Duke Herheart Final

by Olivia Ritch

  Kathryn was not in the mood for a battle. She was exhausted. The maid left reluctantly.

  Kathryn slipped off the riding pants wincing at her chafed thighs and flopped back on the luscious silk counterpane. In the quiet of the lovely room, Kathryn took the opportunity to think back to exactly how it was she had come to be in this place and time.

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  She had left work the evening before and rather than going home, Kathryn had stopped at Tilly’s Treasures. That’s where this adventure had begun.

  The memories and thoughts flooded in, crowding together to remind her of just how she had achieved this transformation. Since moving into her loft, she had meant to stop at the little antique shop on her way home so many times. Its window boxes and lace curtains were so charming that she craned her neck as she drove past every day to see if there was anything of interest visible from that view. So yesterday afternoon, she had slowed and turned in. She had no money to spend on covering the bare wall space in her new place. This visit was to be just for checking out the shop, not actually buying anything.

  * * * *

  The shopkeeper had been a lovely older woman with soft silver hair swept up in a knot. She was bent deeply over a large roll-top desk peering through glasses perched on her nose. When the bells stopped jingling and Kathryn stepped fully into the store, the lady inclined her head toward her customer. “Young lady, you hunt through my treasures and then if I can answer any questions, I’ll try to,” She waved and bent back to her papers. “Thank you. Your shop’s been calling to me. It looks so inviting,”

  Kathryn acknowledged, moving deeper into the crowded space.

  “You’ll find something special you’ll want to take home with you. I am sure of it.” Her voice trailed Kathryn as she moved farther into the store.

  “I am sure I will find many things I like.” And I won’t be able to afford any of them on a counselor’s salary.

  Tilly’s Treasure Chest was as charming and inviting on the inside as it was from the outside and stuffed literally to the rafters with treasures.

  Knickknacks littered every surface. Kathryn made her way through room after room filled with all manner of items from gorgeous baubles to unrecognizable discards. In a small low-ceilinged space at the back of the shop, Kathryn was drawn to a grouping of four small paintings lying on a dining room table. While the woman probably had plans to hang them, for now they lay flat and in no apparent order. She reached for the closest one and found herself studying the form of a dashing military officer on horseback. She read the elegantly scripted notation on the back of the price tag and immediately knew the antique oil was indeed far out of her price range.

  Each of the four miniature oils was from the early 1800s; all framed differently, as if they were not actually a set but were just surprisingly 33

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  similar in size and composition. She imagined the gentleman on horseback, looking so dashing in his red coat had most likely been a soldier at Waterloo, and wondered if he had survived the battle. What had become of the war hero? Of the others? Had they all been soldiers?

  Had they all faced the carnage of the battle? Had they all survived?

  She hoped they had, and suddenly felt an intense affection for long-dead men who most likely had fought in that war and had made the world a better place for it. She had a special affection for soldiers. They sacrificed. They deserved respect.

  But the cavalry man’s image was not the picture that intrigued her the most. Of the four miniatures, only one featured a man and woman together. On the back in beautiful faded script was Wilton c.1810.

  Kathryn wondered if Wilton was an Earl or a Duke or someone as dashing as the mounted officer. The woman was pretty in a plain sort of way, much as all the women she had ever seen in old paintings – no cheekbones or color to her face at all and puffy light piled high curls.

  Neither of them was smiling. In fact, they looked sour. The price, as high as the first, had her setting the painting aside.

  With one last glance over the long gone faces, Kathryn quit the overstuffed room and turned back toward the front of the store. “You liked the paintings, did you not?” The woman had seen her looking at the paintings and Kathryn recognized a faint British accent. The lady must be Tilly herself.

  “Yes ma’am. The one with the couple was intriguing…they seemed unhappy, like they were not glad to be painted together.”

  “My dear, that’s exactly what I thought. When I bought that set from a dealer in Herefordshire, England, I had the distinct impression that theirs had been an arranged marriage,” Tilly elaborated.

  Humph. “Yes, most likely. I’m so glad we’ve outgrown that tradition. If it were still acceptable today, I’d probably be married off to one of my great aunt’s bridge group member’s sons.” Kathryn pulled a face at the thought, which was not too much of an exaggeration.

  “That’s an idea. I will have to take another look at the boys available to my granddaughter. She’s not as young or quite as pretty as you.”

  Then, she thought somewhat wistfully as she inclined her head. “You want the painting? The sour couple?”

  “You know, I think they’re fascinating, but I can’t spend that kind of money just to take them home and rejoice that I’m not in their shoes.”

  “I will give you a deal you can’t refuse.” And with those fateful words, Kathryn had become the owner of the Wilton picture.

  As Kathryn’s thoughts returned to the present, it seemed she had 34

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  gotten much more than she had bargained for.

  * * * *

  Michael met his butler in the hall. “Thorpe, is she settling in?” “Yes, My Lord, but she is also insisting we are making too much of a fuss over her and that she is leaving first thing tomorrow.” Michael recognized the tone intended to get the master’s attention. “She is determined to leave.”

  “We can’t hold her against her will but we can insist she be better prepared for a journey. Has she yet said where she is headed?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  “Send Smithers to the study. We will spend a few minutes on business before our guest joins us for luncheon. Also, she will need slippers. Please see to that too.”

  “As you say, sir.” He spoke with deference but Michael caught the censure in Hallthorpe’s tone, that his Master was altogether too blasé about Miss Ragland’s plans…to leave. His henchman was wrong.

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  Chapter Four

  From somewhere in the house, a gong sounded and Kathryn looked up from her mirror wondering if this was the luncheon bell she had read about in Regency romance novels. Having dismissed the maid so thoroughly, Kathryn had found out quickly just why maids were so necessary. She hadn’t been able to get her dress together by herself and finally succumbed to the need to pull the rope in her room that would summon help. When Ellie arrived just seconds later, Kathryn was feeling extremely contrite.

  Ellie went right to work lacing up the gown without being asked.

  “Miss, will you let me help with your hair, too? I have a house full of sisters and I’ve lots of practice with styles,” she said. “Besides, the Master will expect it. Ladies wear their hair up.” The master would expect her to look more respectable than the ramshackle way she had arrived. Men’s breeches and loose hair no less!

  “Might as well. I’ve already been a pretty big failure at putting on the dress. Clearly I need a little help,” Kathryn acknowledged graciously.

  “As you say, miss.”

  “How many sisters do you have?” Kathryn watched the girl in the mirror work wonders with her hair.

  “There are five in all, miss.”

  “Wow, I just have one sister. I guess there’s always a line for the bathroom?’

  “Line for the bathroom, miss?”

  �
�Uh, umm…line to use the mirror and the hair styling tools?”

  Kathryn realized her mistake; no point in bringing up a subject that didn’t even exist.

  “So, have you worked here long?” Kathryn thought to try a different conversation stream.

  “No miss, I’ve arrived today,” Ellie announced proudly.

  “Today? Let me guess, your arrival coincided with mine,” Kathryn pressed.

  “Yes, miss. Isn’t proper for a lady not to have a maid,” Ellie fussed.

  Kathryn was quiet and Ellie prompted, “Miss?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.” Someone else.

  Someone who had ordered up a maid for her in the short time since they had split? Had she thought him just a bit arrogant and controlling? He 36

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  was definitely masterful.

  “I-I…like it here. This job, it’s my chance to help my family. So if it’s all the same to you…”

  “So you do want this work?” Kathryn had interrupted her then realized too late as she heard her own embarrassingly condescending tone that this was probably a very good job for a girl from the village.

  Ellie’s eyes were downcast but her strong fingers continued moving in Kathryn’s hair. It did feel wonderful for someone to be working her hair like that. It had truly been a long time since her last cut and color and there was no question her hair was ragged looking. Kathryn was shamed by her prejudices. Ellie was obviously a strong competent woman who knew what she wanted. This job was her way “out.” “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right. I’ll try to behave.”

  Ellie’s inelegant snort suggested she knew exactly what Kathryn meant.

  Ellie had turned Kathryn from the mirror and she figured the maid had done so before her mistress had an opportunity to complain. “There, you can turn around now.”

  Kathryn faced the mirror and wondered at the woman’s reflection.

  She knew she was looking at herself but this person was so different, with piled high curls, some of the bouncing tendrils dancing down to touch her cheek, her ear and her neck, and one long curl even wound its way down her back. Absently, she reached her hand to touch and Ellie jumped, obviously fearful she would tear down the cascading waterfall of hair. “It’s amazing. You did this all with just some bobby pins and, oh my gosh, it’s got ribbons woven through it. It’s…stunning.” Kathryn turned to bless Ellie with a smile that lit her entire face causing the girl in turn to blush profusely. Ellie hurriedly set about returning all the implements to their rightful places.

  For the first time since waking up in the alternate dream universe, Kathryn felt like… not that she fit in but that at least she wasn’t any longer a total embarrassment. It was a start.

  Recalling that the luncheon gong had pealed some time ago and surely, she was late by now, Kathryn rushed from the room into a wall of hard human flesh. Huge hands grabbed her upper arms, squeezed tight, and steadied her. She was not sure if it was the impact that had stolen her breath or if it had been the faint smell of man’s cologne and earthy cleanliness that teased her senses or the tightness of his grip, for all of those had enveloped her as she raised her gaze to Michael Stafford’s eyes.

  “Well, Miss Ragland. You look…presentable.”

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  “Presentable? That’s certainly not a compliment.”

  “No. I guess not. In the army, had an officer said…”

  “I’m not in the army and I’ll have you know that it took me probably thirty minutes to get into this dress and Ellie more time to lace it and then this hair…”

  “Miss Ragland, you look lovely.” He interrupted her tirade and gifted her with a smile. “I have come to fetch you for luncheon and am most pleasantly surprised to find you ready.” He paused. “Have I now been properly appreciative of your efforts?”

  “And Ellie’s…” she teased. “You know. I didn’t mean to be fishing for compliments. It’s just that…”

  “Fishing for compliments? An interesting past-time fishing?” A dark brow rose, his eyes teased her.

  “It’s a figure of speech…baiting you to tell me I look nice. Surely you recognize it from the young ladies at balls when they flutter their fans at you and look expectantly up at you to make some kind of comment about their gowns and tell them they look lovely?”

  “Indeed?” He gave her a look of mock innocence.

  “Oh you, you’re looking at me like I am a dummy. You knew that all along.”

  “Yes, Miss Ragland, I think there has been compliment fishing since the beginning of time or the beginning of real fishing at least. But, as you say, I guess the ‘misses’ rather do fish a lot.” He laughed at the vision because he was certain she was right. It was a lovely image, especially if one considered a hook in the mouth of some of the more simpering misses. He of course was fully aware of the expression; he just loved to make her explain it to him as if her education and experience were superior to his. She was a wonderful sparring partner for his simple jests.

  “And here I thought it only a man’s past-time.”

  “Fishing is most definitely a practiced art form. But, you know, I like the real kind with hooks too.”

  “You fish?” He could not be sure he had accurately heard this latest figure of speech. He had also not quite calmed from the overwhelming sensation of her small form slamming into his body, pressing her charms into his chest, the charms that were so amply revealed by the low cut neckline and supportive bodice of the simple muslin.

  “Oh yes, the old fashioned kind that’s done with a bamboo pole and crickets or worms where you sit on the side of the family cow pond in the hour just before sunset. I could actually fish almost anywhere with any kind of gear…for hours. It is so relaxing and one of the few times I really am able to be quiet and patient and whoever I’m with has to be 38

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  quiet too.”

  He had been guiding her down the stairs and now that they were walking abreast with her hand resting on his arm, Michael regarded her hair piled in ringlets as the image of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. His guest’s freckles glinted ever so slightly, less he was sure than before, and the most radiant smile had softened her face. Michael knew he could bask for hours in her warm glow. Michael drew a breath and found once again that scent of earthy woman but could no longer make out the tropical flavor from before. It must have been bathed away and he was oddly saddened by the cleanliness of his family’s regular soap that had diminished some of the flavors of her tantalizing smell.

  How had she described it? The hour before sunset and the cow pond? He could not even register that this vexing American stranger knew his most favorite spot. The smell of cow, raw and dirty, dark descending, anticipation, then capture. Exhilaration, relaxation. She knew what it meant to fish. Michael could imagine Kathryn sitting on the bank of the quiet river with a pole lazily dropped into the depths, her fine legs encased in men’s breeches while her burnished skin freckled further in the sun. Heat stirred in his belly at the thought of joining her there, of her utter perfection at that moment, for what man could resist a woman who adored fishing? The vitality and life of the woman on his arm gripped him and she was in his house, under his roof. Immediately, he recognized the latest wrinkle in his rescue plans.

  “Miss Ragland, as you undoubtedly know, English society is very strict about ladies staying as guests in the homes of gentlemen.

  Fortunately, our current circumstance is being remedied as we speak. I have sent a note to my Aunt Agatha asking her to join us immediately.

  For the short term, you will be chaperoned by my sister.”

  “Chaperoned by your sister? Interesting phrasing but oh, wonderful.

  Then I am looking forward to meeting her. Will she be at lunch?”

  “No, she eats in her rooms.” As they approached the dining room and he reached for the knob, h
e turned to her. “My sister has been ill for some time…since her husband died. She rarely leaves her rooms.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is there…”

  “No. No one can force help on her, not until she wants it.”

  He was unable to hide the note of sadness in his tone. Kathryn elected to stay quiet, and he left that last sentence hanging in the air.

  Kathryn’s place was set to his right, intimately rather than at the end of the table as had been the custom when his parents dined in this room.

  Today was his first meal at the head of the table and he contemplated the significance of that change as the footman set the soup bowl in front of 39

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  him with Hallthorpe supervising.

  “My lord, I hope the meal meets with your approval. Cook has made some of your favorites. This is…”

  “Yes, I can smell the lamb. I know it will be excellent. Thank you.”

  “Miss Ragland, I am afraid you will have to endure the machinations of my staff with the seating and the menu. It appears that they have taken it upon themselves to see to my every need.”

  “I think they’re glad to see you.” Her lips turned up and she graced him with a warm smile. As their eyes met, and he returned her regard, she seemed to him to become all of a sudden quite self-conscious. Their close seating arrangements must not have been lost on her either.

  As she dedicated herself to her food, Michael wondered how she must feel wearing a stranger’s clothes with her hair styled as it was.

  Probably very uncomfortable. She had been in breeches and wearing her mane of red-gold hair wildly long and loose about her. But now she looked astonishingly…perfect. He shook his head and attempted to bring her out of her brown study.

  “You’re obviously correct, but I believe my staff is quite as glad to meet you as they are to see me.”