Page 8 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

She drew herself up as tall as she could, which wasn’t particularly high, even in her heeled riding boots. “What are you doing here?”

He made no move to come out of the loose box. “I was communing with this sad example of a horse.” He had an unusually refined, deep voice that yet again gave her heart a little unwelcome flutter.

She frowned, her natural instinct to defend anything remotely equine leaping to the fore.

“I believe he is only sad due to his previous mistreatment, which I presume I can lay at your door. It is a bad horseman who blames his horse for not being strong enough when he has clearly not been fed adequately.”

The man, Diccon, shook his head. “Happily, you cannot lay the blame for his condition on me. I only bought him and his companion a few short days ago, and believe me, they were the best of the bunch.” He patted the horse’s sunken quarters.

“Although once he’s been stabled here for a while, I trust he’ll begin to look as sleek and well-fed as the rest of the residents. ”

She bristled. How dare he assume he would find not just employment here but also stabling for his horse. Although of the two, she would rather keep the horse than a man so rude and presumptuous. “What makes you think either of you will be staying?”

He grinned, showing even, white teeth, those dark eyes twinkling in a most beguiling fashion that was playing havoc with her disobedient heart. “I think you will find I’m going to be hard to get rid of.”

Heavens. He had the appearance of a man who was finding their conversation both funny and pleasurable. In fact, he was looking her up and down, at least the part he could see of her, as if he were weighing her up and finding her somewhat wanting.

The cheek of it. She glared at him. “I can assure you, that whatever you were led to believe, I will not take into my employ a man with as much effrontery as you have just displayed. Whoever you are, you had best take your horse and be on your way.” She glanced at the second horse, which was also eating her hay.

“And your other horse, although why you have two, I have no idea.” She paused.

“And this is not a household that employs the by-blows of any past duke. So you may take yourself off immediately.”

He laughed. He possessed a deep, full-throated laugh that suited his rough appearance, and he gave in to it with abandon.

The horse looked back at him, ears pricked, still chomping on the hay that belonged to the Stourbridge estate.

To her, in fact, until the inheritance could be established, which could take a long time as there had so far been no sign of any heir appearing.

A far as she knew, there was only the one who had died abroad, with the remote possibility he had been father to a son who might inherit. But unlikely.

She stamped her foot, something she’d not done since her last altercation with Marcus. The fatal altercation. “Stop laughing this instant and take yourself off, or I’ll call the grooms to throw you out.” She eyed his size. “And the footmen.”

He finally got his laughter under control. “I think you mistake me, madam. I am here to stay, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Although I do believe I’m going to find it interesting living with you.”

“Living with me?” Her voice rose in indignation. “Your impudence knows no bounds. I will not be spoken to like this.” And she turned towards the doors. Jem must still be out there. He could fetch Amos and the other two grooms and they could overpower this madman.

The man calling himself Diccon was through the stable door in a flash, his hand on her arm pulling her back.

Furious, she rounded on him and before she could stop herself, had slapped him across the face. Hard. “Unhand me this instant.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, his dark brows met in a heavy frown. “Would you do to me what you did to Marcus, then?” His teeth bared. “Yes. I’ve heard all the rumors. I know the talk is that you wanted him dead and your wish came true.”

She stopped struggling as there was clearly no point, and it seemed to be what he wanted. And somehow she didn’t think this strange man, whom she could now see wore expensive, but mud-spattered top boots and finely cut breeches, was about to assault her person.

He released her arm.

She resisted the temptation to rub it. No need to let him see he’d hurt her.

“How dare you insinuate such a thing.” But she wasn’t quite so confident now.

Who was this man, whom she’d at first taken for a would-be groom but who now appeared to be wearing at least some of the apparel of a gentleman?

Not the sort of gentleman who frequented the parties and balls she liked, but a gentleman, nevertheless.

And of course, his voice implied that as well.

Not a hint of a Berkshire accent about it.

He was staring down at her from his vastly superior height. He must be nearly a foot taller than she was. “So, you didn’t do it? You had no hand in the death of your husband?” His voice was challenging, his eyes boring into her as if to extract the truth from her very core.

She met his gaze, furious that she was being asked to justify herself to a stranger. “Of course I had nothing to do with my husband’s death.” She paused, a nub of worry that she couldn’t shake off forming. “But if I did, what is it to you?”

It was at that moment that the second stranger appeared, and he was even rougher than this Diccon.

A short but sturdy individual, also with several days’ growth of beard, his grizzled, on his chin, he wore what appeared to be some sort of green army uniform, the jacket buttons undone and a red neckerchief about his throat.

Due to the gloom of the stables and the dazzling sunlight, he must not have spotted Isabella, for he spoke only to Diccon.

“Mrs. Rowan says as she’s got breakfast ready and to come in and get it, Major.

” And then his eyes narrowed as they took in Isabella’s presence.

“Begging your pardon, Miss. I didn’t know as the Major had company.

” His small brown eyes ran over her attire before his gaze returned to the man who must be his master, the major, brows asking a question.

For a moment his master remained silent, before giving his servant a brief nod. “Thank you, Baxter. The grooms have taken care of our horses for us. You may go and take your breakfast. I think I will be taking mine in the castle.”

The lure of that breakfast must have been great, because the man Baxter gave a shrug and departed, however, not without glancing back over his shoulder at Isabella as he went, curiosity in his stare.

Isabella bristled all over. In the castle? Who did this upstart think he was? She fixed him with her best hard stare, waiting for him to tell her more.

It worked. He heaved in a breath as though resigning himself to having to say something.

“I will tell you what it is to me, as you have so politely asked.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“If you did have a hand in your husband’s death, then I suppose I should be thanking you.

For without his demise I would not be here.

I would, instead, be bivouacking in Portugal somewhere, trying to keep out of the scorching sun.

With my men. Instead, I’m here, transformed by the hand of fate, which many suspect might equate with your hand, into a duke. ”

Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “A duke?” Her voice came out more than a little hoarse. “ You are the lost heir? The one whom Marcus told me had probably died? The one people have been looking for?”

Diccon laughed. “I know he hated me, but he could at least have got his facts right. If he told you I was dead, it was only his wishful thinking. And, as you can see, I am not dead at all, but very much alive.” He smiled again, a little mirthlessly.

“And you, I take it, must be his widow.” This time his gaze ran from her head down to her toes.

“I see you are much as has been described to me.”

Why did she get the feeling this wasn’t meant as a compliment, despite the admiration in his eyes?

She gave him a harder look. So that was why he looked so much like Marcus.

They were cousins. Hadn’t Dora told her this Diccon had been brought up here at Stourbridge after his parents died?

This must be like coming home to him. Although with Marcus only his own age, he must never have expected to inherit the title.

And it seemed as though he’d been soldiering on the Continent until quite recently.

Which went a long way to explaining the appearance of his servant.

A horrible thought swept over her. Now he was home to claim his title and his inheritance, he would be wanting to install a wife of his own here at Stourbridge.

He might well already have one, somewhere.

Some woman who would turn her elegant nose up at the incumbent duchess much as the society ladies Isabella despised had and still did.

She might, horror of horrors, be some Portuguese or Spanish woman he’d met in Europe who barely spoke any English.

She only had the vaguest idea of the war going on there, but as he had mentioned Portugal, this was a reasonable suspicion.

If he had, this woman would be the duchess, and she, Isabella, would be nothing again.

Less than nothing, for Marcus had sewn up her father’s money along with his, and none of it was coming to her.

He’d taken malicious pleasure in telling her that, not long after Papa had died.

She glanced sideways along the corridor at where her own horse was looking over her stable door. Her beloved horse would belong to this unknown woman too, and Sultan, whom she’d planned to ride this morning, would be this interloper’s to do with as he wished.

Resolution washed over her. Perhaps she’d better begin by being nice to him.

She turned back to the new duke. “Well, Cousin, I had planned to take my customary ride this morning around the park. However, now that you have finally deigned to identify yourself, I feel I should welcome you to the castle and forego that ride. For now. I presume you are in need of some breakfast as you have just turned down Mrs. Rowan’s generous offer to eat with her and your servant.

” She had a struggle to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Diccon’s handsome face broke into the most friendly smile she’d seen so far, as though he’d chosen to ignore the implication that he had been ready to eat with his servants.

He looked the sort of man who would not object to that at all.

“I should like that very much, Your Grace.” And he held out his arm to her.

A bare arm as the sleeves were rolled up to above the elbow.

Isabella hesitated. No man in her entire life had ever offered her what amounted to a nearly naked arm to take.

Disturbing dark hairs ran across his tanned forearm and the back of his hand, and she would have to touch his actual skin.

Swallowing her reticence down, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, all too aware of the warmth radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.

She felt altogether too close to him for comfort.

He bestowed another smile on her. “Shall we go inside?”