by Meara Platt
He growled softly, his body dangerously stirring at the thought of Anabelle stretched out beside him in his bed, her body warm and pink and beckoning.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, forcing his mind to more practical matters.
If the Harleigh estate manager met with his approval, he’d keep the man on, but only on the condition that he run a tight ship, so to speak. No frivolity, no idleness, no wastefulness. Harleigh would have to turn a profit or else the man would be out on his ear. He’d turn out the lot of them, for that matter, if he wasn’t pleased with their performance.
He finished his wine and placed the glass back on the sideboard just as young Robert came tearing into the room. His tutor, a dour looking young man in his mid-twenties, tall and thin and looking utterly overwhelmed, hurried in some distance behind him.
“Praise the Lord! No mutton today!” Robert shouted after inhaling the delightful aroma of quail emanating from the kitchen. He skipped around the small room, almost knocking over his tutor in the process. Finally, he came to a halt beside Saron. “We owe it all to you, Your Grace. Dolly must have altered Anabelle’s menu upon your arrival. I wager we’d be eating mutton, otherwise. That, or trout from our stream. Mutton and trout! Mutton and trout! That’s what Anabelle is all about!”
Dullingham frowned at the boy. “Do not speak so disrespectfully of your sister. She is the noblest lady it has ever been my pleasure to encounter.”
“Pah! She leads you about by the nose.”
“That will be quite enough, young master,” his tutor warned, rather ineffectually.
“I meant no disrespect to you, Mr. Dullingham. She leads all men about by the nose, that is, except for you, Your Grace.” Robert gazed at him in obvious awe.
He grinned at the boy. “What makes you think I’m any exception? She’s led me a merry chase thus far.”
“But you have come out the victor. You control Harleigh. You can ban mutton forever from our table! Father could never do that. One sniffle, one bat of Anabelle’s eyelashes, and his resolve would crumble.” He mimicked a feminine fluttering of eyelashes.
“I suppose your sister, when on her best behavior, can be quite charming and persuasive.”
Robert’s grin slipped into a pout. “Yes, that’s why we always end up eating mutton because Anabelle wants it that way and we don’t have the heart to contradict her.”
“Cooked properly, mutton chops are rather tasty,” said Mr. Dullingham.
Saron sighed. He sorely wished to put an end to the topic. Anabelle’s brother was no help in the matter. “Certainly, if we ate them once or twice a week, which we don’t,” he retorted, his young voice cracking. “If it isn’t mutton, it’s trout. Anabelle insists we use our own farm produce and nobody countermands Anabelle when it comes to the running of Harleigh.” He grinned at Saron again. “Except for you, Your Grace. Where is my sister, anyway? Have you sent her up to her room without supper? Excellent! I’m pleased to see you’ve taken full control already.”
Saron couldn’t help but laugh at the boy’s presumption. “Your sister shall join us in a moment. It was Dolly who sent her to her room to fix her hair and gown.”
“Oh. I suppose I owe Anabelle an apology for that.” He appeared sincerely penitent over the manner in which he had brought down his sister earlier. Suddenly, he squared his shoulders and frowned. “Yet, that was a mean trick she played on you. She had me fooled, too. I thought she meant to shoot you.”
“It was kind of you to care for my safety.” He tussled the boy’s hair.
Robert beamed. “We men must stick together when it comes to dealing with her. If not, we end up like that.” He pointed accusingly at poor Mr. Dullingham, who happened to be staring moon-faced at the entryway, in eager anticipation of Anabelle’s arrival.
Mr. Dullingham turned scarlet. Saron took pity on him. “Enough, Robert. I have serious matters to discuss with you.”
“Shall I take my leave?” Dullingham asked.
“No. The matter concerns you as well.”
The young man swallowed hard. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He did not seem happy, as well he shouldn’t if his failure as a tutor proved true.
Saron drew Robert to him. “You are no doubt aware by now that Lord Markby has awarded me possession of Harleigh.”
He nodded. “Yes, sir. It was the right decision. The law is on your side.”
“Yes, I’m glad you see it that way.”
“It is the only way, sir.”
He placed his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders, urging him to meet his gaze. “Your sister has already been advised of the rest of Lord Markby’s decision, and now I shall tell you. Lord Markby saw fit to appoint me guardian over you and your holdings until you come of age, though I did not petition in that regard.”
Robert smiled. “I know.”
“How could you know that?” Saron was bemused.
“Masterson told me, shortly after you and Anabelle started on your tour of the house.”
“Who is Masterson?”
“Our head butler.”
“Your head butler? I saw none present.”
“He’s around here somewhere, sir. He’ll show up eventually. He always does. He’s a dreadful butler, but somehow, he always knows what’s going on.”
“Evidently, he was around when I spoke to Anabelle of this,” Saron said dryly.
Robert smirked. “The way Masterson explained it, there was more shouting and throwing than speaking, but that is common when telling Anabelle something she does not wish to hear.”
Good heavens! Had the man seen him pin Anabelle against the wall? Had he seen him press against her?
Robert continued gleefully. “He said you brought my sister under control as best you could under the circumstances, although it was not done in a gentlemanly fashion.”
Saron grew decidedly uncomfortable. “I suppose he went into great detail.”
“No. He left it at that. Masterson is discreet after all. He also mentioned that Lord Markby named you guardian over Anabelle.”
“It appears he overlooked nothing.”
“He never does, sir.”
Saron grumbled. “I’ll have to speak to Masterson about that, as soon as I have located him.”
“Was that all, sir?” He gazed at Saron hopefully.
“Not quite, young man. I understand that you have been remiss in your studies.”
Robert bowed his head.
Mr. Dullingham rushed to his defense. “The fault lies with me, Your Grace.”
“How so?” Saron was pleased by the tutor’s obvious attachment to the boy.
“I’ve been distracted of late, consoling Lady Anabelle.” His voice squeaked. “And the young master has suffered for it. I’m ready to take the consequences of my inattention.”
Though Dullingham’s attachment to Anabelle did not please him, Saron couldn’t blame the man. Anabelle had a way of distracting even the most hardened of souls.
Even men such as he, who were on the verge of losing their souls.
“These past three months, especially,” Robert chimed in, coming to his tutor’s defense. “All anyone heard all day long was Anabelle storming through the house, cursing the Fates that brought you into her life.”
“Is that so?” He easily pictured Anabelle in a temper, that wild hair of hers tumbling about her shoulders as she tore through the house denouncing his very existence.
“Yes, but now that Lord Markby has resolved matters, our lives will return to normal. Mr. Dullingham is a very learned man and his lessons aren’t always deadly dull.”
Mr. Dullingham chuckled. “I say, young master, you’ll soon defend me out of my position.”
“I think your position is secure for the moment.” Saron eyed him thoughtfully. “However, Lady Anabelle must learn to console herself. Have I made my meaning clear?”
“Egad! Even I got your drift, sir!” Robert turned to Mr. Dullingham. “Don’t be too disheartened. Anabelle woul
d have thundered over you like the Mongol hordes, leaving your heart a tattered mess.”
“I thank you for your sound advice.” He seemed to take his pupil’s counsel graciously.
“What sound advice?” Anabelle breezed into the room, wearing another bilious black dress. Her hair, however, had been beautifully done up to emphasize her long, slender neck and graceful profile. She wore her elegance with quiet dignity, as if genuinely unaware of her appeal. Which only made her all the more appealing.
“As you well know, we Harleighs are excitable creatures,” she continued, casting Dullingham a devastatingly charming smile. The man turned bright red. “We never give sound advice. You may receive advice from a Harleigh, but I dare say it would be rash, perhaps imprudent counsel. Mind you, it has never prevented us from giving it, for after all, we Harleighs like to speak our mind.”
Her gentle teasing concluded, but she kept her smiling gaze on Dullingham. Poor man, Saron thought, regarding the gaping tutor’s adoration of Anabelle. What chance did the man have? Anabelle wove a most alluring web.
“Leave him alone,” Saron snapped. “We’re having a serious discussion. Your female flirtations are irritating.”
“Baboom!” Robert shouted, mimicking the sound of a firing rifle. “Shot you down good, His Grace did.”
Saron groaned inwardly. “Enough,” he ordered the boy, for he was taking too much glee in teasing his sister. “Gentlemen do not taunt ladies.”
“But you just did!” His high-pitched voice cracked with indignation.
“And it was not well done of me.” He had been harsh with Anabelle for no reason, damn the boy for pointing it out. Yet, in his own defense, her attention to Dullingham had provoked him. He couldn’t explain why. It was not jealousy, for he would have had to care for Anabelle in order to be made jealous. He did not care for her.
No, it was not at all the same thing.
Still, he had needlessly hurt her feelings and for that he felt obligated to make amends.
“I vow my hunger has made me irritable,” he grumbled, unused to making apologies. She would have to be satisfied with that admission.
“I’ll summon Dolly.” She marched past him, and without a glance, headed for the kitchen.
An uncomfortable silence remained among the three males, finally broken by Saron’s command to sit at table. Amazingly, a servant appeared out of nowhere to commence serving the soup course. A moment later, they heard Anabelle and Dolly bickering in the kitchen. Robert groaned. Dullingham snickered. The female voices became louder as they neared the dining room, and suddenly Anabelle bounded into the room in a huff. Dropping into her chair before the men had a chance to rise as polite manner dictated, she fussed and chafed until she could hold back no more.
“What is it, Anabelle?” Saron asked, sparing a glance at her brother to make sure he behaved. Dullingham tittered behind his napkin.
She looked ready to burst and could hold back no longer. “Imagine serving fruited quail when I distinctly recall requesting mutton!”
Chapter Four
The grandfather clock in the entryway chimed once, signaling half past the hour of four. Anabelle ceased her pacing in front of the clock and stared down the hall to the last door on the right, her father’s study. At least it had been until now. Saron had taken possession of it shortly after the midday meal. She had led him to the room and left him alone to study the estate records, agreeing to deliver the estate manager to him at the appointed time.
She took a deep breath, placing one hand over her heart to still its rapid beating, then marched toward the study. As she reached the closed door, she shut her eyes and muttered a short prayer before knocking. Saron’s voice rang out clearly and authoritatively, much as one would expect of a duke. “Enter.”
Anabelle did. Noticing Saron intently studying the ledger before him, she quietly closed the door and stepped into the middle of the room. He was seated behind her father’s enormous mahogany desk, hunched over the accounts with quill in hand, apparently checking the sums for accuracy.
His coat, vest, and cravat were casually thrown over one of the several chairs in the room, leaving him clad only in white shirt and pants. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing well-developed forearms. As he shifted, the bunched muscles outlined beneath his shirt rippled through the cloth. A pleasant tremor shot through her, but Anabelle tamped it down at once. She did not care to splay her hands across his hard chest and feel the power of this man pulsate beneath her fingers. Nor did she care to wonder how it would feel to be held in his powerful arms.
Not at all.
Why would she? Just because the man was decidedly handsome?
He was also dangerous.
And tormented, she realized, though it was but a mere sense on her part. Saron’s expression revealed nothing. Still, there was something frightening and at the same time compelling in the quiet smolder of his eyes.
She stood patiently, irked when he returned his gaze to his work and did not look up at her again. Finally, she shrugged off his inattention, deciding she would continue to study him while he looked over her books. But that led back to her earlier musing about the man and his incredible appeal.
She had made a serious tactical error in failing to make herself more presentable. Why hadn’t she thought to don her finery and play the flirtatious maiden, cajoling him into letting her remain at Harleigh? Instead, she’d confronted him with all the presence of a country dowd.
A glance at her plain frock and a touch of her loosening bun revealed her woeful lack of fashion in contrast to his impeccably designed clothes. His thick, black locks remained neatly tied at the nape of his neck, while her hair was about to burst from its pins. Her fiery tresses clashed with the black of her gown, while his raven hair beautifully complemented the snow white of his shirt.
No wonder she held little interest for him.
“Why are you here?” he intoned without sparing her a glance.
“You asked to see the estate manager.” She spoke with all the confidence she could muster. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“Quite right,” he said sardonically. “Yet I see only you. Where is the man?”
“You mean the estate manager?”
He placed his quill down beside the inkpot and frowned at her. “I have no patience for your games, Anabelle. I asked to see him at half past four, yet the time has passed and he is not here. I’d like an explanation.”
“There is no man.”
He sighed and slowly rose to his full height, a move she presumed was designed to intimidate her. Her heart caught in her throat as he strode toward her, yet she was loathe to admit his intimidation might have had some small success. In a moment, he stood frowning over her, his long legs slightly parted, his hands braced on either side of his taut waist. “Someone made those ledger entries. If not your man, then whom?”
Defiantly raising her eyes to his, she mimicked his stance in the hope of gaining some small measure of respect, though by his responsive smirk she knew she had failed in her design. He thought her a child and would never take her seriously. “I made those entries. I alone have managed Harleigh these last four years.”
“Hah! Do you expect me to believe that fable? What do women know about business affairs?”
His typically male condescension riled her. “I cannot speak for other members of my sex, but I for one, know a substantial amount about business. More than most males, and perhaps even more than you, Dragon. Say what you will, but I happen to be proud of my abilities.”
He relaxed his stance, but only slightly. “I am a duke of the realm. Kindly address me correctly if you insist on addressing me by title, though I have asked you to call me Saron. Now, to get back to the matter at hand. Do you think you know more than I?”
“About the running of Harleigh? Without a doubt.”
“Then you won’t mind my testing you, will you?”
“Not at all.” Her eyes lit up with anticipation. Now was
her chance to persuade him of her importance. “As the Harleigh estate manager, I have full knowledge of the operation of the farm, mill, household, breeding stock, and so on. Feel free to ask me anything.”
He stared at her with mocking eyes. “Anything?”
“Of course.” She tried not to let her impatience show. Hadn’t she just told him so? “I’m prepared to answer all your questions.”
“Very well then.” As he slowly walked around her, the image of a majestic dragon soaring in languid circles above her came to mind. Nonsense, of course. The duke was merely a man, a dangerous one perhaps, but no dragon. Certainly not the dragon invading her dreams for years now.
That dragon was her protector.
This man was not.
His feet were firmly planted on the ground and she detected no powerful, dark wings sprouting from his broad shoulders. “My first question,” he said, regaining her attention. “Why do you insist on wearing those revoltingly unfashionable black gowns? You are not a grieving widow who cloaks herself in black out of respect. Surely, your father would not have expected you to mourn him in this manner.”
Her mouth dropped open. She wanted to kick him in the shin, but held back. Succumbing to the childish reaction was no way to gain his respect. The insufferable man was taunting her on purpose. “My clothes are none of your concern. You may, however, ask me anything about the operation of Harleigh. Forgive me if I was not clear on the point, I hadn’t realized you were so feeble-minded as to misunderstand my intent.”
“You think me feeble?” Without warning, he scooped her up by the waist and held her off the ground so that her feet dangled helplessly in midair. Her face was on a level with his, and desperate to maintain her balance, she grabbed onto his shoulders to steady herself. As she did so, her hands came into contact with massive muscles as hard as ancient mountain rock.
Merciful heavens! He could crush her with no more effort than it took to crush a fly. She saw the rising tempest in his eyes, the clash of blue with thunderous gray and knew he was about to unleash his fury. She braced herself against the impending force of his rage.