He rode the horse a short distance back from the fence, aiming for a spot about twenty feet down the rails from the stile where perched Miss Logan, and spurred his mount into a gallop. The horse sailed neatly over the fence as Miss Logan went, “Oooh!” in awestruck approval.
He grinned back at her as he cantered the horse over to the stile and dismounted. He had every intention of helping her off the stile and into the saddle again, but to his astonishment, she shifted quite easily from one to the other, looking not so nervous now.
He grabbed the bridle as she took hold of the pommel again, as if this was becoming second nature to her. This was the fearless woman who’d bearded him in his own den an hour ago.
This was also a woman who somehow managed to lighten his heart.
“I may as well tell you now that I have the bridle in hand,” he said, “but you should have waited till I did have it in hand before taking the saddle. He’s obedient but spirited, and he might have bolted and that...well, all’s well that ends well.”
“Oh, my,” she murmured. “I wasn’t thinking. I was still—well, I still am thrilled by that jump you made. I’ve never seen anything so—so—well, it must be because I was so close. I’ve only ever seen riders jumping fences and things from a distance.”
“It thrilled you, eh? Excited you?”
“Oh, yes!” Her words came out in a breath that was just as excited, and Dane felt a familiar stirring in his loins as he thought of her saying those two words in precisely that way as she lay in his arms while he caressed her—
Now was not the time to finish that sentence.
Caressed her, full stop. Never mind where, exactly. He had to take her home for now.
He walked the horse right up to the very doorstep of the dower house and plied the door knocker. He turned and held up his arms to Miss Logan. “Unless you’d like me to walk the horse into the house.”
She hesitated. “You’re not going to carry me inside, are you?”
“Do you wish to be carried? Or would you rather hop over the threshold?”
Just then the door opened to reveal the housekeeper, who looked very taken aback at the sight of a duke, a horse, and a muddy, disheveled female sitting sideways on said horse.
As if none of this were the case, Dane said, “Good afternoon. I’m here to speak with Mr. Harcourt Armstrong, please. And to return Miss Logan. She had a slight mishap and may have sprained her ankle, but otherwise she’s all right.”
“Mr. Armstrong is not here, Your Grace. He departed in the past hour for London on some urgent business.”
“Oh!” Miss Logan promptly slid out of the saddle as Dane’s hands slid up the curves of her sides till they could slide no more, having lodged themselves under her arms. In a heated whisper she said, “You must follow him to London at once and stop him! That is...” She paused, as if remembering that he was a duke. Now, less demanding and a bit more wheedling, “Won’t you please go after him and stop him, Your Grace?”
Dane swiftly decided he liked her better when she was demanding. Wheedling so unsuited her. “Why don’t I assist you inside first, and then we’ll see. Would you care to hop or be carried? Either way, I shall have to place my hands on you.”
“Let me see if I can—” She flinched as she ventured a single step forward, only to double over in pain.
“That’s it. I shall carry you.” To the housekeeper, “Do make way and lead me to the nearest sofa.”
This time Miss Logan only gasped as he scooped her up again. She looped her arms around his neck, her head so close to his that he could have kissed her if only she tilted it back. Instead he breathed deeply of the scent clinging to her chestnut hair, a heady blend of grass and swampy mud.
No one was in the nearby parlor, where he carefully lowered her onto the sofa. “Is there anyone else at home?” he asked the housekeeper.
“His Lordship, Her Ladyship, Miss Armstrong, and Vicar Eastman, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied. “They are all at luncheon.”
“Who is it, Tibbs?” shrilled Aunt Thea from what must have been the dining room. “Has that wretched girl finally returned from wherever she’s been hiding all this time?”
Dane glanced down at that wretched girl, who frantically whispered, “Thank you, Your Grace, for helping me home. You are all kindness, but I mustn’t keep you a moment longer.”
“If you insist,” he said, for he had no desire to see any of the others. Yet the light footsteps he heard approaching in the hallway between the parlor and front door warned him there would be no clean getaway.
Miss Logan seemed to realize that, too, for she continued, still in a frantic whisper, “But—but if you could still—”
“Bradbury!” exclaimed Aunt Thea from the doorway. “What a pleasant surprise. We have just sat down to luncheon with Vicar Eastman. We would be so honored if you’d join us.”
“Thank you, but I’ve already had luncheon.” He thought the better of adding with whom. “Afterward I went out riding, and came upon Miss Logan, who’d fallen into the ha-ha.” He stepped to one side, as he’d been blocking Thea’s view of the sofa all this time. “Pray, do not be alarmed at the sight of her. She’s only—”
“Your Grace found her?” Thea said in the same tone she might have used to say, “The Devil found her?”
Maybe that’s where Miss Logan got the idea for her book’s title. Thea, or more likely Willard, had been pouring poison into her ear.
“Surely there are worse characters who might have stumbled upon her,” said Dane. “However, she seems to have injured her ankle, most likely a sprain. I would be happy to summon the doctor for you.”
“I’m sure I only twisted it,” Miss Logan said hastily.
Thea shook her head. “I am so sorry she’s put you to so much trouble—again. We mustn’t impose on your—”
“Again?” He eyed her askance, and he couldn’t help laughing at the look of consternation on her face. “She hasn’t put me to any trouble at all. I was coming over here anyway to speak with Harry, but your housekeeper told me he’s just departed for London. Do not let me keep you from finishing your meal. I will fetch the doctor, and it is really no trouble at all.”
“But we can just as easily send a servant!”
“Very well, send a servant,” said Dane. He gave a quick bow in her niece’s direction. “Good day, Miss Logan. May I wish you a speedy recovery, and the hope that should you need rescue again, I will be there to do so.”
The housekeeper saw him out. The door closed behind him. Dane was about to climb into the saddle when he heard an unmistakable roar from inside the house.
Uncle Willard. He might not have possessed any ducal wrath, but he had more than enough for the second son of a duke—Dane’s grandfather—along with generous helpings of resentment and bitterness at being the second son.
And it sounded as if he was about to take it out on the hapless Miss Logan.
Chapter Five
Heedless of her injured ankle, Cecily promptly sat up on the sofa. She did not want to be lying down, helpless and vulnerable in the face of her uncle’s wrath. Aunt Thea had already scurried back to the dining room.
Uncle Willard glowered at her, his fists clenched. “Why is it that every time you manage to get yourself in trouble—every time you do something to disgrace this entire household—somehow the Duke of Bradbury is always involved?”
“I’ve noticed that, too,” Cecily remarked.
“Hold your tongue, chit.”
“Well, you asked me, Uncle—”
“It’s not for you to answer.”
“Then who—”
“Silence!” he barked. “Why must the duke, of all people, bring you home in such a state?”
That was exactly what Cecily wanted to know.
“Why must he always be the one to do it?”
It was a conundrum, a riddle with no solution. Uncle Willard was only ranting. For now.
“I vow, you must be searching him out, st
alking him like a hunter stalks prey, scheming for ways to suffer some mishap in his proximity so he, and no one else, must come to your rescue.”
You’d think that, Cecily thought, but...no. If anything, Bradbury was the one always searching her out, scheming for ways to make her suffer some mishap in his proximity so that he, and no one else, could come to her rescue...only to get her in trouble with her relatives. It made great fodder for her fiction. But why would he do that—and to Cecily?
Uncle Willard railed on, “Do you have designs on him?”
She shook her head.
“Do you fancy yourself a prospective bride for him?”
She snorted.
He nodded. “Perish the thought. I’ll wager he thinks you’re a lightskirt trying to trap him into matrimony. You wouldn’t be the first. There have been others who have tried and failed, only to find themselves forced to marry lesser mortals.” He paused and Cecily felt an icy squeeze around her heart, for she knew what was coming next. “Like your mother.”
“Not with Brad—”
“No, not with Bradbury, for he’s not of her generation, for all that he was briefly engaged to the middle-aged Lady Milner once. But your mother once made a fool of herself with some foreign prince who happened to be Bradbury’s cousin. All she got for her trouble was a hasty marriage to the third son of an earl.” Another pause, and this time Cecily closed her eyes, though she might have done better to plug her ears. Not that it mattered, for she also knew what was coming next. “And you.”
Cecily longed to spring from this sofa and flee to her room so she could start cleaning herself up. Oh, and cleaning up the mess of ink that still awaited her up there. But she didn’t know if she could do it on this ankle.
“Vicar Eastman happened to come here in time for luncheon,” Uncle Willard went on. “I have persuaded him that you would make him a proper wife, though he might think otherwise if he were to see you right now. I only know he is your last chance for you to marry and cease to be a burden on this family. For if you are not married by the time Rebecca finds a suitable husband, then we shall no longer have any reason to keep you here, shall we? Indeed, we scarcely have reason to keep you here now. Harry says you do nothing but tempt him—as if you think to trap him into marriage.”
“That’s a lie!” Cecily burst out, with enough rage to launch herself from the sofa.
“I think not. What he says would seem to match your conduct with Bradbury. Where do you think you’re going?”
Cecily painfully limped past him to the doorway. To her relief, she thus realized that she’d only twisted her ankle.
“Oh, so you didn’t break your leg after all, eh?” Uncle Willard snapped. “You were only pretending so as to trap that fool of a duke?”
As Cecily staggered into the hall, another familiar voice drawled, “Maybe the title of that book should be changed to The Duke Is a Fool.”
She glanced up and gasped. There at the front door stood the Duke of Bradbury. Dear God, how long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?
He grinned. “Not long, and just enough.”
“What?” Why, the scoundrel had just read her mind! Cecily was absolutely certain she hadn’t asked those questions aloud.
Or had she? Her brains had turned to porridge, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the duke or her uncle’s rants or—oh, it was because of the duke. After all, he was the reason her uncle was ranting.
He was the reason she was always getting into trouble. The title was, and would remain, The Duke Is a Devil.
As usual—as always—he roared with laughter.
Cecily couldn’t help it. She tried to stamp her right foot and—“Oww!”
The duke instantly reached out to her. At once she felt a longing for any kind of comforting touch, even if it was from Bradbury. Better him than anyone else, and that was saying something. She faltered, only to recoil as Uncle Willard lurched into the front hall, looking very much as if he were indeed facing the Devil himself. “Bradbury! We thought you’d left already.”
“I don’t doubt you did.”
“But where is Tibbs?”
“I let myself back in. ’Twas only a moment. I came back because I seem to have forgotten my hat.” His turquoise eyes twinkled at Cecily. “Everyone seems to be forgetting their hats today, eh?”
Cecily widened her own eyes, clamped her lips together, and shook her head just enough to let Bradbury know that the less said on the subject of missing hats, the better. She limped to the staircase, certain she felt those twinkling eyes drilling into her back, quickening her pulse.
“Miss Logan!” he called after her. “Is your ankle mending already?”
No sooner were the words out of Bradbury’s mouth than her uncle bellowed, “Turn and face the duke when he addresses you, girl! Indeed, you should not even be leaving his presence without his consent. Your familiarity and insolence—”
“Willard,” the duke cut in, as Cecily turned around. “I do not stand on ceremony except in the presence of those you might call my betters—most if not all of whom are of royal blood.”
Cecily had ascended just enough steps that she could almost look down on the duke. “I seem to have only twisted my ankle, Your Grace, in which case a doctor will not be needed. As for your hat, I don’t recall seeing you wear one from the moment you came to my rescue. Perhaps it was doffed and left behind at the ha-ha?”
He arched his tawny brows. “I do believe you’re right, Miss Logan. I shall go back that way and look. May I wish you a speedy recovery?”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She remained standing on the staircase.
“You may continue upstairs now,” he added.
“Upstairs with you, Cecily,” Willard put in, as if the duke’s permission wasn’t enough.
Cecily turned and limped upstairs. She was almost to the top when the duke asked, “Where is Harry? Off to London again?”
“He’s dangling after a widow. Can’t be certain, but I’d guess she’s Mrs. Cassandra Frey on account of her youth and need for a new protector. Did my late older brother not arrange a marriage for you with her many years ago? And then she had the utter temerity to jilt you?”
Cecily froze and listened, her heart pounding, for she knew this tale and had written a variation of it in that wretched book.
“They all seem to have the utter temerity to jilt me,” Bradbury replied. “Apparently I’m considered quite the devil, for all that I’m a duke, and that’s why I wished to see Harry. I understand he came into possession of a story that some disgruntled female from my past has written about me, and that he means to see it published.”
Cecily’s knees wobbled and she crouched down on the steps, clutching the banister with one hand and her galloping heartbeat with the other.
“Where did you hear such a thing?” Willard demanded. “Surely not from Miss Logan?”
Cecily was doomed. The duke was about to finally learn the truth about the author’s identity. And then what? He’d know she was not only a writer, but that she’d brazenly lied to him by letting him think the author was someone else.
She knew she should have told him the truth, but she feared it was too late now.
To her astonishment, however, Bradbury smoothly said, “No, my solicitor apprised me of the situation. And he has no idea of the author’s identity, nor does the publisher.”
Cecily planted her backside on the step with a huff of relief so loud the men below should have heard it. But...had he really heard from his solicitor about it? This was the first Cecily had heard him mention it. Maybe he was only saying it to protect her from Uncle Willard’s wrath. As it was, she wondered if that was why he’d come back into the house just in time to stop Willard from striking her.
“Then the author must be the Widow Frey,” said Willard. “That would certainly explain my son’s current involvement with her. They have a mutual friend in London who happens to be a publisher. Do you mean to stop its publication?”
“Not at all,” Bradbury said, much to Cecily’s annoyance, even if he’d made this clear to her already. “As long as the author is paid for her work, I say let it be published. What I don’t wish is to see Harry paid for it.”
“Surely he would be entitled to a—a small share, a sort of fee, for helping her find a publisher for her work?” Willard countered. “He has many debts, as you know, and no prospects, being the son of a second son of a duke.”
“He has the same prospects you had, Uncle. And he’s squandering them, just as you did. Both of you were expelled from the seminary for breaking most commandments, only to be drummed out of the military for habitual insubordination. My father wouldn’t even let you live in the great house for fear you would strip it of every last object not nailed down to wall or floor or behind glass to support your gambling and whores. And I won’t let you stay there, either, for the same reason.”
Cecily clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. She knew about Harry, of course, but the rest of it was news to her—and contradictory to what she’d written in her book. The Duke of Madfury insisted on living in his great big castle all by himself, while his relatives barely eked an existence in a hovel deep in the surrounding woods. She’d often thought it unfair that she and her relations were relegated to the dower house when there should have been plenty of room for everyone in the imposing ducal residence, with its many priceless art treasures. For one thing, it would be easier to avoid Harry and never see him at all.
“Your father was no saint, either,” Willard said bitterly. “If not for him and his own wicked propensities and machinations, we might not be saddled with his sister’s niece.”
After Cecily’s mother left both her and her father, he told her it was because Mama didn’t want Cecily to marry “a duke.” She’d never thought he meant any one duke in particular, and to this day, she remained baffled by what that was about. Both of her parents had died shortly thereafter, and neither Willard nor Thea would explain anything further to her. She could only speculate, but she never believed the duke in question was the one she was looking at now. Oh, she could imagine it all she liked, but she’d never believe it.
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