Rules are meant to broken…

The mysterious Lady Mary McCoy is tired of playing by the rules of the ton. As a wealthy widow she fully plans on living her life to the full – free from the constraints of marriage.

And if she has to keep her high society status a secret in order to indulge in the more pleasurable pastimes of life, then so be it! Just as long as it’s on her terms…

Until notorious rake, Brody Weston, Duke of Welland, returns to his ancestral home – intent on her seduction! Slowly, luxuriously, he begins to unravel her secrets, one tantalising kiss at a time. And suddenly Lady Mary realises that breaking her own rules with the Duke is the most dangerous thing she’s ever done!

The next exquisite Regency romance from Raven McAllan, The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M will whisk you off your feet and sweep you into an opulent world of scandal, secrets and desire!

Also by Raven McAllan:

The Scandalous Proposal of Lord Bennett

The Rake’s Unveiling of Lady Belle

The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M

Raven McAllan

www.CarinaUK.com

RAVEN MCALLAN

lives in Scotland, the land of lochs, glens, mountains, haggis, men in kilts (sometimes) and midges. She enjoys all of them – except midges. They’re not known as the scourge of Scotland for nothing.

Her long-suffering husband has learned how to work the Aga, ignore the dust bunnies who share their lives, and pour the wine when necessary.

Raven loves history, which is just as well, considering she writes Regency romance, and often gets so involved in her research she forgets the time.

She loves to travel, and says she and her hubby are doing their gap year in three-week stints. All in the name of research, of course.

She loves to hear from her readers and you can contact her via her website www.ravenmcallan.com

To Paul for ignoring the clack of the laptop when he’s trying to watch the football.

To Doris O’Connor for her ‘re-editing’ – red type to anyone else.

To the RavDor chicks and my fellow Carina authors for their support, enthusiasm and unfailing encouragement.

And, of course, to Charlotte and the Carina team because without you this book wouldn’t have happened.

To Mary McCoy, who won the chance to have her name used for a heroine in one of my books. I hope you like this Mary.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Prologue

To his heartfelt relief, the village hadn’t changed. Behind the neat row of cottages the fields were a sea of green. Cows grazed in one meadow, and green shoots of corn showed their heads in the next. The trees that fringed the fields were in bud, and along the verges wildflowers nestled amongst the sturdy tufts of grass. It was, Brody realised, the epitome of middle England. Mid-afternoon, it had a somnolent feel to it, as if it was waiting for something to wake it.

Or someone?

Him? He snorted and his horse shook its head so the bridle jangled, loud in the silence. Not likely, no one expected him.

Brody settled deep into his saddle and realised how much he’d missed it. All of it. The views, the tranquillity, the safeness.

Especially the safeness.

My land, my world.

People glanced at him with little curiosity as he rode along the tidy street, past the pond with its five resident ducks, one loud and bossy drake and several ducklings, and around the long-disused stocks, but no one spoke or waved. The maypole stood forlorn in the middle of the green, a ring of scuffed grass around it, a sign it was at times used well. But now? It was simply a pole, denuded of ribbons.

A heron took off with a squawk, and its long wings stirred the air. An old, white haired and whiskered man, unlit pipe in his mouth, sitting on an equally ancient chair outside one of the thatched cottages, pointed to the bird, but ignored Brody.

I could be invisible, Brody thought, wryly. I’ve done that. I don’t want it here.

The blacksmith came out of the forge, looked Brody over and decided he was no one he needed to acknowledge then went back inside.

Brody stifled a snort. This was his village, his people and he was unknown to them. Had he changed so much? A few years older, undoubtedly wiser, but still himself, surely? He shook his head. How would he know? After all, did he recognise anyone he saw? No. At that moment it was an alien land to him.

The door of the school opened with a squeak that pierced the quiet afternoon, and a young, dark-haired lady dressed in a deep blue gown emerged. He certainly didn’t know her but one swift look told him he’d like to. In every way possible. As she bent to pick up a large wicker basket from inside the school foyer and then shut the door behind her, her trim figure drew his attention like a lodestone. Brody slowed his horse and stared at her again, willing her to look up. Her gown clung to her contours and showed him a posterior perfectly rounded, and, when she straightened, pert breasts which from that distance looked to be exactly the right size to fill his hands.

For the first time in many a long month a certain part of his anatomy perked up.

Down boy, on a horse is not the place to make your presence felt. However he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman, and was hard pressed not to catcall after her.

Sadly – or perhaps luckily, judging by the state his body was now in – she didn’t so much as glance his way, but walked across the lane and turned into an alley beside the bakery.

Ignored again, by god. Brody on the other hand couldn’t take his eyes off her shapely body. She moved so confidently. Each stride showed a brief glimpse of a well-turned ankle and a sway of that shapely rear. He was a connoisseur of perfect ankles and bottoms. And legs, torsos and breasts. From his vantage point all her features looked more than up to scratch.

He hesitated and wondered how best to make an introduction.

Too late. The lady carried her basket in one hand, lifted the latch and turned into the side entrance of the bakery. The door swung shut behind her and she disappeared from view. In front of an interested baker and goodness knows how many customers was not the time or the place to show interest in a stranger, especially as he would have to tell one and all who he was.

Damn. I’ve lost my touch. Pray to god he found it again, and soon.

Who was she? Brody admitted sadly she might be a lady, but her clothes indicated she was no Lady. Trade? He had no idea, but if he tried to further their acquaintance he could see problems. Brody mentally shook his head at himself. By her very lack of attention to his presence, she was evidently someone else who wasn’t interested in him. It was a salutary lesson. He might be home, but he was now unknown. The story of his life for the last few years.

Brody had hoped that was over and done with, but it seemed not. Although here, even if people didn’t notice him, perhaps he didn’t have to be on guard? And maybe, just maybe, he could discover who the lady was. It was one thing telling himself to forget her, another thing to pay attention to his diktat.

Although, he allowed, as he left the village and set his horse to negotiate the hill up to the castle, it might be a good idea to find out who he now was, first.

Chapter One

Brody Charles Dominic Weston – the no longer quite so new Duke of Welland – never thought a homecoming could be so simple, so hard and, not to put too fine a point on it, so bloody tedious. Months of boredom behind him and goodness knows how many in front. He tripped over the stair runner, missed a step, came down on his arse on the tread of the next with a noise like a herd of cattle who had a full manger in sight, and swore loudly.

‘Wha…’

Three heads popped out from behind the green baize door tucked under the stairs.

Brody wheezed as all his breath was forcibly expelled, and blinked at the sight in front of him. Just like bloody jack-in-the-boxes.

‘Your Grace, are you all right?’ an under-footman asked anxiously as he hovered close by, obviously scared to haul his duke to his feet without permission.

‘Fine,’ Brody said with a tight-lipped smile. What else should he say? No, I’m half left? ‘I was thinking of other things rather than where to put my feet.’ Such as how, though ostensibly his now-widowed mama was overjoyed to see him – hale, hearty, and in one piece – she was the sort of woman who often expressed the feelings expected from her by society. Her real emotions weren’t so easy to guess.

Then there was the matter of how his interest in his estates wasn’t encouraged. That needs changing. He was no longer the profligate, rakehell rogue he had been before he had departed for foreign shores all those years ago. The day the man who must not be named had approached him, and offered him the chance to help the country, not ruin it, had been the best day of Brody’s life in many ways. War, however you fought it, had a tendency to make you grow up, face your responsibilities and discover what was important and what was not. It was that or die, and Brody had no death wish. Brody learned a lot about himself over the following years, and not everything was pleasant. However, he came out of those years a better – he hoped – person.

As a much younger man, Brody had not listened to his father when he spoke about his role in life – although how he wished he had. Now, he allowed his mama had good reason for thinking that if she let go of the reins he’d spend any monies the estate had in proliferate idiocy, on wagers and wenches. However, Brody knew he would not. Those days were long gone. Ever since he’d lost Mercedes, the love of his life, he had changed. Now he had his priorities correct.

Welland, and all it entailed, was top of the list.

‘Your Grace? Do you need help?’

Brody realised the under-footman still hesitated anxiously next to him. Plus the tweenie and the housekeeper were staring at him as if he might get up and turn on them. He counted to ten under his breath and stood up. ‘Truly, I didn’t even stub my toe. I, um… I’ll be in the billiards room for a while.’ By the disapproving look on all three faces – and why a tweenie should be disapproving of a Duke he had no idea – it wasn’t where they thought he should be.

Tough. I’m me, not my papa.

The late Duke of Welland had been a well-loved and respected member of society and Brody suspected he, the new Duke, had a hard job on his hands to convince people he could fill his father’s shoes. Especially when he’d been conspicuous in his absence, even though it had not been of his choosing.

Deep into spy and hostile territory, it had been days before Brody heard of his parent’s demise, by which time he reluctantly agreed it made no sense to show his hand and go home. It was decided by all involved – his mother most vociferously, he heard later – that it was better for him to stay where he was, incognito, and do his bit to defeat the Corsican. Even so, it would have been nice, he often thought, to have been given the option.

Enough introspection. Brody left the hall and marched down the corridor to the billiards room. Not that he wanted to play the game but in all honestly he had no idea what he wanted to do. He was, for the first time in many years, a man who had no idea what should come next. It was frightening.

‘I don’t want to play billiards.’ Had it come to this? Talking out loud to himself. ‘Brody, my man you are in deep mire.’

In more ways than one.

Once Bonaparte was behind bars and at last there had been no reason not to return to England, he’d made his way home. His brothers and sisters were euphoric because, as his youngest sibling told him earnestly, they were lost without someone to steer the family in the right direction.

‘Mama…’ his youngest sister – Murren – declared grandly, ‘… demands, not asks, and that puts people’s backs up. Especially mine.’ Rudderless, so to speak, they were adrift. Now they expected him to give them direction and help them make their way in the world. Which was all well and good except it was many years since he’d faced the ton, and really those memories didn’t tempt him to repeat the experience. At least his mama had understood he needed time to come to terms with his new status and had taken his siblings on a lengthy tour of her family. He hoped that was her intention anyway, when she’d said she was giving him breathing space before the assault on him and his single status began in earnest. With her, one didn’t always know.

Brody opened the billiards room door and walked past the table to unlock the door onto the terrace, and take several deep breaths. He couldn’t go on like this, purposeless and aimless.

Being alone at Welland, Brody had discovered he was at a loose end and with no hope of tying said end up to anything at all. He wondered if that had been what his mama aimed for, thinking he would then head to London and take his place in the ton once more.

If she had, her plot had backfired, spectacularly, because one thing he did know was that he had no inclination to head to the capital. The Season hadn’t started, Parliament was not in session and he had no intention to be pushed into the arena of husband-hungry debs and their mamas who had returned early to the city, or never left. Some things needed a wide birth, so at Welland he stayed.

He could understand why his parent doubted his intention to take over the dukedom, and run it in the proper manner, she had no reason to think he’d changed his attitude. Brody accepted he’d not been in the best of fettle when he returned, exhausted, heartsick and grieving, but even so, she hadn’t let him show her who he now was. Surely she could give him the benefit of the doubt? Just a little.

Get some air. Brody made his way across the terrace and headed for the paddock behind the stables. A groom nodded and doffed his hat as he passed him, but nothing was said. The new Duke it seemed was an unknown quantity who no one wanted to test.

‘Are you wantin’ your horse, Your Grace?’ Evidently the groom decided something had to be asked by way of acknowledgement.

Brody shook his head, relieved to at least have some normal interaction with someone. ‘No thank you, just some air.’ What was the man’s name? Not to know, was a crime.

‘I’m sorry, and this is appalling, I cannot remember your name.’

The man blushed. ‘No reason why you should Your Grace. I was nobbut a youngster when you left. I’m Peters.’

The admission from Peters that he didn’t expect Brody to know him did nothing to dispel the black dog riding on Brody’s shoulder. As Brody understood only too well, his dark mood was of his own making. He dipped his head. ‘Allow me to disagree, Peters. I should, and will, know everyone before the week’s end.’ A rash statement perhaps, but he’d do his damnedest to make it true. That black dog needed burying and life on the estate needed altering

How to change things, though? Brody accepted his factors and stewards were wary. After all, they had managed all the ducal estates – with his mother’s help – ever since his father fell ill several years earlier. Brody assured Peters he was fine, left the stable yard and made his way to the paddock. He leaned on the rails to stare at the scene in front of him. It made him smile wryly.

Even his cattle were wary. His favourite stallion, Fleet, took one look at him, stood in front of his harem of mares and snorted his displeasure at Brody’s long overdue return. A carrot he’d filched from the stables as he passed didn’t appease the horse. Nor did Brody’s murmured assurances that all was well. Fleet reared up and pawed the air. Brody smiled and shook his head.

‘Even you don’t know if I can do as needed eh? Ah well, I’ll show you all. Somehow.’ Brody turned his back on Fleet, who whinnied.

‘Too late, you’ve lost your chance.’ And he had lost his mind, talking to a horse in such a manner. With a self-deprecating smile and a shrug, which rippled his muscles under the serviceable hacking jacket he wore, he continued to ignore the stallion. Instead, Brody swung onto Jason, the gelding who had carried him across the continent, and who stood patiently at the gate, swishing his tail at the ever-present flies.

‘Come on boy; let’s gallop away the fidgets. Yours and mine.’ He wheeled around to point Jason in the direction of the paddock fence, put the horse to it and sailed effortlessly over. Then he spent an hour riding some of the restlessness out of both of them.

Not all of it though. He still had time to think and find himself falling short of what he should be. By the time he returned to the stables and waved the groom away, so he could rub Jason down himself, Brody had accepted he was now an unknown quantity and had to re-earn the respect he’d always taken for granted.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. The way he was deemed unnecessary to the estate. To know that no one had thought to tell him of his father’s illness, or call him back earlier. Oh he now understood their reasoning over his papa’s death. It was too late to speak to him then. But earlier? Had they thought he didn’t care? They were wrong, so very, very wrong. Hidden on the continent, away from anyone to confide in, speaking languages other than his mother tongue, Brody had mourned long and hard. His father and he had been very close, even though neither of them showed it openly.

As he remembered those days, red-hot rage consumed him. Why had no one told him how ill his parent was? That question had teased him, annoyed him, and irritated him on and off ever since his papa passed away. It was only later he understood his papa had chosen not to speak out and therefore not worry him. A decision Brody thought wrong, but it had been his father’s decision and nothing could change that now.

‘What cannot be changed, must be endured and forgiven, eh Jason?’ He gave the horse a pat and left the stables. He might not agree with what had happened, but it was over and he needed to move on.

So do they.

To his loyal-to-the-crown family, evidently the defeat of Napoleon was more important than having the heir at home, learning the ropes. Thus his return to home shores was delayed. Therefore, to his estate managers – most of whom were chosen by his father after he, Brody, had left home – he was as much an unknown factor to them as they to he. That two-sided name made him laugh. Factor be damned. He had no input, no influence and now, sadly, no inclination to be involved.

Brody re-entered the house without seeing a soul, washed and changed and mooched around the ground floor with a brandy in one hand and a scowl on his face. That was not true. They had no inclination to allow him to be involved. It seemed their inclination was to think everything had run smoothly without him so why upset the apple cart?

Because I want to be involved. I am not the callow youth who left here all those years ago. This is my land, my heritage and my chance to protect the future. Brody swallowed his brandy in one long gulp, hiccupped behind his palm and scowled at his majordomo who appeared silently as if by magic. Boleyn couldn’t give him the solution to his conundrum. Not like he did when as a child, Brody bombarded him with questions and the man, then a lowly footman, never failed to give the child an answer he could understand.

Now, because Boleyn had known him since he was in the cradle, he accepted the man’s furrowed brow and silent disapproval as given. Boleyn had disapproved of Brody’s ways well before he headed to the continent and Brody supposed he’d done nothing to change the man’s opinion since he got back.

‘What have I done now?’ Brody asked resignedly. ‘Except empty the brandy bottle before noon.’

Boleyn looked him up and down, and it took all of Brody’s concentration not to fidget. He really did feel like a scrubby schoolboy once more, albeit with a three-day growth on his chin. Boleyn might only be fifteen or so years older than him, but he had the knack of making Brody regress.

‘Or not done?’ Brody added.

‘Too much to mention, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Boleyn said austerely. ‘In other’s, not enough. May I suggest you start to rectify that before all is lost.’

Brody looked at his feet, just to avoid Boleyn’s sorrowful and disappointed expression. It made him appear like a lugubrious bloodhound. Brody sighed, put his glass down on a side table, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. ‘Who, what, and where? How much do I need to grovel?’

Boleyn smiled and his relief was so evident to see, Brody felt like a heel. He knew he’d dragged his feet with regards to insisting he became more involved with the daily workings of his heritage. But with such determined resistance from those who held onto the reins, he’d decided to become more used to civilian life before demanding things change.

Now he wondered just what his servants thought of him. Oh yes, they all knew him in his younger days, when he’d been a rake and a rogue, and enjoyed every moment of it. Then, wagering, wenching, and wine had been his raison d’être. No longer. Of course they didn’t know that and Brody had no idea how he could impart the knowledge, except by example perhaps? If given the chance.

Take it, you are the Duke. Take that chance, don’t wait for it to be given.

Boleyn coughed delicately and Brody realised he’d been wool-gathering again.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised sincerely to the older man. ‘Tell me, plot my day for me. Set me back on the straight and narrow, but…’ he grinned, ‘…give me time off for good behaviour.’

Boleyn’s worried expression cleared and he bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. I vow, I despaired of ever hearing those words from your lips.’

Brody decided not to enquire which of his words met Boleyn’s approval. He’d just bask in the approval while he could.

‘So, my agenda?’ he prompted. Now he was in the right frame of mind, he might as well get a move on, just in case the mood dissipated. Not that he thought it would, but Brody had seen too much to assume anything.

‘Well now.’ Boleyn rested the tips of his fingers on his chin, an expression Brody recognised as Boleyn in pensive mode. ‘A shave first, for, not to put too fine a point on it, you look like a vagrant.’

Brody ran his fingers over his chin. The three-day-old growth was neither fashionable nor sculpted. It was merely facial hair. Untidy, stubbly, facial hair.

‘Point taken. First a shave. Then?’

‘Then you should take up the reins and re-immerse yourself in the estate. If that’s your idea?’

Brody nodded. ‘I’ve wallowed and been sidestepped enough. No more.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Boleyn smiled. ‘If I may suggest a visit to old Mrs Wiggins? She’s in Apple Cottage, since Joe, you remember her son, passed. He was in one of the foot regiments and was lost at Waterloo.’

Brody winced, and nodded. The carnage was all too fresh in his mind. Even though no one knew he was there, he’d been around, and seen more terrible things in one day than anyone would want to see in a lifetime.

‘And Miss Cinderford,’ Boleyn continued. ‘She’s next door. They both have fond memories of you and never fail to ask after you.’

‘Cinders?’ Brody used the nickname for his old nurse. ‘I thought she’d be long gone by now.’

Boleyn shook his head. ‘Hale and hearty. Still walks to church twice on Sundays, takes her turn on the flower rota and teaches the children their scriptures at Sunday school. She’s been looking forward to your return.’ He didn’t add, as he well could, ‘and you’ve been back months and seen no one’. ‘Chef will have some pastries for you to take to the ladies. It’ll save Mrs Loveage a detour when she goes to visit the pensioners on the other side of the river. She tries to get round them all once a week, now your mama is absent.’

Mrs Loveage, his housekeeper – known to Brody’s younger self as Lovey, and at one time an undernursemaid – was another stalwart who wasn’t in the first blush of youth. If Boleyn was trying to make Brody feel guilty, Brody knew fine well the man had more than succeeded. If he ever wed, that activity would fall to his wife. If. A little word with a big meaning.

‘Of course. Now I can help.’

Boleyn looked sceptical and Brody grinned. ‘Well not in everything but when you or she think I’m needed. What else?’

‘Cakes for the school. It’s the monthly treat for those who attend regularly. With cook laid up, Mrs Loveage is charge.’

It was the first Brody had heard of the cook’s illness. Guiltily he wondered what else his staff had kept from him because they thought – mistakenly – he was indifferent.

‘What’s wrong with the cook?’ He needed to know. Dammit she is my responsibility.

‘Cooking sherry.’

What? ‘The cook is addicted to cooking sherry?’

Boleyn shook his head and coughed. ‘Ahem, only for one week in each month, my lord. And we manage.’

Brody digested that somewhat puzzling statement for several seconds before the light dawned. Those damned days when the curse ailed Mercedes so badly that she took to her bed alone. Although he didn’t think the cooking sherry ever went with her. More likely the finest wine and a bottle of port. As ever, the thought of Mercedes hit him hard and sent a searing rush of anguish through him. Brody blocked his painful thoughts off and concentrated on what was being said.

‘Good, so, you were saying about the school children and cakes?’ He changed the subject hastily. He really didn’t want a conversation about a woman’s body at that moment.

‘This month all forty-seven pupils are eligible. Miss Grey is overjoyed with that.’

Brody supposed Miss Grey was the new schoolmistress. He vaguely remembered his mama saying Miss Pettifer, the previous incumbent, had left to take care of her widowed father. He wondered idly whose idea the cakes were but decided it might be best not to enquire. Just in case it was seen as a criticism. This Duke thing is fraught with pitfalls. He cast his mind back to the elegant lady his body had lusted over all those weeks earlier. He’d never seen her since, even though he’d kept an eye out for her on his sojourns around the area. Was she Miss Grey? Damn, definitely not in my league then. He certainly could not proposition someone who was, to all intents and purposes, in his employ.

‘Cakes then. Excellent.’ Brody had no wish to change anything unless he felt a need to do so. Cakes for attendance seemed a good idea to him. The more children who got an education, the better he – and whatever anyone thought it would be he – could ensure his estates were well maintained and prospered. ‘I’ll shave, change into my riding clothes and boots and meet you back here.’

Boleyn beamed. ‘I told Mrs Loveage you’d soon be chafing at the bit and raring to take up the reins again. Once you recovered.’ His majordomo turned on his heel smartly, and slipped behind the green baize door discreetly located under the imposing staircase.

Recovered from what? Brody pondered the question as he made his way up the stairs two at a time to swap his house shoes for riding boots and a jacket which, although more befitting his status, didn’t set him too far apart from anyone he might meet, and jeopardise his intentions to be a hands-on owner.

Hands-on. He wished.

Damn. That thought reminded him once more of his late mistress, Mercedes. Mercedes of the ‘black as a raven’s wing’ hair and deep blue eyes, which could soften into submission, or flash with anger. Their time together had been brief, tempestuous, and more than enjoyable. Mercedes insisted it was not for ever, she wouldn’t leave and go to England with him. Instead, she said, it would be best they part with affection before he returned to England.

A year or so earlier, Brody had been sent to another part of the country to reconnoitre a way for troops to infiltrate the area. On his return he had found her battered and bleeding, with her hair shaved and carved into her chest the word – in English – ‘traitor’.

She died in his arms, and Brody swore never again would he lose his heart. He’d closed in on himself and done his job with ruthless determination.

It was no wonder he’d taken so long to regroup.

Since then, Brody ruminated, his cock was in danger of forgetting what its mission in life really was, and was in trouble of seizing up through disuse. It had been a lowering realisation that to enjoy delights of the flesh, one needed to be where the ladies were. Sadly where those willing to play could be found, so also could their children or worse, their spouses.

Plus, those debs desperate for a husband, with all the ruthlessness needed to ensnare an eligible man by fair means or foul, appeared from nowhere. Usually it seemed… foul. At a soiree his mother had cajoled him to attend, he had to threaten one lady when she’d followed him into the antechamber of the gentlemen’s smoking room. Unbeknown on his side and with full, snare-intentions on hers. Brody been treated to an eyeful of bosom and a threat to say it was him who coerced her into the room. He had departed via the window, but not before he told her in no uncertain terms who would come off the worse if she tried any such thing. Indisputably, it wouldn’t be him, he’d make sure of that. His ire and determination left one very scared debutant to hightail it out of the chamber and him to go back to the soiree via the ivy and to make his farewells to his hostess. Thence to avoid all such events. For that he gave thanks and left London swiftly, before any more ingenious plots to ensnare him could be put into fruition.

There and then, Brody made his mind up. His body would get its relief via his hands or not at all. Over a month later he’d kept to that and would continue to do so… Until…until what he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t until some forward debutant – or her ambitious mother – got their talons into him. Luckily, in this part of the country he’d get plenty of notice if any such plans seemed likely and would be able to employ avoidance tactics.

Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.

‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’

Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.

‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’

‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’

She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.

‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’

She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.

He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’

She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’

Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.

‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’

‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.

‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’

She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.

‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness up…’ she glanced at Brody.

‘Hester and Hero to my curricle,’ he supplied the answer, and named two horses who had recently arrived. ‘And my apologies, Ronald. Having not been in polite company for so long, indeed I have forgotten my manners.’ It wasn’t, Brody knew, strictly true. He still had a black dog riding on his shoulder and it was unfair to take it out on his loyal staff.

Mrs Loveage stared at him fixedly and then let her eyes flicker to Ronald and back again. Brody frowned. What was she getting at? She sighed and with one final pat of the dough she’d been working she covered it with a cloth and put it to the back of the stove. He glanced at the lad and saw an expression of yearning on his face.

‘If you wish to accompany me, Ronald, I’d be grateful.’

The expression changed to one of incredulity.

The smile Mrs Loveage bestowed on Brody made him understand he’d done the right thing.

Ronald reddened again and bobbed a half bow. ‘Yes um… yes, you sees I’d like to be a tiger or sommat one day. I loves the ‘osses – horses.’

‘Then now’s the chance to show me what you’re capable off. Do you have boots?’ Brody asked as a swift glance at the other man’s work boots told him neither would feel happy with Ronald wearing them.

Ronald’s face dropped. ‘Ah, no. ‘S all I got, m’lord.’

‘Then wait one minute whilst I nip upstairs. I have a pair, which should fit you. And a suitable jacket.’

Ronald gasped, then went white. He swayed, and gulped. ‘M’lord…’ he said weakly.

‘There now…’ Mrs Loveage said complacently, ‘…I knew His Grace would see you right and tight. You stay put, m’lord, and me and Boleyn will sort out what’s needed.’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and nipped out of the room before Brody could pass comment. To his amusement, he heard two sets of footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs. It seemed his staff knew his wardrobe as well as he.

Brody turned to Ronald who stood, mouth agape and with a stunned expression on his face.

‘As you see…’ Brody said with a grin, ‘… even I do as I’m told when Mrs Loveage dictates. I assume you know our route?’ He himself did, but surmised it would make Ronald feel more at ease if he let him dictate that small thing.

Ronald nodded enthusiastically. ‘My ma lives a few cottages along from Mrs Wiggins and the school’s nowt but a step nearer. Mind you, I reckon you best go to Miss Cinderford first like, or she’ll be a mort put out and you’ll get the edge of her tongue.’ “Now you’re finally going to see her,” hung in the air between them.

‘Then Cinders first it shall be,’ Brody said amicably as Mrs Loveage puffed back into the kitchen, followed by a slightly less-breathless Boleyn, who carried a hacking jacket and an old but highly polished and serviceable pair of riding boots. He held them aloft. Idly, Brody wondered where they’d been stashed, for he couldn’t remember seeing those particular items since his return. No doubt they’d been removed from his orbit in case he chose to wear them.

Brody inclined his head ‘Perfect. If you shape up, Ronald, we’ll see about proper clothes for you, but for now, I think these should do. I’ll see you in the stables in twenty minutes. Just time for Mrs Loveage to pretend she doesn’t see me sneak a cake for each of us.’ He plucked what that lady called a queen cake from the pile cooling on a rack, passed it to an astonished Ronald, took another one for himself, and began to munch on it.

Ronald grinned, then sobered when he remembered whom he was grinning at, and took the boots and coat from Boleyn. ‘M’lord I’s’ll not lets you down. And ten minutes is enough.’ He left the room at a run and was soon seen rapidly disappearing across the kitchen garden in the direction of the stables and the rooms above, where several male members of staff lived.

Brody snagged another bun and grinned. ‘Do you think he’ll work as a groom? He’s a bit tall for a tiger.’

He was pleased to see both Mrs Loveage and Boleyn consider his question carefully.

‘Well…’ Mrs Loveage said at last. ‘He’s horse mad that I do know, always has been. He’s helped around the few horses left here since your papa died and Compton… his head groom…’ she added as Brody raised his eyebrows in a silent question. There was no need to own up to his complete ignorance of what went on when he was away.

‘He left when your mama decided only to keep your horses, and those which were hers and the children’s, and get rid of the rest. She said, and I must say it made sense, that those who didn’t belong to them or you wouldn’t be used, so it was best to let them go somewhere they’d at least be exercised. I think, mind this is tittle-tattle so no telling others, Compton wasn’t best pleased.’ Mrs Loveage sniffed. ‘His job here was a bit of a walk in the park so to speak and he was loath to see that lost. Anyroads, this past year or so, young Ronnie there has taken a more active part and aided Belton, the new man, while he got settled. Stop that.’ She smacked Brody’s hand as he tried to help himself to a third bun. ‘There’ll be none left for tea if you don’t give over. Now shoo. Out of my kitchen.’ Brody turned to the back door; he knew when he was beaten. After all, he would get some at teatime. He hadn’t taken three paces before Mrs Loveage called after him.

‘The basket’

He turned back. ‘I need my head examined.’

‘No, you need your brain to have more to do.’

As ever, his housekeeper had the last word. Brody sketched her a salute and made his way outside. Whatever shortfalls there had been on the estate, and it beggared belief to assume there would be none, the kitchen garden wasn’t one of them. Vegetables and herbs were there in abundance, not long off being ready to be picked, and then dried, salted, or pickled. He snapped a pea pod from the stem and shucked out the peas inside to toss them into his mouth and savour their unique flavour and aroma. Fresh vegetables such as this, and the broad bean he replaced it with in his mouth, were something he sorely missed when abroad. It wasn’t that they weren’t cultivated, more he had been unable to avail himself of them.

Now he sniffed the herb and vegetable scents that filled the air and thanked the lord he was home once more, and determined the ducal estate would again flourish under the Duke’s direction – not just on the Duke’s behalf. It was, he repeated to himself, his private avowal.

He arrived at the stables as Ronald was checking the harness on the horses. The young lad looked to all intents and purposes the tidy and proper groom of a prosperous country estate. The jacket was slightly too big, and Brody rather thought the boots pinched the youth, but the grin on his face showed he did not care. If he was as good with the horses as intimated, then Brody knew whom his new groom would be. For now though, he said nothing, just nodded his thanks and waited until Ronald stood back.

‘All’s well, m’lord.’

‘Let’s go then, you get up with me, take the reins and we’ll get these parcels delivered.’

It was pleasant tootling along the lanes with someone well versed in local affairs next to you. Once Ronald accepted that Brody meant what he said, did genuinely want to know all that was going on around them, and was interested in every last detail of affairs pertaining to the castle and its surroundings, he spoke freely. With a competence Brody understood and respected, Ronald took the vehicle, the matched chestnuts and the passengers safely along the narrow lanes, chatting all the while. He interspersed his narrative with asides about the state of hedges belonging to neighbours, the chance of a good pheasant-shooting season, and one Miss Susan Foulkes whom, Brody understood, Ronald had his eye on. Although not out of his teens the young man had his head screwed on properly and Brody made a mental note to find out what he could with regards to the young lady.

They approached the lane that snaked from the top of the steep escarpment where the castle perched – a perfect position to check out invaders in its less than peaceful past – to the valley bottom. A scant half a mile later it reached the village, which took its name from both the castle and the river that meandered around its boundaries.

They paused at the crossroads and Ronald held out the reins in Brody’s direction. ‘You best take ‘em now, m’lord, I mean Your Grace.’

Brody thought for a second and shook his head. ‘You take ‘em down. You seem to remember their mouths are soft and you’ll know the incline is sharp. Use the brakes with caution but remember they’re there.’ He grinned. ‘So am I, if you need me, though I doubt you will.’

Ronald flushed with pleasure and took a long indrawn breath. ‘Well if you’re sure. I’ve taken the wagon to church every week for them that need to get back sharpish-like, and driven the gig down often enough but never sommat as bang up as this.’

‘There’s a first time for everything and as my groom-cum-country coachman – you’ll have to get used to driving anything I ask. On you go, I have all faith in your abilities or I’d not have offered.’

Brody sat back, arms folded and satisfied, and watched the myriad of expressions chase over the youth’s face. If all went well Ronald could in time work his way even higher but for now, Brody decided he’d overwhelmed the lad enough and sat back with an air of unconcern, even though he was primed to take over if needed to.

There was no need. Once, the nearside horse pecked at a rabbit, which had a death wish and ran between the horses’ legs, but Ronald soothed and steadied him without the animals missing a stride. Brody was pleased that Mrs Loveage’s encouragement was working out.

Nothing else happened to upset animals or humans and within a few minutes, they reached the bottom of the hill and the first few houses of the village. On one side of the lane, the sturdy Norman church with its unusual elegant spire sat in a slightly elevated position, its lychgate tucked safely away from the lane’s edge. Next to it was the school, where several children waved from the grounds as the curricle went by.

‘Ho, Ronnie there’s a prime pair.’ One young girl waved and shouted and then danced around in a circle. ‘Yes, yes, yes, cake day.’ An elegant lady, possibly in her early twenties, hushed the child even as she looked covertly at the vehicle and its occupants.

It’s her. Brody got an impression of a fine bosom under plain and serviceable dark blue cotton, and dark brown hair in a riot of curls. He wished he were close enough to see what colour her eyes were. He was as certain as could be it was the lady he’d seen all those weeks before on his return to the area. The lady he’d deliberately not asked questions about. After all, a brief glance of a shapely rear and breasts you wanted to bury your head between didn’t give enough information to use to discover an identity. At first he’d thought he’d find out soon enough, and then he’d had too many other things on his mind to give thought to the question. His skin tingled as he thought he might now be one step nearer to discovering who she was, what she was, and if there was any point in approaching her.

Ronald waved back, as the prancing child whistled loudly, to be, it seemed, reprimanded by the lady with the fine bosom. Brody decided he’d need to learn the unknown lady’s name sooner rather than later. He couldn’t continue to think of her in such a way. What if, when he eventually met her, he let that sobriquet slip? It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Time for them to run off some of their energy,’ Ronald said. ‘That noisy one, in the red apron, is my youngest sister. She’s intent on learning and become a teacher herself. Miss Mary, that’s her there, encourages her and our ma is happy for it. Cissy is bright, not like the rest of us.’

‘Miss Mary?’ He committed the title to memory. Not the schoolmarm then? Now at least he had a name for her. ‘Miss Mary who?’

Ronald shrugged. ‘You know, Your Grace. I cannot mind. All I know is she helps out, comes over from the Grange once a week.’

Probably an under-housekeeper, Brody surmised. She had too much elegance to be a lower servant, and not enough to be gentry. The gown was a mark of that.

Damn.

He cast his mind over his surroundings. As far as he knew the Grange, a tidy house a mile or so from the village, had been unoccupied for years with just a skeleton staff to keep it from falling into disrepair. He’d have to do his best to forget about the woman. Even though she didn’t work for him, he couldn’t be seen to consort locally. More was the pity, that bosom begged for attention. So did the rest of her.

‘I wouldn’t say you were unintelligent,’ Brody answered Ronald’s last statement regarding himself, as the school and church were left behind them and the lane widened to become the village street, thence to split into two and circle a pretty green with a duck pond and a set of old stocks nearby. ‘You know these animals and their quirks inside out. You have a practical bent, not one inclined to book learning perhaps.’

Ronald chuckled. ‘I’m wise in some ways m’lord but not in all. I don’t have the same sort of nosy mind as our Cissy. I like horses and country life. To know at the end of a day that a good job’s over and I’ve left nowt undone. I love working with the horses and if you’re happy for me to serve you here, well, I’m a happy man. Then mebbes in a year or so I can convince Susan’s pa that I’m the right husband for her and my life is sorted out.’ His accent was a mixture of how he’d spoken as a youngster, and presumably how he’d been told to speak in the employ of a duke. Rather than pull him up for his slips, Brody let it be. It was rather endearing, and the longer Ronald mixed with the upper servants the more polished his voice would become.

Brody wished his own life could be so simple. He laughed. ‘You’ve got your head in the right place. Carry on as you are, and in a year or so I’ll put in a good word with your sweetheart’s father, and there’ll be a cottage for you. It’s on my list to build some more. I’ll make sure you get one. Woah! Hold em!’ His words had made Ronald drop his hands and, unchecked, the horses surged forward.

Ronald recovered in a second. ‘Oh my, oh grief, oh…’

‘Oh, well, no harm done,’ Brody said firmly. ‘Ah here we are. Tie them up, and you go to see your mother if you wish. I assume she’ll be at home?’

‘Yes, m’lord she does out sewing for the castle, whilst the youngsters are at school. Are you sure?’

‘I never say anything I don’t mean.’ Not unless needed to by the crown. ‘I’ll pay my visits here and walk up to the school and meet you there after my visit. To be there for two?’

He waited until Ronald made uncertain noises and finally acquiesced. Then Brody jumped down, grabbed the basket, and made his way to the first house, shamefully eager to get these visits over and reach the school.

It was no good, the dark haired woman had caught his attention and he had to meet her, decide she wasn’t for him, and move on.

If he couldn’t do that he was deep in the mire.

Chapter Two

‘Ohh, Miss Mary did you see that? Bang up pair. Eh, and fancy that, me brother with the reins. Who’d’y reckon that was with him? Some toff a visitin’? Coo er, me ma won’t ‘alf be pleased. Me brother and a prime ‘un. But she’ll be wonderin’ who ‘e is, eh?’

‘Try not to drop your letters, Cissy. You’ll need them as a teacher.’ Lady Mary McCoy smiled at young Cissy Meadows who jigged from one foot to another, making her blonde curls dance and her apron and skirts fly out around her sturdy legs.

‘Yes Miss.’ Cissy grinned. ‘I’ll put them in me pocket. But who is he?’

Mary shook her head at the smart retort. ‘I don’t know.’ She would like to know the answer to that question as well. Even the short sharp look he’d given her had felt as if he’d stripped her naked and liked what he saw. That glance was not the sort of perusal a gentleman, or an aristocrat, would give someone unknown, of his own class. It was one reserved for a woman he intended to amuse himself with. If he decided to make his admiration known to her, she’d have a hard time not to slap him down and give him a piece of her mind. But slap she’d have to. There was no way she’d let on who she really was – and no way, as Miss Mary Lynch, would she be anything but someone to dally with for an aristocrat. And the so-called toff was definitely that, there was no mistaking it. Having been married to an elderly peer for several years Mary knew a title when she saw one and she had no inclination to know one close up and personal again, whatever the reason. Hence her use of her godmother’s surname.

A figure in the door of the school caught her eye and she beckoned to the dozen or so schoolchildren still running around in the late summer sunshine. ‘Miss Grey is about to ring the bell. Time to go in.’

‘And cakes,’ the irrepressible Cissy sang as she rushed to the door, slowed down and straightened herself to walk decorously inside.

Mary chuckled.

Peggy Grey shook her head in mock disapproval. ‘That young lady will end up being the power behind the throne or being transported… and then she’d only end up running the colonies!’

Mary had to agree. ‘She’s lively and enthusiastic. She’ll make a good teacher.’

‘So would you.’

Mary laughed and shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m happy with my few hours. It… it grounds me, I think. And on that note, I better carry on before they get their cakes. I need to be away before then, I have several things to do when I leave.’ She didn’t, unless you counted weeding her lettuces yet again and deciding on which novel to read next.

Good grief, has my life come to this? Where’s the excitement, the gaiety? The most excitement she had was her weekly visit to the ladies who taught her to tat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to a man other than the baker, the vicar or her servants, let alone a man of her own class. It was her own choice, she accepted that. Nevertheless, she was uneasily aware that her year of grace given to her by her brother before he insisted she rejoined her rightful place in the ton was half over and she still hadn’t decided how to go about that. It was a simple choice, she thought. Return to the ton as the widow of Lord Horace McCoy and all the inherent problems that brought – rakes who saw her as easy prey, impoverished peers with an eye on her fortune – or return to the ton under the aegis of her brother and his wife. Who would still expect her to use her title and marry, but hopefully scare the worst of the suitors away.

Nether options appealed.

Mary wasn’t sure she wanted to marry again. She’d loved her husband and married him in the face of family objections almost as soon as she was out, and never lived to regret it. Their marriage had been unusual, she accepted that. Most marriages in the ton were not love matches but made for what each could person bring to the union. Generally a dowry and heirs.

It had not been like that for her. But Horry – Horace – had died after only five years of marriage, and here she was, only just two and twenty years of age, and a wealthy widow. It was not, she decided, an enviable situation.

‘Miss Mary?’ It was Cissy who tugged on her sleeve. ‘Are you ready? Cos it’ll be cake time soon and we wants to show you how much we’ve got better at our letters.’

Mary mentally shook herself. She loved the way the children had called her, ‘Miss’, and this had filtered into the community. Miss Mary, widow, she was known as, and as that she was happy to stay, even if it was a muddled title. ‘Of course, let’s get on.’

Once she was seated on a ladder back chair with two dozen children in front of her – she’d listened to the others before their break – Mary forgot all about her life, the mystery man and the un-weeded lettuces. These hours were precious. She became engrossed, and when Miss Grey entered the room and cleared her throat it took several seconds for the person next to her to register. Mary looked up at the clock on the wall at the back of the room and groaned. She’d been so involved with the children she hadn’t kept track of the time and it was over thirty minutes past the hour she usually left.

Cake time, in fact. A situation brought home to her when the gentleman – and oh he was a gentleman, be him in country clothes or not – held a basket aloft and the children cheered.

Mary stood up and curtseyed without making eye contact. ‘I’ll be off. I’ll see you next week, children.’

The chorus of “yes miss, thank you miss, see you then miss,” reassured her. No one here linked her to her family, which was how she wanted it.

‘You’re not about to leave on my account, I hope,’ said the tall, dark and really impossibly handsome man who crowded her, even though he stood several yards away. He spoke suavely, and still had that intense look in his eyes. That insulting look which stripped her naked and showed Mary he thought of her as someone with whom he could play fast and loose.

She shook her head, and ached to add, “you don’t figure large enough in my life.” Of course she didn’t, and responded lamely with… ‘Not at all, sir, I should be long gone.’

‘This is the Duke of Welland,’ Peggy Grey said quietly. A gasp ran through the assembled children, which echoed in Mary’s mind.

That was all she needed. Mary had heard all about him and his ways. No wonder he had looked at her in such a way. She made the mistake of glancing at his face. The admiration and challenge in his eyes hit her with the force of a runaway carriage. He didn’t intend to let her run and hide easily. She curtseyed and did her best to ignore the humour in his eyes. Obviously he knew he’d unsettled her, and did not care one jot. She gave a curtsey to the perfect degree of deference. ‘Please excuse me, Your Grace. Please excuse me.’ She didn’t exactly run from the classroom, not quite, but his soft laughter made her want to.

Mary was halfway home before she realised she’d left her basket and her hat behind. They’d have to stay in the teacher’s room until the following week. She had no intention of returning for them that day, or any day soon.

Brody, the new Duke of Welland. She’d heard of him of course, who hadn’t. Even before she came out, her fellow pupils – at the exclusive school in Bath her papa had sent her to – spoke of his exploits in hushed whispers and giggles. One girl swore he winked at her and she swooned, another girl said he had propositioned her sister who had to be sent to Leamington Spa to recover. As his antics grew more outrageous so did the alleged meetings between schoolgirls and the rake. Not that most people believed them, although Mary thought most secretly wished it had been them on the receiving end of his attention. Strangely, by the time she’d left school and begun her brief time enjoying the delights of her first season, he wasn’t around and no one seemed to have any idea where he was.

As far as she knew, whilst she and Horry were in the north of England this Duke’s father has been alive; he’d died not long before her beloved husband. But the duke hadn’t appeared back in Britain until recently, and to Mary’s knowledge this was the first time he’d been to the school.

Suddenly, fiercely, she missed Horry and his common sense.

If anyone had questioned her why she fell in love with a man forty years her senior, at the first ball she attended, she couldn’t answer. She just did, and in a bold manner so unlike her usual self had let him know it, in no uncertain fashion. It was her husband who held back and said it wouldn’t be fair on her to be tied to someone so much older, and Mary who pushed. People might comment that things like that didn’t happen, and before she met Horry, she would have agreed.

Now she knew they did, but was under no illusions that it was the norm, and was sceptical she’d ever fall in love again. Horry was a hard act to follow and to be honest she didn’t feel so inclined. He had fulfilled her every need. Now, her life might be mundane but it suited her better than to be pestered and courted for her money, not her mind or personality. All she had to do was persuade her brother of that fact.

Luckily, the Grange was hers, but Desmond, her brother, was her guardian until she was twenty-five. Another three years to go. Why Horry had insisted on that, she had no idea, but it was a fact she had to cope with.

Desmond was a good brother and Patience, his wife, the perfect sister-in-law. But neither of them could comprehend that she might not want to be wed again. In both Desmond and Patience’s opinion, a woman needed a man to keep her safe and provide the children. A woman’s role was to bear said children, and support her husband however he wanted. Even if that meant staying in the background. However, to Mary, a woman needed a man for all those purposes plus some definite other reasons, many involving the pleasures of the flesh. An open and clear view of life had shown her marriage wasn’t necessary for that to be accomplished. Not that she’d actually found anyone she’d want to indulge with, but it was there in the back of her mind.

A vision of the duke flashed through her mind and she shook her head with a wry laugh. He was one person not to tangle with. Instead, she judged he was the very sort of person Horry had warned her about. They’d known it was on the cards that Mary would outlive her husband, and he’d been assiduous in his efforts to ensure she was as savvy as possible and alert to all things that could affect her wellbeing.

So far it had worked. Now Mary wasn’t so sure. She walked briskly up the short drive to her home and let herself into the peaceful house. She loved it, it was her sanctuary. From the snug parlour to the more formal drawing room and elegant dining room, every room reflected Mary’s taste. When she’d arrived several months before, the house hadn’t been lived in for years, and although it was clean and tidy, it was also tired. As if it was waiting for her to wake it up once more.

With the help of Mr and Mrs Niven, the husband and wife team who had been caretaker and housekeeper to Horace for years, and Nettie, a local girl hired as a housemaid, the house was now warm, homely, and loved. Before she’d moved, Mary had decided to call herself Mrs Lynch, and just be a villager. Then once settled, and she was comfortable, she began to involve herself with village life.

Now she took her turn on the church flower rota, did her stint at the school and was an active member of the ladies’ club. To some, her life must be seen as tedious and uninteresting in the extreme, but to Mary it was what she wanted and needed. Or had been, until one look from a pair of dark eyes reminded her of all she was missing.

Damn him. Mary kicked off her shoes, replaced them with an old pair of half boots suitable for gardening, and wandered into the kitchen. At this time of the day, the Nivens were in their cottage and wouldn’t return for another hour or so, when it was time to prepare for and cook dinner. Plus, Mary trusted Nettie was at home chatting to her mother and hopefully enjoying her free afternoons.

Mary went into the pantry and selected a ripe peach. It would hold her until dinnertime. She bit into the soft flesh and as juice dripped down her chin and the sweet scent assailed her senses, she sighed in ecstasy. They might only have a tiny hot house but it provided an abundance of fruit and vegetables, more than enough for her to have plenty to share. Mary made a mental note to take some of the bounty the following day to the elderly lady who was helping her to overcome the intricacies of tatting.

For now though she’d enjoy the fruit, and then go and weed her lettuces.

Sadly it didn’t put the duke out of her mind. It might have only been a brief meeting but she sensed his interest in her, or, she thought with a silent laugh, her bosom. It had obviously been an effort for him to look elsewhere. Well Horry had said it was a particularly splendid specimen, and presumably he knew such things. Her nipples tightened under her serviceable gown as she remembered the duke’s probing look and the way his eyes glowed.

Mary sat back on her knees and sighed. Why on earth was she hankering after a man who had stared at her in such an audacious way? If only she could give him a piece of her mind. Not that she’d have the chance. She understood he was not a man to pit her wits against – she would surely lose. He might want her, but no duke – or as in this case, also lord of the manor – would, in Mrs Niven’s vernacular, play in his own yard

Did the Grange count as that? She had no idea, but whilst he thought of her as a maiden, she was fairly sure she was safe. Even when he discovered she had been married. Mary was under no illusions that that titbit of information wouldn’t fall into his lap sooner, rather than later, but surely he would assume she was not in his orbit?

He might set up a mistress in town, but out here he’d be careful whom he dallied with. Especially one as young as she, who to all intents and purposes was a grieving widow. Oh she’d grieved and would always miss Horry, but as he’d told her on more than one occasion, they had enjoyed good times and all good times came to an end. Horry had instructed her not to go into black, and she’d compromised with navy, greys and purples and now more lilacs, pale greys and soft blues.

None of which negated the fact that her body stirred when she thought of him. The Duke.

Mary glanced down at the so-called weed in her hand and realised it was a lettuce. One she’d planted out not a week earlier to create a late salad crop.

Perhaps it was time to tidy up and forget about the annoying man. He’d had his fun, got her flustered and would now no doubt have forgotten her. Just one more village lady.

What would the duke think if he knew the meek and quiet Miss Mary Lynch was in face Lady Mary McCoy, widow of Lord Horace McCoy and one of the richest women in the country?

She wasn’t going to consider that.

****

Brody took his leave of the children, congratulated Miss Grey on her success with the school, then retrieved his empty basket and made his way outside to where Ronald patiently walked the horses.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. I assure you, I tried for at least ten minutes to depart,’ Brody said as he climbed aboard the curricle and took the reins. ‘Your sister is incredibly persistent once she gets the bit between her teeth. She is most insistent that if any child has a perfect attendance record at the end of this session they should be taken up in my phaeton and tooled around the lanes to end up at the castle thence to enjoy cakes and lemonade.’

‘M’lord,’ Ronald sounded mortified. ‘She’s a pest. I hope you gave her what for.’

Brody laughed. ‘I gave her my word “t’would be thus”.’ He waited until they began the steep haul up the escarpment. ‘For such an impassioned and reasoned plea, she deserves the treat anyway. Who is this Miss Mary?’ He hoped he sounded only mildly interested. It wouldn’t do to show more than that.

Ronald glanced at him, not a whit perturbed, it seemed, by the abrupt change of subject. ‘All I know is what I told you earlier. She’s well liked, involves herself in village affairs, and puts herself out to be helpful but not encroach.’

‘She sounds like a veritable paragon,’ Brody said, somewhat disgruntled by Ronald’s glowing description. She didn’t seem the sort of woman to enjoy a casual coupling. Such a pity, Brody was convinced that fine bosom needed more attention.

And the rest of her would bear to be inspected as well. God almighty I cannot think like that so close to home. He returned his attention to what Ronald was saying.

‘Oh no my lord, no paragon, just a lady.’ The way Ronald spoke made Brody certain the mystery lady was no “Lady”, for which he was thankful. He wanted no truck with young “ladies”, be they earnest and full of good works or not. Somehow, in his past, once they fastened their eyes on him he became their next mission. He had no intention of that happening again. Any interactions would be on his terms.

‘They do says she’s got the Grange fine and dandy again,’ Ronald continued as the horses strained to crest the top of the hill and turn along the lane towards the castle. ‘Not that it was a ruin, but like most of us around here allus – always –’ he corrected himself with a bashful grin, ‘– said, it was waiting for something. Young Cissy dotes on her.’

‘Seemingly this Miss Mary was just that.’ Brody changed the direction of the curricle to head along the rutted and little used back drive that headed in the directions of the stables. ‘The person needed.’

After one particularly deep rut Brody swore. He made a note to see the head groundsman with regards to its upkeep. The dozen or so yards from the lane to the gates were almost unusable. ‘A veritable treasure.’ God he sounded crabby. Brody was about to say something – anything – to make amends when Ronald spoke.

‘She is that. My Su… well, I mean, Susan, says Miss Mary brought new life into the village what with helping out where needed but never doing more than expected like. Not like that Lady Potter who used to live over Calden way. Nose in the air, lady bountiful, she thought she was. It’s fair to say your ma gave her short shrift. Now your ma, a real lady she is, it shines through her.’ He jumped down from the curricle and began to push open the gates. It wasn’t an easy job; it was obvious this route was rarely used.

Brody nodded and decided now wasn’t the time to say his mother was plain Miss Pearson, the youngest daughter of a mere Honourable when she met his father. It wasn’t a love match, he knew that. His parents had generally gone their own ways, but he assumed they had liked and respected each other. Plus, as far as he knew, stayed faithful.

As far as he knew.

Would he be content with a marriage like that? Even though Brody was sceptical about love – he thought it a mere tidying up of words to make lust more acceptable – he thought not. He enjoyed variety, and although he stayed faithful to whoever he had an arrangement with, for the duration – however long that might be – he had never declared it to be forever.

Just as Brody thought he might need to go and help Ronald, the youth managed to push the gates ajar far enough for him to get the curricle through. ‘Leave them open, they look ready to fall apart. I’ll get someone to go and speak to the blacksmith later. Is it still Williams?’

Ronald ran back to join Brody. ‘His son. Old Mr Williams sits in the forge and directs things. Or complains things aren’t what they used to be.’

It sounded familiar. ‘Tis ever thus.’

He pondered that thought, along with the knotty problem of how to give his prick relief in a willing body and not by his own hands, as he thanked Ronald, gave into his entreaty to let him sort the horses and equipage out, and slowly made his way indoors.

It was several hours later before Brody was able to sit in his study and try to make sense of the various ledgers pertaining to the affairs of the estate. Some were straightforward, others less so. In the end he rang the bell for Boleyn.

When the man entered he waved to a seat facing the desk. ‘These ledgers.’

Boleyn blinked as he sat down, very primly on the edge of an upright chair. ‘Yes, My Lord?’

‘Who decided to set them out like this? In fact let’s go back to basics. Who decided what was important and what not?’

Boleyn hesitated. ‘Ah…’

‘Ah nothing, spit it out,’ Brody said as he curbed his impatience with difficulty. He wasn’t asking the man to explain the royal debt. Now that would be difficult, if not nigh on impossible. ‘As far as I can see everything that has been addressed has been done so properly and I can find no discrepancies. But, oh hell, not to put too fine a point on it, some areas have been ignored and others over addressed. And we’re not making as much profit as I expected. Who chose what direction to go in and why?’

Boleyn sat up straight. ‘My Lord – Your Grace, i… it’s not for me to say.’

‘Rubbish, if you don’t, who will?’ Brody leaned forward. ‘Boleyn, this matters to me. I might have been absent, that couldn’t be helped.’ Well some of it couldn’t, he wasn’t sure about the rest. ‘Now I’m back and contrary to popular idea, more than ready to be involved in my estates.’ He emphasised the word ‘my’ on purpose, to show he was in earnest.

‘The factors or estate managers, they’re scared the status quo will be upset and their lives turned upside down.’ Boleyn said. ‘It doesn’t make for a peaceful existence.’

‘Which,’ Brody said slowly, ‘I suppose in theory they could be because dammit, man, I am no longer an absentee landlord. Whatever the circumstances, and however they feel, they need to take heed of that and accept I want to know what’s going on. Both on my lands and how it affects those people who work for me and rely on me for their livelihoods. I’m not an ogre and no heads will roll.’ He paused and forced himself to calm down. ‘Well, not unless they deserve to. So for the love of god, tell me, who chose what to concentrate on?’

Boleyn sighed. ‘Once your papa could no longer concentrate, a lot of it fell to your mama, who of course took advice from each estate manager. Whom, I suppose, all had the areas they favoured. For instance, Graham up in Scotland concentrated on the grouse and Oliver in Leicestershire the coverts and the hunting.’

‘Hmm. And here?’

‘Here I endeavoured to drop hints to your mama so at least the crops were rotated and harvested, the animals well tended, and the castle and cottages kept in good condition. Henning, your factor here, was the one with the least room to manoeuvre.’

Brody began to wonder if the reiterations that all his estates were in proper order and well kept were wishful thinking on his mother’s part and fudging on his employees’. ‘I think you better tell me the all.’

Boleyn fidgeted. ‘I’m your majordomo, Your Grace, not the person who is au fait with the workings of the Dukedom.’

‘I’m not so sure about that; I think your role may just have changed. Now share what you do know with me.’ Brody sat back and played with his pen. ‘Consider yourself my right-hand man. We’ll sort out a proper title and remuneration later.’

Boleyn opened his eyes wide, and the pleasure in them was there for Brody to see. ‘Then, Your Grace, I’ll endeavour not to let you down.’ Boleyn sighed. ‘I think they are all earnest in their belief they do what’s right and needed, but sometimes things get missed or passed over because it’s not important to them, personally, or to your mother.’

Brody sat back in his chair. It was as he thought. ‘Like the back drive to the stables?’

Boleyn relaxed. ‘Exactly so.’

‘Then it looks like we have work on our hands. I’ll need to meet each manager in turn and then, I suspect, visit my estates and see first-hand what I deem important and they don’t. Consider yourself promoted to my secretary-cum-majordomo, how does that sound?’

Boleyn looked alarmed. ‘Thank you, it sounds more than I ever thought possible. I will endeavour not to let you down. Your visits would be perfect. They will put the fear of god into each and every manager, Your Grace. Your mama very much let them get on with things.’

Evidently.

‘I,’ Brody said implacably, ‘am not my mama.’

That thought was uppermost in Brody’s mind, as he dismissed Boleyn. He sat for a moment and then picked up the ledgers pertaining to the castle and its surrounding lands and walked to the door. As he reached it and put his hand on the latch, Brody paused and retraced his steps. For a moment he hesitated, deep in thought, and then took a bottle of brandy from the cabinet that held his supply of spirits. With it in one hand and the ledgers in the other, he made his way out of the house and across the courtyard to the estate offices. It was as good a time as any to start showing he was back and intending to take up the reins of responsibility.

He opened the door to the office without knocking.

The man who sat with a ledger in his hands didn’t look up.

‘It’s polite to knock,’ he said shortly.

‘It’s polite to see who has entered,’ Brody replied equably, although he let a hint of authority enter his tone. He pushed the door shut with enough force to make it slam loudly.

Henning, his factor, looked up and his mouth dropped open. ‘M…my Lord, I mean, Your Grace, I didn’t realise it was you.’ “And what are you doing here,” his tone implied.

‘Why would you?’ Brody asked cheerfully as he put his parcel onto the desk with a clink and a thud. He thought it might be a good idea to make sure every employee knew he was happy still to be called ‘my lord’. This double naming made him dizzy. ‘After all, I’ve been conspicuous in my absence.’ He picked up a chair from the side of the room and put it down in front of the desk. ‘Worry no more. I’m ready to take the helm.’

Henning looked aghast. ‘Your Grace?’

‘I’ve slacked long enough,” Brody continued in the same breezy and insouciant tone of voice, and hoped the expression “if looks could kill” was just that – an expression, and not a statement of fact.

‘Ah well, we all knew you needed time to recover, Your Grace, and it was my pleasure to run the estate as your parents wished.’

That was as may be but…

‘And now, Henning you can run it as I wish,’ Brody said quietly, but emphatically. ‘Plus tell me of the things you wanted to do and did not, and the things you personally think do not need doing. I’m sure there must be both.’ His tone invited confidences. ‘Even after you have run the estate to the such high standards you have achieved, there must still be areas you want to work on, or choose not to. I’m sure you had your reasons, but as I don’t know them, some decisions make no sense to me.’ He paused. ‘The back drive for instance?’

Henning blanched and swallowed several times. ‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed. ‘The back drive.’ The factor shook his head and firmed his lips.

‘Well?’ Brody waited. He wouldn’t push until he had to, but he would find out how the man worked. ‘The back drive.’

Henning fiddled with the quill on his inkstand, lined up three ledgers level with the edge of the desk and finally stood up to go to the shelves, which ran the length of the wall opposite the window. He lifted one red leather-bound tome and moved it from hand to hand.

‘My lord, do you know the finer details of your father’s illness?’ Henning asked just before the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory. ‘It is relevant, I assure you.’

Whatever Brody thought the man might say, it wasn’t that. ‘Originally, pneumonia, though how I have no idea,’ he replied. ‘I was told he had always been less than robust, though I can’t say I’d ever noticed. Then he died several years later after once more succumbing to the illness from riding in a storm.’

Henning sighed. He looked so concerned Brody passed the parcel with the brandy over to him. ‘Pour us a glass each, for, if it’s as worrying as your demeanour suggests, I feel it is likely we will need it.’

His factor nodded, produced two glasses – clean and reasonably shiny – poured two generous measures out and handed one to Brody, before he himself took good mouthful and swallowed appreciatively.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. It is, I hesitate to say, worrying – but definitely not something I felt should be kept from you. Your mother, however, was adamant you need not be informed. That telling you the details would upset you and not help you at all. I had assumed now you were home and, er, improving health wise, she would have imparted it all to you.’

‘No.’ Improving health wise? I wonder what ailed me? ‘Oh and Henning? For the record, there was nothing wrong with me other than having to think and speak in a foreign language for many years, and learn how to once more behave in polite society once I returned to these shores.’ And mourn my love. ‘I was tired, true, but oh so pleased to be home,’ Brody continued. ‘Especially when I fled London, and believe me, fled is not too strong a word for how I got away. Hounded until I was scared to relieve myself in case a debutante hid behind the commode, jumped out and said I compromised her.’ Brody shuddered as he remembered that and other close shaves. ‘Then I arrived here to be shown by my mama and my employees that my input was not needed. Well, I’m sorry, but needed or not, now you have it. All of you.’ He lifted his glass and drank deeply. For once the smooth as silk cognac failed to do the trick and calm him.

Henning put his glass down on the desk in front of him. ‘If you mean that, Your Grace, then I am truly grateful. I do need your input, but we were all told in no uncertain terms not to bother you.’

‘Now you know differently. Therefore let’s start with my father’s illness and subsequent demise.’

‘Be prepared to be annoyed,’ Henning said and Brody grinned. The man was unbending by the minute, and now looked around Brody’s age, not ten years older.

‘Not amazed or unhappy?’

Henning raised his shoulders. ‘I don’t know to be honest.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I do know is this. As was his usual routine, the duke rode out one day and was caught in a vicious hailstorm. We all thought he recovered well, but he wasn’t strong after that and the second time it proved fatal. He… oh dear, I don’t like to say this, it seems disloyal.’ The man blushed. ‘Oh my, I mean,’ he stopped speaking and lapsed into an agitated silence.

Brody took pity on him. ‘I understand your feelings but I need to know. My father is dead, my mother will not talk about it, and my staff seem to think me uninterested in my heritage. None of which is helping my return to head the house of Welland. Therefore, Henning, I throw myself at your mercy and beg you to tell me what you know.’

Henning dipped his head. ‘Sadly little more than that, Your Grace. He returned from that ride and succumbed to the fever. No one thought he would take such a risk again, but he did. That was…’ his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

‘But he did? And that was the ride that killed him?’ Brody asked.

‘So it seems, your grace. As before, it was a lowering sky and snow was hinted. Even so, his lordship insisted on going out alone. He’d been in to see me earlier and was his normal self, and made no mention of having to go anywhere. However, it seems he told your mother he needed to ride – no explanation why or to where, although she did say to the coroner she asked him and he replied it was just a ride to shake the cobwebs away. As he often did that, although not usually in such weather, she had no reason to argue with him. This is, you understand, hearsay?’

Brody nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘He made his way to the stables, dismissed the groom who went to attend him, saddled a young and green stallion, and rode away. It wasn’t until he failed to return for dinner that the alarm was raised and a search instigated.’ Henning took another sip of brandy.

‘We found him around midnight, crawling along the back drive. It was assumed his horse had caught its foot in a rabbit hole and he was thrown. After a subsequent hunt we found the horse next to one such hole, already dead. Your father was brought home on a hurdle, but died three days later from an inflammation of the lungs without any explanation for his ride. After that we carried on much as normal until, well, now.’

‘Which will be the new normal.’ Brody paused to formulate his thoughts. Henning might think his father wouldn’t take silly risks but Brody knew his parent had been wild in his younger days, To try out a young horse in less than perfect weather would be something he’d do without thinking twice. ‘Is that why the gates on the back drive are shut and that route unused?’

‘Exactly, Your Grace.’

Brody made up his mind. ‘No longer. It’s the shortest way to the village.’ And Miss Mary. Now why should that thought pop into his mind? There was as much chance of anything happening there as him becoming the next king. ‘Can you see that the drive is levelled and the gates repaired?”

Henning brightened. ‘Certainly. While you’re here?” He looked somewhat hesitant about continuing.

‘Spit it out.’ Brody advised him. ‘I don’t bite.’ Not innocent employees anyway. Less than innocent and willing ladies, all the time. Damned if that thought didn’t perk his pego up. He willed his erection to go away. Having just achieved a working rapport with Henning he didn’t want to lose it. Luckily the desk was between them.

‘We used to have a dance after the harvest was done. It’s not been held these past few years, but now it would give everyone the chance to meet you again. People understood your mama didn’t want to be bothered whilst your papa was ill, but now, if you do indeed mean to take up the reins, why not start with this?’

It made sense. Brody stood up and clapped the other man on the back. ‘An excellent idea. I’ll get word to my mother and siblings that it will be… hmm, around the last week in September? That’s…’ he did rapid calculations, ‘…four weeks if we hold it on the first Saturday in October. Then it won’t clash with anything the church does.’ He remembered enough of years past to know how important the religious festivals were. ‘Can you arrange that? I’ll speak to cook.’ If she is off the sherry. He thought rapidly. ‘I suspect my first task should be to write to Mama. If I can work out where she is at the moment. I’ve lost track.’

‘Mallow.’ Henning’s eyes twinkled. ‘At Lady Fernley’s. I have a list.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘My Lord, I’ve been sending her weekly updates on what we, we, not you, are doing.’

Brody laughed. Poor Henning. ‘Let’s face it; my bit would scarcely cover two lines of script. Eating, riding, sleeping. Just existing. No more though, and I’ll take over the epistles. It would be best to come from me that her input can decrease now.’

And cease. He still had to discover why she chose to shut him out.

Chapter Three

Mary couldn’t remember a night quite so dream-filled since just after Horry had died. Those dreams had been more of the nasty and dark kind, not the frustrating type. Yet in both she woke grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there. However, whereas before she’d woken up bereft, because her husband was never going to be next to her again, the night just passed she had felt more of an ache deep inside. The longing and expectation you experienced as you waited for a lover to fill you.

She flung back the covers with exasperation and got out of bed. Enough was enough. Her life had changed and it was up to her to take charge of it. She’d chosen not to be part of the ton, not to be hemmed in and confronted on all sides by suitors who thought no more of her than a cup of chocolate in Whites. Instead she’d chosen to be seen as a young widow who was in effect the custodian of the Grange until such times its usage – unspecified as to how – changed. That persona suited her and was close enough to the truth to not make her feel uneasy when people commiserated. It was just some facts she’d supressed. Like a lot of money and her title.

Why the local had chosen uphold what the school children called her – Miss Mary, not Mrs Mary Lynch – she had no idea but she liked it. She was no longer Lady McCoy – or, she thought with a jolt, the Dowager Lady McCoy – and, unless she went back to her brother with her tail between her legs, would likely never be again. Each time that thought hit her, she became ever more determined that once her year of grace was over, she intended to continue her life how she wanted it. It would be an uphill struggle, she had no doubt of that, but even if she had to stall until she was twenty-five she was determined to do as she desired.

‘Right.’ Mary spoke to herself as she dressed in her plain cotton chemise and simple sprigged lilac cotton gown. Old and serviceable, it was a firm favourite of hers and she knew it suited her dark curls, even as it upheld her status of a widow, not totally out of mourning. Or did it? Maybe the colour was too definite?

So be it. Enough was enough. If she had followed Horry’s diktat, she would have been in colours months ago. However. whilst she lived with Desmond and Patience, the idea had horrified them, and in deference to her hosts and their sensibilities she’d kept to greys and purples. Here in Welland village she’d lightened up a bit, but now she decided her wardrobe needed updating. She’d call on Miss Wishlade, ask for advice, and choose some pretty coloured gowns and outerwear for autumn.

With that in mind, Mary hummed under her breath and waited as Barlow, her groom, saddled her beloved mare, Darcy, and let him give her a hand into the saddle. As ever she countered his pleas to accompany her, and rode along the drive towards the gates and the lane, which went towards Welland in one direction and the tiny hamlet of Bliston in the other.

Miss Wishlade lived halfway up the steep hill on the far side of the Welland estate. A spritely widow who said cheerfully she’d stopped counting her age when she reached eighty, a goodly age for anyone, and now kept active by making gowns for the locals and knitting and tatting garments for those she deemed worthy.

Evidently, she deemed Mary worthy.

They’d met at church and when Mary had enquired diffidently if Miss Wishlade could remake a grey gown into one more serviceable, Miss Wishlade had looked her up and down, and then nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at ten. Marmalade Cottage over towards Manton way, by Home Farm and don’t be late. I only do plain sewing, mind you, but that fits the bill, admirably.’

It had been no surprise to Mary to learn Miss Wishlade had been the present Duke’s sisters’ governess for many years, before she retired to the cosy cottage she now resided in. She oozed authority in the nicest way possible.

Over the months their unlikely friendship had grown, until now it was such that they exchanged weekly visits. One week Mary would send Barlow with the carriage to bring Miss Wishlade to the Grange for lunch, the next Mary would make her way up the escarpment, past the castle and thence to Marmalade Cottage for one of Annie, Miss Wishlade’s companion’s light lunches, or if they ate later, delicious stews or roast dinners. Usually followed by a pudding so filling Mary thought if she fell off her horse she would merely roll down the hill. Hopefully not into the duck pond.

She took the little used bridle path which meandered below the castle and tackled the hill at a place more suited to pedestrians or horses, but definitely not for carts or carriages. At least it meant she could let Darcy pick her own way between the thistles and poppies, and ignore the meadowlarks and starlings that flew around her. Likewise the hare, which darted across the track and which, with any other horse, could have caused a ruckus. Darcy merely snorted, shook her head, and plodded on.

It was a perfect morning. The sun wasn’t too hot and was still in the process of burning off the early mist that hung like a net curtain over the fields. The hedgerow was covered with cobwebs, which sparkled and gleamed like the jewels in a tiara. Tiny creatures darted in and out of the bushes, and somewhere a skylark sang its melodious song. The last of the wheat was nigh on ready to be harvested and the late ripening apple trees she passed ready to drop their fruit.

Mary sighed in contentment. She loved this time of the year, when the earth gave up its bounty and settled into silence for the long cold winter months ahead. When the barns were full, the haystacks made, and the pantries and larders groaning with the fruits of the people’s labour.

With the added bonus of not being threatened with the season turning wintry, well not yet, Mary was more than happy. She hummed to herself and Darcy pricked up her ears as if in agreement. ‘All’s good with the world eh, girl?’ Mary tugged gently on Darcy’s ears and directed her to take a track around the edge of the hundred-acre field, still awaiting the ministrations of the harvester. Only a few days to go Mary judged, and then she’d be able to ride straight across the field and not skirt the crop.

Of course before long, if the winter were severe, she’d be on shanks’ pony, because the ice would make the tracks treacherous for the horse. However she’d face that problem when or if it happened. One thing she was determined about – she’d still be at the Grange, and not in London for the season, whatever anyone said.

As she approached Marmalade Cottage – so named, Miss Wishlade said, because of the colour of the stone walls – that lady popped out of the door as if she were on a spring. She waved vigorously as Mary drew Darcy to a halt, dismounted, and eventually settled the horse with some oats in the shade of a venerable and fruitless plum tree.

‘Such news,’ she said excitedly as she waited for Mary to pick up the saddlebag she’d brought full of garden produce. ‘Brody’s out and about again.’

‘Brody?’ Mary asked as casually as she could manage, as she followed her hostess into the trim cottage and put the heavy saddlebag down on the long oak table that dominated the kitchen.

‘The Duke,’ Miss Wishlade said impatiently as Annie bustled in, and kissed Mary on the cheek affectionately. ‘He dropped by earlier and invited us to lunch at the castle. Of course I refused, and explained why. He was most interested in the way you have become one of us.’

I bet he was. His insolent stare still rankled.

‘As I told him,’ Miss Wishlade continued, ‘you’re like a daughter to Annie and me. So the dear boy said he’ll call in later for some cakes and we’re to go for lunch tomorrow instead. So good of him to pop back, though it’s not surprising – Annie was baking, you see. He loves her baking.’

Mary thought she saw rather more than Miss Wishlade did.

‘I hope I get to meet him,’ she said diplomatically. Just not today. If and when they did meet up it would not be in front of innocent bystanders. She rather thought any interchange between them might not be fit for delicate ears. ‘If he arrives before I must leave. It will have to be a short visit today, I’m afraid.’

Miss Wishlade’s face dropped. Mary thought rapidly. What on earth would be a good enough reason to return home at an earlier hour than normal?

‘I’m expecting a missive from my late husband’s solicitors.’ It was partly true; she was, but not that day. ‘There may be a little more money for me.’ Also true but Mary rather thought her idea of a little and Miss Wishlade’s was somewhat different.

Miss Wishlade beamed and patted Mary’s shoulder. ‘There now, that will be handy, eh? Of course you must be there to receive it. Is Mr Niven going to Uppingham to check at the receiving office?’

Oh lord she hadn’t thought of that. ‘Er, no, a courier should arrive. It might not be today, as this is the first day possible, but, well, I must be around in case an immediate answer is needed.’ She hoped Miss Wishlade didn’t feel the need to probe further. Her inventiveness only went so far.

‘Then we’ll have a cup of tea now, and lunch at noon instead of half past. How’s that?’

Mary nodded. ‘Perfect.’

Even though a lot of ladies didn’t bother with lunch, Mary liked the idea and Miss Wishlade and Annie embraced it wholeheartedly. When they ate early, their meal wasn’t heavy, but always tasty and relied on local food and usually hedgerow wines. Those Mary had learned very early on to partake of lightly. They were lethal.

‘Potato and veg soup today,’ Annie said as they took their tea outside and sat down on a long bench in the orchard. ‘I’d thought of pigeon pie, but as we’re eating early I’m glad I didn’t. Plus it’s too hot for such a heavy meal. Today’s wine is oak leaf.’

‘So true about the heat, and good regarding the wine. But didn’t I smell apple pie?’

Annie nodded. ‘Well of course.’

Miss Wishlade chuckled, and after a second Mary and Annie joined her. Mary’s love of Annie’s apple pie was well known.

Darcy lifted her head and regarded them steadily until she was sure no treats were forthcoming and then proceeded to ignore the chatting, sniggering women.

Mary never ceased to be amazed and thankful that the age gap between them didn’t matter and they could pass many a happy hour in chat or crafts.

‘I’ll have to give my tatting lesson a miss,’ Mary said, as Annie rushed indoors, convinced she could smell the soup burning. ‘But I’ve got some to finish before Mr Niven collects you next week. And I want your advice on who to get to make me some gowns. I have material, but no aptitude, and these are the ones you say you aren’t able to create.’

‘Bless you, the tatting is not set in stone,’ Miss Wishlade said comfortably. ‘We just enjoy your company and to teach you tatting is an extra pleasure. As for dresses? Like I said, I’m fine with basics and gowns for people round here. You need something better. Molly Trevor over at Riverside is best. Tell her I sent you. She’s clever, and an ex-pupil of Gloria La Compte. She only came home because her mother took ill and there were seven little ones to look after.’

Mary had heard of Gloria La Compte. If she had trained this Molly Trevor, she must be good. ‘I will do.’

Miss Wishlade nodded. ‘She’ll see you right.’

‘So,’ Mary broached the subject she really wanted some information on. ‘You mentioned the duke is out and about again. What do you mean?’ It hit Mary that in her months at the Grange, no one really mentioned the duke at all, other than he had been abroad for many years. Had anyone ever said he was at the castle? She searched her mind but couldn’t recall any conversations. After all, the locals would know what was going on and have no cause to talk about it to her.

‘Ah, Brody? Well it’s like this. Or –’ Miss Wishlade said with a frown, ‘– I believe it is. Mind I only know what I hear from Mrs Loveage, but he came back a changed man and did nothing.’

‘Came back?’ So he had been away then? ‘How changed?’

‘Oh I forgot you weren’t here before.’ Miss Wishlade looked around the garden and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, the young Duke – not that he was the Duke in those days – he was, not to put it too finely, a hellion my dear. A rake and a womaniser. His poor mama was in despair. He took but never repaid if you know what I mean.’ She coloured as she spoke. ‘Even though the estate is wealthy, no coffers are bottomless. I tried to tell her, he’d been spoiled, that there was nothing malicious in his behaviour. That if you are brought up to believe you are so important you bow to no other diktats than those you chose to, you are not going to listen to reason. Sadly, he was treated in that manner by his mama. His papa, bless his soul, tried to intervene but when a thrashing resulted in the uproar his mama created, why, it was no wonder it had no real effect.’

Mary pondered Miss Wishlade’s words. ‘But surely he went away to school?’ From what her brother had let slip, school tended to beat all delusions of grandeur out of everyone.

‘Well, yes, but whatever it achieved was lost each time he came home. I dare say his schooldays meant he wasn’t quite so obnoxious,’ Miss Wishlade said fairly. ‘But it still meant he had no concept of money management, or how to run the estates.’ She shook her head. ‘Or in those days have any desire to learn. Or so it appeared.’

‘He seems like a wastrel,’ Mary observed tartly. No wonder he looked at me so insolently. He is no gentleman whatever his title.

‘The problem is, my dear, when you are told the world owes you, then why sadly, you tend to take those sentiments at face value and follow that path.’ Miss Wishlade sat back in her chair and shook her head. ‘If truth be told I feel sorry for him. His mama is very strong willed, and no one really stood up to her.’

‘Not even her husband?’

Miss Wishlade shook her head until her white coiffed hair stood out from her skull. ‘Oh no dear, as I said, he tried, but in the end? Why something happened and Brody left. No one knows all the ins and out of why and what happened next, but it is rumoured he was working for the crown. I suspect we’ll never know.’

Mary agreed with her. She searched for something to say to change the topic but Miss Wishlade pre-empted her.

‘Now he’s home? Who knows what he’s like? Although Mrs Loveage says he’s kept himself to himself. Even when his mama took the rest of the family away, he’s not really been out and about. He’s been very quiet. No one has really seen hair nor hide of him. I thought though, when we saw him earlier, that he’s a man with a lot of anger in him.’ She paused and tilted her head to one side like an inquisitive bird. ‘And even more sorrow. Poor man.’

It was still no reason for him to stare at a woman in such an insolent and denuding manner. Mary had an awful though, one she immediately scotched. Surely he didn’t believe in droit de seigneur? Those days were long gone.

‘Anyway, whatever it is, it looks like he’s back with us again,’ Annie said as she caught the end of the conversation. ‘Which is good.’

Mary nodded. It all sounded somewhat far-fetched. Something made up to explain his boorish attitude? If so, it wasn’t enough to appease her.

What if it was right though? That he’d been away fighting for his country, instead of what she might have supposed – if she’d thought about him at all – that he’d been in London or visiting one of his other estates with the rest of his family. Like many of the ton? She was feeling a little uneasy about her holier than thou attitude. Wasn’t it as bad as his ‘I do what I want’ one?

She needed to get away and think about the revelations.

As soon as luncheon was finished and her offer of helping with the tidying up refused, Mary made her farewells a good two hours before she normally did. The food was delicious, and she missed the somnambulant period that usually came after, plus the hour of crafts that followed their laziness.

It wasn’t until she’d ridden away from the cottage and accessed the overgrown lane she usually took that she breathed easier. There was no doubt she’d meet his grace one day, but after that scorching look at the school, she’d prefer it to be later rather than sooner. She needed time to plan just how she would react. To take him down a peg or two would be preferable, but not likely. To slap him hard would be even more satisfying, but she thought that as probable as the Whigs taking office. Mary sighed. Why did she see difficulties ahead?

Plan for the worst, hope for the best. Her husband’s words danced into her mind. A good adage to follow.

Impatient now, and ready to reach the safety of home, Mary clicked her tongue to encourage Darcy to increase her slow pace to a slightly livelier one.

Darcy, amiable as ever, responded and they proceeded briskly to the corner where the track met the bridleway, before disaster struck. Mary, deep in thought, didn’t have the reins as securely as she could have.

Evidently, Darcy, now eager to get out of the heat, away from the flies and sensing the unusual opportunity to sleep the afternoon away in her own field, didn’t see the partridge until it whirred up under her hooves and flew away with a lot of noise and action.

Darcy reared and took off like a racehorse – which she certainly was not.

Mary grabbed ineffectually for the reins so unceremoniously yanked out of her hands, missed, and slid off backwards over the horse’s rump then down onto the ground. It was hard and rutted and the jarring took her breath away. Her hair fell out of the few pins left in it and tumbled over her shoulders, and into her eyes.

She blew the strands from her face, muttered something not really supposed to be uttered by a lady, tucked the long tresses behind her ears, and looked around to see Darcy disappearing into the distance.

Mary swore, stood up, promptly caught her foot under a tree root and fell back on her rear again. That pain was nothing to the one that now shot through her head. One of total annoyance and frustration.

Hellfire and damnation. Now what do I do? It seemed shanks’ pony time had arrived several weeks earlier than the season demanded. With a long huff that fluttered the grass next to her, Mary considered her situation. In all the time she’d used these tracks and bridleways she’d only seen one person, and he, she now knew, was Hubbins the local poacher. One of the gossipy titbits Miss Wishlade had shared, was that Hubbins had been caught with a trout in his bag that he couldn’t vouch for. Luckily for Hubbins, neither could the bailiff. However, a scuffle had broken out and Hubbins was now the less than proud owner of a black eye and a broken arm. Therefore, it was unlikely anyone else would pass by and either offer her a lift or get Mr Niven to come and collect her.

Mary, my girl, just get on with it. She wriggled her foot out from under the root, stood up and dusted her gown down. To her horror she noticed the lace that frilled around the neckline and covered her breasts to make the dress decorous and not semi-indecent was torn in places. One garter had come untied, the silk in tatters, and that stocking was laddered and now lay in wrinkles around her ankle. The other, still in place, had no knee. A waste of a pair of good everyday stockings. She supposed she should be thankful it wasn’t her fine silk special hose she’d ruined.

But the worst thing was that now the demure day dress had taken on the role of a teasing evening gown, albeit a dusty and tattered one.

It was the last straw. If she were a lesser woman Mary swore she would have broken down and cried. As it was she uttered several pithy words that would have earned her a severe scolding and her mouth washed out with soap and water if her schoolteachers had heard, stripped off the remains of her stockings, and wondered what else could go wrong.

There was no way she could be seen as she was. The lace had ripped in such a way that one rosy nipple was only just covered and if she moved – or breathed – too sharply it would pop out for all and sundry to see. Why oh why didn’t she carry a reticule full of pins to effect running repairs, or a shawl to cover herself? A lady would, surely?

One more sign that whatever her title, a lady she was not.

A mind full of what she needed to do the following day and a tatting hook wouldn’t answer.

But the wool she tatted with could. Except her saddlebag was attached to her saddle which, in turn, was on the back of Darcy. Who, by now, would be halfway to the Grange and about to cause mayhem, worry and confusion when the Nivens discovered her without her rider.

Mary sighed, and bit her lip. Something had to be done. She tied her hair up with the tattered hose and wondered if she was about to set a new trend. Now what? How to cover her bosom and hold her head up in public was uppermost in her mind.

Then she remembered the ribbons on her bonnet and nodded in satisfaction. Where was it? Mary scanned the immediate area, grabbed the chip straw confection from the bush it had landed in, avoided the prickles and considered her options.

It was no good, there was nothing else for it. The bonnet, one of her favourites, would have to be sacrificed in the name of decency. With strength born of determination, Mary ripped the mauve ribbon ties from their anchoring and resorted to biting off the long streamers and pretty knot, which adorned the back. Then she set to weaving them in and out of the tattered lace until, although not elegant, the dress was once more decent. She tucked the knot in her cleavage for good measure, and looked down at the result of her labour. Not too bad. She’d still better not breathe too deeply or make excessive movements but with luck the repair would hold until she arrived home.

Now she had to decide which way to go for the best. If she carried on, she would only have to negotiate half the hill and the village street looking like a hoyden. However, that track, although she preferred it on horseback, was longer than if she climbed up towards the castle, skirted the keep, and followed the road for a few hundred yards. Then she could head back down another better kept footpath and through the churchyard. Annoying though it was to turn away from her destination, sadly, there was nothing else to do, and it was much the most sensible option. She let out a sigh long and loud enough to be heard in the village should anyone choose to listen and identity it as such.

Mary tucked her hair behind her ears, and put the remains of her bonnet back into the blackthorn bush. Hopefully she could collect it later, when it didn’t add to her disreputable appearance. With a mental prayer that nothing else would go wrong, Mary began to trudge upwards.

The flies were out in force and the sun at its zenith. Within a few minutes she was sweaty as well as dusty, and wished she had the remains of her bonnet on her head. Even if it would only cover a few inches. Mary wiped her brow on the back of her arm for the umpteenth time and longed for a glass of water. However, unless she went into the castle, somewhere she’d never ventured, water would have to be her lodestone until she reached the pump on the village green.

Muttering about birds, horses, and the heat, she tramped around the castle perimeter and onto the road; thankful she had half boots on and not her sandals. At least the stony track didn’t impinge too much on the soles of her feet. Even so, she’d be glad to get off the said feet and soak them in a basin of hot water and some of Mrs Niven’s special salts.

All of a sudden Mary saw the funny side of everything and giggled. Why did things like this not happen in the Gothic romances she usually enjoyed reading? It would be an interesting excursion for Lady Hermione Hepplestone, the somewhat insipid heroine of the improbably named “Esoteric Adventures of An Innocent Lady”. It would be better named “The Non-Adventures of an Imbecile”. All the soppy Hermione did was wring her hands and say things like “woe is me”.

I’m sure I could do better. Even Miss Wishlade could. Mary resolved to leave the rest of the book unread. Life was too short to spend time on such things, when there was so much more she could do with her time.

She increased her speed, eager to get home and think. So intent was she on moving forward as fast as possible that the thrumming of hoof beats didn’t impinge on her consciousness until a newly learned, now never to be forgotten, deep and gravelly voice spoke.

‘Well, what have we here?’

That was the last thing she needed – it really completed her day, for all the wrong reasons.

****

‘A bloody travelling circus, what do you think?’ The dusty and perspiration-covered woman in front of him snapped back. ‘With you as the clown.’

Brody smothered his smile and contained his amusement. Her glorious chestnut hair, the colour of a ripe conker, was tied back with what looked suspiciously like cotton hose, and long strands escaped from it to curl riotously around her face. The eyes, which shot fire at him, were a gorgeous, albeit stormy, grey and ringed by long dark lashes. Her bosom, barely covered by what he thought was once lilac lace but now looked more like mucky grey sacking tied together with what… silk ribbons? … heaved as she stood, arms akimbo. With cold eyes, for one short second she glared up at him, before she dropped her gaze.

What had he done to deserve such an icy reception? Brody deliberately ignored the way he had eyed her body on their previous meetings. After all, that was just… just not acceptable. No more.

He swung his leg over his horse’s back – he’d chosen to ride without a saddle – and slid to the ground. ‘Are you all right… Miss Mary, is it not?’

She nodded without looking at him and bobbed a curtsey, one judged to the nth degree of correctness. ‘Your Grace.’

It seemed the lady knew of the intricacies of the aristocracy and what was due to him as a Duke then? He’d noticed that at school. Brody bowed in return, more intrigued by the woman in front of him than ever.

‘Brody.’

She did look at him then, with a startled expression. ‘Your Grace?’

‘My name is Brody, use it.’

The stubborn woman shook her head. ‘It would not be right, Your Grace.’ She dropped her eyes again, her back poker straight with disapprobation. The proper attitude for a servant indeed – apart from the disapproval. But she was no servant, he was now certain – why he couldn’t say – however something told him that, even if she was not his equal, she was at the least gentry. Her dress might have been practical and not of the finest quality, but it was better than a mere servant would wear except perhaps for Sunday best. That aside, he didn’t expect those who worked for him to be servile. If she were local or, as she did, reside locally, she would surely know that? His curiosity, always hovering near the surface, jumped up eagerly.

Brody narrowed his eyes and she took a hasty step backwards. ‘It is if I give you leave,’ he said emphatically. ‘Which I do.’

‘No. It is not convenable.’

‘You, my dear, are wrong, very wrong.’ He took the step forward needed to be close to her once more. She gasped and repeated her step backward. He advanced, she retreated. At this rate they’d reach the castle gates without her realising it. Very tempting, but perhaps underhand. Underhand was something he’d save for when it was really necessary.

‘We can carry on like this all day,’ he remarked easily. ‘However, I for one am thirsty, hungry and hot. And, not to put too fine a point on it, and no doubt to be incredibly indelicate, sweaty, and probably smell.’ He watched her eyes widen as she stifled a grin and sniffed. So the lady did have a sense of humour. He laughed. ‘I see you agree. I need a wash, a drink and something to eat. To be even more indelicate, you look as if refreshment would be of use as well.’ He thought it best not to mention anything else they had in common, such as perspiration and the need to utilise the pump over their heads. ‘Now use my given name or I’ll put you over my knee.’ Lord what did he sound like? He opened his mouth to refute his statement, expecting the frigid stare she gave him – the one that shrivelled his staff – when unexpectedly, her expression changed and she giggled.

‘In one way I’d like to see you try. You attitude Your Grace is not befitting your status. How you sleep in your bed at night I have no concept.’

‘I don’t.’ To his annoyance his voice was bleak. He raised one eyebrow rakishly and grinned in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘So overrated, when there are so many other things one can do, don’t you think?’

To his amusement, she yawned. Yawned. No one would do that to him. Except her, it seemed.

‘You know my dear, I’d be happy to show you what I assume you are missing,’ he drawled. ‘Just give me the word.’

‘Your assumption anyone would be pleased to receive such unwarranted attention astounds me,’ she snapped, her previous attitude gone in a flash. ‘Hor… how do you think you’d manage that? I’ve been taught how to protect myself.’ Mary tapped one boot-shod foot on the uneven earth. Brody rather thought she was well on the way to flattening a molehill and giving the poor, unsuspecting animal a headache.

Plus, he was damned sure she changed her statement mid-sentence.

Brody chose not to challenge it, not yet. This lady intrigued him with every look, every word spoken and definitely every heave of her bosom under the now grimy lace.

‘I’m very pleased to hear that you can defend yourself,’ he said equably. ‘Not all men who come across a lady in such circumstances would be as gentlemanly as I.’

Mary spluttered. ‘Let me tell you, Your Grace, that your attitude is… is… argh.’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘You say threatening to thrash me is gentlemanly? Just listen to yourself.’ She scowled, tightened her lips and glared at him

‘It would be, the way I did it.’

Her mouth dropped open and closed again without her saying a word.

Brody chuckled. ‘You look like one of the carp in my fishpond, when they are about to catch flies. I suggest you don’t emulate them. Flies are a devil to swallow, and believe me are no compensation for one of my cook’s lardy cakes.’ Even if they are made by Lovey, and not Cook today. Without thinking he reached forward and stroked her cheek. She didn’t bat his hand away, merely stared at him. This close the silver flecks in her grey eyes flickered in the sunlight and teased him. He hoped he saw interest there, and not just deference to whom he was. Or indifference.

‘Shall you accompany me back to the castle, freshen up and have a snack?’ Please say yes. Brody had no idea why her affirmative was so important. It wasn’t as if their acquaintance could go farther than this distant exchange of words… or could it? ‘Then I’ll take you to wherever you want to go.’

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