This thought was in his head as he made his way through the woods which surrounded his Bedfordshire estate many weeks later.
“There’s nothing here to keep a man entertained,” he thought glumly, as he galloped down the woodland trail. Nothing but trees and rain. Michael’s thoughts were so distracted with how miserable he was, that he nearly ran through a young woman standing in the middle of the bridle path, trying to hail his attention. If she hadn’t jumped into the nearest holly bush he quite possibly could have killed her.
“Drat,” he thought, turning his horse around and making his way back to her.
“Drat,” he thought again, as the vision of a red-haired beauty picking leaves from her hair and glaring angrily at him, left him feeling as though he had been sucker-punched in the stomach.
“State your business sir,” the young lady called, a brief flash of fear crossing her porcelain features, before she composed herself.
Michael cleared his throat for it felt as thought it was closing over.
“I said sate your business,” she called again angrily brandishing what appeared to be a slipper in her hand threateningly.
Michael stared down at her, his tongue completely tied, and sweat erupting on his brow- for the first time in nearly a decade his stutter had reemerged, and all because of this petite firecracker.
“Drat,” he thought again, he hadn’t been expecting this.
Chapter Two
Isabella Peregrine was decidedly lost. She had come away from her sister’s home in such an agitated state earlier that afternoon, that as she had stormed through the woods surrounding Longleaf Hall she had paid scant attention to where she was going. And now she had no idea where it was she had ended up.
Drat.
Isabella glanced above her head, to where the February bare trees were creating a thin canopy, and saw that the sky was beginning to darken. Night fell very quickly during the first days of Spring, and if she wasn’t careful she would find herself stuck outside over night. Isabella gave a shiver, and continued to plough her way through the trees, hoping to find the bridle path which ran through the woods and would lead her back to humanity.
She shivered again. She had been so vexed after reading her Step-Mother’s letter that she had brought neither a coat nor a pelisse with her. It took a full half hour of walking until she reached the bridle path, and even then she was not sure of which direction she should follow. Lifting the hem of her skirt Isabella decided to turn right, in the hope that if the path didn’t take her to Longleaf it would at least lead to the village of Blackmore.
She traipsed along, so lost in thought that the sound of thundering hoof-beats did not register with her until the rider and animal were nearly upon her. Isabella turned to see who it was that was approaching at such a speed, but as her eyes registered the sight of a rider hunched low against the back of an enormous beast, her brain registered the fact that that same rider had not seen her. There was only one option available to her, so with a shriek Isabella threw herself bodily from the path and into the nearest bush.
Which happened to be a holly-bush.
“Ouch,” she groaned, delicately extracting herself from the tangle of thorny leaves. She could feel twigs entangled in her auburn tresses and one of her slippers had fallen off
“You should watch where you’re going you murderous oaf,” she shouted angrily at the rider who had slowed to a canter. He stopped, turned the horse towards her, and began to slowly mkae his way to where she stood, the expression on his face one of anger Isabella gulped nervously as she took stock of the size of the man upon the horse, and the fierce look of anger on his face. Perhaps he was a highway man? He certainly looked dangerous enough as his gaze traveled the length of Isabella’s body as though seizing up a prize.
“State your business sir,” Isabella called in a voice that was much more sure than she felt.
The rider frowned.
“I said state your business.”
The rider dismounted and began to walk towards her.
Not allowing herself to be seized by fear Isabella picked up the nearest thing she could find - her slipper, and once more, in her haughtiest tone called; “Stay where you are.”
The man stopped dead in his tracks. Sensing that this was her opportunity to flee the villain, Isabella hurled the slipper through the air.
Throwing her shoe was probably not a good idea, Isabella thought with hindsight as she watched the slipper feebly hit her target on the head before falling uselessly to the leaf strewn floor. It had proved a most ineffective missile, as it had merely ricocheted off the giant stranger, without injuring or slowing him at all - and she rather needed it to run away in.
“I’m warning you,” she said nervously, reaching to the floor for a stick, which she brandished enthusiastically; “Come any closer and you shall regret it.”
“My dear,” the man seemed at last to have found his voice, and it was low and droll; “I have no intention of ravishing or robbing you – but I would like to know how you came to be trespassing on my land.”
“Your land?” Isabella gave a gulp; surely he wasn’t…?
“I am Blackmore.”
“Your Grace,” Isabella blushed, and gave a quick curtsy.
She knew all about the Duke of Blackmore; he was the ton’s most notorious peer. His reputation as an arrogant, rakish, brute was legendary and it was said that when he led his men into battle he was vicious and bloodthirsty. As one of Wellington’s closest advisors he was rarely seen on English soil, but the papers hinted that he continued his rakish ways whilst on the continent. When he was in England the Duke, it was said, preferred to spend his time amongst the demimonde rather than in a stuffy ballroom. He detested debutantes and scheming mamas, and had been known on occasion to leave both in tears. He was legendary – and Isabella had just thrown her slipper at his head.
“I am sorry,” Isabella said with contrition, whilst also trying to memorize every detail that she could about the reclusive Duke, so she could relay his appearance to her friends at a later date; “I did not realize you were…well you.”
“I had gathered,” Blackmore replied dryly, bending down to pick up Isabella’s slipper, which he considered thoughtfully for a moment.
“You appear to have lost your shoe madam,” he said finally, turning his amused eyes to a mortified Isabella, who cringed with embarrassment.
“I have lost more than my shoe your Grace,” she shortly replied, reasoning that the only way to make the most of this embarrassing situation, was to at least get directions home; “I have lost my entire person. I cannot find my way back to Longleaf Hall and – “
“You’re Longleaf’s new wife?” the Duke interjected, his brow furrowed, his expression annoyed.
“No – his wife’s sister,” Isabella said, still fidgeting nervously as his proprietary gaze insolently traveled the length of her body, making her feel as though she stood naked before him. His eyes came to rest on her face, and Isabella found herself momentarily breathless – despite his dark coloring his eyes were the most startling shade of blue, framed by thick dark lashes. His black hair was slightly longer than fashion dictated, and it curled over the back of his collar. He was clad in elegant riding attire, each perfectly pressed garment hung elegantly from his large frame; he was the epitome of male perfection - and his presence was most unnerving.
“If you could perhaps furnish me with directions, I would be most grateful. I’d like to be on my way before it gets dark,” Isabella said in a rush as she composed her thoughts. Really, she scolded herself, at five-and-twenty she was no skittish debutante. She had seen her fair share of handsome men, even if she had never been so alone with any of them…
The Duke looked up at the sky, which was visibly darkening above their heads.
“It is getting dark already madam,” he said, frowning as though annoyed; “It would be best if I returned you to Longleaf myself.”
“Oh no that’s really not necessary,” Isabella protested,
but soon found herself incapable of speech, as the Duke wrapped one arm around her waist and easily lifted her from the ground. Supporting her legs with his other arm he carried her over to his over to his waiting steed as though she weighed no more than a feather. No man had ever held her so close before, and if she wasn’t so petrified of this domineering, dark, Duke, Isabella was sure she’d be thrilled.
“Up you go,” Blackmore said, as he lifted Isabella up so that she sat side-saddle, clutching to the horses’ neck for support.
“I was quite capable of mounting the horse myself, your Grace,” Isabella huffed, completely flustered at having been manhandled so.
“But how would you have walked over when you only have one shoe?” Blackmore replied bluntly, his gaze resting on her stockinged foot which peeped out from beneath her dress. He glanced down at her slipper now squashed in his grip, his expression slightly baffled.
With an unsure hand, he reached out and took her ankle in a firm yet gentle grip, before slipping the shoe over her foot with a satisfied smile.
“There,” he said releasing her ankle and looking up at Isabella – who stared down at him incredulously, her mouth a perfect “O” of surprise.
No man had ever touched her so intimately, and Blackmore’s strong,warm grip had sent shivers through her whole body.
As though suddenly realizing that his act of chivalry had in fact been terribly bad ton, Blackmore’s ears went red at the tips.
“Right, off we go,” he blustered, to a still shocked Isabella, mounting the saddle in one swift motion so that he was seated behind her, with her body resting against his. Isabella cringed - this was going to be a very long ride.
Michael cursed inwardly to himself as he urged Pharaoh into a light trot, one hand on the reins, his other loosely wrapped around the young woman’s waist holding her steady. He had spent so much time amongst the demimonde of late, that he now considered a woman’s ankle as the least scandalous part of her body that he could touch on first introduction. Judging by the young woman’s reaction she was not to be treated like one of his actresses or opera singers. She was a lady - and Michael was no good around ladies. No good at all.
The young lady in question gave a shiver in the chill evening air, as the pair cantered gently along the bridle path which led to Longleaf.
“You must have been in quite a hurry,” Michael said disapprovingly as he noted the pale flesh of her arms was covered in goose-pimples from the cold; “You’ve no…. do-Hickeys or gee-gaws on to keep you warm.”
“Do-Hickeys?” an amused pair of green eyes turned to meet his, and Michael was once again momentarily speechless and struggling to form any words correctly.
“A shawl, a pelisse, a coat - I can’t keep up with all the names for women’s fashions,” he responded after a pause, knowing he sounded irritable as he struggled to regain his composure. He had fought the French and faced down the toughest politician’s of Europe in Vienna - he could not possibly be intimidated by a pair of green eyes.
“Well I left in quite a hurry you see,” the woman responded lightly, staring now at the path in front of them, a smile curling up the corners of her plump mouth; “It was rather a dramatic exit - and one struggles to think of practical things like a shawl when one is being theatrical.”
A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of Michael’s mouth, and though he tried to resist he soon found himself asking what it was that had prompted her to leave Longleaf in such an apparently spectacular manner.
“I received a letter from my Step-Mother informing me that I have a bounty upon my head your Grace,” the woman answered solemnly.
“A bounty?” Michael gave an incredulous laugh, never before had he met such an innocent looking woman; “You do not give the impression of being a nefarious criminal if I may say so.”
“You may,” came the light reply; “But you are most certainly wrong your Grace - for you see I have the committed the most serious sin that a female could possibly think to commit.”
“Oh?” Michael raised an eyebrow now, his interest most thoroughly piqued. Surely she was not going to confess to a scandal or an affair - she seemed far too sweet for that sort of thing.
“I have reached the grand old age of five-and-twenty without finding a husband,” came the droll answer;”It’s nearly a hanging offense in my Step-Mother’s book.”
Michael gave out a low, earthy chuckle at the young woman’s deadpan expression.
“Surely your Step-Mother can not have put an actual bounty upon your head Miss -?”
“Peregrine, Isabella Peregrine,” she bobbed her red-curly head politely as she introduced herself, as though she were in a ball room and not nestled in his arms atop a horse; “And why yes she has. She has convinced my father that in order for her to produce his much longed for male heir, I must be banished. I received his instructions today, find a husband by the end of the season, or find myself married to one of my Step-Mother’s nephews.”
A look of revulsion crossed Miss Peregrine’s porcelain features, and for one wild moment Michael longed to draw Pharaoh to a halt and take her in his arms to comfort her. He resisted through a combination of sheer will and a lifetime’s aversion to any kind of emotional entanglement…with anyone.
“The good thing though,” Isabella finished brightly; “Is that my father, not having much faith in my charms, has increased my dowry three-fold.”
“Er, yes. Wonderful,” Michael ventured, thinking that actually her father’s act was akin to kicking a man while he was down.
“Yes, now every second son with no talent for piquet - but plenty of enthusiasm - shall find me irresistible,” she replied glumly, then seemed to catch herself for being so open.
“Oh dear your Grace, I pray forgive me for rambling, it is so rude of me. My tongue is always running ahead of me. It is just so strange to find myself in this position at five-and twenty.”
“Not at all Miss Peregrine,” Michael waved a dismissive hand; “You have made the journey most pleasant. I have often been told I am a poor conversationalist.”
This was true, though more so because Michael had soon learned that by not speaking (even though he wanted to), he gave the impression of being fearsome and intimidating, an air he used well in his army career. The woman in his arms gave a small sniff, and Michael felt his insides shrivel with fear. He was no good with crying women. No good at all.
Miss Peregrine’s shoulders began to shake, softly at first and then violently and soon her whole body was convulsed with…laughter.
“Oh I am sorry your Grace this situation is just so ridiculous,” Isabella explained, wiping away tears of mirth from her eyes; “But my father is nearing his dotage. Do all men spend their whole lives consumed by the desire to produce a male heir?”
If Miss Peregrine’s derriere hadn’t been nestled so close to his heir obsessed appendage, Michael was sure he would have uttered a better response than:“Ahem.”
“It’s not like it’s even completely my fault that I have not wed,” Miss Peregrine continued, thankfully filling in the silence, and distracting Michael from the womanly feel of her body.
“Father would not go to town after Mother died,” she said, beginning to list reasons off on her fingers; “Lavina could never bring me as she was always expecting - I nearly had to write and beg the Viscount to leave her in peace so that she could take me this year.”
Michael snorted with mirth - he had known Horsefield since he was a boy, and he had always been rather the enthusiastic sort.
“My mother has told me that they have been blessed with three children since the last time I was home,” Michael offered.
“Yes three children - in three years.”
Isabella’s tone sounded exasperated, though there was a soft look of fondness on her face as she thought on her nieces and nephew.
“They are beautiful,” she conceded, “It’s just after Harry didn’t return from France -”
“Harry?”
“My fi
ance,” she replied hesitantly, not looking him in the eye.
“He fell in France?” Michael asked, a deeply sympathetic tone to his voice. He had seen many fine men fall during the long war with Napoleon on the peninsula - far too many good men.
“Nothing so noble I’m afraid,” Miss Peregrine gave an amused snort; “He fell on a French woman and decided to stay.”
“Oh,” Michael responded - wondering did this woman leave every man feeling as though he were on the wrong footing. She was a lady, that much was clear, and yet she was amusing. Michael wondered would it be unacceptable to bypass Longleaf and take this Miss Peregrine to a tavern for a night of ale and amusement. Visions of her sitting on his knee, sipping from a large tankard of ale as they laughed rambunctiously together - before slipping off unseen to a bedroom upstairs - danced before his eyes.
“Your Grace?”
Michael snapped out of the daydream that was threatening to overwhelm him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly; “I was thinking of other matters.”
The forest around them began to thin out as the bridle path came to an end where it met the road which ran between Blackmore Village and Bedford. Michael urged Pharaoh on for a short while, and soon they had reached the gates of Longleaf Hall. The impressive home, dating from medieval times stood at the end of a short drive, spilling out light into the dark evening.
“If I could ask one more favour your Grace?” Isabella asked, as Michael slowed Pharaoh to a trot.
“Anything,” came his honest reply; at this moment in time he would do anything for her, if it meant he could keep her in his arms.
“Could you please leave me here? I do not wish to have to explain my absence to my sister - and I’m sure your Grace is in a hurry to get home.”
Michael would have in fact been more than pleased to put off seeing his family, if it meant that he could dawdle here with Miss Peregrine, but having already man-handled one of her body parts, and having spent the entire ride thinking impure thoughts about her body, Michael decided that perhaps he should act as society would expect, so he stayed stoically silent. With lithe movements he dismounted, and lifted Miss Peregrine to the ground.
Proposing to a Duke Page 2