She allowed her gaze to travel slowly up his long legs and powerful chest to his neck where he was once again without his cravat and showing more skin than was descent. She smiled. He was a rule breaker, and, Society had turned a blind eye because he was a duke, no doubt. She needed to turn a blind eye, as well, and quit ogling him. He was not the hero in one of her books, but a man of flesh and blood and very near. Gathering her skirts so she would not show up to the picnic with a soiled habit on top of looking like a boy, she hurried away toward the stables.
Once there, she panted from her mad dash and drew a deep breath to gather the strength to yank the heavy stable door open. It creaked on the hinges, and to her ears, filled the mostly silent morning with deafening noise. Hurrying, she made her way inside, the smell of horses and fresh hay filling her nose. Sun flooded into the stables and made her squint as she prepared to feed and water the horses.
She glanced around the stable with a frown. The watering bucket was not where she usually left it. Grumbling to herself, she spent the better half of ten minutes looking for the blasted thing before it occurred to her that she had probably left it in one of the stalls. Opening the first stall, she searched in vain for the watering bucket and then did the same in the second stall. Blast Philip! He had probably left the watering bucket outside again. She closed the stall door and twisted to make her way outside to search for the missing bucket. As she did, she came face-to-face with the Duke of Aversley.
He towered in the stable doorway, his hair slicked back with perspiration and an easy smile on his lips. He held a bucket of water in one hand. “Going somewhere?”
His question had a trace of amusement, and his gaze, she noticed, was locked firmly on her head. Self-conscious, she raised her hand to her hair and patted it with a frown. Egads, she should have peeked in the looking glass after Mother had done her hair. It felt rather odd, and Mother had seemed drowsy still.
Dropping her hand, she cleared her throat. “I’m going to a picnic.” She eyed the bucket of water. “Whatever are you doing? Surely, you do not intend to water our horses.”
“Why not?” he demanded with a chuckle as he swooped past her toward Buttercup’s stable.
She could not help but stare at his powerful body as he walked. The squeak of the stall door opening brought back her senses, and she tore her gaze away and followed behind him, intent on taking the bucket, but he was in the stall and pouring out the water before she was close enough to reach it. “Please, let me.”
He swung around and faced her, so close she could see the golden whiskers, yet unshaved, and smell the sweat from his swordplay. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she took an unsteady step back only to bump into the side of the stall. Heat singed her cheeks and neck, but she met his eyes straight on. “You should not be watering our horses.”
“Because I’m a duke?”
“No. Because you are our guest.” She stretched to grab the bucket from him, but he held it out of her reach.
“I enjoy the work. It takes my mind off things.”
“What things?”
His stare travelled slowly down her body and then back up to her face. A scowl replaced the easy smile of moments ago. “Things I should not be thinking about. If it makes you feel less concerned about propriety being trampled on, my coachman fed the horses. I insisted on watering them myself. I used to do it as a child with my father and our stable master, and it was pleasant to do it once again. I hope you can forgive me for making you uncomfortable.”
She shifted, wishing she could shake the absurd notion that he might have been thinking about her. How utterly ridiculous the thought was. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she murmured and brushed past him to unhook Buttercup.
He halted her with a light touch to her arm. The intimate caress made her skin tingle and her heart flutter unnaturally. “Is there something else I can help you with?”
“No. I’d like to help you.”
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. Did the man know that every time he looked at her she felt as if he was undressing her with his eyes? Or that his voice held the promise of all sorts of deliciously scandalous moments? He’d probably been seducing women for so long he didn’t even realize when he was being seductive. She was quite certain a man like the Duke of Aversley would never try to beguile a woman like her. Not that she wanted him to seduce her. She certainly did not.
“Lady Amelia?”
She blinked. Drat it all, she’d been lost in her thoughts again. She focused on His Grace and a shudder heated her body. Sometime during her daydream, he had raised his arms to grip the beam above him. His shirttails touched the edge of his trousers so that the smallest sliver of glistening skin showed between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his trousers. She gulped and forced her gaze back to his face. “I’m terribly sorry. My thoughts drifted.”
“And here I thought the one thing I was good at was holding a woman’s attention.”
His gaze was locked knowingly on hers. Blast him. He knew perfectly well she had been thinking of him. The least he could have done was pretend not to notice her staring. She scowled. “I’m sure there are some women whose attention is easily held. I am not one of them.”
A delicious sort of gleam came to his eyes. “Now you have me imagining what it takes to hold your attention.”
“A good book,” she clipped, struggling to control her racing pulse. She took a deep breath. “How would you like to help me?”
“Please take my carriage to the picnic. I’d feel much better if my coachman attended you and I knew you were protected. He will be glad to have a break from serving me. He can wait there for you until the picnic is over and bring you home afterward. And if you lift up the seat box you will find several good books.”
She barely resisted grinning at him. “That’s very kind of you,” she said and impulsively squeezed his arm. The way his eyes immediately darkened a shade made her breath hitch in her throat. She drew away and nervously patted her hair. When her fingers grazed a particularly large lump, she frowned and dropped her hand. “If I asked you a question would you give me an honest answer?”
“That depends on the question,” he said, the trace of humor back in his voice.
“What does my hair look like?”
“Lovely,” he immediately replied.
“You’re lying!” she exclaimed, watching the twitch at the right side of his jaw. “That’s kind of you, but I need the truth. Should I try to fix it?”
He cocked his head and surveyed her hair. “Well, what were you intending with this creation on top of your head?”
“Not to scare anyone,” she joked, not wanting to admit the truth that she was becoming desperate that the man she loved might never notice her and she was therefore succumbing to giving a fig about unimportant things such as the state of her hair and the cut of her gowns. “My mother put it up for me.”
“That explains a great deal,” he said with a frown.
Before she could ask whatever he meant, he made a slight gesture with his right hand toward her hair. “I think perhaps you better repair it.”
“I’m not very good with hair,” she admitted. The last thing she wanted to do was stand here struggling to put her hair in order with this man watching her. She was terrible with hair for one thing. For another, no matter what she did to it, she highly doubted her efforts would look presentable in his eyes, given the beautiful women he was used to. Grasping the only diversion for him she could think of she said, “Perhaps you ought to see to your coachman and let him know he will be taking me to the picnic.”
The duke nodded while dragging his gaze to her eyes. “That’s probably a good idea. He’s just past the stables.”
“Take your time,” she answered.
With a tilt of his head, he strode away, not looking back. As she pulled the hairpins out she moved to the door of the stable and opened it enough to see outside. His Grace walked toward the house with long assured strides. It was no wonder
at all Constance had fallen for him after one dance. He exuded confidence. She was not Constance and would never be so silly, but she could see how his looks might make one feel entranced.
Lady Amelia truly baffled him. Her blushes over her family’s state of affairs and her honest blunt question regarding the god-awful creation atop her head made her seem vulnerable and without guile. Maybe she was the finest actress of them all, though at this moment he was disinclined to believe that. Unsettled by his thoughts, Colin jerked a hand through his hair as he strode toward the tree he had left Barnes dozing under. He stopped in front of his coachman and, with the tip of his boot, tapped him on the foot.
Barnes opened his eyes and sat up. “Your Grace?”
“I need you to take Harthorne’s sister, Lady Amelia, to a picnic.”
“Certainly, Your Grace. Will I be bringing her home, as well?”
Colin nodded, an idea forming in his mind. “Watch the lady as close as you can and let me know if she pays particular attention to any gentleman and how she acts if she does.”
“How she acts?” Barnes’s brows drew together.
Bloody hell. Colin rubbed the back of his neck. This was idiotic. What did it matter if she was coy with other men? He didn’t care. But he was curious. Intrigued. It was perfectly fine to be curious since she would undoubtedly prove herself like all other women. Barnes was staring a hole through Colin. Damnation.
“I want to know if she pretends to be helpless or perhaps bats her eyelashes a great deal or walks too close to a particular gentleman or even disappears into the woods with him. That sort of thing.” The sort of trickery women used to bait men before they reeled them in and showed them they were not a pretty little fish but a shark.
“If you say so, Your Grace.”
Colin felt damn ridiculous, but it was too late now. He wanted to prove to himself that she was not as good as she seemed, but then again, he didn’t want that at all. This confusion was annoying in the extreme. He missed the certainty he had held about all women just yesterday before he had met Lady Amelia, even if it had depressed him to be so sure of the fairer sex’s duplicitous nature. He detested this wavering.
“Come on,” he clipped and turned on his heel to stride back to the stables. Once there, he flung open the door and was about to call Lady Amelia’s name when she stepped into the walkway from a horse stall. He clamped his mouth shut and stared at her glorious hair. With the sun shining behind her she appeared to be surrounded by a golden mist. Wisps of hair framed her face, but the rest tumbled in careless waves over her shoulders. She may look like a boy in her brown riding habit buttoned to her chin―it did nothing at all to stir a man’s lust―but one look at her hair would ignite a man’s passion. And to touch the silk tresses and let them run between his fingers―
He ruthlessly shoved the thought away. “Are you ready?” His voice was husky to his own ears.
She nodded, her gaze finding his under her lashes. “Is this any better?” she said, indicating her hair with her hand.
By God, it was more than better. It was a phenomenal difference. It made him consider what she would look like with the right clothing and the knowledge of how to truly comport herself to capture a man’s attention, if she didn’t already know. Perhaps this was all a game.
“It’s lovely,” he said. If he said anything more his tone would give away the absurd effect her transformation had on him.
Within moments, Lady Amelia was riding off in his coach, and as the coach rounded the bend and disappeared out of sight, he realized he had stood there like a green boy and watched her leave. He’d not observed a woman leave his presence in years. He was always the one to go. Yet, here he was, and though Lady Amelia was gone, he could call up a perfect picture of her in his mind. Odd, that. Particularly since he could not even remember what color Diana’s eyes were and he’d slept with her less than a week ago. But Lady Amelia’s eyes a man could never forget―luminous, striking as the prettiest bluebell flower he’d ever picked, and enchantingly slanted with sooty lashes he suspected veiled as many secrets as he himself hid. Except he doubted her secrets were near as vile as his were.
Pulling his thoughts away from Lady Amelia’s lovely eyes, he made his way to the house to rouse her brother. There was no time like now to set Harthorne straight on the true nature of women and exactly how carefully he should chose a bride if he insisted on doing so.
As Colin passed the dining room, a groan came from within that he recognized as Harthorne’s. His friend likely felt bloody awful this morning. Colin pushed through the dining room door and smiled at the sight of Harthorne sitting in a high-backed chair with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, dressed in the exact same clothes he’d worn the night before, right down to his scuffed Hessians.
“By the rumpled picture you present, I feel certain I don’t need to be concerned about my lack of cravat when we break our fast.”
Harthorne opened one eye and slowly, as if the action took tremendous effort, shook his head. “Your time would be better spent worrying about when and if my mother is going to drag herself from bed. Unless we can find Amelia, though I already tried.”
“Your sister left moments ago for a picnic.”
Harthorne groaned again, much louder than before. “My stomach does not like me at this moment, Aversley. Say a prayer that my mother rouses soon.”
Colin frowned. “What does that have to do with breaking our fast? Does your mother insist we wait on her?”
“Something like that,” Harthorne answered and rose slowly to a wobbly stance. “I think I’ll go lie down until Mother is up, if you don’t mind. There is a thunderstorm going on in my head.”
“Actually,” Colin said, “I’d like to talk to you for a moment.” He preferred to have this conversation alone, so this was the perfect opportunity.
“What is it?” Harthorne asked, plopping back into the chair and burying his head in his hands.
“I think you need to be much more selective in choosing the next lady you propose to, assuming you are going to seek another bride.”
Harthorne raised his head enough to glance at Colin. “I was hoping Lady Mary would change her mind about not wanting to marry me.”
Colin snorted. “This is exactly why you need to listen to me.”
“Says the man who has never for one second in his life contemplated marriage.”
Colin wasn’t quite ready to tell Harthorne about the predicament his father’s will had put him in, so he ignored the barb and said, “I’ve contemplated ladies’ duplicitous natures plenty, and I’ve plenty of personal examples of how coldhearted women truly are and a sterling example of the folly of ever allowing yourself to fall in love with a woman.”
“Your father.” Harthorne was sitting straight in his chair now, though his skin did hold a definite green tinge.
“I don’t want to see you end up like him.”
Harthorne took a long breath and winced as if it hurt him. “I hope I don’t offend you when I say this, but not all women are like your mother. They are not all calculating creatures who will throw love over for money or pleasure or―”
“Simply because they are cruel,” Colin said, thinking now of only his mother and what she had incomprehensibly done to his father.
“Yes. And simply to be cruel.”
The note of pity that tinged Harthorne’s voice made Colin stiffen in his chair. He never talked about his family life, and this was exactly why. It made him feel shame, and up until recently, he’d been supremely good at avoiding the emotion.
“Name one woman you know who isn’t calculating,” Colin said.
“My mother,” Harthorne replied with a triumphant grin.
Colin waved a dismissive hand. “Your mother does not count.”
“And why not?”
“Because you are blind when it comes to your mother.” As well Harthorne should be. Most mothers showed their children love and affection, so the children forever thought them perfect
, even when the youths grew into adults that should know better.
“I won’t bother arguing the point about my mother,” Harthorne said, “because I know I would never convince you otherwise.”
“How very astute of you,” Colin said. “Are you willing to concede that you cannot name a woman?”
“Absolutely not. Give me a minute.”
Harthorne pressed his fingers to his temples, but by his ever-whitening pallor, Colin couldn’t decide if his friend was really trying to think or was trying to rub away the pounding in his head.
“My sister,” he finally said. “There is not a conniving bone in her body.”
“You cannot name your sister,” Colin said, trying to block out the memory of how luscious she looked with her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “You are biased to her, as well.”
“The devil I am. That little minx has driven me crazy my entire life with her mischievous ways and dreamy head. I’d be the last person in England to be biased about Amelia.”
“Because you look as if you are about to keel over, I won’t argue with you about your sister―for now―but I guarantee you if your sister had a dozen beaus who offered her marriage she would pick the lord with the greatest title and wealth.”
“Your words just prove you don’t know my sister in the slightest,” Harthorne said, standing. “I’ve got to take my leave, Aversley. I feel certain I’m about to lose the little bit of food left in my stomach.”
With that, Harthorne dashed out of the dining room, leaving Colin with nothing but his thoughts, which devil take it, were firmly stuck on Lady Amelia―the way she had hidden in the library to make sure her brother was all right, her complimenting the fact that Colin was smart enough not to give women false hope, the way she looked in her night rail, the lovely craziness of her luxurious hair, and the way she slouched in an obvious attempt to appear shorter.
Groaning at his inability to get the woman out of his thoughts, he stood and made his way outside, determined to practice with his rapier until he was too tired to think about Lady Amelia, his mother, and most especially himself.
My Fair Duchess (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel Book 1) Page 8