Page 5 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Five

T hey finished their day out and about at the tenant farms and lands of the Ravensmere estate only when the quaint village rooftops of Beaulieu came into view.

"Would you care to have luncheon in the tavern, Your Grace? They do a good stew, and the ale is said to be of good quality."

Nathaniel glanced at Lady Rosalind, unsure he’d heard her right. Tavern? Ale?

"Are you telling me that you drink ale, my lady?"

She laughed, and the sound washed over him like a soothing balm. She had a pretty laugh, and her face lit up like the morning light, warming everything in its path.

"I do not, but I thought that’s what gentlemen drank when they darkened the doors of a tavern. "

She smiled, waiting for him to decide if he would like to dine at the town tavern or not. The idea did have its allures, especially with the cook back at the estate. He hated to imagine what the cook had prepared and was dishing out to everyone.

He shuddered at the thought. "I think a luncheon in town would be just the thing, my lady. Lead the way."

Without further ado, Lady Rosalind turned her horse toward town and pushed her mount into a trot.

Nathaniel followed and realized his error the moment his ward lifted her pert ass up into the air and back down again with each step of the horse. For several heartbeats his eyes were fixated on her pert globes before she glanced behind—perhaps sensing his interest—and he forced his gaze over her shoulders and focused on the small steeple of the church.

It took minutes only, and they pulled their horses up to walk along the main thoroughfare of the village.

Several people milling about the streets stopped to look and wave. Several of them called out to Lady Rosalind, and she greeted them all by name with a pleasant return of address.

Was there no one that this daughter of the late duke did not know? He could not help but summarize that she had taken on the role of duke when her father wasn’t around and did her best to keep her household staff, and those in the wider community happy and content.

A hard task when one did not have the financial means to help and only the moral ability to support.

They pulled up before the Duck and Dog tavern and tied their horses to the hitching posts provided. The inn, thankfully, was quiet as they entered the dining room, and a young barmaid—dressed in a nondescript brown muslin gown, her large rounded belly, no doubt from the later stages of pregnancy—waddled over to them with a welcoming smile on her face.

"Lady Rosalind, good day to you, my lady. It’s a pleasure indeed to have you here. What can I get ya, love?" she asked, only throwing him a cursory glance.

Rosalind, like all the people that she encountered, smiled and reached out, clasping the young woman’s hand quickly.

"A table for two, if you please. We’re going to have luncheon here today." Lady Rosalind turned and gestured to him. "This is the new Duke of Ravensmere, Mary."

The young barmaid’s eyes flew wide, and she dipped into an awkward curtsy.

"Your Grace, welcome to Beaulieu. What a pleasure and honor it is to serve you this afternoon. "

Nathaniel waved her honors aside, not wanting to be singled out in front of the townspeople present. "I’m pleased to be here. Lady Rosalind speaks highly of your establishment. She says you do an awfully good stew."

"We do indeed." She gestured for them to follow. "Come, I shall seat you near the front window overlooking the town square. It’s a prettier view than the inn’s hitching yard."

They followed and were soon seated. It took minutes only before their food arrived—steaming, with a goodness that smelled as delicious as it looked. Nathaniel’s stomach growled, and Lady Rosalind lifted her napkin to her lips and chuckled.

"I apologize. I seem to be more hungry than I thought."

"No need to apologize. I thought you might like to dine out today. I fear you’re not coping as well as my sisters and I when it comes to Cook’s cooking."

He cringed, picked up his spoon, and started to eat his stew. "You noticed, did you? I fear that you are indeed correct, and my gullet is suffering."

"I do apologize. Our cook has been with us since before my mother married my father. She’s five-and-eighty this year, and I fear her cooking has become less than ideal. I fear you will have to replace her soon. "

Nathaniel pondered Lady Rosalind’s words and could hear the concern in her voice.

"If you think I shall kick her out without a living for the rest of her days, rest assured that is not the case. I will offer her a house on the estate; I’m sure there are some that are empty, even if in need of repair. She’ll be well looked after."

He could feel her gaze on him, and, unable to resist looking at his striking ward, he glanced up from his stew. The unshed tears in her eyes made panic bolt through his blood, and instinctively he reached for her hand and clasped it. "What is wrong? Are you ill?"

"No, nothing of the kind." She held his hand in return and did not look to relinquish it anytime soon. "How lovely of you to be so caring. We’re not used to such treatment, as you well know. I feared for our tenant farmers and the staff at the great house, but you are truly an angel sent from heaven. I’m so relieved you’re not awful."

He laughed. "I'm relieved you do not find me so also."

Nathaniel took his hand back and resumed eating, ignoring the fact that his heart had kicked up several beats at Lady Rosalind’s touch. The woman was uncommonly pretty and kind, and he feared he liked her far too much—more than he thought .

You're her guardian, remember. You promised to find her a good match.

A ruckus sounded in the bar just outside the room in which they were dining, before the door slammed open and several men stumbled and fell into the room. Shouts and several words no woman ought to hear rang out about the room.

Lady Rosalind gasped and stood, just in time, before a man in full fisticuffs with another flew through the air and landed on the bowl of stew—breaking the porcelain and the table, smashing their meal and table to pieces.

Before Nathaniel could get to her, a fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back.

"What the bloody blazers is going on,” he said, regaining his feet and trying to make sense of the brawl. When another went to attack him, possibly merely because he was nearby, he grabbed the fellow by the lapels of his coarse wool jacket and threw him a solid blow to his nose, watching with a little satisfaction as the man stumbled to the ground, out cold.

He could see Lady Rosalind attempting to make herself as small as possible in the corner, and all he could think was to get to her—to keep her safe.

She screamed as a man fell at her feet, attempting to pull himself up using her skirts.

The barman, a burly, large man carrying a club, entered the room and started in on the arguing men.

Nathaniel grabbed the man who dared clutch at Lady Rosalind’s skirts and ripped him off before going to her. She threw herself into his arms, holding him as if her life depended on his shelter.

And right at this moment, perhaps it did.

He pushed her into the corner, pressed her against the wall, and tried to keep them both as small and inconspicuous as possible.

She shivered in his arms, clearly terrified, and yet—damn his rakish soul—he could feel every curve of her body, the soft breasts pressing into his lower chest, her fingers clawing at his shirt beneath his jacket. The sensation was very much reminiscent of a sexual one, and he hated himself for enjoying having her this close to his person.

He was a cad and ought to be horsewhipped.

"Your Grace, your nose is bleeding."

She reached up and attempted to wipe the blood from his face, and the sensation of her hand cupping his jaw stilled his frantic heart.

Their eyes met and held, and no matter the noise behind him, he could not look away.

Her attention dipped to his lips, as his did to hers.

Damn it all to hell, do not do it was his last thought before he dipped his head.