is round, yellow and bright,

As it chases away the dark o’ night. Look there!

What’s that? I see a sight!

A field mouse that gives me such a fright!

Perhaps your talent lies in playwriting…

ALWAYS UNSIGNED, always sharing nothing about their identities. Only the magic created by the notes, the slow revelation of their deepest fears and desires…sharing those secrets that they would never dare to reveal to anyone else.

My heart longs to run away from this place. Not that this place is wrong necessarily—but to see the world, to feel the rush of adventure that pumps the blood through a person’s veins and makes her feel truly alive. I want to taste new foods, meet new people, see new places I have only read about in books…

And I long to be able to sit still. My body seems to be in perpetual motion, never content unless I am moving, building, doing…

If only we could switch places. I would take your motion, and you could stay here, connected to Little London, with its villagers and fields, with its lazy river that never wants to go anywhere faster than a slow ramble. Every day feels as if life is passing by, yet I cannot do anything to stop it.

It is the darkness of night that bothers me, when I am unable to sleep and the rest of the house is quiet and still around me. Thoughts come then that tell me that I am a fraud, that I am sleeping in a bed that belongs to another man, that my life is not this existence…

My father is dying, and there is little anyone can do to help him. He worries about what will become of me. I will be fine. I am strong and determined, capable of making my own way. I share this not to ask for help or pity, but because sharing it makes it real. If I tell you, putting voice to it within these letters, then I must believe it myself.

MORE LETTERS, more sharing of heart-felt desires and secrets, until…

Should we meet?

CORA STOOD in the lane and bit her bottom lip. Another pinned letter awaited her at the tree.

A nagging curiosity had made her return to the lane the day after she’d found the ring, to see if anyone had claimed it, only to find a reply.

Of course, she’d responded to that note. How could she not, when she read the depth of emotion it conveyed? The correspondence had simply gathered speed from there, with notes coming every day and bringing new secrets, dreams, and confessions.

She didn’t dare reveal her name nor ask for his, although she’d garnered bits of information about him through the personal details he’d shared. Such as that he was a him in the first place. New to the area. From honest, hard-working stock who appreciated a job well-done and cared about his family and friends, so not at all like that pompous Monmouth. Yet he was also a well-educated man of self-reflection. She’d taken more pleasure in those little notes than she’d dare admit and found herself looking forward to her walk so she could claim the latest missive in their surprising exchange. Each one was a treasure, making her laugh at something witty he’d shared, see the world in a new way, commiserate, or feel a pang of sympathy.

Until the note from two days ago. Which simply surprised the daylights out of her.

He wanted to meet her in person. No—not anything that certain. Not even a suggestion, really. Just simply pondering if they should…yet it stunned the breath from her.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Eventually, they would have to share their identities and perhaps meet. But she simply hadn’t expected it so soon, and just when she’d come to count on those letters to distract her from the problems with the mill and caring for her ailing father.

The animosity between her and Monmouth had only grown during the past few weeks. The Little London lock was now the only obstacle in preventing the completion of the canal, and her father’s mill was the only obstacle preventing the construction of the lock. The entire canal project had come to a halt at the foundations of the mill. While the canal was stalled, however, the arguments she fought with Monmouth had only increased. Or, they would have increased, had she gone back to Bishopswood, had they come across each other in the village, had she not taken Samuel Newhouse’s advice and left the fight to be settled in Parliament. That option gave her little hope, except that she knew how slowly Parliament acted these days, slowly enough that perhaps the entire canal project would be forgotten by the time they moved to tear down the mill. Or perhaps her father would have passed away by then, rendering the fight meaningless.

Still, she’d given her word to Mr. Newhouse and to Papa that she would avoid any direct confrontations with His Grace. Which was why she was standing in the middle of the lane as the sun was setting, coming here only when she knew she wouldn’t accidentally meet the duke.

But she hadn’t expected to find this note.

She wasn’t certain there would be another, since she hadn’t answered the last one from two days ago, the only one she hadn’t answered since the letters started coming.

Yet there it was. Not an ordinary note pinned to the tree, either. Composed of thick cardstock, it dangled from the lowest bough by a ribbon, folded carefully, and sealed with wax. As if he were worried that she might never answer unless he made a formal overture.

Fearing he wrote something inside that would reveal his identity before she was ready, she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and opened the note. A second card lay nestled inside. Then all of her shook as she scanned over it.

An invitation to the Monmouth masquerade.

She choked back a startled laugh. No, not an invitation to a ball—an unwitting request to infiltrate enemy territory.

Perhaps I surprised you when I suggested that we meet.

Not surprised. Downright stunned!

I simply wanted to meet in person the charming creature who’s been leaving me these notes, to have the chance to speak of all that we’ve shared. I’d hoped you’d wanted that, as well.

She did want that…just not so quickly. If they met in person and it went wrong, there could be no going back to their exchange of letters and the intimacy they’d created with them.

I have an idea, one that protects our secrets. We’ll meet at the masquerade, where we’ll be hidden behind the safety of masks and fancy dress.

Yes, they would have to be. Because she’d be tossed out as soon as she revealed her face.

Please accept this invitation and meet me there. I’ll be at the ball, dressed as a black panther. Should you decide to attend, do not tell me your costume. You will be able to find me and then decide whether you want to approach or leave, keeping your secrets in place…although I’ll be very disappointed if you leave.

A faint smile tugged uncertainly at her lips. She was tempted to meet him. And what a brilliant idea, too. She would be given the opportunity to see him first, then decide if she wanted to press on and speak with him or leave, with him never knowing which lady she was or if she’d even arrived.

So very tempted! Who was this man? Did they know each other beyond the letters? Would they like each other once they came face-to-face and had no more letters to hide behind?

Oh, how could they not?

With a soft laugh, she clutched the invitation to her bosom, then hurried away. After all, the ball was in less than a week, and she had the perfect costume to make.

CHAPTER 3

One Week Later

The Monmouth Masquerade

GOOD GOD, he was nervous! Surrounded by a sea of masked guests inside Bishopswood’s ballroom, John tugged once more at the sleeves of his black kerseymere jacket.

He nearly laughed at himself. When had he ever been nervous about a woman before in his life? In his younger days, he’d bedded more women than he could remember, sharing in all kinds of pleasures with down-to-earth women from the markets, inns, and villages. In more recent years, he’d been too busy with his business to spend much time in pursuit of the women of the gentility that his new money brought him into contact with. Since he’d inherited, though, it was society ladies who vied to capture his attention, those women who were more than eager to raise their skirts for a wealthy duke. But they did it because they wanted favors from him, or for the titillation that came from being bedded by England’s newest duke. He rejected those ladies outright, knowing he’d find no pleasure in them, because they wanted to be with the title and not with the man.

But the woman who pinned those notes to the tree knew nothing about the title or his status as one of England’s most powerful men. He suspected that she wouldn’t care even if she did. At least he hoped she wouldn’t, preferring the true man he was. God knew how much he liked her. She was an intelligent, kind, and philosophical creature who had captured his imagination.

If she were half as beautiful in person as she was in her letters, he feared that she might also capture his heart.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, more so he could continue to take glances toward the top of the stairs over the rim than for the drink itself. His eyes hadn’t strayed far from the landing all night, although how he would know her when she arrived, costumed and hidden behind her mask, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would. And that she would come at all. When he’d returned to the tree to seek her response, the invitation was gone, but she’d left no reply. Nor did she write even once during the past week.

Since then, he’d kicked himself repeatedly that he’d pressed her to meet, fearing he’d gone too far. Would he ever hear from her again?

Quashing his worry, he watched as the parade of new arrivals appeared on the landing and handed their invitations to the Master of Ceremonies, who announced them based upon their costume…Lord Tiger, Lady Peacock, Lord Green, Lady Venus. Tonight was a true masquerade, with all identities hidden until the midnight unmasking. He’d insisted on it. His guests knew that he lurked somewhere within the house and would eventually join the party, but they had no idea that he was already there, hidden among them. For a few precious hours he wanted to be nothing more than one of the crowd, so that he could enjoy the party himself before they set upon him like locusts in their rush to curry his favor. Most of all, he wanted time to enjoy the company of the woman who had written all those letters.

A lady in red appeared at the top of the stairs—

His glass lowered away. No, not her.

He had no idea what his secret authoress would look like or what costume she’d wear. If she’d appear at all. But he knew he’d feel her presence when she arrived, the way old sailors felt oncoming storms.

Like some infatuated nodcock, he’d tried to catch her a few weeks ago. He’d posted a stable boy in the woods, just out of sight of the lane, to watch for whomever was leaving the notes. But the woman never came during the hours that the boy was there, only for the notes to appear as if out of the morning mist or midnight glow. Like magic.

After a few days, John called off the watch. He should have respected her wishes and trusted that she would reveal herself at the right time.

Which he prayed was tonight.

He tossed back the rest of the champagne and set the glass aside. Admittedly, though, he was also glad for the distraction the notes had presented during the past few weeks. Cora Bradley was still giving him fits over the mill, a business so small that it took in hardly any orders at all outside the fall harvest and winter season. One that was rapidly sinking so far into debt that soon he wouldn’t haven’t to worry about removing it himself to construct the lock—the creditors would do it for him, one board at a time.

Were the woman and her father mad? He simply couldn’t fathom them or why they refused to accept the offers he’d made. The only answer he’d gotten from her was a letter four weeks ago from Samuel Newhouse, flatly refusing to sell and stating her position that the new duke couldn’t buy or bully his way into upending their lives, and he hadn’t seen her since the day when she’d declared like a general that she’d never surrender.

Apparently, she’d meant it.

She’d managed to stall work on the lock and back him into a corner where his next move could only be asking for an act of Parliament. A move he certainly didn’t want to take, preferring willing cooperation over legal edicts. But if the lock wasn’t built soon, the canal wouldn’t go through. All of his planning and work would come to naught, and he’d be left with nothing more to do, no work to engage in. It would kill him.

White flashed at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to the landing—

Her.

A low tingle rose inside him as he watched her give her invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. His breath hitched with nervous anticipation despite a soft chuckle to himself as her name was announced. Lady Swan. A graceful, gliding vision in white silk and feathers, one in perfect opposition to the black clothes of his panther, of her softness and elegance to his hardness.

Her gaze moved over the ballroom below as she slowly descended. Halfway down the stairs, she found him and stopped.

Holding her gaze across the room, he held out his hand toward her in invitation, as if she were only a few feet from him rather than across the grand ballroom. The party faded away around them until it was only the two of them. No one else in the room mattered.

She drew in a nervous breath, her slender shoulders stiff. Then a smile spread beneath her white satin half-mask, and she moved on, gliding down the remaining stairs and into the crowd which parted around her as she came to him.

As she reached him, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a waltz.

Wordlessly, she slipped her trembling hand into his. He raised it to his lips, unable to resist this small kiss, then led her forward to the dance floor, to take her into his arms and twirl her into the waltz.

CORA LAUGHED as happiness bubbled through her, the soft sound rising and falling with the music that swirled around them. He led her through the steps, and they moved together as if they were one, oblivious to the party around them. She knew only the warmth of his brown eyes as he held her captive beneath his gaze from behind his black mask, his attention fixed on her as if she were the only woman in the world.

He gave her fingers a light squeeze of reassurance. The soft gesture raced up her arm and landed in her chest, making her heart race like a drum and her breasts grow heavy.

“Lady Swan,” he murmured with a curl of his sensuous lips. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you,” she answered breathlessly, knowing it wasn’t the waltzing that was stealing her breath away, “my Lord Panther.”

His eyes gleamed. “Sweet heavens, you are beautiful.”

Thank God that she wore a mask, or he would have seen the scarlet flush of her cheeks despite her soft laugh. “But you cannot see my face!”

“I don’t need to.” Another squeeze to her fingers, this time with a shift of his body to draw her slightly closer. “I’ve seen into your soul and know how precious you are.”

She would have stumbled if not for his strong arms that kept her securely in position. “But,” she whispered, unable to find her voice, “you don’t even know my name.”

“Yet I know you nearly as well as I know myself.”

They reached the end of the ballroom and started back in a series of turns that left her light-headed. No—he made her light-headed with his stare, warm and rich like melted chocolate, and his seductive words that twined down her spine.

“Names hold no significance.” He lowered his head to murmur in her ear. “You’ve revealed your heart to me in your letters. I know exactly how beautiful you are, and it has nothing to do with how you look.”

Before she could say the same about him, the waltz ended. He dropped into a low, formal bow to match her curtsy, but when she rose to walk off the floor, he stopped her.

“Give me another dance.”

She wanted nothing more. But she knew society’s rules, even if she’d never been part of it. “Two dances in a row with the same man is scandalous.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re wearing masks.” He took her hand between his, unwilling to let her go. “I just found you, Lady Swan. I can’t bear to give you up so soon.”

His hopeful gaze undid her. How could she resist?

With a nod, she took her place for the next dance, and when the quadrille started, oh, how glad she was that she’d agreed! They moved back and forth, close and away, and something about the roiling knots of dancing couples struck her as more intimate than the waltz had been. Snatches of conversation when they came together, curious gazes when they parted…enough for her to realize that he was broad shouldered and physically fit, that his black clothes clung to a muscular body used to hard work, that his jaw was firm and masculine, his hair curly dark brown and most likely as silky soft as it looked.

Her fingers itched to touch his hair. And to trace along his jaw, to brush over those lips—more, she wanted to kiss those lips. Those full yet strong lips that even now twisted into a lazy grin as he audaciously returned her stare, as if he knew exactly what improper thoughts were racing through her mind.

She lost count of the number of dances they shared, but not the number of times he smiled at her. Nor could she ignore the electric tingle that sparked through her with every brush of his hand against hers, or the heat that blossomed inside her from the way he watched her…the way he made her feel as if she were truly as beautiful as he’d claimed.

When the dance ended, she was breathless and beaming. The masquerade was proving to be the grandest night of her life, and all because of this man, whose real name she still didn’t know. Whenever she’d asked during the dance for his given name, he’d only murmured, “Later,” then circled away.

“My lady.” A deep voice at her shoulder caught her attention, and she turned to find a man beside her dressed as a tiger. But for all his finery, he sorely lacked in comparison to her panther. “May I request the next dance?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he interjected as he stepped to her side with an easy-going smile that belied the sudden tensing she sensed in him at the approach of the other gentleman. “Lady Swan has given her evening to me.”

He took her arm and led her away toward the wall of French doors that opened onto the garden terrace and let in the fresh night air to cool the crowded room.

“Lady Swan has, has she?” He wouldn’t be able to see the arched brow beneath her mask, but from his low chuckle she knew he heard it in her voice.

He leaned down to bring his mouth close to her ear. “At least, I hope she will.”

A shiver swept through her, and not from the cool evening air as he led her outside onto the terrace and into the shadows, where they could finally be alone.

“Perhaps she would,” she countered playfully as she stepped away, her hand trailing up his arm as she moved past, “if she knew the name of the man she was with.”

He grinned at her obstinacy. “John.”

Her shoulders sagged. That wasn’t at all helpful. For heaven’s sake, half of the men in England were named John. “Just John?”

“For tonight, yes.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, to place a lingering kiss of apology against her fingers. “If you learn more, you might not like me so much.”

Never. Oh, he was simply wonderful! “I like you a great deal,” she admitted in a whisper, so soft that it was almost lost on the night. “I can’t imagine anything changing that.”

“I certainly hope so, because you have utterly captivated me.”

At a loss for words, she melted, sinking against the marble balustrade behind her.

He stepped toward her to close the distance between them. Not releasing her hand or breaking eye contact, he eased the long white glove down her arm and off. This time when he kissed her fingers, there was nothing between his warm lips and her bare skin.

The sensation was overwhelming, and a soft sigh eased from her lips.

“I want to kiss you.” He turned her hand over to touch his lips to her palm.

She swallowed. Hard. “I think you are.”

“A proper kiss.” His mouth trailed up to her wrist, and he smiled against her pounding pulse at discovering the effect he had on her. “To taste the sweetness of you.”

God help her, she wanted exactly that. More daring than she’d ever been with a man before, she caressed her bare hand over his jaw. The warmth and strength of him pulsated beneath her fingertips.

“Then kiss me.” Her answer was nothing more than a breath. “Please, John.”

Closing her eyes, she held her breath. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, then moved away.

Her eyes fluttered open, bewildered. Was that all? Disappointment rang hollowly through her. It was barely a kiss, when she’d craved so much more!

Sensing her frustration, he placed another delicate kiss to the corner of her mouth, then slid his lips across her cheek, following the line of her mask to her ear. “If we were alone,” he promised her, each word a titillating warmth that tickled over her skin, “truly alone, without fear of anyone stumbling upon us, I would give you that kiss. And so much more.”

To make his point, he traced the tip of his tongue along the outer curl of her ear and sent a shiver of heat shuddering through her. Her hands slipped lower to his chest, to clutch at his lapels and keep him right there with her. So close that the heat of his body warmed her front, that his masculine scent of leather, port, and cigars filled up her senses and made her head swirl.

“But tonight,” he warned, “we must make do with what we can steal.”

He removed his glove and caressed his thumb over her bottom lip while he took her earlobe between his lips and gently sucked. A sound of longing fell from her, and she touched the tip of her tongue to his thumb, to encourage him to give more caresses, more stolen kisses.

Instead, he trailed his hand down her neck, to the hollow at the base of her throat. He strummed his thumb against her wildly beating pulse, before his hand moved lower to the top of her chest, where her heart jumped against his fingertips and her breath came quick and shallow. An ache began to tingle between her legs, although his hand was nowhere near there.

“We could…find a way…to be alone,” she whispered as his lips slid once more over hers to claim a kiss in passing.

He froze, tensing beneath her hands as they rested against his chest.

When he didn’t reply, she nervously added, “If you’d like.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her pressed against him as he buried his face in her hair and laughed. The low sound rumbled deliciously into her. Then he released her and shifted back to his original position, close but not touching except for his lips at her ear.

“I would like nothing more.” As his deep murmur vibrated through her, he dared to lower his hand to steal a caress of the side of her breast through her satin bodice. “Because then I could tell you all the wicked things I wanted to write to you in my letters but couldn’t, and we could do all that we dared.”

His hand fell away. A whimper rose on her lips at the unexpected loss of his touch.

“But we cannot.” With a knowing gleam in his dark eyes, he stroked her bottom lip with his thumb in a caress that hinted at so much more. “Something tells me that you’re still innocent,” he murmured as he slowly explored the shape of her lips He was kissing her with his fingers the way she longed for him to do with his mouth. “And if we were alone tonight, you might not be innocent much longer.” He slid his lips across her cheek, once more to her ear. “Because I would make love to you, if you let me.”

She trembled, the excitement and temptation of his words sending her pulse spiking. Goosebumps dotted her skin, and she could barely breathe beneath the intoxicating masculinity of him. She closed her eyes, swept away by him and the midnight magic, and confessed in a whisper, “I would let you…”

A deep breath seeped from him, his hardness replaced by a new tension. One that was dark and dangerous. So much more intense…a yearning that both excited and frightened. The same yearning he flared inside her.

He placed slow and tantalizing kisses to her ear, and she whimpered, never realizing before how erotic secret whispers could be. How delicious a man’s mouth at her ear, how tender her earlobe between his lips. She slipped her hands beneath his jacket to cling to his waistcoat. Although he refused to be drawn closer to her physically, he was already inside her head and her heart.

He dared to brush his hand over the low neckline of her dress, with a featherlight caress over the swells of her breasts. His scandalous touch should have offended her. Instead, it stoked the growing ache between her legs that now turned into a dull throbbing.

“You know what happens between a man and a woman,” he murmured, “How a man makes love to her?”

“Yes.” She’d become feverish with the images his words stirred inside her head. He was making love to her now, she realized, right there on the terrace, surrounded by the crush of partygoers, with his whispered words, soft kisses, and stolen caresses.

“We would do that, love, and I would show you how much you mean to me, how beautiful you are.” He kissed her lips, his mouth lingering against hers in brazen promise. “I would give you all the joy a man can bring to a woman, until you shatter with bliss in my arms.”

Her head spun trying to fathom him and the pleasures he was describing. She could barely find her breath now. Couldn’t find the strength to open her eyes, in fact. If he did to her as he promised, then—

A loud cheer went up from the ballroom, accompanied by a flourish from the musicians.

Surprised, she opened her eyes and gazed straight into his, only to lose her breath completely at his predatory stare. As if he wanted to carry her away into the shadows and devour her, like the panther he was dressed to be.

“Midnight,” he rasped out in explanation, his voice hoarse.

She’d lost track of the hour. Not that it mattered. She was his for the evening.

He slipped his hands behind her head. “It’s time.”

She blinked. “Time for—”

He pulled free the ribbon holding her mask in place, and it fell away. Startled, she grabbed frantically for it, but the satin slipped through her fingers and landed on the marble at her feet.

Her face revealed, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. Monmouth would see her. He would have her arrested for certain now for trespassing, or accuse her of theft, or—oh God, it would be the end of her and her father!

She tried to push past him to flee, but he grabbed her elbow and stopped her.

He stared at her, his eyes wide behind his black mask. For a moment, he was too stunned to move as his gaze swept over her face, then down her body, taking her in and trying to understand the woman who stood before him.

Panic swelled inside her as the party guests spilled out onto the terrace, making it impossible to hide in the shadows. Someone would see her. Recognize her—

Oh, dear God, no! She shoved past him and ran, back inside the house and through the crush toward the front door, disappearing into the night.

CHAPTER 4

JOHN dug his heels into his horse’s sides and urged the gelding faster across the field. Two nights without sleep. Three days without a note of explanation. Three damnable days of wondering what Cora Bradley had been up to in leaving him those notes. In accepting the invitation to the masquerade. In letting him whisper such things to her that the mere thought of them had his blood boiling in a way that the act itself with other women had never done.

Christ.

She knew who he was. Had to have known all along—

No. She didn’t know. Just as he had no idea until he removed her mask that the exquisite creature who’d captured his imagination through all those letters and stolen kisses was the woman who’d become the bane of his existence.

Apparently, she still didn’t know, or the exasperating Miss Bradley would surely have been at his doorstep by now, demanding an explanation. At gunpoint.

If anyone deserved an explanation it was him. What the devil had she been doing on Monmouth land in the first place, then returning after dark, alone, when it wasn’t safe? He could have been anyone, for Christ’s sake. A criminal. A murderer.

“A damn duke,” he ground out through gritted teeth and lowered himself closer to his mount’s back to urge him on faster.

But all the horses in all the world would never be able to outrun the vexation that ate at him over learning her true identity. Or that even now he wanted nothing more than to carry her away and make love to her.

Unable to stop himself, he reined in the gelding and turned the horse toward the lane that cut through the edge of the woods and past their tree. He didn’t expect a letter after so many days, but his foolish heart wouldn’t give up hope.

He saw it as he neared, appearing on the tree as if through sheer will. He didn’t trust it not to be a mirage. Even as he unpinned it from the trunk, he worried it might be nothing more than a fancy of his imagination.

Then he paused. He’d read dozens of her letters since they’d started their exchange, but this time, the note had his given name written on the outside of the fold. Nothing would be the same between them again.

I wish I could explain why I left the ball the way I did—had it been only we two, I would have stayed and danced away the night with you. We could have watched the sun rise together over the fields at the break of a new day, with new hope, new possibilities…

He clenched his jaw. He’d selfishly wanted just that, and more. But she’d ended those possibilities when she fled. Even after all they’d shared, she refused to trust him once the masks fell away.

I went to the ball looking for a friend and was instead exposed to the enemy.

His heart stuttered. She meant Monmouth. Him.

Damnation, he wasn’t the enemy! If she’d only waited a few seconds more, only saw who he was behind the mask and let him explain—

She would have hated him.

His eyes burned as he read on.

That night was a mistake. Not you, John—you were wonderful, perfect, everything I could have imagined.

Except that he was Monmouth. The man who wanted to put her father’s mill out of business.

We should never have tried to meet, I know that now. Our world should have remained one of letters, where we were safe. So there will be no more notes from me. I hope you understand how much you and your letters meant to me and that I will always carry you in my heart.

Understand? She thought he was the devil himself. A mistake. The enemy. Everything except what he wanted, which was to be accepted as the man he was. He snapped out a curse at her, at himself, at the universe—

He didn’t want understanding. He wanted an explanation. He deserved one, and not in some letter but from her own lips.

He mounted his horse and urged it into a gallop toward the river. And the mill.

Because it was mid-afternoon, the mill was quiet. The door was thrown open to the warm October day, and he paused in the doorway to remove his gloves and allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside.

An older man stuck his gray head over the stair railing to call out to him from the floor above. “Good afternoon!”

“And to you.” He stepped inside. “Are you the miller here?”

“Aye.” He grinned good-naturedly and came stiffly down the stairs. With each step, his hips and knees hitched, making him resemble a wooden marionette.

John furrowed his brow at how the man moved. He’d never met Arthur Bradley in person before. He hadn’t been at Bishopswood long enough to meet most of the villagers by simply coming and going through the area, and all the interactions he’d had regarding the mill had been through Cora, with no reason to visit the mill in person when he could send his estate agent or secretary instead and spare himself her wrath.

Now he regretted that distance.

Bradley wiped the dust from his hands as he approached, then frowned at John’s appearance. He wasn’t dressed like someone who brought grain to a mill. “What can I do for you, sir?”

So…Bradley didn’t recognize him. Good. With a smile, he glanced around at the building’s main floor and dodged the question. “You’ve got a fine mill here.”

“Thank you.” Bradley slapped his hand affectionately on one of the beams. “She’s small but fierce.”

He chuckled at the Shakespeare reference. Now he knew where Cora got her wit and education. “And apparently Greek.”

Bradley’s eyes shined in surprise. “You know your mills.”

“Not nearly as much as I should.” The irony behind that was biting. But Cora wasn’t here to give him the explanation he wanted. He slowly circled the small grinding room. “It was an easy guess, since you don’t have a mill wheel or sluice.”

“Aye. Don’t need them. The river’s deep and fast enough to drop a shaft below.” Like a proud parent, he gestured John over to the grinding mechanism and millstones. “We’re built out over the river, so the current drives the paddle below, which turns the bottom grindstone.”

He arched a brow, his knowledge of mills coming to an abrupt end. “The bottom stone?”

“Mills with wheels and windmills rotate the top stone. Ours rotates the bottom. The grinding takes up less room this way, and there’s less mechanism to upkeep.”

“But your stones are also smaller than others I’ve seen.” John waved a hand to indicate the grindstones. “Which means you grind less grain and take longer to do it.”

Not the best situation for a business. No wonder they made such little profit. Even in a small village the size of Little London, where cows and horses outnumbered the villagers, the mill should have been busy year round.

“Had to build the mill this way. Had no choice.” With a haunted smile, Bradley released the brake to start the wheel turning, then moved over to the large bin that stretched up to the first floor and pulled the lever to spill more grain down onto the grindstones. “I’d fallen in love.”

John’s gaze darted to the miller, but the man’s focus never strayed from the grain falling evenly onto the turning stones.

“I started this mill in order to win my wife’s hand.” He glanced around at the dusty old beams and bags of flour stacked against the walls that were ready to be picked up, the large scale that hung from the central beam, the dozen or so pieces of paper that listed each order pinned to the wall behind the counter in the corner and stirred slightly in the soft afternoon breeze coming through the open doors and windows. “Lucy’s father refused to let me marry her until I was able to provide for her and our children, but all I owned in the world was this tiny piece of land. It wasn’t big enough to farm, but it had trees that I could use to build a mill and the water to power it. So that’s what I did. Had to go into debt to purchase the grindstones, though.” Nostalgia touched his voice. “Took me three years to pay them off, and all that time Lucy waited. She could have had any man in the village, but she believed in me.”

And that was where Cora inherited her resolve. “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“Aye, she was.” His eyes glistened, and he looked away, back toward the turning stone and the flour that had begun to fall away to the bin below. “She worked here in the mill with me until she passed.” He crossed to the central pillar and rubbed his hand over a heart and initials carved into the wood, brushing away the flour dust that had gathered there. “Anyone who sees this place thinks it’s only a grist mill, just like any other up or down this river. But when I see it, I see my wife, and when I work here, it’s as if she’s still with me.” He gestured his hand to indicate the entire building. “This is all I have now, this mill and my daughter. This place is my life and my heart.”

“I understand.” And he did. More than Bradley realized. He understood now why Cora had so fiercely resisted the lock and canal, why she’d refused to sell the little mill even when he’d offered her father twice its value. Because it was priceless.

Just as he realized how much he loved her for it.

“Ah, but time marches on, doesn’t it?” Bradley chuckled at his own sentimentality and precariously stepped onto a short stool to peer into the bin to check the grain level. “Don’t know what will become of this place once I’m gone. My daughter cannot run it by herself.”

“That’s a concern far into the future.”

Sadness darkened his face for only a heartbeat. “Not so far,” he mumbled, then wiped his hands on his apron as he stepped off the stool, his old knees jarring as he landed. He jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “You caught me in the midst of filling the hopper.”

“Then by all means, let me help you.” When Bradley eyed his clothing askance, he warned, “Don’t be fooled by appearances. I cut my teeth on hard labor. I reckon I can still lift a bag of grain of two.”

Bradley laughed and led him up the stairs to the first floor, just as stiffly as he’d come down.

John wrestled the open grain sack over to the chute in the floor that led down to the bin below and poured in the wheat. He hurried to pour in as many bags as he could to fill the hopper so that Bradley wouldn’t have to exert himself.

“My gratitude for the help.” Bradley slapped him on the back when the last of the grain rained down into the bin. “But you didn’t come here to fill my hopper. Nor do you have grain to grind or flour to buy.” He gazed at John critically. “So what can I do for you?”

John leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest, studying the man carefully. “I want to tell you a story. And then I need your help in figuring out how it will end.”

CHAPTER 5

CORA SLID a sideways glance at Monmouth’s profile as he sat next to her on the bench seat of the dog-cart they’d taken out onto his estate. He wasn’t at all the man she’d expected him to be. Which raised the question…what kind of man was he, exactly?

This was the third day in a row that they’d driven out to the far reaches of his property to visit his tenants. Yet this was the first day that he’d sent his groom on ahead, leaving them alone without a chaperone. But she supposed she didn’t need one, not when she wasn’t a fine lady who needed to protect her reputation at all costs. Not when driving with a man was a perfectly normal thing to do in the country. No one who saw them together on the dog-cart would have given them a second thought.

Except for her.

Her eyes narrowed on him. What did he want with her? She’d come along to help him distribute baskets of little whatnots—candles, a small bag of flour, a few eggs, figs, and apples, all tucked into the little box beneath the cart’s seat—and to check in on each family to make certain they all had what they needed before winter arrived. A noble outing, she had to concede, yet she’d only agreed to accompany him because he’d come in person to the mill to ask for her help and give her an opportunity to make him beholden to her.

And because Papa had insisted. Although why her father would agree, she had no idea, but she thought she’d sensed an odd camaraderie between the two men during the past three mornings when the duke arrived with his carriage to start their day.

Grudgingly, she had to admit that she’d enjoyed the time they’d spent together, including their picnic luncheons taken on blankets beneath trees when they’d stopped for an afternoon break. He’d proven to be more witty and sharp than she’d given him credit for, with the intelligence necessary to efficiently run his estate yet with an empathy for the people who lived there. And he certainly possessed a drier, yet far funnier, sense of humor than she’d assumed.

What surprised her most, though, were his keen observations about the land and nature, his detailed descriptions of what he’d learned so far about his new estate that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. The man possessed a poet’s eye. While that stood in contradiction to the ruthless businessman she knew him to be, the juxtaposition didn’t make her uneasy. Instead, she was loath to admit, he fascinated her, right down to his well-worn boots that showed he was no stranger to hard work.

No longer bothering to try to hide her uncertainty about him, she turned to face him on the small seat and demanded, “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.” He flicked the ribbons and quickened the pace of the trotting horse. “The Duke of Monmouth.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved a gloved hand, dismissing that too-easy answer. “But who are you? You’re certainly not behaving like any duke I’ve ever heard tell of, going out of your way to take baskets to your tenants yourself when your land agent could easily do it.”

Should have done it, in fact, leaving the duke at the manor where his kind preferred to be, rather than having to interact with people who might not know where the next rent payment would come from or blame him for their tenuous situations. Who had every reason to dislike the new lord and tell him so. Right to his face.

Instead, what she’d heard at every farmhouse and cottage they’d stopped at was how kind he was as a landowner. Bringing them baskets and checking on them personally was simply proof of that in their eyes. More, they gushed with excitement about the potential opportunities they credited him with for creating jobs for them and their extended families at the factories to the northeast. Thanks to his canal, the one that her father’s mill was currently stopping.

Comments like those gnawed at her. She would have suspected he’d somehow bribed or forced the farmers and their families to say such things in front of her, except that she knew several of the tenants personally and knew he’d never be able to coerce them like that. No, their sentiments toward the man were genuine, drat him.

“I’m a new duke who only received this title and land due to a fluke of birth,” he explained with chagrin. “A new duke who doesn’t know what to do with all he’s been given because he’s used to working hard to earn everything he’s ever gotten before in life. That’s who I am.”

The tiny muscles in her belly tightened in empathy. “Your Grace, I had—”

“John, please.” With that correction, he cast her a long, hopeful glance. But he didn’t seem to garner the reaction from her that he’d wanted, and his shoulders sagged. “When we’re out here alone, like this, I would prefer that you call me by my Christian name.”

“All right,” she agreed, a bit reluctantly. He might be a new duke who was unsure of his position, but he was still a duke.

“As for this week’s outings, I’m doing them because I want to get to know my tenants, and I can’t do that through a land agent, no matter how good the man is at his job. I also want to let them know that I’m approachable and always ready to listen to their concerns.”

Hmmm…“Are you?”

His lips quirked into a half-grin. Then he surprised the daylights out of her by pulling off his right glove and daring to reach up to stroke his knuckles over her cheek.

He drawled, “I think I’m very approachable.”

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him, stunned at his audacity, as her heart somersaulted in her chest. He’d overstepped his bounds, by a goodly ways, yet inexplicably she couldn’t find it within her to scold him for it. “I meant about listening to their concerns.”

“Oh.” With exaggerated disappointment, he dropped his hand away. “That, too.” His eyes shined mischievously as he stole a sideways glance at her. “But I prefer being approachable.”

Based on the way her pulse raced, he was very good at it, even if he’d meant it only as a tease. She should have been relieved to know that he was simply bamming her, yet inexplicable disappointment panged hollowly in her chest. “Then why won’t you listen to my concerns about the mill?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t argue that she was wrong because he was doing exactly that. He’d refused to discuss the mill and the lock during the past three days, despite having hours together to work through their issues and perhaps find a solution. Every time she attempted to bring it up, he changed the subject. So she hadn’t tried to bring it up at all today. Until now, when he’d given her the opening.

“Why ruin a perfectly good mill, John?” The use of his name came easier than she expected, given both that he was a duke and that he shared the name of her secret correspondent. But half the men in England were named John, and Monmouth certainly wasn’t her John. She would know him instantly, even without his mask.

“Why ruin a perfectly nice day by talking about it?” He dismissed her concerns with a flick of the ribbons and a turn of the horse toward the village.

She sat back on the seat with a heavy sigh, once more thwarted in her attempt to discuss the mill.

It had been a perfectly nice day, although she’d never admit that aloud. She’d even looked forward to it, especially the luncheon when the two of them sparred over literature and philosophy, discussed art and all the wonderful places to explore in the world. He’d been self-educated, as was she, and she found him to be as intelligent as anyone who was graduated from university. Moreover, he didn’t hold her in disdain the way she thought he would. He’d surprised her when he’d asked for her input regarding the estate and the village, then downright stunned her when he listened carefully to her opinions and actually gave them worth.

Already she missed their luncheons, knowing after today that there would not be others.

Just as she missed the letters that had stopped coming.

“I know a man named John,” she ventured quietly, spurred on by the ache that flared in her belly at the memory of the masquerade.

He tensed, his shoulders stiffening, but kept his gaze fixed on the horse’s ears. “Lots of men are named John.”

“I suppose.”

When she fell into contemplative silence, he nudged her with his shoulder. “And this John you mentioned, he lives in the village?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s one of my tenants, surely.”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Well, what’s his surname?”

She shook her head.

“But you said you know him.”

“I do,” she shot back defensively. “I know that he’s good and kind, hard working, and intelligent. That he loves his family and has the heart of a poet. He’s sympathetic, considerate, caring—” Dashing, alluring, enthralling…with a gaze that could see into her soul and a touch that had her yearning to surrender.

Until the night of the masquerade, when her mask came off and the magic vanished. When the reality of her father’s mill came crashing back.

“Well, he sounds like a remarkable man,” he mused.

“He is.”

“And nothing like me.”

Far too similar, in fact. But she’d never tell him that. “Not in the least. You’re both two very different men.”

His mouth twisted at that, as if he knew she’d just lied to him. But he let the subject drop and said instead, “We’ve got two more baskets to deliver today, to two cottages on the way back to the village.” He paused as the large wheel dipped into a depression on the dirt road. “Would you be willing to come out with me again tomorrow?”

Oh yes! She shrugged a shoulder as nonchalantly as possible. “I suppose, if you need help with the baskets.”

“I won’t need help with the baskets.” He nudged her again, but this time by touching his thigh to hers. “I just want to spend time with you.”

That quiet confession sparked a faint thrill inside her. She knew not to become infatuated with him. For heaven’s sake, he was a duke, and she was a miller’s daughter. They had no honest future together, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who let men bed her. Not even dukes. Not even ones as handsome and interesting as Monmouth.

But she simply couldn’t resist. The only other man who had made her feel as beautiful and intelligent as Monmouth had during the past few days was no longer part of her life, and she simply wasn’t strong enough to deny herself this small happiness. No matter how fleeting.

Yet the future of her father’s mill continued to hang over them, and she knew that he’d refuse to discuss it tomorrow, just as he’d done today. Unless…

A perfectly devious idea struck.

“We have two baskets left?” She turned in the seat to try to look behind at the wooden box beneath the seat of the dog-cart where they’d conveniently placed them. “Two baskets? But I’m certain there’s only one.”

He darted a glance at her. “Are you sure?”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps we should stop and check. How awful to arrive at the cottage without a basket.”

He reined in the horse, then set the brake and tied off the ribbons. When he jumped to the ground and started to the rear of the dog-cart, she snatched up the ribbons, released the brake, and started the carriage forward.

Surprised, Monmouth scrambled to catch up with the carriage as she drove it away at a slow pace. She certainly wasn’t used to driving, even an easily handled carriage like this, and her hands clenched around the ribbons so tightly that her fingers were white. But she was in no danger, not at this slow pace, and certainly not with this horse, whose plodding gait would have been fit for a child’s pony cart.

“Just pull back slowly on the ribbons, and the horse will stop,” he explained, falling into a walking pace beside the carriage.

She slid him a narrowed glance as if he’d gone daft. “I don’t plan on stopping and letting you back onto the cart. Not until you agree to discuss the mill.”

“I don’t want to ruin an otherwise nice day by—”

She flipped the ribbons, and the horse sped up, forcing him into a faster pace. He’d give up soon and relent. After all, his boots were not made for walking. “I want to discuss the mill.”

“Terms of surrender, you mean,” he chided, now having to bounce along in a jog.

“Terms of negotiation,” she corrected. “Surely a duke knows diplomacy when he sees it.”

“Or at least blackmail,” he grumbled.

Another determined flip of the ribbons, and the horse started into a fast trot.

With a curse, he grabbed the dashboard with one hand and jumped up onto the mounting step on his left foot. He swung himself up onto the cart.

When he slid onto the seat beside her, his hand covered hers to take the ribbons from her. But his other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to him, bringing her so tightly against him that she could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her bosom and the pounding of his heart, echoed in the rapid pulse of hers.

When she tried to push herself away, the frustrating man refused to budge, except to bring the horse to a stop. His eyes never left hers even as he threw the brake and tied off the ribbons.

Anger flared through her, but so did something else just as hot, just as consuming. “How dare you—”

He kissed her, so unexpectedly that she gasped against his mouth. But beneath the caresses of his sensuous lips, the gasp turned into a low sigh, and her hands that had been pushing at his shoulders to shove him away now clutched at his coat sleeves to keep him right there, pressed tightly against her, kissing her.

Her head swam. Not at the realization that Monmouth was kissing her, this same man who wanted to destroy her father’s mill. Not even because he was a duke.

No, confusion rushed over her like a wave because of the heady sensations of pleasure and need he stirred inside her. She didn’t think any man except for her John could have this same effect on her, could kiss her so knowingly and with such affection. She tasted the same longing and need on his lips that she’d tasted on John’s the night of the masquerade, felt in his strong arms the same tenderness behind his need.

But this wasn’t her John. This man was Monmouth. This man was—

“My enemy,” she whispered breathlessly against his lips.

HE FLINCHED as her words eviscerated him. “We’re not enemies, Cora,” he murmured as he slid his mouth back along her jaw to kiss at the tender flesh beneath her ear. She trembled in response, and his lips smiled against her. “How could we enjoy this so much if we were?”

“I don’t—” she forced out between panting breaths, her hands still clutching at his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“But you do enjoy it…being kissed by me?” His hand slid up to her nape, to massage seductively at the base of her skull.

“Yes,” she admitted and closed her eyes, although he couldn’t have said whether in shame or pleasure. But she didn’t pull away and instead slipped her arms around his neck.

“And when I caress you?” He slowly stroked his hand down her elegant neck, to rest his thumb in the hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse beat wildly there. “Do you enjoy that, too?”

She arched herself into him. “You know…I do…drat you.”

He laughed as he captured her mouth beneath his again, this time to ease her lips apart and slip his tongue inside to plunder all of her kiss. Her breath hitched when he slid his tongue over the length of hers. But he cajolingly teased until her hesitation fled, and she dared to stroke back in a silky soft glide that shivered heat straight through him.

He seized her mouth in a blistering kiss that left her panting and boneless in his arms. The kiss he’d wanted to give her the night of the masquerade but couldn’t for fear of being seen. The kiss he’d fantasized about since he first tasted her lips on his. But this was so much better than he’d imagined, with a sweetness beneath the arousal that left him slightly dazed and yearning for more.

Not releasing her, he slipped his arms around her and drew her up onto his lap. Then, behind her back, he tugged off his gloves and let them fall to the floor of the carriage. He wanted nothing between them when he caressed her.

“And this?” His hand rested on her side, his fingers tracing over each rib through her corset as he slowly worked his way upward. When she trembled, he had his answer. “If I dared to caress higher, would you let me?”

His thumb stroked teasingly against the side of her breast, daring her to accept the caress he so desperately wanted to give her.

“Say yes, and let me give you this pleasure, too.” This one and so many, many more that he wanted to share with her. Never before had he cared about giving a woman pleasure; intimacies had only been about his own needs. But with Cora, bringing her pleasure pleased him. Immensely.

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips, and her fingers curled into his hair at his collar, in a soft entreaty not to stop.

He caressed her breast against his palm and gently massaged her fullness. Her nipple drew up taut in eager response, but there were too many layers of material for her to truly feel how glorious a man’s touch on her breasts could be. So he gently tugged down at her dress and all the layers beneath, until he freed a single breast to the afternoon sunlight.

“Dear God, you’re beautiful,” he rasped out as he traced a fingertip over her dusky nipple. It drew up impossibly tighter, like a dark pink rosebud, and when he plucked at it with his fingers, a plaintive whimper fell from her. He kissed her reassuringly, to convey that he knew exactly what her body needed, and gave her a gentle pinch that shot pleasure into her with a gasp.

When she tore her mouth away from his, he thought she might have changed her mind and would stop him. Instead, she buried her face against his neck and shyly whispered, “Yes…Oh please, yes…”

His foolish cock flexed at the arousal in her, so intense that she shook from it. Sweet Lucifer, how much he wanted her! And he meant to have her, too.

But not yet. There were still too many barriers between them. Now, he’d have to settle for this small taste of her.

He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. When he began to suckle lightly, she pressed herself harder against him, and her fingers clutched at his hair to keep his mouth tightly against her. He swirled the tip of his tongue over her, then lapped at her between greedy suckles, the combination of licks and sucks and nips of his teeth making her writhe on his lap. If she kept that up, she’d discover exactly what having his mouth on her did to him.

If fondling her breast brought her this much pleasure, then he could only imagine her reaction if he took a more intimate touch.

“I want to caress you,” he murmured against her hot flesh. “Right where you’re aching to be touched.”

She tensed with surprise, and when he looked up into her eyes, he saw her bewilderment that he could know what sensations bloomed inside her. But of course he knew. Through her letters and the night of the masquerade, he knew all of her desires. Just as he knew that no other man had ever touched her before.

He slipped his hand beneath her skirt and brushed it up her leg, pausing when he reached the top of her stocking. When she didn’t tell him to stop, he dared to let it drift higher, until he teased his fingers at the feminine curls guarding her sex. Each of her breaths came labored with nervous anticipation, and he could feel the damp heat of her just below his fingertips.

“Yes.” Her lips formed the silent word, but it was all the permission he needed. He stroked his hand over her feminine folds. Sweet heavens…she felt like liquid silk, so soft and smooth beneath his fingertips.

“John,” she whispered achingly.

He smiled against her shoulder. He loved to hear her say his name, when she knew exactly who the man was who was bringing her such pleasure. Almost. She didn’t know that the Duke of Monmouth and the John from her letters was the same man. Guilt pricked at him that he couldn’t tell her and reveal all, but it couldn’t be helped. Not just yet.

“Soon, my love,” he promised with a kiss to her temple, and meant every word. “I’ll make love to you soon.”

Her hand clamped down on his wrist, stilling his hand. “No.” Her eyes flared with a haunted look. “We cannot—I cannot…”

“Because we’re not married.” He knew why she would keep herself from him and respected her even more because of it, yet that didn’t stop the disappointment from pouring through him.

“No,” she whispered. “Because you want to destroy the mill.”

They stared at each other, silent and still except for the pounding of his pulse in his ears and her gradually steadying breaths. Both of them were flush with desire and arousal, both aching and yearning for more. But there was more than just layers of clothing between them, and those problems couldn’t be solved with a few loose buttons and lifted skirts.

“Because I’m still the man you think is your enemy,” he murmured.

At that blatant truth, she lowered her face away, but not before he saw the glistening in her eyes. His chest clenched as he slowly drew his hand away from her and smoothed down her skirts.

She slipped off his lap to return to her place beside him, putting even more distance between them than before. Except for lips swollen from kisses and cheeks flushed pink from desire, anyone looking at her would never realize how close he’d been to making love to her.

“If things were different between us, if I wasn’t the man who wanted to put through a canal and you weren’t the miller’s daughter”—He couldn’t resist reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear—“would you let me love you?”

“But things aren’t different,” she dodged softly, her shoulders falling.

“Oh, I think things are very different now.” And if he had his way, they’d be even more different in the coming weeks.

“You’re a duke and I’m a villager. I could never be anything more to you than a mistress.”

No, you could be my entire world. “I’m just a man. One you know so much better than you think.”

She lifted her face, and her watery eyes held his, in silent challenge to his assertion. “Do you still want to put through your canal?”

“I want to bring jobs to the area, good jobs that will make certain that all families have enough food to eat and candles to chase away the darkness, rather than just those tenants who happen to have a kind lord of the manor. Why is that wrong?”

“At what cost to my family and to our village?” She shook her head in frustration. “What good is being able to buy grain if there’s no one who can grind it into flour for them?”

When a tear slipped free and fell down her cheek, he knew they were at an impasse. No amount of kisses or caresses—or letters pinned to trees—could soothe away her pain.

Silently, he pulled on his gloves, then reached for the ribbons to drive them back to the mill.

CHAPTER 6

THE BUTLER BOWED HIS HEAD. “His Grace will see—”

With a determined stride, Cora stormed out of the drawing room past him and through the house to the study. She clutched Monmouth’s latest proposal for the lock in her fist.

The nerve of that man! To send this proposal now—oh, he deserved the tongue lashing she planned on unleashing. His Most Noble Dukeness could go rot for all she cared!

Except that she did care, which was the worst part of it all.

Since their embrace, Monmouth had been exceptionally gracious to her and her father, who had an amused glint in his eyes every time the duke paid a visit to the mill. As if Papa didn’t recognize the man as the enemy. Monmouth had gone out of his way to seek her out…to invite her on drives through the countryside and walks through the village. To invite her to sit in his pew during Sunday service. To help him deliver the bags of flour he’d purchased to give to the orphanage in Spalding and to the vicarage in Little London, where he’d spent time in both places playing with the children. He’d even asked for her help in paying visits to three widows who had managed to stay on in their small cottages after their husbands had died, all of whom had gone on repeatedly about what a kind man he was.

Drat him! It was incredibly hard to hate a man whom children and widows adored.

Which made her wonder—was he doing all this simply to charm her into relinquishing her opposition to the lock and canal? Or was he hoping to get her back into his arms? The past few weeks felt as if he’d set a task for himself to convince her that he wasn’t the enemy after all.

But with this latest proposal for the mill, he’d proven himself to be nothing more than a wolf in duke’s clothing.

“You have gone too far,” she declared as she charged into his study. “What kind of scheme are you planning now, Your Grace?”

He rose slowly from behind his large desk, placing his hands flat on the desktop as he leaned toward her. “A grand one.” When he gestured toward the chair in front of the desk for her to sit, she obstinately remained on her feet. “You’ve read my solution, then.”

“How is this a solution?” In frustration, she slapped the letter onto the desk. “It’s simply another attempt to close my father’s mill!”

Which hurt more than she wanted to admit, because she’d hoped that in all the time they’d spent together that he would have realized she and her father had no intention of dropping their opposition to the lock. And that he wasn’t a heartless aristocrat who cared nothing about what happened to them.

“If I wanted to close your father’s mill, I would have already done so weeks ago and built the lock. There would have been nothing you could have done to stop me.”

His voice was slow and controlled, but she couldn’t deny the truth behind his words.

The river ran through Monmouth land. The only reason she’d been able to keep the lock from being built so far was because her father’s mill perched along the river on a freehold, and Parliament wasn’t ready to toss over private landowners for the sake of progress, not even the small ones like her father. But she wouldn’t be able to keep up the opposition for much longer. Samuel Newhouse had told her only days ago that a new act was going before Parliament that would allow the crown to do just that—seize whatever land it liked for canals, as long as the seizure benefited the general population. A new stretch of canals connecting growing factories to the existing network of waterways would do just that.

“Then why haven’t you?” she forced out through her growing frustration.

“Because I have no intention of shutting down your father’s mill. What I want to do is move it. Every last board and stone.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. Something about the way his eyes shined triggered a memory at the back of her mind, yet one that remained in the shadows…

“I’m proposing a compromise.”

“This isn’t a compromise.” She tapped an angry finger on the letter from his secretary. He hadn’t even had the decency to bother to write to her himself. “Our mill requires a fast current. There’s no where else along the river that provides that.”

“There is if we build a sluice for it, to channel the water so that it moves quickly beneath the mill. You’ll have more than enough power to grind flour day and night.”

“We can never afford that.”

“I can. Especially if I give you the new plot of land where it will sit.”

Her heart slammed brutally against her ribs. She didn’t dare hope—“But you want to move it onto Monmouth property. You wrote that in your proposal.”

“Yes. And closer to the manor house.”

“Why?” Surely, he wanted the opposite—to put her as far away from him as possible.

“Because it will make it easier for you to oversee the mill.”

He’d gone mad. The mill would be further away from the village. “My home is—”

“Here in Bishopswood Hall.” Electricity pulsed palpably between them as his gaze locked with hers. “Where you’ll be living with me as my duchess.”

The air knocked from her lungs, and then she did sit. Rather, she collapsed into the chair as her knees buckled beneath her.

She stared at him, her mouth falling open. This was a joke—he had to be joking…except that it wasn’t a very humorous joke, and his handsome face was serious as he waited for her to reply. To say anything.

But in her stunned state, she couldn’t find her voice except to squeak out, “Pardon?”

Not breaking eye contact, he reached into the desk drawer and retrieved a stack of letters, secured with a red ribbon.

“I should have told you sooner.” He set them on the desk. “As soon as I realized who had been leaving those letters for me.”

For him? The world fell away beneath her, and her fingers dug into the chair arms to keep from spinning away with it. No. Not him. For John. The man she’d danced with, the man who had made love to her with his words—

The man who was standing right in front of her.

“But you’re—you’re—” She choked, her eyes stinging.

“John Drake,” he replied quietly. “The man who sent you all those letters.”

She couldn’t look away, couldn’t release the death grip her hands held on the chair. Even now, the floor rose and fell beneath her, stealing her breath and making her heart pound so hard that the rush of blood through her ears was deafening.

He reached into the drawer again, this time pulling out the white swan mask. “The man you danced with at the masquerade.” Slowly, he circled the desk to stand in front of her. He set the mask on top the letters, taking a brief caress of its satin. “The same man you wanted to spend the evening with.”

The same man she’d wanted to make love to her.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory of the things he’d whispered to her, how he’d kissed and caressed her, how she’d reacted—impossible! That was John. He could not have been Monmouth.

Yet he had her letters, her mask…and the way he’d felt when he’d kissed her as Monmouth had stirred the same delicious sensations she’d felt when she’d been kissed by her masked John.

He knelt on the floor in front of her and covered her hand with his. Caressing the backs of her fingers until she loosened her grip on the chair arm, he folded her hand in both of his. “You had no idea who I was?”

“None,” she whispered, then caught her breath when he lifted her hand to kiss it.

“And if you’d known I was Monmouth?”

She bit her lip, then honestly whispered, “I never would have left that first letter.”

He laughed and squeezed her hands, as if she’d said the most perfect thing to him rather than insulting him. “Thank God that you did.” He reached up to cup her face in his palm. “I cannot begin to tell you how much those letters meant to me, that you were sharing your deepest thoughts and secrets with someone you thought was simply an ordinary man, or that you wanted to spend the evening with me. The man I am, not the title that was thrust upon me.”

“I don’t care about any of that.” She’d meant the words as a scolding, but they emerged as a throaty whisper.

“I know.” With a smile, he caressed his thumb over her bottom lip and made it shiver. Just as he had the night of the masquerade. “Which is why I love you.”

Her heart stopped. When it started again, the foolish thing raced with a happiness it had never felt before.

But her head knew differently.

“But you don’t. You’re…”

“The enemy,” he finished for her, his smile fading into a frown. “I’m not your enemy, Cora. What I am is a man who has fallen in over his head and needs you to help rescue him. You’ve seen during the past few weeks what my life as Monmouth is like.” Another caress across her lip. “I cannot do this without you. Beyond that—” He rose up to touch his lips to hers, drawing a surprised inhalation from her. “I simply adore you.”

He kissed her again, this time so slowly and tenderly that she completely lost her breath. Her hand reached up of its own volition to touch his cheek, to feel his warmth and strength. She closed her eyes and drank in the overwhelming sensation.

He slid his lips over her cheek and back to her ear. “Tell me…do you love him, the man who sent those letters? The man who danced with you, who whispered words of love to you in the shadows?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

He shifted back to cup her face in both hands. “Then love me, too.” Her eyes fluttered open, and the expression on his face took her breath away. “Marry me.”

Oh, how she wanted nothing more! But they weren’t living in a fairytale masquerade, and she sadly shook her head as the hot tears blurred her vision. “I’m a miller’s daughter,” she choked out. “You’re a duke.”

“I’m also a warehouse owner. Before that I was a builder in construction, and before that, I started as a day laborer, digging ditches.” A stray tear fell down her cheek, and he brushed it gently away with his thumb. “Do you think you could lower yourself enough to marry a ditch digger?”

He reached into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the ring she’d found in the lane all those weeks ago. The same ring that started it all. But now it had been freshly polished until it gleamed, a portent of a shiny new future for them. Together.

He slipped it onto her finger. “Cora Bradley, will you marry me?” He raised her hand to his lips to place a kiss to the ring. “Not the duke, but me. The man who loves you.”

Her heart was so full that she had no idea how it was able to keep beating. But it did, even as another tear slipped free. She rested her hand against his cheek, the ring shining in the sunlight.

“I wanted him to be you,” she admitted in a trembling whisper, unable to speak louder through the happiness that consumed her. “So much…” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his, sharing her heart’s last secret. “I love you, John. I love you.”

Then he kissed her, finally giving her the embrace she’d craved since the night of the masquerade—the one from the man whose name she now knew, a name she couldn’t wait to take as her own.

TWO MONTHS LETTER, they went together to the tree and pinned one last note to its trunk. Then she placed the old spoon ring onto the nail, not needing it now that it had been replaced just that morning by a gold wedding band.

To whomever comes across this note…We found this ring on the path, and then we found love. We dearly wish the same for you. Give it to the one you love, and let love open your hearts to a lifetime of possibilities. Together.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

As you probably realized, this novella is a Georgian adaptation of You’ve Got Mail, starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, which was itself a late 20^th century retelling of a by-then familiar story. Two people expressing their love through their letters is a story for the ages, to my knowledge stretching back to Eloise and Abelard in the 12^th century. A modern twist on the old story turned the two lovers into rivals. This was the version presented by Hungarian playwright Miklós László, whose 1937 play, Parfumerie, was the inspiration for the 1940 movie starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan, The Shop Around the Corner. In 1949, the play was turned into a movie musical, In the Good Old Summertime, starring Judy Garland and Van Johnson, and later into the Broadway musical, She Loves Me, in 1963, and finally into You’ve Got Mail in 1998.

No matter the time period or location, whether 1990s New York, 1930s Budapest, or 1800’s England, the essential lesson remains—the heart knows that the heart wants, and sometimes we only need to step out of its way to let love come.

Hello, my dear reader!

I hope you enjoyed spending time with Cora and John, because I had such a fun time writing their story. The hardest part? Figuring out how to turn the equivalent of modern-day emails into early 19^th century anonymous notes. But I think it all worked out just lovely, don’t you?

If you enjoy romances with hidden identities, you might enjoy the most recent books in my award-winning Capturing the Carlisles series. The Carlisle cousins are caught up in a web of treachery and treason in HOW THE EARL ENTICES, and the only person who can save them is a dead woman. And in WHAT A LORD WANTS, Evelyn Winslow’s need for adventure puts her into scandal—and into the arms of a notorious Italian painter, only to discover that he isn’t at all as he seems.

Society balls, dashing men, adventurous heroines, treachery at nearly every turn, spicy sex, and a spot of tea…what more could you want in a Regency romance?

Happy reading!

♥ Anna Harrington

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MUST LOVE DUKE

NOVEMBER

HEATHER SNOW

PREFACE

Lady Emmaline Paulson is destined to land a duke—at least that has been the expectation since she was a cherub faced babe. But she has no wish to live her life in a gilded cage, always on display. Besides, she already has her Duke—an adorable Cavalier King Charles spaniel pup she rescued from the Serpentine with the help of a handsome stranger.

Maxwell Granville, heir to the Duke of Albemarle, wasn’t fishing for love—or fair maidens trying to save drowning puppies—that November afternoon. But that’s precisely what he found, IF he can convince Emmaline that her Duke isn’t the only duke she wants in her life...

CHAPTER 1

November 1835, London

SHARP HONKING SQUAWKS, followed by the angry flapping of wings, broke through the early morning stillness of Hyde Park.

Lady Emmaline Paulson ignored the blustering geese. The large birds often haunted the banks of the Serpentine, as much a part of the park as the multi-arched bridge that separated the lake from the long water. She was much too caught up in her own pressing worries to pay them mind anyway.

Until a peal of panicked barking joined the cacophony, only to end in an abrupt splash.

Emmaline’s head jerked toward the sound, but from her position on the bridge, all she could see was the shimmer of the water between the stone balusturs on the other side. She rushed to the railing and peered over the edge.

An enormous white goose stood agitatedly soothing her ruffled feathers, as her partner strode along the high bank, posturing in satisfaction at having defended his lady.

Emmaline scanned the surface of the water, searching for the dog she suspected the gander had chased into the lake.

And indeed, a small white and chestnut head bobbed precariously, the pup’s fur plastered to its skin. Its long ears disappeared beneath the blue-brown water as it tried to paddle toward the bank.

“Poor thing,” Emmaline murmured as she watched its progress. Though many common Londoners actually bathed in the Serpentine on hot summer days, this was November. The unfortunate pup was going to be quite cold when it pulled itself from the water.

If it got the chance to pull itself from the water, that was.

For as the dog got close to the bank, the gander kicked up a veritable fuss, extending its wings and snapping its beak in a fit of feathery aggression.

The pup whimpered and changed course, trying to find another spot farther down where it might escape the chilly lake. But the goose gave it no quarter, running the shore line and threatening the poor dog any time it got near.

“There now, you great bully!” Emmaline shouted, hoping her voice carried across the water and startled the gander enough to give the pup a fighting chance. But the goose ignored her.

She pushed away from the stone railing and ran the rest of the way across the bridge. Emmaline’s cloak billowed behind her as her long legs ate up the distance, leaving her shorter, slower maid to follow in her wake.

Making the turn at the end of the bridge, Emmaline picked her way down to the shore. A quick check told her that the geese and the pup were farther down the lake now, moving to an even higher bank where the dog would have no chance of pulling itself out. “Vicious birds,” she grumbled as she hurried faster.

As she drew near, Emmaline waved her arms wildly. “Leave him be!” she commanded the gander in her sharpest tones. She hoped to goodness the damp weather and earliness of the hour had kept everyone else away from the park this morning, or she’d have some explaining to do as to why the Earl of Montgomery’s youngest daughter was charging geese along the Serpentine, all whilst yelling like a fishwife.

Finally, the birds noticed her, honking in alarm and scattering in a flurry of flaps and feathers. Satisfaction flared, but only for a moment because as she tried to stop, her boots skidded on the dewy grass (and something she quite feared was goose dung) and she was sent flailing toward the land’s edge.

“No, no, no, no!” she cried as she neared the drop. A dousing in the lake wouldn’t make this already rotten morning any better. Her hands flew out in front of her, as if they could shove against air to keep her upright, but Emmaline knew it was no use as her momentum tipped her forward. She scrunched up her face against the inevitable shock of frigid water.

And was yanked from behind with a sudden jerk.

“I’ve got you.”

Her eyes flew wide as her mind registered that she was still on solid ground somehow, albeit leaning forward precariously. She flung a quick glance over her shoulder to find that a man had grabbed the bottom edge of her cloak and was holding it with both hands. Emmaline couldn’t see much of him, given her awkward angle and the way the fabric strained across her neck and shoulders to keep her from falling. She turned her gaze back to the water that still waited to claim her should the cloak—or the man—falter.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, his voice slow and rich and soothing. She’d heard the head groomsman speak in such a manner to antsy horses. She had to admit, the warm strength in this man’s tone calmed her rapidly beating heart just a bit.

“Now, relax and breathe,” he murmured, “then set your feet so that I can pull you upright. You should be able to back away from the edge safely once you’ve regained your balance. Understand?”

Emmaline nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the movement through her thick velvet hood. “Y-yes,” she croaked against the pull of the cloak.

“All right,” he said, giving her a moment to brace herself. “Here we go.”

She held her breath as his slow tug righted her. When her weight shifted from the balls of her feet to her heels, she heaved a sigh of relief and took a quick step back. Then another.

And bumped into the hard chest of the stranger who’d just rescued her. The stranger whose arms now came around her to steady her. The stranger whose embrace she had the oddest urge to turn into and—

“Milady!” It seemed her maid had finally caught up. “Milady, are you all right?”

Molly’s breathless question saved Emmaline from further embarrassing herself. Whyever had she had such a thought? Gratitude, likely. That’s all. It had nothing to do with the warmth that had flooded her at the man’s unexpected touch—warmth she now missed as he lowered his arms and stepped back from her.

“I am fine,” Emmaline stated, forcing a self-deprecating laugh. “Thanks only to…” She turned, intending to face her savior then, praying he wasn’t someone she knew, lest the story be spread throughout London’s parlors by the first of this afternoon’s calls. Young ladies of gentle breeding simply didn’t find themselves in the arms of strangers, even if she’d just been trying to save—

“The puppy!” Emmaline cried, whirling back around to the lake instead. Her gaze darted up and down the shoreline, but she didn’t see the dog. She looked to the water. “There!” She pointed at the tiny head, which had drifted far from the bank. He was nearer the center of the lake now.

Emmaline brought her pinkies to the corners of her mouth, letting out a rather unladylike whistle. The pup heard her, turning its nose toward the sound. She started clapping loudly. “Here, pup. Come this way. Good pup!”

She even tossed in some kissing noises, hoping again that the man behind her—whose face she’d yet to see—had no idea who she was.

The pup started paddling in her direction.

But then its head disappeared beneath the water. Her throat clenched. She counted a good three or four beats before it bobbed back up again. The poor mite must have tired, as it seemed to struggle to stay afloat—and the dog was still too far from shore.

“He’s not going to make it,” she said under her breath, and began tugging at the fastenings of her cloak. “Molly,” she called over her shoulder. “Run back to the carriage and fetch a blanket.”

“But milady—”

“The pup is freezing. I’ll need something to wrap him in when he comes out,” Emmaline said, turning back so she could keep her eye on the dog. She’d wait to shuck her velvet cloak to the ground until after Molly departed. The maid wouldn’t go if she knew what Emmaline was planning to do. “Go!”

“But—”

“It’s all right,” came the man’s voice. “I’ll see that your mistress comes to no harm.”

Molly hesitated only a moment longer before Emmaline heard the maid’s footfalls heading away.

Emmaline dropped her cloak, eyes fastened on the dog, whose progress was slowing.

“You’re not really thinking of going in after him, are you?”

His voice came from directly beside her now. Emmaline glanced over at the man and was immediately struck by two things:

One—she’d (thankfully) never seen him before, which made it likely he didn’t know her either.

And two—he was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Her eyes traveled over his thick, chestnut hair which glinted auburn even in the weak sunlight. It had a natural lift and curl that caressed his face without being the least bit feminine. His lips were full, his jaw was both long and square, his nose sat strong and straight on his face and his deep set, hazel eyes stunned beneath impossibly thick lashes. Staring at him was like looking at a painting by an old master.

No, this man was the most beautiful human she’d ever seen.

Even more beautiful than she.

Goodness knew she didn’t mean that arrogantly. Her appearance simply was what it was, and if anyone knew what a curse beauty could be, it was Emmaline.

“Yes, I am,” she said, eyeing the floundering pup again before turning her attention to her skirts. She couldn’t as easily shed those, and they would certainly hinder her in the water. Perhaps she could pull the bottom hem between her legs and tuck—

“In that ensemble?” he scoffed, clearly thinking along the same lines as she.

Emmaline shot him a disgruntled glance, only to find him doffing his own outerwear.

“I can’t allow it,” he went on, removing his plain brown jacket and waistcoat. Though decently tailored, the fabrics were far from the finer cuts favored by the upper ten thousand, which relieved her mind further. He was not of her world. The chance that this encounter would make the rounds of ton gossip were slim.

She really should look away, Emmaline knew, even as color burned her cheeks. An unmarried lady oughtn’t see any man in just his shirt and trousers, and yet the grace of his movements—and the form they revealed—held her in thrall.

“With my luck, your skirts would drag you under and then I’d have your death, and the dog’s, on my conscience.”

With that, the man bent low, braced one hand on the bank and vaulted down into the water below with a splash that sent stinging cold droplets back up to wet her, too.

He cursed.

She didn’t fault him for it.

Emmaline watched in amazement as the man strode out into the water—first knee deep, then thigh, then waist—before finally accepting his fate and setting off with long, bold strokes toward the puppy.

She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he’d reached the dog, scooped the tired beast over one shoulder, and was headed back with the puppy safely tucked against him. She exhaled long and low.

As he reached the depth where he gained his feet again, Emmaline sucked in her breath anew. Dear God, the man looked like a hero of myth coming up out of that water. His shirt clung to him, as did his trousers, accentuating muscular shoulders and thighs and—oh my.

“Here,” he grunted when he reached the bank, thrusting the pup up with both arms.

“Oh!” Emmaline snapped back to the moment, bending down to take the dog, who immediately starting licking her face in gratitude, as if she were the one who’d swum out to save him instead of just running off a few geese. “Poor little thing is wracked with shivers,” she said as she tucked the wet dog against her chest.

“I can sympathize,” the man said wryly, then he placed his palms on the bank and jumped, pulling both of his knees up onto the ground first before coming lithely to his feet.

“Thank you for saving him,” Emmaline said, valiantly trying to avert her eyes from the dripping man. His light cotton shirt had been rendered rather see-through by the water, and though his trouser fabric seemed more substantial, it really wasn’t that much more so. “And me,” she added quickly.

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, his teeth chattering only a little. “I was never one who could ignore a damsel in distress—or her dog.”

“Oh, he’s not mine.” Emmaline bent to retrieve her cloak with the hand that wasn’t cradling the dog. She offered the garment to the man, but he shook his head, so she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped the front around the pup in her arms.

“But I think he shall be,” she said, using the cloak to rub the pup dry. Upon closer inspection, he was an adorable little thing—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, if she wasn’t mistaken. “Won’t you, sweet boy?” she cooed to the dog. “I think I shall call you Duke.”

“Duke?” the man said, eyeing the dog’s stature with a raised chestnut brow. “A lofty name for such a small creature. Why Duke?”

Emmaline snorted, remembering her heated discussion with her father over breakfast. With the Duke of Albemarle’s recent death, there might soon be a newly-belted unmarried duke in town, and the expectation had been made clear.

“Because I’ve been ordered to land a duke,” she muttered bitterly. Her eyes widened. Had she said that aloud?

She glanced at the man, but an easy smile played about his beautiful lips, as if her slip of the tongue hadn’t registered. Of course, the matrimonial woes of the aristocracy likely didn’t concern him. She decided to play her words off as a jest, so she kicked her own lips up into a grin and added a jaunty shrug.

“And now, with your help, I have.” She turned her voice softer, speaking to the puppy now, bringing her face close to his. “And you’re the only Duke I intend to have in my life, aren’t you?”

The pup licked her nose as if to agree.

Emmaline was saved from digging herself in deeper by a running Molly, brandishing a carriage blanket in front of her like a sword on a battlefield.

Everything happened quite quickly then. The man gratefully accepted the blanket from the maid, wrapping himself in the coarse wool before making to leave—most likely so that he didn’t freeze to death.

Emmaline offered to drop him in her carriage—it was the least she could do, she insisted—but the man demurred. He offered to return the laundered blanket if she would but give him her direction, but she told him it wasn’t necessary and they parted ways without even exchanging introductions.

It was better that way, she knew, given the improperness of their meeting. And given their difference in station, it was unlikely she would ever see the man again.

But as she watched him walk away toward Rotten Row and Kensington Road beyond, she found herself wishing it wasn’t so.

CHAPTER 2

GIVEN HIS SODDEN STATE, Maxwell entered Albemarle House through the servants’ entrance. If he was lucky, he could reach his temporary rooms unseen—and un-smelled.

Even in the country, he’d read about the big to-do in London last year when it was decided that the river which fed the Serpentine had become too polluted. The City had gone to much trouble to cut the lake off from the River Westbourne and instead, pump water in from the Thames. Well, perhaps the water smelled better, but the mud that now coated his boots and trousers?

He stunk to high heaven.

Thankfully it was still quite early. If he could just get through the kitchens—with profuse apologies to Cook, of course—he could take the back staircase and—

“Good Lord, what is that stench?”

Max froze at his cousin’s horrified query. Well, his cousin-by-marriage, that was. Damn. They’d only known each other a few weeks now, and under most unusual circumstances. They got on well, though, and he didn’t wish for her to think ill of him.

He turned to find Kate, Duchess of Albemarle, staring at him, aghast. She’d pulled the corner of her shawl up over her nose and mouth in an effort to block the odor. He winced.

“My apologies. I—” Max stopped short, wondering how to explain that while he’d left the house this morning intending to visit the Old Bailey, he’d found himself in Hyde Park fishing a pup out of the Serpentine instead.

He knew why he’d veered to the park. He missed home. London was an impressive city to be sure, but he didn’t belong here. He supposed he’d been hoping a walk through the fading greenery of the park might lift his spirits.

And it had, but for the most unanticipated of reasons.

Who was she? Heat spread through him at the mere memory of having had the stunning young lady in his arms, for even the briefest of moments. Would the duchess recognize her, were he to describe the woman?

“No, no,” Kate said, waving away his apology. She dropped the shawl and gave him a bemused grin, but then her nose scrunched and she quickly replaced the flimsy barrier. “I’m sure it’s not so bad,” she said, her words muffled through the fabric. “It’s just that my condition makes certain scents and tastes overly strong.”

Her other hand dropped to cradle her very-pregnant stomach through her widow’s weeds.

Max shook his head ruefully. “No, it is that bad, I’m afraid. I can barely stand myself.”

Even with half of her face covered by black silk, Max could see the curiosity burning in Kate’s expression.

“I’ll tell you the whole story once I’m cleaned up, I promise.” He’d play up the farce of it all, for maximum laughter. He liked Kate. The duchess was as kind a woman as he’d ever met, and she’d weathered much these past few weeks. They both could use some levity.

Kate nodded, backing away from him. “I’ll meet you in the breakfast room then,” she said, and her eyes crinkled above her shawl in what must have been a smile. “Although, let’s be honest. It will be second breakfast for me and this little one.” She patted her stomach once more.

“Second breakfast it is,” Max agreed before bolting up the servants’ stairs.

“AND HOW IS MY NEPHEW TODAY?” Max asked as he entered the breakfast room three quarters of an hour later.

Kate was already seated at the long table, eating heartily from a heaping plate of eggs, sausages, kippers, and rolls slathered in marmalade—and that was just what he could see atop the mound.

She smiled sheepishly as she speared another forkful.

“Starving,” she said, then brought the bite to her mouth and resumed chewing.

Max laughed and went to the sideboard to fill his own plate.

Once he was seated, Kate said, “I don’t remember this constant hunger when I was confined with the girls.”

Max smiled as he swallowed. “All the more reason I’m certain he will be a boy.”

Hell, he prayed her child would be a boy. Then the babe would become the new duke and he could return home and remain simply Maxwell Granville, country barrister.

“Perhaps,” Kate allowed. “Although the betting book at White’s apparently disagrees.” She rolled her eyes to the ornately plastered ceiling and back again. “My brother tells me that several wagers have been made and the majority believe that the child will be daughter number four.”

The duchess’s countenance was soft and serene, as if either outcome would make her equally happy. But he wondered if her smile was hiding the same worries his polite one did, simply in reverse.

They’d teased back and forth about it, but surely she hoped just as much as he did for a boy.

She’d never said, of course—she’d never be so gauche. And he would never ask her outright.

Just as she’d never asked him what his desire was, though he’d made it clear from the beginning. She likely didn’t believe him. She probably just thought he was being considerate of her feelings, given all she had to lose.

After all, who wouldn’t want to be a duke?

It was like an unspoken weight hanging in the air all the time.

Besides, it mattered not what either of them wanted. Both of their futures depended on the sex of the child Kate was carrying, fairness be damned.

It was time to change the subject.

“I believe I owe you a story. Let’s see…” He proceeded to regale her with the happenings of the morning, starting with his desire to see Hyde Park without all of the fashionable people who would descend upon it later in the day. Then he told her of the banshee he’d seen chasing off the geese, his rescue of her and finally of his swim to save the puppy—playing it all up in a most hilarious manner.

By the time he finished, Kate was wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks.

“I’m dying to know,” she said as her chuckles subsided. “What name did your mystery lady give?”

“She did not,” Max said. “But you should have seen her. She was quite fierce.” And lovely. Exceedingly lovely.

Kate’s brows dipped. “You said she had a maid with her? Do you think she was one of us?”

One of us. Max knew Kate meant one of the aristocracy. Just the question made his laughter flee and his cravat tighten. He might be a chance birth away from becoming a duke, but as a distant second-cousin who’d lived his entire life far removed from this world, he hardly felt like ‘one of us’. Nor did he wish to.

But he understood what Kate was asking. “I would say yes, given the quality of her clothing, the way she spoke and how she carried herself—apart from when she was running down the geese, of course.” It was on the tip of his tongue to give a description of her—given her striking black hair, startlingly green eyes and uncommon beauty, he was sure Kate would recognize her if she’d ever seen her before.

The words died upon his lips, however. He knew enough about life in the ton to know that even their innocent encounter could be misconstrued by gossips, and he didn’t wish the young lady any harm. He decided her identity was better left unknown.

As if echoing his thoughts, Kate said, “It’s probably for the best. You must be more careful. Once your identity becomes known, many an enterprising young miss will be after you. It’s not often a young, handsome duke comes on the market. One with all of his teeth, no less.”

She smiled at him, but her eyes clouded with sadness. Her own husband had been young and handsome, he knew—a man still very much in his prime. Theirs had been the match of the season thirteen years ago. His sudden death had been a shock to all who knew him. He’d simply grabbed his forehead, wincing in pain, and then he was gone.

“And if not the young ladies,” she went on, “then their match-making mamas or alliance-seeking papas. You’ll need to stay sharp to avoid their snares.”

Max shuddered. All the more reason he hoped to be headed home once the new heir of Albemarle made his appearance.

“Speaking of,” Kate said after polishing off the last bite of pastry on her plate. “The Earl of Montgomery sent round a note. He plans to call this afternoon and wishes for you to make yourself available to him.”

Max didn’t groan, but he wanted to.

The Earl of Montgomery had been the late duke’s mentor in Parliament, and should Kate’s baby be a boy, was set to oversee the estates until the new duke was of age to run them on his own.

Montgomery had also tasked himself with familiarizing Max with all of the responsibilities of the dukedom, should the child be a girl instead. He could not be put off.

Then the way Kate had announced Montgomery’s visit gave him pause. They’d been speaking of alliance-seeking papas… “Speaking of?”

Kate nodded. “Oh yes, Lord Montgomery has long wished for a ducal alliance. Had his daughters not been too young when Samuel and I married, I daresay Lord Montgomery would have physically shoved me into the Serpentine to secure the duke for one of them.”

Max thought about what the young lady in the park had said under her breath. Because I’ve been ordered to land a duke.

Could the woman he’d met be…? No, not likely. He’d met the earl several times these past weeks and he couldn’t imagine that such an exotic beauty had been sired by such a plain-looking Englishman.

It was more likely that several young ladies—and their parents—had the potential new duke in their matrimonial crosshairs already, sight unseen. Max swallowed. As if he didn’t have enough reasons not to want the dukedom, the idea of being ruthlessly pursued for a title and not because of who he was as a person…

It seemed like he would have to be more careful. He already kept to himself, didn’t go out in society, and wore only his own wardrobe—that of a poor-ish country barrister—even though both Kate and Montgomery had tried to press him into visiting the tailor first thing. He’d laughed them off, saying he didn’t wish to spend any of his new nephew’s inheritance, but the truth of it was, he just didn’t want to put on any trappings of the dukedom—lest it trap him.

Unreasonable, yes. Superstitious even. But there it was.

“I believe the eldest daughter is recently engaged, but I imagine Lord Montgomery is practically giddy that his youngest might have a chance at you,” Kate finished.

Max shook his head firmly. “Not if I can help it.”

The face of the woman from the park this morning flashed through his mind. Maybe if it were she… No, not even then. She was already after a duke. He could never trust that her feelings were real if they were to meet as who they truly were.

Besides, apparently the real danger was that he’d be inveigled into a meeting with Montgomery’s daughter, and soon. If he were a father, he’d make sure his own chit got her introductions before the rest of the pack even sniffed the potential duke out.

He’d have to do everything he could to avoid the Earl of Montgomery’s daughter, whoever she was.

CHAPTER 3

“DUKE! DUKE, COME BACK HERE!”

The little spaniel ignored Emmaline as he bounded off around the turn in the footpath, barking excitedly at something or other that had caught his attention.

“Want me to go after him this time, miss?” Molly asked, but her pained expression made it clear that she was hoping Emmaline would decline.

“No,” Emmaline sighed. “I daresay we’ll catch up to him eventually.”

The pup had the vigor of three of her father’s hounds. He tore around the house like a whirling dervish, constantly under someone’s feet. Just this morning, one of her mother’s favorite Limoges vases had been a casualty of Duke’s boundless energy. The countess had been only too happy to send Emmaline and the puppy—properly chaperoned by her maid, of course—off to get his exercise somewhere else. Anywhere else.

So she’d chosen to return to Hyde Park.

And if she’d selected a footpath along the southern end of the park rather than staying to the eastern edge nearer her home in Mayfair, so what? It most certainly wasn’t because that was the direction the man from yesterday had departed toward, and she hoped she might see him again.

No, it wasn’t. Not at all.

Up ahead, Duke’s barks ceased abruptly. Too abruptly.

“Oh,” Emmaline exhaled an indulgent, if exasperated, breath. “What has that little rascal gotten into now? I swear, he’d best not have let those geese chase him into the lake again or we very well may leave him there.”

Still, she picked up her skirts and hurried her steps, just in case he needed rescuing.

She huffed a laugh as she ran. When her father had ordered her to catch a duke, she was quite certain this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

As she came around the bend, her feet stilled and her heart leapt into her throat, where it fluttered wildly.

For there was Duke, happily content in the arms of her handsome stranger.

The dog’s long tail swished with enthusiasm as he heaped puppy love upon his obviously remembered savior.

Emmaline’s heart seemed to beat in the same eager rhythm upon seeing the man again—which was ridiculous, she knew. Nothing could come of their acquaintance. They weren’t even acquainted, for that matter.

And yet…she couldn’t explain the feeling that bubbled inside her chest, rising with the effervescent sting of good champagne. She only knew she liked it. It made her feel alive.

The man looked up at her then, and a smile broke over his face.

“I thought this fellow looked familiar,” he said, “though I hardly recognized him not soaking wet and covered in mud.” He ruffled Duke’s fur affectionately. “You clean up nicely, young master Duke.”

As do you, Emmaline thought—but thankfully she did not say the words aloud this time. Her cheeks pinked as she remembered her faux pas of yesterday.

Because I’ve been ordered to land a duke.

How shallow she must have sounded, how petulant. She could only blame the upset that had driven her to the park and the excitement of Duke’s rescue for her thoughtlessness.

She could hardly expect anyone who lived outside her gilded cage to understand.

After all, who wouldn’t want to marry a duke?

Emmaline smiled at the man who so patiently accepted her puppy’s slobbery adoration. Her heart melted just a little, then twinged with regret. Why couldn’t she be free to fall in love with someone like him—a man who would never become a duke, but whose heart was noble and kind? Why couldn’t that be all that mattered?

“He does, rather,” she said, admiring Duke’s silky white-and-chestnut coat, his long fluffy ears, and his undocked tail. The pup’s eyes closed in seeming bliss as he leaned into the man’s long-fingered strokes. The gentleman’s hands held her mesmerized for a moment, wondering what it might feel like if she were the one being touched thus—

She shook herself from her impure thought. What had they been discussing? Oh yes, Duke. Cleaning up nicely.

“After no less than three baths,” she said, her nose scrunching at the remembered smell, “and a very thorough brushing.”

The man’s rich laughter rolled over her. “I’ve no doubt. I required some extra grooming myself after a swim in that foul water.” He shuddered. “The geese can have it all to themselves, as far as I’m concerned.”

Emmaline arched a black brow. “Then we’d have to call it foul fowl water.”

He blinked at her, then his eyes crinkled in a smile as he dipped a quick nod in acknowledgment of her sad little pun. “Indeed.”

She smiled back at him, inordinately pleased. “Those birds are a menace,” she said. “You must have thought me a madwoman, chasing after them like that.”

He bent to lower Duke to the ground, and the puppy pranced happily at their feet. As the man straightened, the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Not a madwoman. Though I must admit, as I didn’t see the pup in the lake at first, I did wonder what sent you flying across the field like Boadicea.”

His grin had spread over his whole face now, and Emmaline was struck by how much more handsome it made him.

“Boadicea?” She snorted.

“Well, if Boadicea were battling an army of geese rather than Romans.”

She laughed then, shaking her head.

“Jesting aside,” he said, “not everyone would bother themselves to help a person in trouble, much less an animal. I find you quite brave.”

The simple compliment struck her speechless. It also struck a chord inside Emmaline, reverberating through her with a low hum. In her life, much admiration had been shown her from gentlemen, but it always centered around how she looked—never about her as a person. Even her parents only had praise for the qualities they deemed would make her the most advantageous marriage.

She had no idea how to respond.

Luckily, Duke saved her. The puppy barked in protest that their attention wasn’t being paid to him, before running in circles around them in great bounds and pounces to ensure it was. Both she and the man laughed at the dog’s antics, and the moment passed.

Once he was satisfied that all was once again right with the world, the pup took off down the footpath, expecting the humans to follow. And they did, side by side, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It certainly felt that way, Emmaline realized, even though it was anything but. Still, she found herself tongue-tied. Was it because she was unused to conversing with men outside of the aristocratic rules of engagement that had been drilled into her from birth? Or was it because she so desperately wanted this man to find her more than just a pretty face?

Whichever the reason, all she knew was that she wanted to keep talking with him.

“It’s turned out to be a lovely day for this late in the year,” she blurted, then nearly squeezed her eyes shut. Oh brilliant, Emmaline. He’s certain to find you fascinating now.

“It has,” her companion answered. “The sunshine is most welcome.”

After a few more steps—during which Emmaline discarded several topics of conversation as too frivolous or unsuitable or just not interesting enough—the man spoke again.

“This park is certainly a nice respite from the bustle of the City. This is only my second visit, and yet I already find myself partial to it.” After a long hesitation, he ventured, “Do you come here often?”

His voice lifted on the last word casually. Too casually. Emmaline’s heart picked up its pace. Was he making idle conversation, or had he returned here this morning hoping to see her, too?

“Not typically,” she answered. “At least not in November. Most years, we’ve retreated to the country by now.”

But not this year. After the Duke of Albemarle’s death last month, her father had elected to stay in town to help to handle the late man’s affairs. He’d insisted his family stay, as well. Emmaline suspected it was only to have her close at hand so that she might be introduced to the new duke at first opportunity, should the Duchess of Albemarle bear another girl—which was widely expected.

But Emmaline didn’t want to think of this maybe-duke now. She wanted only to think of the man by her side.

And if he were floating the question because he wished to know if he might see her again…

“However,” she said, glad that her voice rang with nonchalance even though she felt as though she might bubble over with nervous hope, “Duke loves it here.”

As if on cue, Duke cut across in front of them in pursuit of a fat red squirrel.

“And as you can see,” she continued with a wry grin, “he enjoys his exercise.”

Emmaline bit her lip, deliberating only a moment. She shouldn’t encourage anything between them. There was no hope of a future. And yet, she’d could just put her intention out there. It would be up to him if he chose to pursue it…

She turned her head toward him as they continued walking, catching and holding his gaze.

“I should bring him here every morning, don’t you think?”

MAXWELL WASN’T A BETTING MAN, but if he were, he’d wager all that he had that he was being flirted with.

He suppressed a satisfied smile.

His young lady was awaiting an answer, so he flicked a glance to where Duke now pounced on some poor insect who’d chosen the unluckiest time to crawl by. “It does seem to be a fine idea.”

He wasn’t positive, but he thought her shoulders drooped a bit. Oh, she was interested. And she’d been hoping for a bit more encouragement.

He shouldn’t, of course. Regardless of his possibly impending dukedom, he had myriad things to do that were not walking in the park with a young lady, even if she was so lovely that she’d invaded his dreams last night as well as most of his waking thoughts since he’d met her.

And yet…

He returned his gaze to hers and lowered his voice. “I, too, am fond of my exercise—about this time every day, in fact. And I do believe Hyde Park will be the perfect place for my morning constitutionals whilst I am in town.”

She didn’t do nearly as good a job as he had at suppressing a smile of her own, which sent a small thrill coursing through him.

This was foolishness. He should take his leave, he knew. He had much to do at the Old Bailey, and the Earl of Montgomery was expected again this afternoon. But he simply didn’t want to go.

It wasn’t just the girl. It was this time, this in-betweenness. This beautiful creature flirted with him just because she wished to. If he were to become the duke, this might be the last time someone wanted to flirt with him and not ‘the duke!’.

He would hold on to that as long as he possibly could.

“Whilst you are in town?” she asked, shaking him from his thoughts. “Are you not from London, then?”

His chest tightened at her question, but he shook his head. News about Albemarle’s heir presumptive was likely already circulating around the members of society who still remained in the City. He’d wager that his home and career as a barrister were already fodder over tea and sherry. He didn’t wish for that business to encroach here. Not with her. He’d have to be careful what he said.

“No. I’m just visiting for a time,” he said.

“A holiday, then?” she asked, and damned if she didn’t sound disappointed that he might be returning home soon.

“No. I’m here for an extended period, for…” He thought a moment at how best to phrase it honestly, but vaguely. “For work.”

Her black brows inched toward each other in thought.

He realized his vagueness only served to confuse her.

“I mean to say, I’m being considered for a…a promotion. Of sorts.”

Damnation. That wasn’t much better.

She nodded at him, but he could tell she didn’t really understand. And why would she? Work, at least as it applied to a profession, wasn’t a part of her sphere.

Neither, for that matter, was a man like him.

And they both knew it.

Maxwell sighed. More unspoken weight in the air between him and a woman whose company he enjoyed.

It wouldn’t do. While he’d still have to hold much back, he wanted his time with this lady to be unburdened—insomuch as it could be. So he’d just come out with it.

“It hasn’t slipped my attention that in two meetings now, neither of us has offered so much as a first name in introduction.”

Her green eyes widened at his bluntness, and her cheeks bloomed a delicate pink. “I…I—”

He held up a hand. “You needn’t explain. I’m well aware of how the world works. I understand that you have many reasons for keeping your identity to yourself—one of which is that an association with someone like me would be unacceptable.” He was, after all, a commoner, as far as she knew. And a complete stranger.

Her bow-shaped lips firmed in a disgruntled frown. “Unacceptable to some, perhaps.”

Her fierce tone reminded him once again of Boadicea—this time about to take on the unfairness of societal rules—but then she sighed as well.

“But, yes. My family would not approve.” Determination glinted in her eyes. “That won’t stop me from bringing Duke here every morning.”

Max nodded, understanding.

His young lady was enjoying her own bit of in-betweenness. If she truly had been ordered to ‘land a duke’ by her parents, he might be her tiny secret rebellion.

Oh, the irony.

Of the double-edged variety. If he didn’t become the duke, he’d have no chance with someone like her.

He also had the distinct feeling that she could make him wish for a dukedom he didn’t otherwise want.

He should run far and fast and not venture near Hyde Park again.

Yet even the thought kicked off his own tiny rebellion inside his chest.

“If we’re going to continue to meet, I must call you something,” he said. “Thinking of you as ‘the brave enchantress who so charmed me that I leapt into the Serpentine for her’ might be nice, but it’s rather cumbersome.”

The combination of blush and utterly feminine smile that crossed her face shot heat straight through him.

Duke trotted back toward them then, giving him an idea.

“Shall I call you Duchess? After all, you are Duke’s mistress.”

Her smile pursed, and she gave a quick shake of her head. “Never Duchess.”

Max wanted to kick himself. Of course not Duchess. The reminder would intrude on her in-betweenness. His as well.

Yet it fit her perfectly—her regal beauty, her strength of spirit. If he were to become the duke, wouldn’t she be exactly the type of duchess he would wish for?

“Boadicea, then?” he offered.

Her face squinched adorably. “Also cumbersome. Not to mention undeserved.”

“I disagree,” he said. “With the undeserved part, leastways. As for the other, I could call you Bodie for short.”

She actually stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed aloud—mostly to cover the fact that her gesture now had him thinking of kissing her even more than he had been before, if that were possible.

“And what would I call you?” she asked.

That sobered him. He couldn’t very well give her his true name either.

But she didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “‘My-knight-in-shining-armor-and-my-little-dog’s-too’ is quite cumbersome as well, no matter how accurate.”

Her words touched a place inside Max that he’d long closed off. Did she really see him thus?

For years, he’d striven to be thought of as a man who helps those in need. It’s why he’d become a barrister in the first place, and why he now fought to change the law so that those accused of crimes could be represented fairly in court. But his views were unpopular, and had earned him the scorn of many who thought him too soft on those who didn’t deserve mercy. Many thought him disreputable at best for his stance.

He preferred the way this woman looked at him.

“I wouldn’t say shining armor exactly,” he jested, unused to such praise. “Not after the Serpentine anyway.”

“True,” she agreed. “But ‘knight-in-reeking-armor’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

He scowled in mock outrage.

“I could call you Galahad, I suppose,” she mused. “After all, he was the purest of knights and renowned for his gallantry. I’m sure he saved a few dogs in his day, as well.”

It was his turn to wince. He didn’t feel pure when he was with her. Not when he remembered the feel of his arms around her yesterday, however innocent. Not when the alluring feminine scent of her, all warm vanilla and something spicy (cinnamon, perhaps?) had been driving him mad all morning. Not when flashes of the two of them entwined in his dreams last night still seared through his memory. “That might be a bit much.”

“I could call you Gal, for short,” she offered, oblivious to the prurient turn his thoughts had taken. She cocked a brow. “Or Haddie?”

“I give,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Please. Not Haddie.”

She grinned. “Then not Bodie, either.”

They tossed out other options, teasing one another and laughing more than he had in weeks. By the time they parted, they hadn’t settled on a nom de guerre for either other them, but there’d been much fun in the attempt.

And as Maxwell said his farewells—already anticipating seeing her again on the morrow—he thought of one thing he wished he could call her…

Mine.

CHAPTER 4

NEARLY A FORTNIGHT LATER, that little four letter word still dominated Maxwell’s thoughts.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of their daily rendezvous—secret, forbidden encounters in broad daylight. Completely innocent, yet not.

Perhaps it was still simply the allure of their mutual in-betweenness.

But he didn’t think so.

It was her.

She.

The girl who remained nameless.

The Helen to his Paris? She’d just shaken her head when he’d declared that her face could launch a million ships, not merely a thousand.

Needless to say, those names did not stick.

Cleopatra to his Marc Antony, then? “Much too volatile a pair,” she’d protested. “Besides, I have no wish to die by poisonous snake bite.”

Those names didn’t take, either.

Perhaps Beatrice to his Dante? “That, at least, is closer to reality,” she’d said when she’d suggested it. “After all, they only ever met a few times. Strange, don’t you think, that he remained devoted to her for the rest of his life when he’d never even kissed her?”

Once she’d pointed out that sad fact, he was the one who refused to adopt those monikers.

He didn’t want this…whatever was growing between them…to be so fleeting. Or so tragic.

Yet how could it be otherwise?

Unless…

Unless he became the duke.

And convinced her to become his duchess.

The idea whispered through his mind, enticing.

He played a dangerous game with his heart. He had no control over whether or not he’d inherit, but as he’d suspected, the possibility of having her for his wife made it much more appealing.

He couldn’t pursue her in earnest yet. It wouldn’t be fair to her. But he could determine whether she wished to be pursued…

By him. By a duke? By both? By neither?