Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Newsletter and Social Media Links
About the Author
Other books by Carole Mortimer
Copyright © 2019 Carole Mortimer
Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper WebDesign
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Formatter: Glass Slipper WebDesign
ISBN: 978-1-910597-76-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
Dedication
My husband, Peter
Chapter One
Stone Manor Estate, Worcestershire,
Late Autumn, 1817
“Move out of the way, you stupid woman, before you are mauled and trampled underfoot!”
The world seemed to move in slow motion as Rachel stared at the man who had stepped so suddenly between her and the raging bull pawing at the ground only yards away from where she sat atop her equally terrified horse.
A dark-haired and muscular gentleman Rachel did not believe she had ever set eyes on before now.
Despite the slowly unfolding disaster in front of her now, only seconds ago, Rachel had been happily enjoying her ride out with her cousin, Clara, and their friend, Rissa Spencer, the daughter of the Duke of Weston, his estate being only five miles from the home of Rachel’s parents. Their last ride together as three single ladies, as Rissa was very shortly to be married.
Rachel had no idea where the bull had even come from, but he was suddenly there, coal black and huge, shoulder muscles bunched as he snorted down enormous nostrils, and standing directly in her path. The way in which one of his front hoofs pawed at the ground revealed he was not feeling particularly friendly either.
For some reason, as her cousin and Rissa pulled their mounts aside and out of harm’s way, Rachel was unable to move, and she and her horse remained solidly fixed in its path.
The animal seemed to take exception to that as it rushed toward her at great speed. Its head was lowered so that it aimed its lethal horns directly at the heaving side of her horse.
“Bloody hell, you really are the stupidest woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet!”
Rachel was aware of the man’s further admonishment, and of Clara and Rissa’s frantic screams, but she remained solidly unmoving, aware only of her horse trembling beneath her and her own imminent death as the fierce and magnificent bull powered toward her.
The man on the ground gave her a fiercely condemning glance as he ripped off his jacket before turning back to face the great and thundering beast.
Rachel gasped as the man threw his jacket over the animal’s face once it was close enough, followed by leaping forward and up to grasp and hang upon those lethal horns, the muscles in his arms and back straining as he commenced tackling the enraged bull to the ground.
She raised a gloved hand to her mouth as she watched the struggle, the man seeming almost as enraged as the bull as he pulled himself up onto the animal’s back to twist and turn the thrashing animal’s neck until it was finally pulled off balance. The heavy weight of the beast crashing down, seconds later, seemed to actually shake the ground beneath them.
Rachel watched in fascination as the man kept his legs wrapped about the bull’s throat, one hand on a vicious-looking horn for balance as he used the other hand to unfasten and pull his belt from the waist of his corduroy trousers. The animal, sensing defeat, began to thrash again in earnest as the man bent down to bind the belt tightly about the bull’s front legs, successfully preventing it from rising back onto its feet.
At which time, the man jumped to his feet and turned the fierceness of his attention back to Rachel.
“I have never before met anyone as stupid as you!” he accused as he pulled her unceremoniously down from the saddle to grasp the tops of her arms and shake her. “Do you have no sense at all inside that pretty and vacuous head?” He gave her no opportunity to reply as he proceeded to expand on his opinion of anyone unintelligent enough to remain standing in the path of a stampeding bull rather than move aside as the other ladies had.
Rachel was still shaking from her lucky escape, and so surprised by the tongue-lashing, that it took her several seconds to realize his verbal admonishment was to be succeeded by a physical one.
The man dropped to one knee before pulling her down over the other, throwing up her skirts before proceeding to soundly—literally, as Rachel began to scream—spank her bottom covered only by her white cotton drawers.
“How dare you!” Rachel’s indignant outcry rent the air as the man landed blow after blow against her increasingly sensitive flesh. Her humiliation was complete as she saw they were being watched by the obviously shocked and openmouthed Rissa and Clara. “You have no right—”
“Considering you almost got me killed as well as yourself, I believe I am well within my rights.” Every second word was punctuated by the man administering another painful smack on her bottom or the tops of her thighs.
Rachel felt the tears falling down her cheeks at the increase in the painful stinging of her flesh. “I hate you!”
“The feeling is mutual, brat!” The words were accompanied by an even more painful smack.
Rachel turned to glare at him over her shoulder. “I will see you are punished for this outrage!”
His nostrils flared as he flipped her over and up until Rachel stood back on her booted feet, before he rose in front of her. At several inches over six feet in height, his shirt revealing muscular shoulders, arms, and chest, he towered over Rachel’s much shorter stature and build. “In that case, perhaps I should leave you to your fate the next time you are in mortal danger.”
“Perhaps you should!” She spat the words at him defiantly, hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“Ungrateful wretch,” he muttered again, snatching up his jacket from the ground as several farm workers appeared, obviously in search of the disabled but still-snorting bull. “Ladies.” He bowed formally to Rissa and Clara before striding away with not so much as a glance back at Rachel.
Her two friends rushed to Rachel’s side, both speaking at once as they expressed their concern for her at the same time as they apologized for having stood aghast during the gentleman’s physical chastisement.
An apology which had not been forthcoming from the gentleman himself.
Not then.
Nor in any of the weeks that followed.
Chapter Two
Stone Manor Estate, Worcestershire
Three weeks later
“Grayson…? Good God, Grayson, can it really be you after all this time?”
Gray closed his eyes as he recognized that deep and cultured drawl as belonging to none other than Adam Stirling, the Duke of Hawkwood.
Gray lifted his face heavenward, offering up a silent prayer in the hope the duke would have disappeared by the time he opened his lids again.
A small glove-covered hand came to rest on the sleeve of his jacket after several seconds of silence. “You appear to have gone pale, Mr. Long. Are you feeling quite well?”
Not only had a ghost from Gray’s past made an appearance, but he had done so in the presence of Miss Rachel Banford. The beautiful eighteen-year-old young lady Gray had found himself inappropriately
attracted to since saving her from a savaging by a bull several weeks ago, before then administering a sound spanking on her delectable arse.
Later discovering she was the daughter of Lord and Lady Banford, residents of an adjoining estate, had been devastating enough, but the identity of the other two young ladies who had witnessed his physical chastisement of their friend was even more damning.
One young lady was Miss Clara Catchpole, the soon-to-be bride of Gray’s new employer, Lord Ezra Stone
The other was now Clarissa Noble, Countess of Harrogate, that young lady having married the earl two weeks ago.
Gray had lived in expectation that first week after the “raging bull, spanked arse incident,” as he now referred to it in his mind, of being told to pack his bags and depart Stone Manor for his impudence in having physically admonished a young lady of the aristocracy.
No such repercussion was forthcoming.
Indeed, there had been no mention of the incident from his employer or anyone else.
Gray could only assume that was because Miss Banford had decided silence on the subject was the better part of valor and that, as standing in the path of danger and receiving a spanking for her efforts was her own fault, she had persuaded her two friends into also remaining silent.
Whatever the reason, and however many times Rachel Banford had visited Stone Manor in the past week or so, the two of them had never referred to the incident again.
Avoiding Rachel altogether was not an option. She currently came often to the manor, either with or to meet up with her cousin, Miss Clara Catchpole, as that young lady prepared the house for her to move into after her marriage to Lord Stone in just five days.
Gray gave an inward groan at the possibility Rachel would spend even more time visiting Stone Manor, not less, after her cousin’s marriage to Lord Stone.
Gray’s employment as estate manager of Stone Manor had existed for only a matter of weeks, but they seemed to have been ones filled with one adventure or another. First the incident where he had rescued Rachel from the bull. Then this previous week, Gray had been instrumental, alongside Miss Catchpole, in rescuing Lord Stone from the gentleman who had taken him captive with the intention of killing him.
Having helped in eliminating that danger, Gray now found there existed a bond of unspoken trust and friendship between himself and Lord Ezra Stone.
Miss Catchpole, the future mistress of the estate, had also made her gratitude toward him known in the warm way she always addressed him.
To the degree Gray had been invited to dine with the couple and Miss Catchpole’s family, currently residing at the neighboring Banford Manor, twice in the preceding seven days. He had been invited, and had accepted, another dinner invitation to Banford Manor this evening.
But he knew that warmth and welcome could come to an abrupt end if Hawkwood were to reveal to Lord Stone and the Banford family who and what Gray had once been.
He now released a slow and controlling breath before opening his eyes, hoping the warmth of his smile reached those gray depths as he gazed down at Rachel. “I will ensure Snowball and your maid’s horse are placed in stalls until you are ready to leave, if the two of you would like to continue up to the house? Your cousin and aunt arrived a short time ago.” Inwardly, Gray urged Rachel, begged her to do as he requested and not ask him any more questions about the “gentleman” standing behind him.
A gentleman who was remaining far quieter and for far longer than Gray would ever have given him credit for. In the past, Hawkwood had been a man of action, not patience. But the other man had married several months ago, so perhaps his new wife had the effect of calming him? Whatever the reason for Hawkwood’s uncharacteristic silence, Gray was grateful for it.
Rachel glanced in Hawkwood’s direction, something Grayson was being careful not to do, before her emerald gaze was once again turned up to his. “I would very much appreciate your assistance, Mr. Long. Thank you.” She gave him a curtsey and nodded politely toward Hawkwood before she and her maid left the stables to walk toward the main house.
Gray’s gaze followed her progress as he momentarily indulged himself. Their difference in station meant he could never allow Rachel to know of, let alone witness, his admiration and desire for her.
Tiny of stature, Rachel was nevertheless curvaceous in all the womanly places that appealed to Gray. Indeed, his body had been in a state of constant arousal since the day he rescued her from the bull and then administered that spanking afterward.
Today, the swell of her breasts was cupped by the tight bodice of a velvet riding habit the same dark green as her eyes. The material nipped in at her slender waist before flaring out again over full and enticing hips and thighs. A matching velvet bonnet was perched jauntily on top of her dark blonde and fashionably styled curls.
Gray enjoyed the vision for as long as he dared, but once Rachel had turned the corner of the house and disappeared from sight, he knew he had no choice but to turn and face the other man.
It had been almost eighteen years since Gray last set eyes on Adam Stirling, the Duke of Hawkwood, and it had been during their last year at Eton together. Nevertheless, Gray would still have recognized Hawkwood on sight, as he had recognized the other man’s voice seconds ago.
The duke had changed very little, his hair still as dark, his features as aristocratically austere if more mature. There were perhaps a few more lines beside the duke’s eyes and mouth, but they could as easily be attributed to laughter as anything else. His clothes were expertly tailored and the height of fashion.
The years since they last saw each other had obviously been far kinder to Hawkwood than they had Gray.
Gray’s clothes, a dark and heavy woolen suit and thick cotton work shirt, had been chosen for their hardiness of wear rather than fashion. Despite the two men being of the same age of five and thirty, Gray knew there were strands of gray in his own hair, deep lines grooved into his cheeks and between and at the sides of his eyes. Both signs of the hardship and poverty he and his mother had suffered and that had eventually killed her when she was little more than Gray’s age now.
His jaw tightened and his mouth thinned at the memory of those difficult years imposed upon his delicate mother before her premature death. “Your Grace,” he greeted the other man with all the formality their difference in station now demanded.
Lids narrowed over pale eyes. “My name, as you are well aware, is Adam. Or Hawk, if you would prefer.”
Gray’s chin lifted a little higher. “Is there anything I can do to assist you, Your Grace?” He pointedly continued to use the formality. “Lord Stone went out a short time ago, but I believe his fiancée and future mother-in-law are in the house. Lord Stone mentioned on his way out that the ladies are here measuring for new curtains for the drawing room and bedchamber.”
Hawkwood’s lips twisted into a knowing smile. “Wives and female relatives are apt to do that sort of thing. As we gentlemen are under obligation to avoid such times at all costs.” He dryly acknowledged the reason for Ezra Stone’s departure.
“I understand congratulations are in order in regard to yourself and your brother Alexander, both having recently married?” Gray had seen the announcement in the newspapers of the marriage of both brothers during the summer.
Those austere features softened as testament to Hawkwood’s happiness in his newly wedded state. “They are, thank you.” His expression sharpened. “What are you doing here, Ian?” he probed gently. “And under far different circumstances than when we last met.” His gaze swept briefly over Gray’s appearance in the sturdy work clothes.
“I might ask you the same question,” he returned unhelpfully. A fact the other man was well aware of as his pale eyes now glittered his displeasure. “I was not aware you and Lord Stone were acquainted with each other.” Gray had made a point of checking on the identity of his new employer’s friends and acquaintances before applying for the post of estate manager. Those friends and acquaintances of Lord Stone
had been few enough in number, and the Duke of Hawkwood was not amongst them.
The duke shrugged. “We are not. My wife and I are currently guests of the Duke and Duchess of Weston, and he happened to mention the excellent horseflesh Lord Stone keeps here in his stud. I was out riding anyway and decided to drop in and make a formal appointment to look at the horses.”
“I am sure Lord Stone would be happy to oblige you at a time convenient to both of you.”
“But not you?”
Gray shook his head. “I am employed here as the estate manager. Lord Stone manages the stud himself.”
“What the hell happened to you, Ian?” the duke demanded.
Gray gave a hard smile. “My name is Grayson Long. Mr. Grayson Long.” No one had addressed him with the familiarity of his first name since his mother died ten years ago. “I would appreciate your addressing me as such.”
That astute pale gaze narrowed. “That is not the name under which I know you.”
“It is the only one I will now answer to,” he challenged.
Hawkwood gave a puzzled shake of his head. “One day we were friends and at Eton together, and the next, your father died, and within days, you had left the school without so much as a goodbye. You disappeared into the ether as if you had never been there at all,” he accused.
Perhaps that was because when Gray’s father died and the truth was revealed, there was no money left to pay for the remainder of Gray’s schooling. None that belonged to Gray or his mother, at any rate. Not putting himself through the torture of parting from his school friends had been a case of self-preservation on Gray’s part, a case of not wanting to further add to his humiliation by emotionally breaking down in front of those friends.
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