Praise for
Kasey Michaels

A Reckless Beauty

“A Reckless Beauty [is] a cannon shot. Drama by the boatload, danger around every corner, and heart-wrenching emotion await readers.”

—A Romance Review

A Most Unsuitable Groom

“From the first page to the last this continuation of the

Beckets of Romney Marsh saga is a well-crafted novel.

Emotional intensity, simmering sexual tension, characters

you care about and political intrigue—plus touches of

humour and a poignant love story—all come together

in this hugely entertaining keeper.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Dangerous Debutante

“Her characters shine as she brings in fascinating details

of the era, engaging plot twists and plenty of sensuality.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Shall We Dance?

“Brimming with historical details and characters ranging

from royalty to spies, greedy servants to a jealous

woman, this tale is told with panache and wit.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Butler Did It

“Michaels’ ingenious sense of humour reaches new

heights as she brings marvellous characters and a

too-funny-for-words story to life. (…) What fun, what

pleasure, what a read!”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Rafe followed Charlotte with his eyes as she pretended an interest in the bookshelves, seeing the young girl who had chased after him sometimes, and gone out of her way to ignore him at others.

She’d been such a funny creature, he remembered. Tall for a girl, and rack-thin; all arms and long legs and too much hair.

A pest. She’d been a pest. And female into the bargain. A child, really; fifteen to his nineteen the day he’d gone off to take up his commission.

He hadn’t recognised her out there on the drive. She was still tall, still thin, he supposed, but also nicely rounded.

Her hair looked…touchable. Her warm brown eyes hadn’t changed, hadn’t aged. He liked her nose, straight and yet somehow pert, and her wide mouth was full-lipped, and slightly vulnerable.

It was only when she opened that mouth that the Charlie he remembered actually appeared. Charlie said what was on her mind, always, and never dressed her comments up in fine linen. He’d liked that about her, he remembered, even when he was thinking up ways to avoid her.

He had no inclination to avoid her now. Quite the opposite…

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than ninety books. She has earned three starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has been awarded the RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, the Waldenbooks and BookRak awards, and several other commendations for her writing excellence in both contemporary and historical novels. There are more than eight million copies of her books in print around the world. Kasey resides in pennsylvania with her family, where she is always at work on her next book.

How to Tempt a Duke
Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my new editor, the one and only

Margo Lipschultz,

a woman with the patience of a saint!

Prologue

PARIS HAD BEGUN to lose its much-touted appeal. How many years had they all spoken about the day they would vanquish Bonaparte and march, triumphant, into this city of cities? When the mud of Spain sucked off their boots and the provisions didn’t arrive, when they were sure their empty bellies were stuck to their backbones—talk of the glories of Paris would lighten their spirits.

But after five straight days of cold, drenching rain, thoughts had turned to how soon Wellington would order the troops back home to England.

It would be raining there, too, but at least it would be good English rain.

Not that Captains Rafael Daughtry and Swain Fitzgerald would be among the troops piling onto ships and heading for Dover and other English ports. They’d learned just this afternoon that they were among those assigned to escort Bonaparte to his new empire on Elba in a few weeks.

Fitz had told Rafe they should be pleased, that they would be taking part in something historic, a quite singular adventure with which to one day regale their grandchildren while they bounced them on their knees.

Grandchildren? That’s when Rafe had narrowed his intense brown eyes and demanded his friend find them a place where they could both, with any luck, soon render themselves grandly drunk.

Rafe shivered now in his damp uniform and shifted his chair closer to the mediocre fire burning in the hearth of the tavern Fitz had chosen for them. He ran a hand through his overlong, self-barbered black hair, feeling the grease and grit that he had begun to doubt he’d ever be able to wash out of it, and then rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He’d have to locate a new razor in order to shave before presenting himself at Headquarters the next morning, and a clean shirt, as well. Just a dry shirt would do.

“Well now, would you look at that,” Fitz said with a grin. “Huddling by the fire like some old maid who’s never known a warmed bed. Would you be wanting a blanket for around your shoulders, Mistress Daughtry?”

“Stubble it, Fitz,” Rafe grumbled, suppressing another shiver. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be warm again. “Where’s this fine ale you told me about?”

“So many complaints from a man more used to sleeping in ditches these past years. And the devil with the ale—where’s the willing mam’zelles?” Fitz pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed on to the innkeeper as he passed by their table. “Parle vous the English, mon-sewer?”

The fat and rather greasy innkeeper rolled his eyes as he rattled off a quick string of French that had Rafe laughing into his fist, especially the part where the man compared Fitz to a hairy, overgrown cockroach.

“Two mugs of your finest brew, Innkeeper, if you please, and whatever hot food you’ve got in the kitchens,” Rafe interjected quickly in flawless French as he tossed the fellow a coin, and the man bowed his way back to the bar.

“Damned frogs. They don’t seem to know we’ve beaten them, do they, Rafe?”

“Oh, they know, and they hate us for it. The only thing saving us right now, I’d say, is the fact that most Parisians blame Bonaparte for getting them into this fix in the first place. I heard we had to put more guards around his quarters again today to protect him from his own once-loyal subjects. A part of me thinks we ought to stand down, and simply let them have at him. A personal escort of one thousand of his own men, armed, and in uniform? Dubbing him bloody Emperor of Elba? This is what we fought for, Fitz?”

“Does seem like we’re coddling the little fellow, I agree. How long are you and I supposed to be guarding him, anyway? Not that I’m in any great rush to head back to Dublin. Wet and cold it may be right now, but Paris has Dublin beat all hollow for willing females.”

“That’s only because all the females in Dublin already know you and make sure to stay away.”

“True enough,” Fitz said, scratching at his neatly trimmed beard, his green eyes sparkling. “I have cut myself a bit of a swath through the local ladies, handsome devil that I am. Now answer my question, if you please.”

Rafe drank deep from his mug as the barmaid plunked down two bowls of steaming stew and then winked at him before walking away, her pretty, rounded rump issuing a provocative invitation he felt oddly disinclined to accept. Still, if he paid her well enough, she might launder his shirt for him while he took a nap.

“How long? Six months or more, according to our orders,” he said as he lifted a stained wooden spoon and prodded at the thick stew, knowing he should just close his eyes as he ate, and not ask himself if he could identify the meat. “I hope I can find an opportunity to talk to the man.”

Fitz looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Talk to Boney? Why would you be wanting to do any such thing?”

Rafe crossed his arms and tried to hug some warmth into his bones before tackling the stew. “I don’t know why I’m telling you, since you’ll do nothing but make jokes at my expense, but I’ve been toying with the idea of penning a book about the war. You do realize, don’t you, Fitz, that for all our years with Wellington, we never once encountered Bonaparte himself across the battlefield.”

“And we never want to, to my mind. So you’re setting yourself up as another Byron, is it?”

“Hardly. That would mean casting myself in the role of hero. Just a simple history, Fitz, one that nobody will read, not even those grandchildren you’re trying to foist onto me. At any rate, we’ll be back in England by Christmas, if you’re still of a mind to accept my invitation to visit for a few months.”

“I am. I’ve heard enough about your home to think I already know it, but I still want to meet this grand family you say you have, not that I’ve seen a letter from any of them in all the years I’ve known you. Or you penning more than the occasional note to any of them, come to think of it. And what then for you, Rafe?” Fitz asked as they ate. “Will your uncle the duke let you take back the reins on your imaginary estate?”

Rafe put down his spoon, his only mediocre appetite now completely gone. “I’ve never held the reins, Fitz, and you know it. Mother’s succession of husbands did that, each one a worse steward than the last. At least they listened to my mother and refused all of His Grace’s offers to put one of his own men in charge.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because my uncle would have offered his hand, and then taken back twice as much with both hands. That, and my mother loathes the duke.”

“But the estate is yours, correct? You left England a lad, but you return having gained your majority.”

“In a perfect world that might be so,” Rafe said, rubbing at his eyelids, which seemed to wish to close even as he struggled to keep them open. “But, thanks to Willowbrook not being part of any entail, everything is under the control of my mother until I reach the age of thirty.” He reached for his mug of ale once more. “And my mother? Does she play the good steward of her son’s eventual inheritance? No, she does not. She marries, Fitz. It’s what she does.”

“Maybe she’d like to marry a nice young Irishman, then,” Fitz teased, giving Rafe a jab in the side. “I’d let you run the place to your heart’s content, sonny, while your mother and I—What would we do, Rafe?”

“I wouldn’t even want to contemplate such a question. Besides, she was barely out of her widow’s weeds when I left, so there may be yet another new stepfather installed at Willowbrook for all I know, and my sisters tossed back to the duke for safekeeping while dear Lady Helen plays at blushing bride.”

“Oh, come on now, it wasn’t all so bad, as I recall you telling me you spent most of your years with the duke and his sons yourself, until he bought you your commission. There could be worse fates than a generous uncle.”

“That’s what Charlie used to tell me. Drove me halfway round the bend, that little monster did, but she, like you, did have a point.”

Fitz looked into his mug. “No, I can’t be drunk yet, there’s still too much ale in here. Charlie? And then you said she?”

Rafe smiled at the memory of a girl several years his junior: tall, thin, all long legs and elbows, trailing after him as if he were some knight in shining armor. “Sorry. I should have said Charlotte. Charlotte Seavers. Her father’s estate cuts into my uncle’s, also, like a wedge of pie. Rose Cottage and the land that’s still a part of it are probably more of a thorn in His Grace’s side than Willowbrook.”

“Roses, thorns, that makes sense.”

For some unknown reason, a memory he didn’t know he still possessed rose in Rafe’s head. He was in the apple orchard, hiding from his lessons with his cousins, and Charlie had called down to him from her perch in the branches of one of the trees. He didn’t know how she did it, but she’d always seemed to know where he would be, and made sure that she was there, as well.

Sometimes he was flattered by the young girl’s attention, and sometimes he was annoyed. That day he was annoyed, and to show his annoyance he’d picked up an apple that had fallen to the ground and halfheartedly tossed it in her direction.

It had been a stupid thing to do. He might have hit her with the apple. He might have startled her so that she fell from her perch and was injured.

Instead, the little monster had deftly snagged the apple out of the air with one hand, and then winged it back in his direction.

He’d had that black eye for three weeks.

“Rafe? You’re woolgathering again. I think I said something about there being worse fates than a generous uncle.”

Rafe shook off the memory of his childhood, a move that, oddly, made his head ache even more. “True. But the boy I was at nineteen is not the man I hope I am now, at six and twenty. Grateful as I am, I’m past the point of accepting any more of the man’s cold charity, Fitz. I can’t do anything to help my sisters. I’m thankful for what my uncle has done for them as well as for me, but it’s time I made my own way in the world.”

“Meaning?” his friend asked around a mouthful of stew.

“Meaning, Fitz, that my sisters will be well enough off with my uncle, so I’ve decided to remain in the army. When you get straight down to it, fighting is the only thing I know.”

“This may come as a shock to you, my friend,” Fitz said conspiratorially, taking hold of Rafe’s forearm, “but I very much think we’ve run out of enemies to fight.”

Rafe smiled, as he was sure he was meant to do, and when the barmaid returned with two more mugs of ale, he pulled her down onto his lap and whispered into her ear. She giggled, nodded and instantly began nibbling at the side of his neck while Fitz muttered under his breath that it was always Rafe who had all the luck.

Fitz would think that, and probably with good reason. Rafe knew he’d been fortunate in his uncle in some ways. But he’d be damned if he’d live on the man’s sufferance ever again. Perhaps, when a man didn’t have much to call his own, his pride became all- important.

He also had his sisters to consider, and their futures. The twins had been no more than giggling, pestering children when he’d left for the Peninsula, years younger than Charlie. But they must be all of sixteen by now, and if Rafe knew his mother—and he did—Lady Helen hadn’t given a thought to their futures.

He didn’t know how he’d approach his uncle about Nicole and Lydia, but he hoped that between himself and his aunt Emmaline, the duke could be convinced to add to the small dowries arranged for both of them by their father, and give them a Season in London.

As for what he was to do about his shallow, lovable, spendthrift and woefully flighty mother? Now there was a question fashioned to keep Rafe up nights.

But no matter what, he was done accepting favors for himself from his uncle. He’d spent too many years listening to his bullying cousin George, Earl Storrington, referring to his family as the beggars come to call each time they’d been deposited on the duke’s doorstep, bag and baggage. He’d swallow hard and accept help for his sisters, but not another bent penny for himself. He’d made that vow long ago.

Perhaps playing nursemaid to Bonaparte for these next six or nine months would give him time to formulate a plan for the rest of his life. For so many years, he hadn’t considered much beyond the next day, the next battle, the next search for food and dry lodgings for his men. By silent agreement, neither he nor Fitz had dared to speak of a future beyond that next day, that next battle, or else they might jinx themselves.

Now that the war was won, however, and he had surprisingly found himself still in one piece, he could no longer avoid thinking about that future.

His rambling thoughts made his head hurt. Something was making his head hurt like the very devil…making all of him hurt.

“Here now, friend,” Fitz said grumpily. “This poor girl is working herself to the bone, trying to get a bit of a rise out of you, if you take my meaning, and you’re just sitting there like some lump, arms hanging at your sides, staring into the fire. Pass her to me, why don’t you. I know what to do with a willing female.”

Rafe snapped himself out of his maudlin musings to realize that the barmaid was now looking at him in some disgust. “Many apologies, ma chérie,” he told her in French as he eased her off his lap. “You are very lovely, but I am very weary.” He hooked a thumb in Fitz’s direction. “And that hairy one over there has many coins.”

The barmaid’s fickle affections switched immediately as she smiled at Fitz and climbed onto his lap. “Ah, that’s more the thing. That’s it, sweetheart, wiggle that plump bottom about on me some more. The blazes with their pretty statues and showy gardens—this is all the Paris I want to see,” he said as the buxom young woman shoved her ample assets close to his face. “Sorry, my friend, but you know how it is. The better man, and all of that.”

“That you are, Fitz,” Rafe said quietly. “But before you go upstairs, you might want to slip me your purse for safekeeping. Damn,” he said then, blinking rapidly as he shook his head. “What’s in that ale, anyway? The room seems to be spinning.”

“You haven’t drunk enough for rooms to spin,” Fitz said, looking at his friend. “You know, Rafe, you don’t look too good. Here, let me play at nursemaid and feel your forehead.” With one arm securing the provocatively jiggling barmaid in position, he leaned toward Rafe and did so, and then pulled back his hand, dramatically shaking it. “Blast it, man, you’re burning up, do you know that?”

“I can’t be, Fitz. I’m bloody freezing. It’s this wet uniform, that’s what it is.” Rafe clenched his jaw, for his teeth had begun to chatter as he shivered again, missing the warmth of the barmaid’s lush body if not the barmaid herself.

“I don’t think so. I think it’s that fever you picked up at Albuera, isn’t it? It’s back again, damn me if it isn’t. Come on, let’s make our way back to our quarters before you go passing out on me and I have to carry you the way I did in Vitoria.”

Rafe waved off Fitz’s offer. “Go have your fun. If it’s the fever again I’m already as sick as I’m going to get. Take her upstairs and ruin her for all other, lesser men with your Irish expertise. I’ll…I’ll just wait for you here by the fire.” He laid his head on his bent arms. “Too tired to go back out in that rain and damp anyway.”

“Your Grace? Excuse me, sir, for disturbing you, but if I might have a word? Your Grace?”

“Rafe,” Fitz whispered in a suddenly strained voice, nudging him in the ribs. “There’s a funny-looking little man standing on the other side of the table, and he’s talking to you. I mean, I think he’s talking to you, because he most certainly couldn’t be talking to me. He said Your Grace. Better sit up, friend. Something’s strange here.”

Rafe forced his eyes open and squinted at the bemused expression on Fitz’s face as his friend continued to look across the table. “Bloody hell,” he said, pushing himself erect to see a rather rumpled little Englishman standing there, just as Fitz had said. Except there were several of him…perhaps a half-dozen rumpled little Englishmen weaving and waving in front of him. He tried to single out one from the herd. “Sorry? May we help you?”

“You are Rafael Daughtry, are you not?” the man said. “Please say you are,Your Grace, as I’ve been hunting you now for nearly a month, ever since the cessation of hostilities allowed safe travel across the Channel. Perhaps none of your hopeful aunt’s letters reached you?”

“You hear that, Rafe? Your Grace. He said it again,” Fitz pointed out, pushing the barmaid from his lap, at which time the woman launched into a torrent of gutter French that would have made even Rafe blush, if he’d been listening to her.

“Indeed, I did say just that,” the man said, sighing. “If I might be allowed to sit, sir?”

Rafe and Fitz exchanged puzzled glances. “Yes, of course.” Rafe indicated the empty chair in front of the man. He fought to keep his eyes open. “But I’m afraid I don’t—”

“No, I can see clearly that you do not. My name is Phineas Coates, Your Grace, and it is my sad duty to inform you that your uncle, Charlton Daughtry, the thirteenth Duke of Ashurst, as well as his sons, the Earl of Storrington and the honorable Lord Harold Daughtry, all perished tragically when their yacht sank off the coast of Shoreham-By-Sea approximately six weeks ago. By the rules of inheritance, you, sir, as your father’s son and the last remaining Daughtry, are now Rafael Daughtry, fourteenth Duke of Ashurst, as well as holding the lesser titles of Earl of Storrington and…and the Viscount of Something Else that sadly escapes me at the moment. Sir? I say, sir. Did you hear me?”

Rafe had slowly lowered his head onto his crossed arms once more, hearing the man’s voice only through the ringing in his ears. Funny, he thought, grinning. Last time the fever came back to torment him, he’d thought he’d seen angels. Never odd little men in ill-fitting hacking jackets and filthy red waistcoats. He liked the angels better…

“Rafe, answer the man,” Fitz said, shaking him. “Did you hear what he said?”

“Yes, yes. Go ’way. Something in the sea…”

“Shoreham-by-Sea, Your Grace, yes. The late duke’s sister, the Lady Emmaline Daughtry, commissioned me to also deliver personally to you her letter requesting your return toAshurst at your earliest convenience. My condolences, er, and my felicitations,Your Grace.Your Grace?”

Fitz pushed lank strands of damp hair away from Rafe’s face. “I don’t think His Grace heard you, Phineas. But why don’t you tell me more about this dukedom thing, all right? There happen to be any money to go along with all those fancy titles?”

“I’d say the man has fallen into about the deepest gravy boat in all of England—er, that is, His Grace is quite the wealthy man.”

Fitz slapped Rafe on the back. “Did you hear that, Rafe? You’re a rich man, you lucky devil! Wake up and we’ll toast your good fortune. On your coin, of course, since you now have so many of them.”

Rafe didn’t move, even when Fitz took hold of his shoulder and shook him.

“Ah, now would you look at that, Phineas? Poor bastard. All his problems solved, his worries blown to the four winds, and he doesn’t even know it. His Grace is going to be asleep for a while. But he’ll be fine by morning, he always is.”

Phineas nodded knowingly. “Ah. Drunk, sir.”

“No, unfortunately for him.” Fitz winked. “But I’d like to be.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, I quite understand,” Phineas said, hungrily eyeing Rafe’s nearly full bowl. “In that case, as I was told not to leave His Grace’s side for any reason once I found him, would it be an imposition if I were to join you for dinner, Captain? I must say, that stew smells delicious.”

PART ONE
Ashurst Hall, November 1814

Friendship is Love without his wings.

—Lord Byron

Chapter One

CHARLOTTE SEAVERS was on the hunt. And she was in a mood to take no prisoners.

Only scant minutes earlier Charlotte had been comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of her parents’ small manor house, happy in her ignorance, enjoying the sight of a mid-November frost glittering on the newly bare tree branches outside her window while she stayed warm and toasty inside.

But then the housekeeper had brought her one of the letters just arrived with the morning post.

After taking another sip of sweet tea, Charlotte had opened the missive from her good friend, read it in growing apprehension and disbelief until, with her newfound knowledge, her blissful ignorance turned to righteous anger.

“Unrepentant liars and tricksters! Wretched connivers!” she exclaimed, her teeth chattering in the cold, for she’d left the house without taking time to search out a warmer cloak than the rather shabby one she used while gardening that hung on the hook just outside the kitchens. “They’ll be lucky if I don’t choose to murder them!”

She stomped along the well-worn path that led through the trees from the manor house, to end halfway up the drive to Ashurst Hall. “And worse fool me because I believed them!”

What Miss Charlotte Seavers was referring to was her discovery, after months of the aforementioned ignorant bliss, that Nicole and Lydia Daughtry—in retrospect, mostly Nicky, with Lydia only following along because she felt she had no choice—had been pulling the wool over her eyes. Over everyone’s eyes.

All this time, since the spring, when they’d first had word from Rafael Daughtry that he was well and aware of the deaths of his uncle and cousins, Nicole and Lydia had been cleverly putting one over on Rafe, on their aunt Emmaline, on Charlotte.

Oh yes, and Mrs. Beasley. But then again, pulling the wool over Mrs. Beasley’s eyes was no great accomplishment, and the twins had the benefit of years of practice when it came to hoodwinking their governess.

In her haste to confront the Daughtry sisters and verbally rip several strips off their hides, Charlotte stomped on some wet, slippery leaves littering the path, and went down with a startled “Damn and blast!”

She just as quickly scrambled back to her feet, hurriedly looking about to be certain no one had heard her unladylike exclamation, and then brushed at the back of her cloak, pulling off damp leaves and bits of moss.

She took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself, steady herself. After all, she was supposed to be a well-bred, civilized female, and here she was, racing through the trees like some wild boar.

But then she thought again of how Nicky and Lydia had spent the summer and fall posting letters back and forth, impersonating their brother to their aunt, and impersonating their aunt to their brother. Correspondence Charlotte had seen, had been allowed to read—all while the twins were doubtless laughing behind their hands at her gullibility.

Worse, if Emmaline hadn’t just now written to her privately, her words and her questions contradicting things she had already said in the letters Charlotte had been shown by the twins, she would still be none the wiser.

From the moment she’d begun reading the letter, Charlotte’s suspicions had been raised, as the handwriting was so very different from Emmaline’s letters supposedly posted to Ashurst Hall.

But those suspicions had turned to a cold certainty when she read the words, “Charlotte, I vow I sometimes think Rafe is Nicky in long pants. The girl never could get her mind around spelling any word longer than c-a-t.”

And here Charlotte had thought Rafe, for all his on-again, off-again schooling alongside his cousins, was next door to a yahoo when it came to grammar and spelling.

“They’ll pay for this,” she promised out loud, wiping her hand across her cheek to push an errant chestnut-brown curl back beneath her hood and depositing a smudge of dirt on her otherwise flawless skin.

Poor Emmaline, happy in her newly wedded bliss as she continued her long honeymoon in the Lake District, comforted with the knowledge that Rafe had sailed for home immediately upon receiving the news of his change of fortune.

And poor Rafe, going about his duties on Elba, assured that Lady Emmaline had everything at Ashurst Hall firmly in hand until his mission was completed, including the care of his young sisters.

“And me, duped by two miscreant monsters not yet out of the schoolroom—except that they most certainly did escape the schoolroom with their little trick,” Charlotte muttered, lifting up the hem of her gown even as she stepped up her pace along the path. “Commiserating with the girls about how much they missed their brother…joking with them about how Emmaline seemed to have thrown all sensibility to the four winds thanks to her newfound love. Running tame through the house all these months, leaving the nursery and their governess behind, because their brother wrote that he would be delighted—no! de-litted—to allow them more freedom. Their brother wrote? Ha! I’ll have their heads on a platter, I swear I will!”

Her mind on contemplated acts of mayhem, she broke free of the trees, stepping onto the gravel drive that twisted and turned on its way through the well-landscaped park.

The horse and rider appeared out of nowhere, heading for her at a vigorous canter.

Charlotte slid to a halt on the stones even as she threw up her hands and gave a quick, faintly terrified cry.

The horse, either in response to her unexpected appearance, or in reaction to his rider’s immediate sharp tug on the reins, gave a rather frightened cry of its own. It then reared onto its hind legs, pawing at the air as if attempting to climb an invisible ladder.

The hapless rider was immediately deposited on his back on the hard-packed gravel.

No fainthearted miss, Charlotte had already collected herself. She bravely grabbed at the horse’s now-dangling reins to keep it from bolting off down the lane, which, she readily saw, it appeared to have no intention of doing. She then walked toward the man she had unhorsed, hoping he’d get to his feet without assistance, which he would most probably do if he hadn’t cracked his skull, or worse.

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked rather cautiously, keeping her distance even as she leaned over the man, whose many-caped brown traveling cloak was twisted up and around his head. “I’m most terribly sorry. I am entirely at fault for your misfortune, I know, but I believe it would be extremely considerate and gentlemanly of you to pretend that you hadn’t noticed.”

The man mumbled something Charlotte couldn’t quite make out, which was understandable, what with him still all but strangled by his extremely fashionable cloak. She was, however, fairly certain that his response to her hadn’t been quite as forgiving as she might have hoped.

“Excuse me? Perhaps if you were to loose the fastenings of your cloak you’d be able to free yourself from its grasp?” She rolled her eyes, knowing that she was most probably only making things worse. “Shall I…shall I fetch help?”

“God’s teeth, no,” the man said, struggling to sit up while fighting his way out of the cloak. “I feel bloody well embarrassed enough, thank you. I’ve no need of an audience.” At last his head emerged from the tangle of cloth, his healthy crop of nearly black hair falling over his eyes. “Where’s my bloody hat?”

“I’ve got it,” Charlotte said, holding it out to him. “It’s barely dented, and I’m confident that it will clean up quite nicely once the mud is dry and can be brushed off.”

He still hadn’t looked at her, instead busying himself attempting to rearrange his many-caped collars so that they lay flat over his shoulders once more. She counted four capes, graduated in size—very impressive. More would have classified him as a dandy, and less wouldn’t be half so fashionable. Upside-down and over a man’s head, however, all that fine London fashion was probably little more than a nuisance.

“Next, madam, I suppose you’ll say I should be delighted with that piece of information. How fortunate I am. My cloak is only torn—ah, in two places—and my new hat is barely dented. Lucky, lucky me. Perhaps you believe I should be thanking you.”

“There’s no need for rudeness, sir,” Charlotte told him, knowing that there was probably every need. She’d unhorsed the man, for goodness’ sakes, ruining his fine clothes, which were apparently very dear to him. She probably also shouldn’t point out that if he hadn’t sawed so on the reins, his mount, which seemed a placid sort, may not have reared at all. No, she probably shouldn’t mention that, either. “I didn’t mean to unhorse you, you know. It was an accident.”

“An accident, of course. I believe the fool who touched off the Great London Fire attempted the same sorry excuse. You ran into the roadway, madam. Next you’ll probably say it was all my fault for having been on the drive in the first place.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlotte said tartly, beginning to lose patience with the man. “You had every right to be here.” Then she frowned. “And why are you here?”

The hat was all but ripped from her hand as the man finally got to his feet. But when he slammed the thing back on his head he uttered a quick curse and quickly removed it once more; it dropped, unnoticed, onto the drive.

She went up on her tiptoes. Goodness, he was a large man. Quite imposing. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it your head? I don’t see anything.” But, then, how could she? He was very tall. Charlotte was rather impressed; she’d known few men who stood a full head and shoulders above her not inconsiderable height. He actually made her feel small.

“Damn,” he said, touching the back of his head and then bringing his hand forward once more, looking at the blood on his fingers. “Six years of war all but unscathed, and I take a head wound not a mile from home. Inflicted by a woman, no less.”

Home. He’d said that. She’d heard him. He’d said home. Charlotte’s eyes went so wide she was amazed they didn’t pop straight out of her head.

While he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to press against his wound, Charlotte eyed Rafael Daughtry, whom she’d last seen in the flesh the day he rode off to war, and only in her foolish, maidenly dreams in the intervening years.

He didn’t look at all as she remembered him.

This man seemed to be twice the Rafe she remembered, or perhaps that was only because he weighed a good three stone more than the gangly youth whose wide, unaffected smile had always had the ability to make her knees buckle. The hair?Yes, that was the same coal-dark hair she remembered, if longer than she remembered.

But his features seemed sharper, more mature, and his skin was tanned from the sun in the way that the farm laborers were tanned…years and years of exposure to the elements that toughened the skin, made for small crinkles around the edges of his eyes.

She looked at him again, examining him.

These weren’t Rafe’s eyes. They were the same color, a warm, rich brown, almost sherry. But they were hard eyes, centuries-old eyes, not the laughing eyes of the boy she’d known. These eyes had seen things she could never imagine.

Charlotte suppressed a small shiver, one born of vague nervousness coupled with a definite curiosity. Why had she never realized that he would be changed by war, changed by his six long years away from Ashurst Hall?

“Rafe?”

He still held the handkerchief pressed to the back of his head. “Pardon me?” he asked, looking at her. Finally looking at her. Was that interest in his eyes? “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, madam.”

“If I do, Your Grace, it would be the first time,” Charlotte said, dropping into a fairly mocking curtsy. But she couldn’t seem to curb her tongue. “Perhaps I should have thought to unhorse you six years ago. Perhaps on the day you and George and Harold saw nothing out of the ordinary in speaking freely around me about the charms of the new barmaid in the village, just as if I wasn’t there at all.”

“Again, madam, I don’t believe I—” Rafe blinked and leaned closer, looking intensely into her face. “Charlie? By God, it is you. And still wreaking havoc all over Ashurst Hall, I see. I should have realized at once. Maybe you should have thrown another apple at my head. I would have remembered then. You always were a bit of a menace.”

Charlotte fought down the urge to go up on tiptoe again and box the man’s ears. “While you, Your Grace, always were a bit of an insensitive beast. And it’s Charlotte. Not Charlie. I detest Charlie.”

“Really?” His quick, unaffected smile caused her stomach to perform a small flip. It was still the smile Charlotte remembered, if not the Rafe she remembered. “I rather like it. Charlie. Why would anyone with the least sense wish to be called Charlotte?”

She silently acknowledged that he had a point. She hated her name, passed down to her from a great-aunt who’d been so kind as to establish a small dowry in exchange for the infant carrying on her name. Still…

“Everyone calls me Charlotte,” she informed Rafe tersely. “But you may address me as Miss Seavers.”

“The devil I will,” he told her, checking the state of his handkerchief and then, seeming satisfied with what he saw, returning the thing to his pocket. He looked at her again. “You grew up pretty enough, didn’t you? But then, you probably frightened all the men away. I know you frightened me.You must be all of what, two and twenty?”

“Not quite, Your Grace.”

“Then close enough,” Rafe said, taking the reins from her and turning once more toward Ashurst Hall, leaving her to either pick up his hat and follow him or just stand here in the drive looking like the sorriest looby in Creation. “I imagine you’ll be putting on your caps any day now, preparing to lead apes in Hell.”

Charlotte looked down at his fine, fancy hat and then raised her skirts slightly to employ one half boot to send the thing sailing off into the bushes. “Indeed no, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, catching up to him. “I’ve simply been waiting for you to return so that we could marry, for I have always loved you from afar. I would think that should be obvious.”

Ah! Now she had his complete attention. And all she’d had to do was tell the truth, shameful though it was. After all, it was the one thing she was confident Rafe would never believe.

“Zounds, I’m sliced to the bone with that cutting retort. You always were a funny little thing, weren’t you?” he said, smiling down at her. “But you’ve made your point, Charlie, and I apologize. It’s none of my business whether you are married or not. So, now that we’ve settled things between us, and I’m fairly well assured my wound isn’t fatal, why don’t you tell me why you were in such a hurry?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to answer him and then just as quickly shut it. The man had worries enough without learning that his sisters had made a May game out of them all for the past many months. “I…I was hurrying to get inside. I hadn’t realized how cold it is until after I’d left the house.”

He seemed to accept her answer.

“Do they know I’m coming?” he asked as they navigated a turn in the drive and Ashurst Hall was at last visible in the distance. “I wrote Emmaline from London, but I may have beaten the post.”

“Yes…about that,” Charlotte said, twisting her gloved hands together in front of her. “Emmaline isn’t here at the moment.” She looked at Rafe, wondering how much he actually did know. “She and her husband have gone to tour the Lake District as part of their honeymoon.”

Rafe nodded. “The Duke of Warrington, yes. I inquired about him in London. A good man, from all accounts. But then who is in charge of the twins?”

That’s a very good question, Charlotte whispered inside her head. “Why, I am, of course.”

“You are? But you’re barely more than a girl yourself.”

“A few moments ago you had me donning spinster caps and leading apes in Hell,” she reminded him, mentally adding to her list of Reasons To Murder The Twins—an already lengthy list. Now they’d made a liar out of her.

“Then you’re staying at Ashurst Hall, and not simply on your way there for a visit? You were merely out for a walk.”

“All right…” Charlotte agreed slowly, wondering how deep a hole she could dig for herself in protecting Nicole and Lydia before the sides toppled down on her head. “That is, I mean, yes. Out for a walk. Visiting my parents. Mama…Mama has taken a putrid cold, you understand.”

“Probably acquired after walking outside in the cold wearing an inadequate cloak,” Rafe said, grinning at her. “There may be a lesson there for you, Charlie.”

She ignored his teasing. “But I’m not the twins’only guardian,” she said, improvising rapidly. “Their governess, Mrs. Beasley, is of course in residence, as well as a household staff numbering more than forty. Nicole and Lydia have hardly been left to their own devices.” Devices, machinations, mischiefs—oh, they would pay for this, the both of them!

“And my mother?” Rafe asked, obviously believing her. After all, why would she lie to him? Emmaline was right; men truly were gullible. “Is she also in residence?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. Your mother, now, as she reminds us quite often, the Dowager Duchess of Ashurst, traveled to London for the Small Season, and from there to a house party in Devon, I believe it is.”

“Is she really the Dowager Duchess? God, I suppose she is. That must have tickled her straight down to the ground.”

“Except for the dowager part, yes,” Charlotte said, smiling as she remembered Helen Daughtry’s struggle between clasping an exalted title to her bosom and being thought old enough to be mother to a duke. “I think she has settled for Lady Daughtry.”

“My mother never settles for anything, Charlie,” Rafe said as he stopped at the bottom of the circular drive that led to the enormous front doors of Ashurst Hall and looked at the building. “I still don’t believe this. I still feel like one of the beggars come to town.”

He turned to look at Charlotte with those soul-deep eyes of his, and her stomach did another of those small flips. Really, she should try harder to control herself. “Now you sound like your cousin George.”

“I suppose I do. They’re really dead? This hasn’t all just been some long waking dream, and I’m about to be shown to my usual small room near the nursery?”

“The duke’s suite of rooms has already been prepared for you, Your Grace,” she told him rather kindly, for she could now at last see traces of the old Rafe, the less-sure-of-himself Rafe in those sherry eyes. “Your aunt Emmaline saw to it.”

“It’s still difficult to believe he’s gone. And his sons…”

“May they rest in peace,” Charlotte said, still looking at Ashurst Hall, all four floors, dozen massive chimneys and thirty bedrooms of it. Somewhere inside those massive fieldstone walls two unsuspecting tricksters were about to find themselves firmly under the control of one Miss Charlotte Seavers.

“Well, that sounded a tad perfunctory,” Rafe said, and she could feel his eyes on her. “You didn’t care for George or Harold?”

Charlotte averted her head as she answered, shivering slightly, and not from the cold. “I really didn’t know them that well these last years, once they’d for the most part taken up residence in London.”

“Yes, the mansion in Grosvenor Square. I stopped there for a week before heading here. I thought my wardrobe needed replenishing. Bought this cloak, that hat.” He looked at her questioningly. “Where’s my hat, Charlie?”

She really had to stop feeling sorry for the man. “It’s Charlotte, and I’m in charge of your sisters, Your Grace, not your hat.”

“And now I remember that tone of voice, as well. You left my new hat lying back there in the middle of the drive, didn’t you, to punish me for that remark about spinster caps?”

“In the middle of the drive? I most certainly did not!” she retorted quite honestly.

“No, I left it there, didn’t I? I take full responsibility. You know, Charlie, I wouldn’t tell anyone else, but it’s rather daunting, knowing I am now the custodian of all of this,” he said, indicating Ashurst Hall, the estate, all of his inheritance, with the sweep of his arm.

“I can well imagine, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, sighing as she thought of the twins. “Having an unexpected responsibility suddenly thrust on your shoulders is rather disconcerting.”

“Harris, my majordomo in London, grew rather weary of calling me Your Grace, just for me to not answer him. I know it has been some time, but it’s only now that I’m back in England that I’m beginning to realize the full consequence of what has happened. I was comfortable as Captain Rafael Daughtry. I’m not sure I’m up to this, Charlie.”

Her heart went out to him at his unexpected honesty and humility, and without thinking she placed her hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine, Rafe. And everyone at Ashurst Hall will help you.”

“That’s better. You called me Rafe. Please always do that, Charlie—Charlotte.” He sighed, nodded, and then seemed to remember that he was the Duke of Ashurst and should not be admitting fear or apprehension or anything else remotely human or vulnerable. “I’ve kept you outside in the cold long enough. Let’s go inside.”

Charlotte pictured the look on the twins’ faces when they were confronted not only with their brother—and if he looked huge and imposing to her, what would the twins see when they saw him?—as well as one Charlotte Seavers standing next to him, looking at them with a knowing glare in her eyes.

“Yes, let’s do that. At the least, you should have that head of yours attended to.”

“Funny, my friend Fitz says that a lot about my head, although he makes the suggestion not half so politely. You two will doubtless become fast friends.”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. Fitz and my coach will be along soon enough, making explanations unnecessary.”

The front doors opened even as they walked up the wide stone steps.

“Ah, I see my late uncle’s footmen are still as curious as ever. We’ve been observed, Charlotte. A good thing I didn’t attempt to seduce you as we stood here, casting your reputation to the four winds.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Charlotte said, suddenly sober again.

“No, I wouldn’t. Should I?”

She collected her scattered thoughts. “You know, Rafe, you’re not half so amusing as you seem to think you are.”

“Yes, Fitz tells me that, as well.” He took her arm and, together, they entered the imposing foyer of Ashurst Hall, the cold and damp of the day immediately closed off behind them by the shutting of the door.

“His Grace has returned from Elba,” Charlotte informed the fairly dazzled young footman who, instead of jumping-to to help Rafe with his cloak, just stood there, his mouth at half-mast, goggling up at his new master.

“Billy,” Charlotte prodded quietly. “His Grace’s cloak?”

“A big ’un, isn’t he, ma’am?” the wide-eyed Billy muttered before he was pushed aside by Grayson, the starchy, silver-haired majordomo of Ashurst Hall.

“Allow me,Your Grace,” Grayson said, deftly sliding the cloak from Rafe’s shoulders even as he executed a perfect bow, one caught somewhere between perfunctory and fawning. “And may I be so bold as to welcome you home. I have already sent someone to alert the Ladies Nicole and Lydia. They await you in the main saloon.”

“Thank you, Grayson,” Rafe said solemnly before turning to assist Charlotte with her own cloak. “It’s good to be home. My traveling coach will be here shortly. Please see that my luggage is attended to, and that there will be ample assistance shown my good friend Captain Fitzgerald, who has sustained an injury and will needs must immediately be carried to a bedchamber.”

“It would be my honor, Your Grace,” Grayson said, bowing yet again.

“His honor? Poor fellow is probably near to bursting his spleen, having to bow to me. The man would much rather kick me down the stairs,” Rafe whispered as he and Charlotte made their way across the wide black-and-white marble tiled expanse toward the pair of doors leading to the main saloon. “I once put a toad in his bed, you know.”

“I know. And it was two toads, one under his pillow and one deep beneath the covers, so that he thought he was safe once he’d removed the more obvious one.” He took her arm, and she didn’t even bother to pretend she didn’t feel a small frisson of awareness course through her body. “And one thing more, although I would have thought you’d know. There is something about the configuration of the ceilings of the entrance hall that allows even whispers to carry to every corner.”

“The devil you say.” Rafe and Charlotte both then looked over their shoulders at Grayson, the man a good twenty feet from them. A man whose rather large ears had turned a most alarming shade of puce.

“Carry on, Grayson, carry on,” Rafe called brightly to the majordomo, and then, his hand tightening slightly on Charlotte’s forearm, he hastened her the rest of the way as Billy scampered ahead to fling open the double doors. “I’m not making the best of starts, am I?” he whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charlotte said as she looked ahead into the enormous main saloon, anxious to locate Nicole and Lydia. “I thought falling at my feet a nice touch. Ah, there they are, your dear, sweet sisters, eager to welcome you home.”

Charlotte watched as Nicole leaped to her feet and then signaled with an impatient twist of her hand that Lydia also should rise.

The two of them stood in front of one of the satin settees, not moving, as if the backs of their knees had somehow become glued to that piece of furniture.

The twins were sixteen now, hardly the awkward near-nursery infants Rafe had last seen before he departed for the war. Charlotte wondered if he even recognized them, or they him.

The pair was as alike in their looks as chalk and cheese. In fact, all three Daughtry children bore little resemblance to each other.

Nicole did share Rafe’s near-black hair, but her eyes were far from sherry brown. They were violet, a shade Charlotte had never seen in any other eyes, and Nicole’s dramatically arched brows and long black lashes only made that violet more startling, almost mesmerizing. Witchlike, Charlotte’s father had once commented, not completely in jest, warning that in an earlier century the girl would have doubtless ended burning at the stake.

Nicole had lovely pale skin, but because she refused to wear her bonnet and loved to run free, there was always a beguiling sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks and a glow to her skin that, although most unladylike, was perfect for Nicole.

In short, Nicole looked as she was—fresh, unbridled, a child of nature and full of mischief.

The complete opposite of Lydia.

Nicole’s twin, who favored their mother, had hair the color of corn silk and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Her skin was unmarked by freckles because she was always careful to wear a bonnet—not because she feared freckles, but because she’d been told to always wear her bonnet. Shy, quiet, studious, Lydia was rather like a just-budding blossom, her head dipped to avoid attention lest she be picked from her comfortable spot in the garden before she was ready to bloom.

Right now Lydia’s chin was bent so near her chest that almost all Charlotte could see of her were those huge blue eyes swimming with guilt.

Nicole’s small, pointed chin, however, was fully raised, almost defiant.

If a portrait artist could capture the twins as they posed now, no volume of ten thousand words could do more to make clear the character of the two sisters.

Or who was in charge.

“Girls, how wonderful,” Charlotte said after only a heartbeat in time—one that had felt longer than an age. “Your brother is returned to you. I’ve already explained that your Aunt Emmaline has placed me in the role of chaperone while she is traveling, and what a lovely time we’ve all had with me residing here with you until her return. Now don’t just stand there like sticks, come welcome your brother home.”

Lydia looked up, goggling in confusion at this full budget of lies Charlotte had just loosed on them. But Nicole, her mind always alert for mischief, never so much as blinked as she said, “And quite the dragon of a chaperone she is, so that we’d never dare to be on anything save our very best behavior, as suits the sisters of a duke. A duke, Rafe! Isn’t it above all things wonderful?”

As she spoke, she advanced across the seeming mile of carpets, her arms outstretched, so that by the time she finished speaking she was close enough to launch herself into her brother’s arms.

Rafe glanced at Charlotte as he slowly put his arms around his sister, a look very much akin to panic in his eyes.

“You…you’ve grown,” he said at last, when Nicole finally stepped back, grinning up in his face. “I…I didn’t realize…” He coughed into his fist. “Which, er, which one are you?”

“I’m Nicole, of course. You called me Nicky, which I hated, but now I think it a lovely name. Lydia, don’t just stand there like a lump, come say hello to Rafe.” She turned back to her brother. “You call her Lydia,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Really, there’s precious little else you could call her, not with a starchy name like that.”

Charlotte wanted to poke Rafe with her elbow, nudge him into some sort of speech. He needed to say something, he needed to put Nicole in her place immediately or else risk never having control of the reins. But he said nothing. Nicole had flummoxed him completely, her own brother. This did not bode well for the day the girl was set loose in London!

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” Lydia said in her quiet, reserved voice as she curtsied and then held out her hand to him, quickly drawing it back when, Charlotte supposed, she realized her brother might feel the need to kiss it.

“Thank you…Lydia,” Rafe said, and then watched as she returned to the settee and sat down, settling her skirts around her. “Lyddie?” he asked Nicole quietly. “I didn’t even call her Lyddie?”

Nicole bit her bottom lip as she shook her head. “You wouldn’t have dared. Mama says thank God we’re not of the Roman persuasion or else Lydia would have crawled into one of their nunneries years ago. But she’s all right. It’s all in knowing how to handle her.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Which you do, correct, and always to your advantage?”

“She’s my twin. I protect her,” Nicole stated, her violet eyes dancing in her head. “Would you like me to pour you a glass of wine, Your Grace? When we were informed that you were seen on the drive, I just had time to order Grayson to fetch one of Uncle Charlton’s best from the cellars. I’ll pour a glass for everyone. We should make a toast and celebrate your return.”

Rafe turned a questioning eye on Charlotte. “You allow them wine?”

“I most certainly do not,” Charlotte told him, glaring at Nicole. “You’ll have lemonade, my girl, and like it.”

Nicole’s full bottom lip came out in a pretty pout, but then she smiled. “See, Rafe? Charlotte is a veritable dragon of propriety. Aren’t you, Charlotte? Why, I don’t know what we should have done without her these weeks, with Aunt Emmaline gone.”

Rafe was beginning to look like a man outnumbered by hostiles, and without a weapon to protect himself. “Weeks? Emmaline’s been gone for weeks? She said nothing about that in any of her letters.”

“Duly chastised by my dragon chaperone, I’ll just go ring for Grayson to pour you that wine, Rafe,” Nicole said, and hurried away, sparing only a moment to shoot a desperate glance toward Charlotte, one that warned we’ll be fine, as long as you don’t muck it up now.

Charlotte swallowed hard and turned to Rafe. He looked much too inquisitive. So she went on the attack. “Is that your way of saying that you don’t believe I make a suitable chaperone for your sisters?”

“I…No, no, of course not. Please forgive me. Clearly, if Emmaline considered you competent to be in charge of the twins, who am I to question her judgment? But they’re…they’re not little girls anymore, Charlie, are they?”

“Charlotte,” she said without much hope of him heeding her. “And, no, they’re not. Nor are they young women, much as Nicole would like to believe otherwise. Last week I caught her in Emmaline’s chamber, attempting to put up her hair and wearing a rather garish pair of gold and ruby earrings Emmaline must have regretted the moment she purchased them.”

Rafe shot a glance toward the settee, where the girls were holding hands and whispering to each other. “I begin to miss the war,” he said dully. “Too old for the nursery, too young for a Season. What in God’s name am I supposed to do with them?”

“What else?” Charlotte said. “You leave them here in the country while you go cut a dash in London. You conveniently forget about them until it’s time to dress them up like Christmas puddings and send them out to the marriage mart, praying nineteen to the dozen that at the end of the Season you don’t have to haul either of them back to the country again. What else do families do with daughters?”

Rafe grinned. “Do I detect a hint of censure in your voice, Charlie? Were you one of those hauled back to the country? Well, of course you were. Are all the men in London blind? Or were you really waiting for me to return home?”

Charlotte felt a rush of color invade her cheeks at his words, even if she probably shouldn’t take any of them seriously. “I only said that because you’d made me angry,” she lied, and then nearly cheered as Grayson approached them to inform His Grace that his friend Captain Fitzgerald had arrived.

“A most…singular gentleman, Your Grace,” Grayson said, his tone making it clear that he had not just complimented the captain. “He desires your presence at once, sir.”

“He does, does he? I’d rather think my good friend Captain Fitzgerald demands my presence.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I knew him for your friend the moment he opened his mouth.”

“An insult wrapped in velvet. Very good, Grayson.” Rafe took Charlotte’s hand and turned her back toward the entrance hall. “Come on, Charlie. I want you to meet a fellow reprobate.”

“I wouldn’t wish to intrude—”

“Nonsense.With Emmaline doing her flit, I don’t know what I would have done if I’d had to face those sisters of mine without you. I want my friend to meet my friend.”

Charlotte smiled weakly. How wonderful. Just perfectly marvelous. Rafe considered her his friend. His childhood friend. Charlie. Feeling a bit apprehensive about his new station in life and all the attendant responsibilities, his aunt Emmaline not here, not even recognizing his sisters, he probably felt about Charlotte as he did his most comfortable old pair of socks.

While she—well, what did she feel about him, for him? She didn’t know. She’d loved the Rafe he’d been; the child she’d been had loved the youth he’d been. What would she discover about the Rafe he was now?

He looked on her as his friend, held her hand as a friend. Would he ever want more? And what would she do if he did? Would she tell him the truth? How would he look at her with those dangerous eyes of his if she did?

Suppressing a shiver, she followed him into the entrance hall.

Chapter Two

RAFE TUGGED CHARLOTTE along with him as he returned to the entrance hall to see Captain Swain Fitzgerald being supported between two footmen, his splinted leg looking awkward as he kept his foot from touching the marble floor.

“There you are,” Fitz bellowed when he caught sight of Rafe. “Do none of these idiots bloody understand the King’s English? I want my crutches. Nobody will fetch me my damned crutches. They keep telling me that His bloody Grace insists they carry me. Damn it, Rafe, I’ll not be hauled about like some bleeding baby.”

“Grayson, see to it, please,” Rafe said, letting go of Charlotte’s hand and going over to lend his support to his friend. “Act like a baby, be treated like a baby. Why does it bother you so much to be helped? Or do you plan to crawl upstairs to your bed?”

“Bed? Oh, no, Rafe Daughtry, I’m not going to be carted off to any sickbed, no matter what that fancy London surgeon of yours said. I’m fine, better than fine, and perfectly capable of doing for myself. Just get me my damned—Well, hullo, young lady.”

Rafe grinned at the sudden change in his friend’s tone. “Yes, Fitz, a lady, as opposed to your usual sort of female. Behave yourself, and I’ll introduce you, you great hairy Irish ape.”

“Pretty little thing. One of those twin sisters of yours?” Fitz whispered close to Rafe’s ear. “Or can I take a run at her?”

“That depends. Are your intentions honorable?”

“Six and twenty years on this earth and they haven’t been honorable yet,” Fitz said, still whispering.

“I can hear you, you know,” Charlotte said from where she stood just in the doorway between the main saloon and the entrance hall. “Both of you.”

Fitz looked at Rafe in panic. “She can’t hear me. Tell me she can’t hear me.”

“I’m sorry, Fitz but, yes, she can,” Rafe said, laughing at his friend’s expression. He was only amazed that she would say so. Then again, he’d been fairly amazed by everything about Charlotte since he first set eyes on her. Her stunning good looks, her pert tongue, her refusal to be overly impressed by his title even as she paid mocking deference to it. She intrigued him mightily.

Charlotte walked forward, stopping only a few feet away from the grinning Fitz. She looked him up and down as if assessing his injury, and then smiled into his face. “I don’t think you’ll be taking a run anywhere for quite some time, Captain.”

“Fitz, ma’am, if you please, and I most truly beg your pardon. It’s just that it has been many a long year since I’ve been blessed to be in the company of a real lady, and never since I’ve been in the presence of any woman as lovely as you.”

“How very flattering, Captain,” Charlotte said, dropping into a small curtsy. “I can see I must be very careful, or else a silver-tongued rogue like you might just break my maidenly heart.”

Now Rafe gave a shout of laughter, forgetting himself enough to give his friend a hearty slap on the back, which nearly sent Fitz to the floor. “Oops, sorry, Fitz. I shouldn’t want to knock your one good leg out from under you. Especially as Miss Seavers has already done it for me. Miss Charlotte Seavers, allow me to belatedly introduce you to my friend and companion for too many years to contemplate, Captain Swain Fitzgerald. Fitz, make your bow to Charlie.”

“Hello, Fitz,” Charlotte said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She shot a quick look at Rafe. “As we’re very informal here in the country, please call me Charlotte.”

“So this is your Charlie, is it? You must have been a very slow youth, Rafe, my friend, not to see what a lovely piece of perfection your Charlie is. How you could have left her, I’ll never know.”

Rafe glanced at Charlotte, who immediately avoided his eyes.

“Ha, now I’ve made him mad, and put you to the blush, haven’t I, Miss Seavers? Charlotte. I beg pardon, and I’m honored to meet you.” Fitz looked toward the doorway. “Ah, and here are my crutches. Pass them over, if you please.”

“Don’t,” Rafe warned the approaching footman. “I wouldn’t want them close enough for my friend here to use to beat me into flinders when I say what must be said. I only sent for your crutches, Fitz, so you’d stop shouting for them to be brought to you. Grayson, see that the crutches are well hidden and Captain Fitzgerald is carried upstairs to one of the bedchambers.”

“Damn and blast you to the far corners of hell, Rafe Daughtry! I won’t be carried!”

“Fine,” Rafe said. “Then you’ll be dragged. But, one way or another, you’re going upstairs.”

“The devil I will! I—Pardon me, Charlotte,” Fitz said, quickly inclining his head in her direction.

“Oh, don’t mind me, Fitz,” Charlotte assured him, smiling with what Rafe believed was unholy glee. “It has been a while since I’ve heard a good argument.”

Rafe hoped his friend would at last listen to reason. “Fitz, you know what the man said. I would have left you in London if you hadn’t sworn on your mother’s head that you’d follow his orders the moment we arrived.”

“Then aren’t you the fool for believing me. I won’t do it, Rafe. Lie mouldering in a bed for two full months? A man could go mad.”

Rafe signaled to the footmen, now numbering four, he noticed. “Take him, please.”

“No! Rafe, I’m warning you! Let me go, you miserable—”

Rafe watched as the servants carried Fitz up the winding staircase, shaking his head as Fitz alternated between cursing him and cursing the footmen…and then going silent as the pain from his injured leg forced him to give in to the inevitable.

“Poor man,” Charlotte said. “What happened to him?”

“I could let Fitz tell you, I suppose. He’s been working on a fine story this past week. I believe the latest version has something to do with how he was injured saving a child—no, two children, and their nurse—from a runaway cart. Quite the hero, our fine captain.”

“But that’s not true?”

Rafe took her arm once more, thinking to return to the main saloon, but then he remembered that his sisters were there and steered her toward the back of the house instead. “He was in such a hurry to step foot on solid ground again after a fairly stormy voyage that he ran down the gangplank and lost his footing on something slick on the dock. Went hell over lampposts into a stack of sea chests.”

“Oh, dear, how ignominious. Well, his secret is safe with me. Um, don’t you want to return to the main saloon?”

“I’d prefer to return to Elba and relative boredom, actually,” Rafe said honestly. “I feel like an interloper here. And my sisters, quite frankly, scare me spitless. I shouldn’t admit this, but I’m rather nervous around females after so many years as distant from polite society as a person can be without traveling to the far side of the moon.”

“Do I make you nervous, Rafe?” Charlotte asked as he pushed open a door and they entered his late uncle’s private study. Now his private study. Although he’d had to fight down the feeling that he should first knock on that door and request entry.

“Do you make me nervous? Truthfully, I think everything and everyone here makes me want nothing more than to go find myself a good war.”

“Sorry, there are no wars here. I’ll give you a few moments to yourself, to look around,” Charlotte said quietly. “Nothing’s really changed very much.”

He followed her with his eyes as she pretended an interest in a row of books on one of the bookshelves, seeing the young girl who had chased after him and George and Harold sometimes, and gone out of her way to ignore them at others. She’d been such a funny creature, he remembered. Tall for a girl, and rack-thin, all arms and long legs and too much hair that he’d more than once had to untangle from a branch when she got caught up chasing after them as they cut through the woods to the village.

A pest. She’d been a pest. Eight years younger than George, half a dozen years younger than Harold, four years Rafe’s junior. And female into the bargain. A child, really; fifteen to his nineteen the day he’d gone off to take up his commission.

He hadn’t recognized her out there on the drive. She was still tall, still thin, he supposed, but also nicely rounded. Her unruly mop of sable-brown hair seemed at least fairly tamed, most of it ruthlessly pulled back from her face to hang in loose curls partway down her back. Her hair looked…touchable.

Her warm brown eyes hadn’t changed, hadn’t aged…unlike his, which sometimes startled him with their haunted intensity when he caught a glimpse of them in his shaving mirror. He liked her nose, straight and yet somehow pert, and her wide mouth was full-lipped, and slightly vulnerable.

It was, in point of fact, only when she opened that mouth that the Charlie he remembered actually appeared. Charlie said what was on her mind, always, and never dressed her comments up in fine linen. He’d liked that about her, he remembered, even when he was thinking up ways to avoid her.

He had no inclination to avoid her now. Quite the opposite.

She’d believed herself in love with him, half a dozen years ago. Did that embarrass her now? She’d joked about it, out there on the drive, but there was no way he could be sure. How did he appear to her now? He wasn’t the raw youth he’d been then, and very much doubted he looked lovable.

What happened to the innocence of young love, and to youthful stupidity, once the persons involved had moved on through the years? Was he really the duke now, with the Rafe he’d been banished to the past? Was she really Charlotte now, all grown up, and Charlie left behind in her childhood?

They were strangers now. Strangers who once believed they knew each other very well…

“Rafe? I asked you a question,” Charlotte said as he stood in the center of the large, darkly paneled room that had been the scene of many a dressing-down from his uncle, who’d worried that Rafe’s character might be tainted by resembling that of his flighty mother.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said, giving a slight shake of his head as he quickly improvised a reason for his silence. “I was remembering the day I’d knocked George down for calling my mother a well-dressed trollop. Uncle Charlton warned me that I might be taller than George or Harold, stronger—even smarter—but I would never be more than who I was, so I should remember my place. I’m half expecting Uncle Charlton to come blustering in here at any moment, ordering me out of his private sanctuary.”

Charlotte settled herself into one of the large leather chairs flanking the fireplace. “But he’s gone, Rafe, they’re all gone, the three of them, and you’re exactly where no one ever thought you would be. Do you feel vindicated at all, Rafe, or overwhelmed?”

Yes, that was his Charlie. No one else would dare to ask him that question, ask the fourteenth Duke of Ashurst if his title sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. Even Grayson, whose opinion of Rafe had never been one of unmitigated admiration, wouldn’t have dared to broach such a question.

Rafe approached his uncle’s desk and perched himself on one of its corners as he smiled at Charlotte. “How do I look to you, Charlie? Do I look at all ducal?”

She shook her head. “I can’t tell. Sit in his chair behind the desk, Rafe. Sit in your chair. It is yours, you know. Yours, and someday your son’s, and then his son’s. You are the Duke of Ashurst.”

“Uncle Charlton must have thought much the same thing about his sons,” Rafe said as he circled the large desk and gingerly sat himself in the great leather chair. “George and Harold never went to war, never risked life and limb for our King. And yet I’m here, and they’re gone. Is it fate, do you think, Charlie? Or am I simply the accidental duke?”

Charlotte leaned forward in her chair, clasping her hands together on her knees. “May I tell you something?” she asked quietly.

“Please,” he said, daring to lean back in the chair, happy to believe he was not sharing it with his uncle’s ghost.

“You’re an ass, Rafe,” Charlotte said, sitting back once more.

Rafe laughed in spite of himself. “Such language! I beg your pardon.”

“And so you should. You’re the duke. The title is yours, all the titles are yours. You’ve had several long months to become used to that unalterable fact. This room is yours, this great hulking house is yours, the lands and farms and forestry and mills and all the rest of it are yours. George’s yacht would have been yours, as well, except it sank. Oh, and the wealth is yours. Considerable wealth, more than considerable wealth. So don’t you think it’s more than time you stopped playing at grateful pensioner or undeserving interloper—and began behaving as the duke?”

“Well, I—”

“You don’t tease with Grayson, or else risk giving him the upper hand,” she went on as if he hadn’t tried to speak. “I know your arrival was unexpected, but you’ve been home above an hour now, and still Grayson has not assembled the staff in the entrance hall to welcome you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do! The staff has been answering to Grayson for eight long months, and Grayson has been answering to no one. Begin as you plan to go on, Rafe. Take charge. You were a captain in the King’s army, surely you know how to order men about, make them do your bidding. You sent them into battle, by God, to fight and perhaps die for you.”

“Running a household is scarcely akin to—”

“You think that? Oh, you poor deluded man. Grayson has been all but browbeating Mrs. Piggle—your housekeeper, Rafe—and the servants have aligned themselves with either one or the other. Ashurst Hall has been an armed camp since your uncle’s death, I swear it. You need to put your foot down, today, or else prepare for a mutiny.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? Emmaline was in charge, surely. I can’t imagine Grayson or anyone else riding roughshod over her.”

Charlotte’s eyes, so steadily boring into his, shifted slightly, hidden behind her lowered eyelids. “She…Your aunt was in mourning.”

“Yes, of course. And then she was married. I can see why she wouldn’t have been paying too much attention to domestic matters.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, almost as if she was pouncing on his words. “Uh…yes, that’s exactly it. In any event, what should concern you is what steps you need to take to set things to rights. After all, Emmaline won’t be returning here, not now that she’s the Duchess of Warrington, and soon to present His Grace with an heir.”

Rafe looked at her in surprise. “She is? She never said any such thing in her letters to me.”

“No…ah…she wouldn’t have, would she.” Again Charlotte averted her gaze. “Perhaps she didn’t wish to speak of anything so private with a man? I received a post from her just today, apprising me of the coming happy event. Not even the twins know.” She lowered her chin slightly. “The twins most especially do not know.”

“Yes, and we’re back to the twins. My not quite grown, yet no longer quite children either sisters. You’re going to tell me I handled that badly, as well?”

“It could have gone better,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “I would have liked if Lydia could have been more animated. And Nicole a little less so. Lydia will give you no problems, Rafe.”

“But Nicole will?”

Charlotte sighed audibly. “As long as you’re aware, you should be able to handle her.”

“Really? How do you handle her, seeing as how Emmaline put you in charge of them?”

“I simply try to think of everything Nicole shouldn’t do, and then assume that she will. A plan not without its flaws, I’m afraid, as I find my mind is not half so devious as hers.”

“Now that’s unnerving, as I seem to recall that there was little you wouldn’t attempt. You were always either in a scrape or escaping one by the skin of your teeth. There were times I thought you headed for complete disaster, as I remember.”

“So I’ve been told,” Charlotte said rather tightly as she got to her feet, clearly cutting off that line of conversation. “Shall I ring for Grayson? You do need to put the man back in his place, and delaying that moment only undermines you more.”

“I’ll do it,” Rafe said, also rising. “Although I probably should change my clothes before I walk the length of the line, my hands clasped behind my back, solemnly accepting the bows and curtsies of my staff. God, Charlie, you know I’m going to laugh at some point, and make a total cake of myself.”

“Hide a straight pin in those clasped hands, and when you feel an undukely giggle coming on, simply stick yourself with it,” she suggested, already heading for the door.

“A straight pin. Of course. What would I do without you, Charlie?”

She hesitated as she got to the doorway, and then turned to face him for a moment, her smile finally back after what he’d been sure was an awkward moment, although he didn’t know why it had been awkward. “Keep calling me Charlie, Your Grace, and you might just find out!”

Rafe laughed out loud, watching her leave after having landed the perfect parting shot, and then shook his head, wondering why he suddenly felt so alone again.

He waited a few moments before following after her, hoping Phineas had ordered a bath prepared and unpacked at least one change of clothes for him by now.

As he mounted the stairs he continued to visually inspect his new home, the one he had run tame in often over the years, but only as his father’s son, the poor relation abandoned, yet again, by his flighty mother.

He’d be all right, he’d be fine in a few days. His new circumstances just needed some getting used to, that’s all.

Thank God he’d had the luck to stumble over good old Charlie—no, Charlotte. With Fitz out of commission, she was the only friend he had.

Chapter Three

CHARLOTTE’S PACE increased as she neared the top of the staircase and turned down the hallway to her right, heading for Nicole’s bedchamber. Once again, firmly blocking thoughts of Rafe from her mind, she was a woman on a mission.

When she reached the door, she didn’t knock, but simply threw it open, stepped inside, slammed the thing behind her and declared, “You.”

Lady Nicole Daughtry smiled into the vanity mirror as she continued to comb her long dark hair. “Hello again, Charlotte. My congratulations.”

Charlotte stomped across the large pink-and-white bedchamber, her footsteps maddeningly muffled by the succession of priceless Aubusson carpets. “Your congratulations for what, Nicole? Not strangling you earlier?”

“Of course. Oh, and about that,” Nicole said, turning on her satin-topped bench. “How did you discover our small deception? I knew the moment I first saw you that you knew. I slipped up somewhere, didn’t I? Was it something my brother said to you? I can’t imagine how else you could have known.”

“And I can’t imagine how you got away with such a dastardly deception all this time,” Charlotte admitted, taking the silver-backed brush from Nicole’s hand and dragging it none too gently through the girl’s hair. “Not only fooling your aunt and brother, but me, as well.”

“It’s that last part that rankles, doesn’t it?” Nicole said, wincing as the brush encountered a knot.

“Considering that I was the only one here, actually reading the letters, yes, it rankles. Why didn’t you tell me what you were about? I would have helped you.”

The moment Charlotte said the words she realized that, indeed, she would have aided Nicole and Lydia in their grand deception. After all, Emmaline deserved her happiness and peace of mind, and Rafe had clearly wished to continue on as he had been before his uncle’s death, escorting Bonaparte into exile and being a part of his guard. It wasn’t as if the twins had been left unchaperoned in a cave somewhere.

Nicole tipped back her head and grinned up at Charlotte. “Yes, I thought you would have, but Lydia couldn’t be convinced.”

Charlotte pushed Nicole’s head forward once more. “Liar. Lydia, as we both know, can be convinced of anything when you’re the one weaving fantastic stories. Admit it, Nicole, it was you who decided not to share this adventure with me. You must have spent hours and hours composing those bogus letters. I could have helped. And I most certainly could have improved upon your abysmal spelling.”

“In that case, I apologize most profoundly. Lydia, stubborn as she can be sometimes, would only agree to the scheme if I didn’t make her have anything to do with the actual composition of the letters. You’re not going to tell Aunt Emmaline?”

“No, I can’t. She wrote to me in this morning’s post. She’s increasing. She and the duke are already returned to his estate, and she won’t be traveling again until the child is born. It would do no good to upset her.”

“Emmy’s going to have a baby?” Nicole jumped up and grabbed Charlotte in a fierce hug. “How above everything wonderful!” Then she pushed away from Charlotte and frowned. “No, wait. That isn’t wonderful. Who will present Lydia and me next spring, when we go to London for the Season?”

“You’re not going to London for the Season, you wretched girl. You’re only sixteen.”

“Seventeen next month,” Nicole reminded her. “Louisa Madison went to London at seventeen for her first Season.”

“Yes, and she came home again three weeks later, humiliated and ostracized because she was so foolish as to allow a half-pay officer to kiss her in Lady Castlereagh’s gardens. Do you want to be quickly married off to the vicar’s third-oldest son?”

“Louisa was always a fool,” Nicole said, shrugging. “I’d never kiss a half-pay officer. Indeed, I shall not even deign to dance with any rank lower than earl.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “I’m sure your brother will be much relieved to hear that. But you’re not going. You’re too young, and there is no one to chaperone you.”

“There’s you,” Nicole said, grinning at Charlotte.

“There most certainly is not me. I’m much too young to be a chaperone, for one thing, and I’d rather be locked up in Bedlam before I’d entertain any thought of attempting to get you to behave for more than five minutes. I mean it, Nicole. No. Stop smiling. Stop looking at me that way. Wait—where are you going? What are you going to do?”

Nicole was already halfway to the door, her unbound hair trailing halfway down her back. “Why,” she said, whirling about to face Charlotte, “I think it should be obvious. I’ve been sitting up here, my every nerve shredded, appalled at what I’ve done. Hoodwinking my own dearest aunt, my own dearest brother. There’s nothing else for it. I must go to him at once, and make a clean breast of my sins.”

“You miserable little—Don’t you dare!”

“But, Charlotte, you must see that it isn’t fair to keep poor Rafe in the dark like this, can’t you? I mean, not that you weren’t most thoroughly in the dark for all these long months. Completely fooled by two young girls scarcely out of the nursery.” She frowned rather comically. “Oh, dear, what will Rafe think of you once he knows?”

“Perhaps I don’t care what he thinks,” Charlotte said, hoping she didn’t sound defensive.

“And as Mrs. Beasley would say, pshaw. Of course you care. Everyone knows you’ve always been half in love with him. Why, you still wear that ratty old scarf of his sometimes. I’ve seen you. Just like something out of a penny press novel, that’s what Mrs. Beasley says.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but she knew she’d already lost. “Oh, very well. Yes, I might have thought myself in love with him. But that was a long time ago. Now I just don’t want him to think me a complete idiot. What do you want me to do? Because I can’t be your chaperone. Old maid I may be, but you will need someone with much more social consequence than I, and at least twice my knowledge of how you and Lydia should go on. You’re sisters to the duke, remember. I was only one of hundreds of lesser lights, never given a voucher to Almack’s, partaking in only the tamest of gatherings…oh, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to any of this.”

Nicole returned to her dressing table and opened the top middle drawer, extracting a folded paper. “Here. Here’s a listing of all our female relatives. I wrote it out some weeks ago, as it is always wise to be prepared for a last-minute change of plans. Lydia taught me that. At any rate, that’s all that’s left, you know—females. Rafe is the only gentleman among them on our papa’s side of the family. And heaven knows we can’t apply to Mama’s family. They’re all either pockets-to-let or locked up for card sharping.”

“They are not,” Charlotte said, unfolding the paper. “Who told you that?”

“Mama,” Nicole said brightly. “She should know, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Charlotte said, reading down the short list of names. “Where did you get this list?”

“I copied it down from the family Bible, in Uncle Charlton’s—that is, Rafe’s study.”

“That may explain it. Margaret, your grandfather’s only sister, lives in Scotland and is sickly by choice. She never travels. I remember Emmaline telling me that when she was preparing the list for the memorial to your uncle and cousins.”

“She isn’t the only name,” Nicole said hopefully.

“As for this second name, Irene Murdoch? Do you by chance recall the embarrassingly rude creature who spent three days here, seated in the main saloon with a constantly refilled dish of sugar comfits in her ample lap, telling all who would listen that she had always favored your late aunt’s garnet brooch and felt certain Emmaline would gift her with it as a remembrance?”

“That sow? That’s Cousin Irene? Oh, no. She won’t do at all.” Nicole leaned closer to look at the list. “Who else is left?”

“Considering the fact that I’m almost certain I was told that your aunt Marion died more than thirty years ago, I would say that leaves—” Charlotte smiled evilly “—only your mama to bring you and Lydia out.”

“Mama!” Nicole’s astonishingly violet eyes all but popped out of her head. “I thought you said we needed someone respectable. As she’s between husbands at the moment, again, she’d probably chase after anyone who looked at either Lydia or me. It would be a disaster.”

“I rather think you’re right,” Charlotte said with some humor. “But there is another answer. As the duke, Rafe now has the responsibility of setting up his own nursery, as the Duke of Warrington and Emmaline are doing. Give the man a year, and he’ll have found himself a fine duchess more than willing to bring you both out, seeing as how any woman with a modicum of brains would be more than anxious to see you and Lydia—mostly you, I expect—gone from Ashurst Hall.”

And then she tried to ignore a slight pang in her chest.

Nicole took the sheet of paper, tearing it nearly in half, and began to pace. “A duchess. Rafe needs a duchess. Yes, of course. And Lydia isn’t quite as ready for her Come-Out as I would like,” she continued, clearly speaking for her own benefit. “I’d marry and she’d be left on the shelf, like poor Charlotte. A good sister wouldn’t allow that, and Lydia would be lost without me…”

Charlotte folded her arms beneath her bosom and tapped the tip of one half boot against the floor, glaring at Nicole. “As I seem to be saying a lot today—I hear you, Nicole.”

“What?” Nicole grinned at her. “Sorry, Charlotte. Wait a moment. What about you? Would you consider marrying Rafe? He isn’t ugly, and he’s very rich. And he seems to like you. And, since you already know Lydia and me, and you’ve admitted you at least used to love him, we wouldn’t have…well, we wouldn’t have to break you in the way we would a stranger.”

Charlotte lowered her gaze to her shoe tops. “You can’t plan someone else’s life like that, Nicole. Rafe will marry where he wants to marry.”

“Why? You weren’t going to. People marry for many reasons. Aunt Emmaline told us that your papa was the one who chose—”

“I’ve changed my mind, Nicole,” Charlotte interrupted quickly, determinedly blinking back threatening tears. “Go tell him. Tell Rafe what you did, make a clean breast of things, even if I have to then tell him that I lied to him, that Emmaline has been gone these six months or more, that I haven’t really taken up residence here as your chaperone, that you hoodwinked me most thoroughly. Tell him all of it.”

Nicole pulled a face. “I said something to upset you, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Charlotte. I’m rude, and selfish, and only ever think of myself. It’s just that it seems you and Rafe would suit, since you already know each other so well. And it would be so simple, you know, since we’re already friends and—and you told him you’re living here with us. That’s what you said downstairs, too, isn’t it?”

Charlotte’s stomach dropped to her toes. “Oh, Lord, I did, didn’t I? How could I have forgotten that lie?”

Nicole shook her finger at Charlotte. “And I suppose you thought it was easy, juggling stories, remembering every innocent little fib? I happen to look upon lying as a talent, one you clearly haven’t mastered. So now what, Charlotte? Do we ask Grayson to send someone to fetch clothing for you? Dinner’s in an hour, and you can’t possibly go down in that frowsy gown.”

“What’s wrong with my gown?” Charlotte asked, looking down at her plain gray round gown of several seasons past.

“Well, my good friend, if you don’t know that, then I agree with you. You cannot be put even nominally in charge of Lydia’s and my new wardrobes when we go to London.”

“I still don’t understand why you think your brother would even consider taking you to London with him.”

“You don’t? We’ll forgo a Season for now, because I am capable of listening to reason. But we must at least travel to the city in the spring with Rafe. Surely you see that? We’ve been locked up here or at Willowbrook for all of our lives. We’ll be seventeen in a few weeks, much too old to be consigned back to the nursery for another year now that we know what it’s like to be set free these past six months or more. Imagine the mischief I will get into if left here to my own devices while Rafe goes to London in the spring.”

Charlotte sighed. “I’d rather contemplate being run down by a speeding mail coach.”

“Exactly! A compromise, Charlotte. You can come along as our friend and very nearly a member of our family. See? I’m more than willing to compromise.”

“You’re walking a very fine line, Nicole,” Charlotte warned her, wearying of the game. “I still could go tell Rafe the truth, and you and Lydia would never get out of this bedchamber, let alone to London.”

Nicole gave her a quick hug. “Please forgive me, I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t argue, not when we’re both determined not to be found out.”

“You’re right, sadly. Which means we have to bribe Grayson if he’s to send someone along to Rose Cottage with me for my belongings so that we can pretend I’ve been living here with you these past weeks. How much do you have in the way of pin money?”

“Me? I spent it all in the village last week. Don’t you remember seeing my new pelisse? But Lydia hoards her allowance like a miser. She must have at least eight pounds in the reticule she has stuffed in her bottom drawer. She had ten, but the pelisse wasn’t the only thing I purchased. There were these lovely yellow kid slippers Mrs. Halbrook assured me came straight from London, and I just had to have them.”

“You borrowed money from your sister? Or did you simply take it?”

“Oh, don’t go all prudish on me.” Nicole smiled. “I’ll return it next quarter and she’ll never know. She’d only waste it all on books anyway.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Nicole said, hanging her head. “Lydia would have loaned me the two pounds, but somehow it was more delicious to sneak into her room and—well, I’ll never do that again to my own dear twin sister, I promise. I think I got all of the evil and Lydia all of the good. If I’m going to make my debut in Mayfair I must strive to improve myself.”

“Yes, you must,” Charlotte agreed, not holding out much hope for that eventuality. “Beginning bright and early first thing tomorrow morning, I’d say. After you bring me that eight pounds and I go have a quiet chat with Grayson.”

She stepped into the hall five minutes later, the eight pounds in her pocket, and leaned back against the closed door. Was she out of her mind? Only a fool would think she could get away with this charade.

In fact, she had only one thing on her side: Grayson’s disdainful certainty that Rafe was an unacceptable duke. If she approached the butler correctly, let him believe he was pulling one over on his new master? Yes, then Grayson might cooperate.

She’d feel terribly about not going to Rafe with the truth about what his sisters had done, but in aid of what? The man seemed truly out of his depth at the moment, although she was certain he’d grow into his new boots in time. There seemed no good reason to upset him; after all, the twins were fine, their reputations intact, and the house hadn’t burned down around all their ears, or anything.

And telling Rafe meant telling Emmaline, which Charlotte completely refused to do, not with the woman newly married and now expecting a baby.

“Have you convinced yourself?” Charlotte muttered quietly. She decided that she had, and that her greatest motivation wasn’t really the idea that Rafe wouldn’t learn the truth and thereby think her not only a liar but also the biggest imbecile in nature not to have seen through Nicole and Lydia’s lies. Intent on locating Grayson, she headed for the staircase.

She stopped at the head of the stairs, realizing that, below her, the entrance hall was clogged with maids and footmen and cooks and tweenies…and Rafe.

Sinking to her knees so as not to be easily seen, she watched through the balustrades as, accompanied by a starchy Grayson, the new duke—his hands held clasped behind his back, she noticed—walked along the curving line of Ashurst servants, nodding his acceptance of each introduction, each bow, every curtsy.

He looked wonderful in his fine London clothes. His dark hair glistened in the light from the large chandelier, still slightly damp, telling Charlotte that he’d bathed away his travel dust in the time she’d been closeted with Nicole.

She blinked back tears yet again as Rafe came to the end of the line, where the six children of the head cook stood in a descending row. He then accepted a pastry from the youngest, ruffling the lad’s hair before Grayson clapped his hands three times in quick succession, dismissing everyone.

“Thank you, Grayson,” she heard Rafe say once the entrance hall was clear except for two of the footmen who took up their posts at the front door once more, as if expecting the Prince Regent’s coach to come roaring up the drive at any moment.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Grayson said, holding out one white-gloved hand for the small silver plate. “I’ll take that for you, sir.”

“The devil you will. The lad gave it to me, the only person to offer me a morsel of food since I arrived. I’ve allowed you to exercise your spleen, Grayson, as I know how loyal you were to the late duke. But be warned. I will suffer no more insolence from you, or from anyone connected with Ashurst Hall. The staff follows your lead, Grayson, and you are not as irreplaceable as you might believe. I doubt any of them will wish to follow you out the door, if you take my meaning.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Grayson said, bowing. Then he turned on his heel and fairly marched out of the entrance hall, his chin high, his back ramrod straight.

Rafe turned about and looked up at Charlotte, his young, unaffected smile dazzling her. He broke off a bit of the pastry as he said, “That went well, Charlie, don’t you think? I didn’t even need to use the pin.”

Before she could get to her feet, or form an answer, he’d popped the bit of pastry into his mouth and headed for the main saloon.

Charlotte stayed where she was, not yet trusting her legs to hold her if she attempted to stand. What was it Nicole had said to her?

Oh, yes. What about you? Would you consider marrying Rafe? He isn’t ugly, and he’s very rich. And he seems to like you.

“I like him, too,” Charlotte whispered as she cooled one hot cheek against the wrought iron of the staircase. “Very much.”

Chapter Four

“I HOPE YOU HAD a restful night,” Rafe said as he approached his friend’s bed, smiling as Phineas employed a scissors, neatly trimming Fitz’s light brown beard. “How’s the leg?”

Phineas made one last snip-snip, carefully folded up the towel he’d laid on Fitz’s chest, and stood clear. “He’ll tell you it’s fine, Your Grace, but the servant assigned to sleep in the dressing room told me he moaned in his sleep on and off all the night long.”

“And did he ask you, Phineas?” Fitz said, throwing out his arm, which the small man easily evaded. “I’m fine, Rafe. So the leg got jostled a bit in the coach. The bones are nicely settled again. I want my crutches.”

“You can want them all you wish, but you can’t have them,” Rafe told him, gingerly sitting down on the side of the wide bed. “And the fever, Phineas?”

“All but gone this morning, Your Grace. We removed the splint, as the surgeon ordered, thinking that should ease him some. Does it ease you some, Captain?”

“Go hang yourself,” Fitz muttered without rancor, reaching down to rub at his left thigh. “If I was a horse you would have ordered me shot, and I begin to think you would have been doing me a favor. How long are you planning to keep me locked away up here?”

“Two months, I believe I was told,” Rafe said, genuinely sorry for his friend. “We’ll have to find something to amuse you.”

“Good. I’ll take that pretty little redheaded maid who came in this morning to replenish the fire, thank you.”

Rafe smiled. “Down but not out, are you, Fitz?” He waited until Phineas had departed the room, and then said, “In truth, I wish you could be downstairs with me. I met my sisters yesterday.”

“That all sounds ominous. Are they horse-faced?”

“Hardly. And I’m told chastity belts are no longer acceptable garb for young unmarried sisters, more’s the pity. I can only thank God Charlie was here to steer me through my first encounter. I’ve faced the enemy with less trepidation.”

“Ah, yes, the fetching Miss Charlotte,” Fitz said, stroking his short beard. “She seemed sorry for me. Do you think that sympathy would extend to visiting with this poor soldier, perhaps reading poetry to him?”

Rafe frowned. “She is pretty, isn’t she? It’s strange. I don’t remember Charlie as pretty. I remember her as a thorn in my side, a perpetual pest. And as my friend. Sometimes the only friend I had here at Ashurst Hall.”

Fitz’s grin split his beard. “Well then, your friend can come pest me any time she likes.”

“Only here the one night, and already you have designs on the ladies?” Rafe hoped his voice sounded light, unconcerned.

He shouldn’t have bothered to try to dissemble.

“Staked her out for yourself, have you?”

“No,” Rafe said quickly. Too quickly? “You really can be an annoying bastard, do you know that?”

“I do, and pride myself on it,” Fitz said rather smugly. “I also pride myself on being able to take a hint, so I’ll stop teasing you now. Still, if you won’t send Charlotte to me, how about you order one of your new servants to round up some books I can read to pass the time? Better yet, someone to read them to me? The sound of Charlotte’s lovely voice washing over me as I lie on my sickbed, for instance, my eyes closed in bliss, her every word soothing my pain—Your late uncle did own books, didn’t he?”

“Thousands of them, yes. I don’t ever remember anyone in the household reading them, however. But I can’t promise you that Charlie would be agreeable. Besides, you’re strong enough to hold a book and read it yourself.” Rafe got up from the bed, alarmed to see his friend wince at the movement of the mattress. “Although perhaps tomorrow would be soon enough?”

“Damn it, I suppose so,” Fitz muttered, once again rubbing his thigh. “You didn’t tell anyone how this happened, did you? Bad enough I did it, without you running through the halls like the town crier, telling everyone about your clumsy oaf of a friend.”

“Only Charlie. Sorry, Fitz. But she won’t tell anyone if I ask her not to. Feel free to make up whatever heroic, outlandish story you want.”

“The runaway cart doesn’t impress you?”

“Actually, I was thinking more of the Frenchmen we shooed away from Elba the week before we departed for home.”

“Come to rescue their emperor,” Fitz said, nodding. “But it wasn’t me who saw them at the tavern and got suspicious. I never saw more than their backs as we chased them to their longboat. No, that’s your story, my friend, as it was you who was nearly shot and not me, although I thank you for offering it to me. I’ll think of something else, something equally heroic. Now go away, if you please. This injured soldier needs his rest.”

Rafe left the bedchamber reluctantly, knowing he’d delayed facing his first full day as duke in residence as long as possible.

It was November. What duties did a duke have in November? When he wasn’t away in London or at some house party or other, his uncle had always been riding out somewhere or another with his chief steward…That was it, he’d find his chief steward, and ride out with him.

Having decided on a plan, Rafe returned to his massive chambers to find Phineas already laying out his riding clothes in the dressing room.

“Ah, good, I don’t have to go calling through this large pile, chasing you down. Miss Seavers says for you to hurry and get changed, Your Grace. And I’ve sewn and brushed your riding cloak for you, not that I can find that lovely new beaver anywhere. Your Miss Seavers said she thought she might be able to locate it, as you’ll need something on your head with the chill being so in the air, not that I know where you’re off to. Your Miss Seavers said something about showing your pretty face somewhere?”

“Oh, she said all that, did she,” Rafe said, feeling an unreasonable reluctance to continue doing as Charlie dictated. Even if she was right, damn it. “She’s not my Miss Seavers, Phineas.And perhaps I don’t want to show my—Ah, hell’s bells, Phineas, help me out of this jacket.”

“Men are always ruled by petticoats when you get right down to it, Your Grace,” Phineas said, helping to ease the superbly tailored jacket from Rafe’s broad shoulders. “That’s what m’father warned me when I was just a little tyke. Be he beggar or king, m’father would say, a man is bound to find himself under some woman’s thumb sooner or later.”

“Thank you for sharing your father’s insight with me, Phineas. But I am not under any woman’s thumb. I’m merely going along with what Miss Seavers suggests because she is more familiar with—And why am I bothering to say any of this to you?”

“I’m sure I have no idea, Your Grace,” Phineas said, not turning away quickly enough to hide his smile. “I’ll just go hang up your jacket now, seeing as how you’ve only the three rigouts until that mess of fine clothes you ordered in London catches up with us.”

Rafe stood in front of the cheval glass to adjust his hacking jacket more comfortably on his shoulders. His new wardrobe was a far cry from the uniforms he’d worn—lived in, slept in, shared with lice and other vermin more often than he’d like to remember. Broiled in during the hot summers, frozen in for several cold winters.

“Phineas? Where are my uniforms?”

“Burned, Your Grace,” the Bow Street runner turned valet said as he brushed at the discarded jacket. “Couldn’t go selling the King’s uniform to no bowwow shop, now could I? The dregs of London lording it about on Piccadilly as if they were real soldiers? Weren’t any use to you anymore, Your Grace.”

“Burned? So they’re gone?” Rafe felt a sudden desire to see his uniforms one more time. Surely not a rational thought. They’d been a part of his life for so many years; he’d planned to remain in uniform until Phineas had showed up with his startling, life-changing news.

“Excepting the ribbons and the braid and the buttons and such, yes, Your Grace. Sir? Your Miss Seavers is most probably waiting on you downstairs.”

“Right,” Rafe said, checking his appearance one last time. He knew his brown-and-tan riding clothes to be fashionable as well as proper, but he did miss the scarlet. He knew who he was in the scarlet.

He didn’t know who he was now at all.

His hand had just touched the banister when he looked over the railing to see Charlie standing in the entrance hall. She was dressed in a close-fitting navy hussar’s jacket and divided riding skirt, a matching shako hat tipped to one side on her head. She was tapping one booted foot in time with each impatient strike of his hat against her thigh.

He still couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the idea that Charlie had grown up.And grown up so prettily, too. He didn’t know where she planned to take him, but they really should have a groom riding along behind them, as a young woman so beautiful, so eligible, should not be with a man unless chaperoned in some way.

As if Rafe was planning to pounce on her in any way. Which he wasn’t.

Even if the thought had occurred to him.

“My apologies, Charlie,” he called out as he rapidly descended the staircase. “I had not received your order until a few minutes ago.”

She looked up at him, frowning. “My order?”

“Yes,” he said, crossing the entrance hall to take his hat from her. “Something about showing my pretty face somewhere?”

Charlotte winced rather comically. “I must remember that servants have an unnerving way of quoting back just what they should forget, and forgetting just what they should commit to memory. I’m sorry, Rafe. But I did think this is something best not put off for another day. I suggest we begin with the forestry operations, and then continue to the cottages of the farm laborers, and then the mill. Or perhaps you’d like to ride into the village?”

“We could have discussed this all last evening, if you had deigned to appear at dinner.”

“I was otherwise detained,” she said unapologetically, although her gaze slid away from his rather guiltily. “I had to visit my parents with my maid and collect a few items I needed. Forgive me for not realizing you’d be lost without my presence.”

“Touché, Charlie, your point is well-taken. I did miss you, as it left me staring down that long table while my sisters pointedly ignored me, Nicole talking nineteen to the dozen about some new bonnet ribbons while Lydia reinforced my initial conclusion that she’s frightened to death of me.”

“Lydia will come around. She’s rather bookish. Quiet. I think you should be grateful. They are twins, remember, and both of them could be like Nicole.”

“Heaven forfend,” Rafe said facetiously, throwing up his hands. “Lydia’s bookish? That can’t be good, not if she’s smarter than the gentlemen around her. Is she really a budding bluestocking?”

“Not quite, but she is a very serious young woman. Girl. She’s always got her nose in a book, and very nearly lives in the library most days, curled up on a window seat with her latest discovery.”

Rafe considered this for a moment. “Then she might be the one to choose some reading material for Fitz. He only a few minutes ago begged that someone come read to him.”

“Oh, I doubt Lydia would ever dare to enter the man’s bedchamber. But I can ask her to select a few books she might think Fitz would enjoy and have a servant deliver them to him.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I mean, not that Fitz would ever—that is, Lydia is only a child, and—oh, hell, Charlie, I don’t know what I mean. Is it cowardly of me to admit that I don’t have the faintest idea of how to take care of my own two sisters? There I sat last night, at the dinner table, wildly attempting to come up with something to say that might engage them in conversation somehow. But what do I know of what would interest a female of that age?”

Charlotte looked at him in real sympathy. “You’re worried they won’t like you, aren’t you? Oh, Rafe, that’s so sweet. I don’t think most men would care a fig what two sixteen-year-old siblings thought of them.”

“Somebody has to be responsible for them.”

“Responsible, yes. But you actually care. That’s so sweet.”

“Charlie, tell me I’m being sweet one more time and I swear I’m going to leave you standing here and go drink down half my uncle’s wine cellars.”

“Very well, we’ll get down to business. You’ve greeted the staff here, but you’ve many more souls who depend on the duke’s living for their bread and butter and the roofs over their heads. They need to see you. Mr. Cummings is a competent steward, but they’ve been too long without a real master.”

“You do realize, Charlie, that I have no more idea of what I’m supposed to do, or say, to any of these people than I do about how to handle Nicole and Lydia? I’m only a soldier.”

“And as your troops looked to you to lead them, looked to you for strength and resolve and direction, believing you would take care of them, not betray them or put them in unnecessary danger, so do the laborers on your estate. Care for them, show kindness to them even as you lead them, and they will give you their loyalty.”

“You make it all sound so simple, Charlie. Even as we both know it isn’t all quite that easy.”

The footman he now knew as Billy handed him his gloves and riding crop, and he and Charlotte headed down the wide steps to where more servants held the reins of their mounts.

“I don’t see a mount for one of the grooms.”

Charlotte looked at him askance. “You believe we need a chaperone, Your Grace? It’s broad daylight, and we’re going to the sawmill. I doubt we could get into much mischief between here and there.”

“Never mind,” Rafe said tightly, feeling heat climbing the back of his neck. “Just go get on the damn horse.”

Charlotte waited until she’d been boosted into the sidesaddle and they had turned the horses down the drive before saying, “I’ve just thought of something that might help you during this first meeting with your tenants. Do you remember what we were taught as children to do if confronted by a wildly barking dog, Rafe?”

“Yes, I remember. Stand your ground, never show fear.” Rafe smiled. “So my people are to be compared with angry canines?”

She wrinkled her nose, looking rather adorable, not that he wanted to notice; he was still faintly angry with her about the way she’d teased him when he mentioned a chaperone. “I suppose that didn’t come out quite right, did it? But the advice is sound. Really, Rafe, you have to face it sooner or later. You’re the rightful Duke of Ashurst.”

“And I only climbed over three bodies to get here,” he said, privately shocked to hear himself say the words. Was that how he really felt? Like an interloper? A ghoul come to dance on the graves of his uncle and cousins?

They rode along in silence for a few minutes more before turning onto a rutted roadway lined by dense undergrowth and trees that began only a few yards from them on either side.

Rafe felt Charlotte’s gaze on him every few moments, until she finally said, “You know, there are no bodies, Rafe. They were never recovered. Emmaline held a memorial service in the estate chapel once all hope was gone, but there was…there was nothing to inter in the mausoleum. There are only brass plaques in front of where their resting places should be. Emmaline did her best.”

“The letter she had Phineas carry to me spoke of a new yacht, and a storm. I should have realized there was a possibility no bodies were ever found.”

“It was all an avoidable accident, I’m sad to tell you. The crew wished to turn about when the distant sky turned ominous, but either your cousins or your uncle overruled the captain. The single man to survive long enough to be plucked from the waters by a passing ship also mentioned large quantities of wine and a few women aboard. Not ladies, Rafe. Women. You’ll pardon my frankness, but George was always a loose screw. I can only wonder why the duke agreed to the excursion.”

“You probably have no further to look than the few loose women,” Rafe said as he thought about his uncle, who had always had an appetite for female flesh, the less respectable the better. An appetite he already knew his cousins had shared. “That had to be embarrassing for Emmaline to hear. And for you to have to tell me.”

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders, her air of unconcern clearly forced. She obviously was only telling him what she felt he needed to know. “I don’t think about it, not really. Or of them. They’re dead now, so what’s the point?”

“True enough. We’re probably lucky to have any information at all, good or bad. I didn’t know one of the crew survived.”

“Not a member of the crew, Rafe. One Mr. Hugh Hobart. It was he who wrote to Emmaline about the last moments before the yacht sank. According to Mr. Hobart, George and Harold were belowdecks with their…um, their companions, all of them quite seasick, when the rogue wave struck, overturning the vessel. Your uncle and Mr. Hobart were still on deck, keeping an anxious eye on the coastline as the yacht belatedly raced toward the port.”

“Good God. They must have been terrified. We encountered a Channel storm on our way here. Our ship was a captured Spanish galleon, a formidable thing, and it was tossed about like a cork. I can’t imagine what an angry Channel could do to a small yacht.”

“Hence your friend Fitz’s haste to disembark. Yes, I remember. The last thing Mr. Hobart wrote he remembers before he came to himself in the small boat they were towing is feeling the lurch of the yacht, and seeing the boom swing around to catch your uncle full in the chest and head, dealing him what was certainly a mortal blow. I’m sorry, Rafe.”

“Yes, so am I,” he said as Charlotte turned her mount onto the even narrower roadway he knew led to the lumber mill. Ashurst Hall was situated near enough the Sussex Weald to make forestry a lucrative part of the estate activities, seedlings planted wherever mature trees were harvested. Rafe could remember hearing his uncle lecture to George that to cut once is greedy and shortsighted, that a penny sown back in the earth for every pound that is reaped is the way to true wealth. The late duke was a hard man, but he’d been a fine steward of his lands.

“Mr. Hobart was invited to attend the memorial, but he was forced to decline, as he’d yet to recover from his own injuries. Emmaline truly wished to meet him, and learn more about her family’s last hours.”

“I suppose I should speak to the gentleman myself,” Rafe said, watching as men began running from seemingly everywhere to line up alongside the roadway. “He was, I’m assuming, a friend of George’s?”

“I don’t know, you’d have to ask him. I’d never heard the name until his letter arrived and Emmaline shared it with me. Emmaline was equally unaware of the man, but that meant nothing, as your cousins had a large acquaintance. Ah, and here is Mr. Cummings now,” she said as a horse and rider approached along the lane. “You don’t know him, as your uncle took him on after Mr. Willard left for Hampshire to spend his declining years with his grown daughter, so don’t worry that you don’t recognize him. Still, you will address him as John.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rafe said facetiously. “Here, now, I’ve just had a thought. Wouldn’t it simply be easier for me to turn him off and hire you to run both Ashurst Hall and the rest of my life?”

He thought he saw a quick flicker of something unreadable in Charlotte’s soft brown eyes. Anger? No. And not quite hurt, either. Something else. But what? Guilt? No, it couldn’t be.

“I’m only trying to help, Rafe,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Charlie, I know. Please forgive me,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch hers as they held the reins. “I’d be lost without you and I know it.”

Her smile didn’t seem to quite reach her lovely brown eyes. “Oh, you’ll not need me for long. I have every confidence in your ability to be a fine duke. Remember, Rafe, that some are born to greatness, some achieve greatness, and some—”

“And some have greatness thrust upon them. Yes, Charlie, I remember my Shakespeare, having studied it along with George and Harold while living here on sufferance. But I was not born to greatness, have achieved nothing remotely great, and I have had a title thrust upon me through no effort of my own.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You really have to stop that, Rafe. It’s both tedious and annoying. Did George or Harold deserve to be born as they were? Is anyone born to what they deserve? It’s how you behave that determines how the world sees you, and how you see yourself. Now turn your hat around a bit. The dent is showing, and lends nothing to your consequence.”

Rafe threw back his head and laughed in real amusement. “You would have made a top-notch master sergeant,” he said, and then dutifully readjusted his hat. “And my boots, master sergeant. Do they pass muster?”

Her answer to his spontaneous outburst was a lift of her chin and a definite “Hruumph!”

“Your Grace,” Mr. Cummings said as he drew his mount to a halt some ten feet away and doffed his cap. “We were told to expect a visit this morning. Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, John,” he said, urging his own mount forward and extending his right hand. “May I be honest with you? I’m here to throw myself on your mercy. Is there anything you’d like me to see here today?”

“Well, uh, Miss Seavers could…” Cummings shot a quick glance toward Charlotte, who, Rafe noticed, quickly shook her head. “That is to say, it would be my pleasure, Your Grace, to show you our much-improved sawmill. We’ve…uh, I’ve instituted some changes since His Grace’s sad death, and accidents have been reduced more than half. I’m happy to inform Your Grace that we haven’t lost a finger or a hand in more than six months.”

Rafe looked toward Charlotte, whose cheeks had gone faintly pink. What the devil was going on here? “Is that so, John. Very commendable on your part, I’m sure. I should very much like to see these improvements.”

“I’ll leave you two to get at it, then,” Charlotte said, already turning her mount.

Rafe grabbed at the reins. He needed to find out what the devil was happening here. “Oh, no, please, Miss Seavers, I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to return to Ashurst Hall unescorted. I fear I must insist that you accompany us.”

She smiled with her mouth as she skewered him with those intelligent eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

They followed John Cummings to the sawmill, passing the long single line of workers who variously waved their caps in the air or tugged their forelocks, depending on their age and station in the pecking order, Rafe imagined. “Your Grace, welcome home.” He heard that all along the way; polite greetings, if not enthusiastic.

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