To Tame a Wild Lady

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  A muscle twitched in his cheek—a hidden smile at her dress or perhaps the irony. He had yet to learn her name, after all. “And you are? If I’m to take a position here, I ought to know who everyone is.”

  “Are you to take a position?” Her pulse gave a flutter.

  “I quite hope so.”

  Which meant she’d have to confront this man’s hard, blue gaze and that strong set of arms that made her mouth go dry on a daily basis.

  “I’m Lady Caroline.” She nearly choked on the title. Something about his bearing made her wish to admit him to the small circle of people who referred to her simply as Caro.

  —

  Two hours later, Caro dismissed her maid. The girl had scrubbed Caro clean of mud, armored her in pale blue muslin, and pinned up her still-damp hair. In other words, she’d completed the transformation from ragamuffin to proper duke’s daughter.

  She wanted her breeches back, but they were ruined now, and likely her boots, as well. She would have to scheme to acquire another set of masculine garments, but not now.

  Now duty demanded she see to Gus.

  Skirts tangling about her ankles, she made her way along the corridor to the boy’s chamber. Lizzie sat beside an enormous bed that dwarfed its occupant, a tiny, pale figure lost among the sheets. Gus’s complexion matched the pillow and the bandage wrapped about his head. Though someone had cleaned him, his eyelashes lay like two crescent spatters of mud above his cheeks.

  “What did Dr. Fowler say?” Caro asked from just inside the doorway. Part of her wished to venture no closer, in case she noted even more damage. Please. Please let him be under the influence of a dose of laudanum. Please let him be all right.

  Her older sister twisted her hands in her lap. Not a good sign, that. Lizzie was normally all business. She took care of things. Apparently she couldn’t take care of this. “A knock to the head is a funny thing. Gus could wake up anytime and be ready to bound out of bed and jump back on that horse. He might sleep for a sennight or more. There’s no way to tell. Nothing to do but wait.”

  He might be perfectly fine. He might not wake up at all. Lizzie left those words unsaid, but they still echoed through Caro’s mind like the dim reverberation of a bell, low but impossible to ignore.

  “I should never have let him out of my sight. The moment I suspected he was out in that weather, I should have turned for home. I should have made him come with me.”

  “He’s a boy. He would have found himself another scrape if not this one.” Lizzie almost succeeded in sounding breezy, but a barely perceptible tremor in her tone gave away her concern.

  “Cousin Snowley never got into scrapes like this,” Caro couldn’t help but point out. As Papa’s heir presumptive, Snowley had spent enough of his childhood with Caro and Lizzie for them to know the sorts of trouble he fetched. Rudeness and crudeness—at least when he’d been Gus’s age—but never anything life-threatening.

  “Some boys are more prone to it than others. Clearly. How much trouble has this one got up to since he came home from school?”

  Enough. Too much. From picking fights with the older tenant boys, to spying on the scullery maid at her bath, to wanting to hare all over the estate on the back of a galloping horse, the boy had energy to spare and not enough outlets. As Caro knew all too well. As she should have anticipated today.

  “Let me sit with him,” she blurted. “You were supposed to help interview Mr. Crosby.” And if Caro did her penance here, perhaps the gnawing in her gut would calm. Perhaps the boy would wake up and prove Dr. Fowler’s words true. Perhaps Gus would silence the chastising voice that echoed through her head proclaiming the fault to be hers.

  “I think you’re a better person to size him up,” Lizzie replied.

  “Me? But you run the household.”

  “And you’re on the grounds every day. You see the tenants, the fields, the woods. All those things are part of Mr. Crosby’s new domain. No, you’re the best person to show him.”

  —

  The Duke of Sherrington served better brandy than Adrian was accustomed to. He wore finer quality togs, as well, if indeed the borrowed shirt, waistcoat, and breeches belonged to his grace. Adrian pulled at the ends of his sleeves. Whoever normally wore these garments, he wasn’t as broad through the shoulders and chest. While Adrian’s usual clothes recovered from their encounter with the elements, he would have to be careful not to split a seam.

  A stiff-collared footman had deposited Adrian in this room after his bath, offered him a libation, and slipped away. He sipped at his glass and scanned his surroundings. Heavy velvet curtains framed a window that looked out over the gardens, their summer color subdued by the rain. A polished walnut desk dominated the space. A pot of black ink stood ready on the blotter, a sharpened feather quill beside it. On the nearest wall, a shelf groaned beneath the weight of several leather-bound ledgers.

  Quality and the quiet whisper of wealth encircled him, and this was only the study—his future work space should his grace decide Adrian passed muster.

  “Yer a lot younger than I expected.”

  At the words, Adrian pivoted on his heel to find another man had entered. Certainly not the duke, to judge by his rough speech, not to mention his age. Even his garments carried a certain air of shabbiness at complete odds with this room. But he couldn’t be a servant, either, for he wore no livery. “I can’t be much younger than you.”

  The newcomer advanced, his footfalls silent. “That so?” He produced a cheroot from his moth-eaten coat and flipped it between his fingers. “Smoke?”

  “No, thank you.” Adrian straightened his waistcoat, which had an unfortunate tendency to ride up. He hadn’t expected he’d need a change of clothes for a simple interview; his trunk was back at the coaching inn. “Forgive me. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “Oooh, aren’t we formal?” The man’s eye glinted, as if he was hiding a grin. “Name’s Dysart.”

  “I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I was expecting his grace would wish to meet me.” He’d come here expecting an interview. Not this—whatever this was.

  “All in good time. I’m sure ye’ve heard his grace’s health has been declining.”

  “I was under the impression he was hiring a land agent, but if you’ve already filled that position…” Adrian set his glass aside. The chink of fine crystal on the polished desktop echoed in the room.

  “Me? The duke has appointed me to interview ye. I’m lately of Bow Street, but”—he deformed the word until it rhymed with foot, as if to mock Adrian’s Yorkshire tones—“ye might say I’m family now.”

  “You’re family?”

  “Odd as it may sound. Lady Elizabeth took it into her head to hire me for a job. The wedding was inevitable.” Dysart chewed on the end of his unlit cheroot for a moment. “Before we get down to business, I understand I owe ye my thanks for collecting me son.”

  This character, at any rate, explained the lad’s appearance as some urchin. In fact, if he’d claimed to be wed to Lady Caroline, that would make far more sense. Adrian could hardly imagine the put-together Lady Elizabeth even considering this man’s suit.

  Adrian cleared his throat. “The lady was in clear need of assistance. Anyone would have stopped.”

  “Not everyone.” Dysart’s brows lowered. “Livin’ in London as I have, I can tell ye a good many would say ’twas none of their affair.”

  “How is the boy?”

  “Not awake yet.” He made that stark pronouncement in the gruff manner of one who has witnessed too many tragedies. Of one steeling himself against one more. Aye, and Bow Street would have led him into the worst parts of London, but that misery wouldn’t have hit home. Not like this. “That useless excuse for a doctor says there’s nothing to be done for a knock to the head but wait.”

  And Dysart didn’t strike Adrian as someone who was good at waiting. Unfortunately, the doctor was right.

  Dysart cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with this business.
Tell me something of yerself.”

  Once again, Adrian tugged at his sleeves and smoothed the front of his waistcoat. “As you’ll have read in the letter of introduction from the Marquess of Wyvern, I grew up on an estate such as this one. The marchioness herself ensured my education.”

  The first marchioness, that was. The second marchioness had taken an interest, as well, but not the sort that led to amicable relations with his employer.

  Dysart merely nodded, a quick jerk of his head. “I’ve seen the letter. What I want to know is—”

  “What’s this, what’s this?” Another man strode into the room. A head or so shorter than Dysart, he was much better dressed, though oddly enough he sported a rose tucked behind one ear. “You’ve started without me. Very unsporting of you.”

  “Wot is this?” Dysart tore the flower from the newcomer’s temple.

  He shrugged. “Pippa.” As if that explained everything. Then he thrust a hand in Adrian’s direction. “Snowley Wilde.”

  Adrian took it and gave his name.

  “As Sherrington’s heir, I insist on taking part,” Snowley said.

  “Cousin Snowley here will become yer employer, eventually,” Dysart added. “That is, should we decide to offer you the position. Ye might take that into consideration.”

  “Speaking of which,” Snowley went on, “you could begin by telling us what makes you think you’re the man for this job.”

  “Wot the devil kind of question is that?” Dysart asked. “I’m the one conducting this interview.”

  Snowley drew himself up. “It’s perfectly legitimate. He ought to convince us why we should take him over someone with more experience.”

  “All right, ye have a point. A small one, but a point nonetheless.”

  “If I may,” Adrian broke in. “I’d say that those with experience are already secure on their estates. And I do have experience, a subject I believe Dysart here was about to bring up.”

  “Yes. From my investigations, yer the son of tenants.”

  And a bastard, at that. Surely Dysart had already discovered as much. “The marquess’s estate agent took me under his wing and provided me with all the knowledge and experience I need. He’s suffered more than one bout of ill health, and I was able to step in for him.”

  “That so?” Dysart considered him through narrowed eyes. “How can we be certain ye wouldn’t go running back to the marquess’s estates if ye’re needed there?”

  Adrian returned the stare. Steady on. “You’ll have to accept my word that I wain’t be returning to Wyvern’s estate.”

  Ever.

  Adrian left that last unsaid, but he might as well have shouted, the way the word still echoed between him and Dysart.

  Dysart’s glare turned penetrating. “Nothing to do with any financial issues, I hope,” he said, casually enough.

  There, Adrian could reply with wholehearted honesty. “Not in the least.”

  “How can I be certain of that?”

  “You’re welcome to contact Wyvern and ask to look at his books, if he’ll show them to you.” And on the off chance the marquess agreed to a meeting with this fellow, Adrian would have to hope the real story behind his departure did not come to light. Not that the marquess would say anything, but one never knew what the servants had overheard. A man of Dysart’s experience might even choose to question the marchioness.

  That was a gamble Adrian would have to take if he wanted this position. He hadn’t counted on having to prove his honesty, but he’d much prefer certain matters remained private. “Or you can take the letter of introduction at its face value, along with my word that I left voluntarily.”

  Dysart turned his head slightly, gaze assessing. Calculating. This man could probably see through a brick wall if he tried hard enough. “I think I need to know why you left.”

  “The reason is personal and private, I assure you. I highly doubt I’ll encounter the same difficulties here.”

  Snowley smiled. “That’s a good thing, because our last agent—”

  “Shut up,” Dysart cut across him, jaw tight.

  “—and he’d been with the family for years.”

  “Shut up.” Dysart pushed a hand through his hair and turned back to Adrian. “Since some here don’t hold any particular notions about discretion, I may as well tell ye, my wife will be dealing with the money for now.”

  Adrian crossed his arms. “I take it your former agent gave you a few troubles in that regard?”

  “He’d been skimming funds for years, actually,” Snowley supplied before turning to Dysart. “There’s no point in hiding it. Mr. Crosby was bound to notice at some point we weren’t planning on letting him touch the books.”

  “Might I know something about the financial situation, as it affects the job? I’ve already noted one area that needs improvement. The irrigation ditches require dredging. Though I could recruit tenants to see to the task without taking funds from the estates.”

  “I think a tour of the estate is in order.” Snowley pointed his chin at the dreary scene outside. “As soon as the weather clears.”

  “Are you saying I’m hired?” Adrian asked.

  “Not so fast.” Dysart tossed a quelling glance in Snowley’s direction. “I’d like to hear a little more about your plans for the place.”

  “I can tell you more after I see more. I did notice something as I was riding up, assuming those are all Sherrington lands along the road. You’ve a great number of fallow fields, more than I’d think you’d need to assure proper crop rotation.” Adrian performed a few mental calculations. He was running on a lot of assumptions, but if those assumptions were correct, he’d noted a great deal of wasted potential. “I should have to inspect the matter more closely, but if you require greater profitability quickly, you might turn yourselves around within a year.”

  Snowley’s eyes gleamed. Dysart set a finger against his chin and tapped.

  Sensing imminent victory, Adrian hurried on. “It will take a lot of muscle and manpower. We would have to begin right away, and we may all need to dirty our hands somewhat. But if your tenants are willing, we could have more fields under cultivation by next spring.”

  “Which lands are you talking about?” said a new voice. A feminine voice.

  Adrian pivoted to face the newcomer. The lady possessed a lean, fine-boned physique set off by a simple gown that nonetheless screamed its costliness. Her hair threatened to tumble from its pins in a cascade of deep gold. Despite the lack of mud, he recognized her. Those hazel eyes gave her away.

  She stole the very air from the room—or at least his lungs—but somewhere he found the breath to greet her. “Lady Caroline.”

  She advanced into the study, every inch a duke’s daughter—distant, untouchable. “No one comes near my fields.”

  Chapter 3

  The field stretched before Boudicca’s hooves. The warm sun and fresh morning breeze beckoned. It was the perfect day for a hell-for-leather gallop, but Caro sat back in the saddle and reined in the impulse.

  Beneath her, Boudicca shifted restlessly and tossed her head. Caro patted the mare’s sleek neck. The poor thing was just as eager for a run, but they couldn’t. Not today. Not when they were supposed to be showing the lay of the land to Mr. Crosby.

  Without moving her head, Caro angled a glance at her companion. Stubborn to a fault, but he’d likely get the position as estate agent, and when he did, she was going to have to accept his plans for her land. Today she’d have to prove she needed those fields.

  Crosby sat his mount quietly, hands low and soft, heels down in the stirrups, his upper body loose to adjust to every movement. A natural seat. One she could admire, in fact. Not that she wished to find anything to admire about the man.

  He surveyed the rows of stubble, extending down an easy slope from the woods toward the irrigation ditch where only yesterday he’d helped her out of a scrape. “What was in this field?”

  “Hay,” she replied. “We’ve already cut and st
acked it.”

  He nodded. “And next year? What did you expect to put in?”

  “I wasn’t privy to all Barrows’s plans.” As a general rule, she only paid attention to the estate agent when he proposed schemes that conflicted with her own, and such a thing had never come to pass.

  “In the past, then.”

  “Surely Barrows left a record.” Surely Crosby had already discovered as much the previous evening and studied all those matters in depth.

  “I’ve been given to believe your former agent’s records are not to be trusted.” Crosby nudged his mount down the slope. “Has this allus been a hayfield?”

  Caro clucked to Boudicca and followed, while she considered her reply. She didn’t mind so much what Crosby did with this particular section of the estate, as long as he didn’t cast an eye to the fallow lands on the far side of the irrigation channel. “I think we tried oats here a year or two, but they didn’t do well.”

  “No surprise there. This field faces south. It gets too much sun.” He waved a hand toward the ground, which was still miry from the previous day’s downpour. “And the soil ought to drain better for oats. But I’m more concerned about the lands beyond. I noticed them yesterday. Why are they not used?”

  “We went over this yesterday,” she pointed out. “I use them.”

  He turned in the saddle, and his gaze traveled down her body, singeing everything it touched, as if he’d focused a particularly warm ray of sunshine on her. It heated the top of her head, the line of her torso, her thighs. Even though she’d dressed prudently for the outing, donning a proper riding habit and perching sidesaddle like a proper lady, he must know how the lean lines of her legs looked beneath her skirts. He’d seen her thighs plastered in naught but mud and wet wool. They may as well have been bared to him.

  She had to stop herself from touching Boudicca with the crop and setting her into a run.

  “To what use do you put them? Anything profitable?”

  Profitable. There was where she’d have to convince him. The trouble was, she couldn’t place a value on her personal satisfaction—at least, nothing he’d consider worthy. “They’re my training grounds.”