A Duke by Default: Dangerous Dukes Vol 3

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘My pardon, gentlemen, I was not expecting the honour of a visit quite so soon.’

  It sounded like a criticism, but Marc was too distracted to take exception to her tone. The creature in front of him, dressed in male attire at least as shabby as her henchman’s, bore little resemblance to the elegant, prickly young lady whom he had met twice before. He took a few seconds to assess her, discovering that seeing her so inappropriately garbed did little to extinguish his growing attraction towards her. Her tight-fitting breeches exposed shapely legs which led to a pleasingly rounded derriere. The upper part of her body was clothed in an ancient-looking man’s shirt, which was tucked into the breeches, emphasising the slenderness of her waist. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon and tumbled to her waist in a riot of unruly curls. His reaction to the compelling picture she presented was entirely predictable and deuced uncomfortable.

  ‘Do I require an appointment to examine my own property, Miss Aston?’ he asked, fixing her with a look of polite detachment.

  He could feel Giles’s eyes upon him and knew he had shocked his affable friend with what, even for him, was extreme bluntness. Before he could say anything more, though, a voice called out.

  ‘Miss Aston, you’re needed about the racking in the fermenting shed.’

  ‘I shall be there directly, Ben,’ she replied. ‘Now then, gentlemen, what did you—’

  ‘Harri, you must do something about Tom! He will not attend to his multiplication and I can’t be expected to do everything…Oh!’ A vision in pristine lilac muslin bustled into the shed. Upon observing Marc and Giles, her expression underwent a lightning change. Her beautiful face abandoned its sulky expression in favour of a becomingly demure smile. ‘Oh, I am so very sorry, Harri, I was unaware that you had visitors.’

  Harriet introduced her sister, Charlotte. Marc observed the beauty of the family with interest as she fluttered her lashes, peeping from beneath them through eyes of the most remarkable cerulean blue. She was quite exquisite to look at, but her appearance made little impression upon Marc. He spoke the truth when he had told his friend beautiful woman didn’t attract him. Comparing the two sisters, even allowing for the disadvantage of her clothing, he couldn’t help feeling the older Miss Aston presented a more compelling picture. Charlotte was beautiful, but being of inferior birth and with no fortune to recommend her, was unlikely to achieve her ambition of attracting a husband from within the ranks of the aristocracy.

  Giles could always be relied upon to do the right thing and greeted Charlotte with civility and an admiring smile. Before many words could be exchanged, another distraction occurred in the form of a whirlwind erupting through the door. Two boys who could only be Harriet’s brothers tumbled upon them.

  ‘Harri,’ cried the younger boy, ‘we’re finished with lessons and have come to help.’

  ‘What help will you be if you are unable to do your multiplication, Tom?’ she asked, sounding severe yet kindly at the same time.

  Marc ignored Charlotte’s efforts to engage his attention, watching Miss Aston instead as she simultaneously dealt with her brothers, attempted to check her sister’s flirtatious overtures and fielded several queries from the men in the cider press. He wondered if all her days were spent thus, passing from one crisis to the next, and felt the beginnings of a respect for her tenacity joining forces with his reluctant admiration for her person.

  ‘Charlotte, perhaps our visitors would welcome some refreshment? Gentlemen,’ she continued briskly, giving them little opportunity to demur. ‘If you would be so kind, my sister will conduct you to the house where my mother will be honoured to receive you. Show them into the parlour, Charlotte. Tom, run ahead and inform Mama we have visitors.’ Tom obediently scampered off. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall join you as soon as I have resolved the difficulties in the fermenting shed.’

  Charlotte appeared happy to comply with her sister’s wishes. ‘If you would step this way, gentlemen?’

  ‘I shall stay with you, Harri,’ the older boy said. ‘I might be able to help.’

  ‘Thank you, James.’

  ‘I would be interested to see the fermenting shed for myself,’ Marc said, not prepared to be dismissed in such a summary manner. ‘Go ahead to the house, Giles, I will join you directly.’

  ‘Oh!’ A brief expression of annoyance marred Charlotte’s lovely features. ‘Harri will take forever, Your Grace. She always does when she’s involved with her precious cider. You will likely be more comfortable in the house.’

  Marc ignored her, not deigning to dignify her petulance with a response, and she eventually departed for the house, Giles at her side.

  ‘The fermentation is the most vital point in the manufacture of cider,’ Miss Aston said as she walked with Marc towards the shed in question. ‘Shortly before the fermentation consumes all the sugar, the liquor is racked into new vats. That is the point when we must protect the brew from the undesirable materials left at the bottom of the old vat and exclude airborne bacteria.’

  ‘The process you described to me in Lady Calder’s dining parlour?’

  She looked at him askance, possibly because his voice had acquired a marked degree of civility which had been lacking in their previous exchanges.

  ‘Yes. The fermentation of the remaining sugar sometimes generates a certain sparkle and it might be necessary to add additional sugar in the form of white cane, which raises the alcohol level. We have recently taken that step, but Ben considers additional racking might be necessary because the liquor is now too cloudy. I hope he is wrong, since it’s a labour intensive process, and I can ill-afford to waste time upon it.’

  ‘How do you make such a decision?’

  ‘Like this.’ They had reached the area is question and Miss Aston dipped a ladle into a vat, smelt the contents, and then sipped. She then held it up to his lips. It tasted surprisingly good, if a little bitter. ‘What is your opinion?’

  ‘That it’s too bitter.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. It won’t answer as it is.’ She sighed. ‘We must rack again, Ben.’

  ‘I thought you’d say so, miss.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Harri.’ Her brother touched her arm. ‘I’ll help, and I will make sure Tom does as well.’

  Miss Aston ruffled his hair. ‘Why can your brother not share your interest in the business? Anyway, Ben, you know what must be done.’

  ‘The cider is not so very bitter,’ Marc said. ‘Will it not be saleable as it is?’

  ‘Not if I want to regain Kent’s reputation for producing the best quality wine. It was my father’s fondest wish and is now the driving force behind everything I do. Besides, I don’t intend to let standards slip just because times are tight. We shall recommence racking on the morrow, Ben.’

  ‘Very good, miss.’

  ‘Come, Your Grace.’ Miss Aston wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘My mother will wonder what has become of us.’

  Marc entered the house and was introduced to Mrs. Aston. She was still a beautiful woman and Marc could see which of her parents Charlotte had inherited her looks from. Unfortunately, Miss Aston’s mother was every bit as vague as Lady Calder had warned him to expect. Miss Aston took over in the parlour, much as she had maintained control in the cider mill, ensuring her guests were supplied with tea and keeping the conversation flowing. In that respect however, she had ample assistance from her sister, whose requirement for information about life within the ton appeared to be inexhaustible.

  ‘I was monstrously disappointed not to accompany Harri when she visited Lady Calder. I would have been no trouble to anyone.’

  ‘You were needed here, Charlotte,’ Miss Aston replied.

  ‘You say you were engaged with my aunt, but you managed to find the time to go shopping. Harri returned with a complete new travelling outfit and a new evening gown,’ she cried accusingly. ‘I happened to notice it in your closet,’ she added in response to her sister’s raised eyebrows. ‘And Harri never wears gowns. She would do better to give them t
o me.’

  ‘The clothes were gifts to your sister from Lady Calder,’ Mrs. Aston said, making a brief emergence from her ennui.

  So, Marc thought, I misjudged her there, too. Lady Calder had forced the clothes upon her because she had nothing fit to be seen in while in London. Marc was almost tempted to smile. He knew how insistent his aunt could be when she made up her mind about something. Miss Aston hadn’t stood a chance of holding out against her.

  ‘I have a mind to tour your orchards, Miss Aston, if you would oblige me with your company.’

  Marc, already weary of Charlotte’s self-centred chatter, wondered how her more sensible sister tolerated it. He rose to his feet in anticipation of his request being immediately complied with. As he did so, his gaze rested upon the mermaid on the mantelpiece and he wondered why she hadn’t somehow managed to remove the piece before Marc laid eyes on it. She must have realised he would recognise it and require to know how it came to be in her possession.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he asked impatiently when Miss Aston did not also jump to her feet.

  ‘What, now?’

  Marc produced a half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘There are several hours of daylight left.’

  ‘Perhaps we should all take a walk in the orchards?’ Charlotte sounded a little desperate.

  ‘Not in that gown,’ her sister replied.

  Marc would have welcomed Miss Aston’s comment, had it not been so obvious she resented having to humour him. It was equally obvious that she had only put her sister off because she didn’t want the added responsibility of restraining her behaviour.

  ‘I shall entertain Miss Charlotte and assist Tom with his multiplication while you are gone,’ Giles offered with an affable smile.

  ‘If you can persuade my brother to attend to his lessons, we shall be greatly in your debt, Lord Merrow.’ Miss Aston finally stood up. ‘We shall return before dark, Mama.’

  She led the way to the orchards, walking at a brisk pace, and making no effort to converse with Marc. After half-an-hour of Charlotte’s inane chatter, he found the contrast agreeably refreshing. An ancient black dog of indeterminate pedigree joined them, sticking closely to Harriet’s heels, and she bent occasionally to scratch his ears.

  ‘These are our oldest producing trees,’ she said, eventually breaking the silence.

  Marc looked at the neatly pruned lines of trees. It was obvious that far more trouble went into maintaining them than it did into keeping the buildings in a good state of repair. He recalled the ramshackle stables but didn’t mind the welfare of his property taking second place to an orchard. After all, the family relied upon the fruit for their livelihood and clearly had their priorities right.

  They continued their tour, drifting farther away from the house as they reached the newer strains, planted on the periphery of the estate, and Harriet proudly pointed out her precious rows of Beauty of Kent. She might have recovered from her annoyance at being obliged to accompany him, but she was still clearly giving him less than half of her attention. The rest of the time, he could see her making mental notes about deficiencies or noticing tasks that must be attended to. It seemed her every waking moment was taken up by some duty or another—a bit like his new responsibilities kept him fully occupied, he supposed.

  He observed small stone huts scattered at regular intervals and asked her what purpose they served.

  ‘Storage areas for the apples. When they are harvested, we stack them in crates in these huts, in strict order of rotation, and bring them back to the mill as they are required. The trees are planted too closely for us to be able to use a cart, so they all have to be moved by the men manually.’

  ‘I see.’

  She continued to show off the estate, either not noticing the skies had clouded over, or not minding the prospect of a little rain. She was a most unusual woman, and he couldn’t imagine her getting in a dither if she got wet. Marc smelt rain in the air and thought they should return to the house before they were caught in it, but after having been reluctant to commence the tour Miss Aston now appeared intent upon showing him the entire operation. They were crossing a wooden bridge that spanned a fast-flowing stream as the first fat raindrops fell.

  ‘Oh good!’ She looked up at the sky. ‘I was hoping for rain. It couldn’t have come at a better time for the apples. At last something has gone right for me.’

  ‘Maybe, but we shall be drenched in no time. Where can we take cover?’

  Harriet pointed to the nearest of the stone apple stores on the other side of a stream and broke into a run. The rain had dampened the wooden surface of the makeshift plank bridge spanning the stream, and as Harriet tried to skip across it she lost her footing. Marc was still some distance behind her and watched helplessly as her normally slender and poised form became an awkward mass of whirling limbs. With a cry of surprise, her feet slipped from beneath her and she tumbled into the stream. Her head struck the plank she had slipped from, and she fell face down in the water, unconscious.

  Marc reacted instinctively. He ran to the stream, waded in and pulled her clear. Both of them were soaked to the skin by the time he lifted her into his arms. She was unresponsive, a dead weight as he carried her the short distance to the store and laid her on a pile of canvases used to cover the apples. Her breathing was shallow but a groan further confirmed that at least she was alive. Part of the debilitating fear that had gripped Marc when he watched her fall, left him. With great good fortune he would not have yet another death on his conscience. If he had not insisted upon a tour of the orchards…damn it, this was all his fault! His stubborn determination to show Miss Aston who was the master of Matlock House had led to her being seriously injured, or worse.

  Marc chased such thoughts away, distracted by the crimson blood that spilled from a gash on the side of her head. It was in stark contrast to her deathly pallor, and galvanised Marc into action. He had not saved her, only to have her bleed to death. He took his handkerchief and held it to the wound in an attempt to stem the flow. He knew he had to get her out of her wet clothing before she froze to death, but he couldn’t do that and keep pressure on her wound at the same time.

  ‘Wake up, Harri!’ he muttered over and over, resisting the urge to shake her.

  He checked her pulse, which was strong, but her eyes remained stubbornly closed. Sighing, he removed his neckcloth and tied it around her head to keep the handkerchief against the cut while he dealt with her sodden shirt. She was wearing only a thin lawn camisole beneath it, which was also damp, but Marc drew the line at removing that, too. Her plump breasts were clearly visible through the flimsy material, her nipples solid from the cold, and it would take a better man than he would ever be not to look his fill.

  He recalled her debilitated condition, cursed his insensitivity, and dragged his gaze away. Removing his coat and waistcoat, he pulled his own shirt over his head and used it to rub her limbs and torso until she was as dry as he could make her. It seemed entirely inappropriate that this action should excite him. He excused his reaction by reasoning that he wouldn’t have been the red-blooded male he unquestionably was if he was able to remain indifferent to the enticing nature of the body stretched out beneath his hands.

  He removed her shoes and stockings then her breeches and repeated the vigorous drying process until he was satisfied that her blood was circulating through her body. Then he lifted her gently and wrapped her in his coat, which was still dry on the inside and retained the warmth from his body, and was large enough to encompass almost her entire length. He checked her wound which, thankfully, seemed to have stopped bleeding.

  Making a pillow of his folded waistcoat, he placed it beneath her head, but there didn’t seem to be much more he could do for her comfort until she regained consciousness. He held first one of her cold hands and rubbed it briskly between both of his, and then the other. As he did so, he distracted himself by listening to the rain pounding on the hard ground outside the hut, willing her to open her eyes before
the light faded completely. They needed to get back to the house before dark, even if it meant walking through the rain.

  Even if it also meant he would have to carry her.

  Her hair, already drying, fell across her breasts, framing her translucent face, making her seem delicate, susceptible, and far too fragile to manage the complicated business of running a cider mill. Such thoughts brought out a protective streak in Marc that he hadn’t been previously aware he possessed. He absently picked up a strand of her hair and ran it repeatedly through his fingers as he ruminated upon the unexpected turn events had taken. As he gazed at her, something he didn’t quite recognise stirred within him. It was more than desire—more than the determination he had once harboured to dominate this complex creature and make her answerable only to him. With a grunt of denial, Marc was compelled to accept that for the first time in his life something stronger than his own will was threatening his need to remain dispassionately in control.

  Chapter Six

  Harriet opened her eyes, feeling confused, and with absolutely no idea where she was. She heard torrential rain pounding on the roof above her, and it was almost dark. The smell of apples was overwhelming. She had to be on the estate somewhere. She vaguely recalled doing a tour with someone she would have preferred not to be in company with, but whom? It hurt too much to try and think. Her head was pounding, and she felt feverish—warm and cold at the same time. When her eyes focused, she found them fixed on the naked torso of a broad-chested gentleman who closely resembled the odious duke. She blinked, more disorientated than ever, wondering how such a man had finished up in her dreams.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked the owner of the rather impressive chest. His voice closely resembled the duke’s deep, velvety tone too.

  ‘I have a headache. Where am I? What happened?’

  ‘We’re in one of the apple stores on the far corner of the estate.’

  She tried to sit up, but the effort it took made her too dizzy. ‘You are the duke,’ she said accusingly.