Page 6 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Six

R osalind stilled, her heart pounding frantically in her chest—a relentless pulse that would not abate—and she could not entirely place the blame on the fisticuffs unfolding around them.

Instead, the strong arms and warm, muscular body that held her close, cupped the back of her head, and pulled her into a warm, comforting embrace meant to keep her safe were the cause. She had never felt more on edge of a precipice than right at this moment, teetering before she fell. She had never been held by a man before, and never under such circumstances. Her body did not feel like itself; it tingled and grew warm, relaxed amongst the chaos, and became pliant in his arms.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine His Grace holding her for a reason entirely different from a mere need to protect her—a tender embrace akin to that of a lover cradling the woman he adored.

Her hand slipped from his jaw, the stubble lightly scratching her palm—a sensation both new and not unpleasant. Thoughts swirled in her mind. What would his skin feel like against hers? Would his kiss be as soft and caring as his hold? Her gaze drifted to his lips, which were of a lovely shape; not overly plump for a man, but enough to emphasize his handsome mouth.

Her nerves somersaulted in her stomach, and she stilled when he dipped his head toward her. Was he going to kiss her here—in the tavern dining room, before a brawling group of ruffians?

Yes, please…

"Enough!" the innkeeper roared. Rosalind jumped as the room fell silent.

The interruption seemed enough to shake the duke’s resolve. He reared back, turning around—but keeping her behind him—as he surveyed the room and the many men in various states of disarray.

"You are all banned from the tavern until I am no longer angry with you. Leave now, before I call the magistrate, and he puts all of you into the watch house."

The men, not wishing to get into trouble with the law, waddled out like scolded dogs with their tails between their legs, while others groaned as they regained their feet and followed suit.

"Your Grace, Lady Rosalind, how very sorry I am that your luncheon was ruined. I do profoundly apologize and hope that this incident does not stop you from dining here again."

Rosalind continued to cling to the back of the duke’s coat, desperate to prolong the feel of him—his scent a blend of sandalwood and leather, no doubt acquired from their many hours of riding.

"Do not concern yourself,” the duke said. “My nose will heal, and I’m certain that Lady Rosalind—while shocked and a little alarmed—is perfectly well. But we will take our leave. I hope there is not too much damage to your establishment, though I fear this room is grossly affected."

"You're very kind, Your Grace. Thank you. I shall see you both out."

Their horses were brought out from the stables—watered and groomed. She walked over to her mount, but before she could have the stable hand lead her horse to the mounting block, the duke came over and offered his assistance. He clasped his hands together, and she placed her foot into the makeshift stirrup. Holding on to the reins and saddle, she hoisted herself into her seat.

"Thank you, Your Grace. "

He nodded without a word as he strode to his horse and climbed up without assistance. The man was athletic, and she doubted there was anything he could not do.

"Was there anywhere else you wished to escort me this afternoon, Lady Rosalind, or shall we return to the house?"

"I think home, Your Grace. Perhaps your valet would like to have a look at the mess your bloody nose has made of your attire." She glanced at his shirt, where droplets of blood stained the linen—a sight that suggested it would be best removed sooner rather than later.

"That is true. I do not need another telling-off for soiling my attire."

Had the new duke just attempted to make light of their altercation that afternoon? She smiled before pushing her mount out of the yard, and within the hour they had arrived back at the estate’s stable. They spoke very little on the way home, except for the few times Rosalind pointed out the boundaries of the estate and the location of the hunting lodge nestled within the copse of trees they passed.

Once they returned their horses, they made their way back into the house.

"Thank you for today, Lady Rosalind. It is a credit to you that you are so invested in the people who work here and those who labor on the lands of the estate. "

Warmth filled her at the duke’s words. Not that she ever sought praise—she was never vain—but it was comforting to know that someone recognized her efforts, even if her father never had.

"It is the least I could do. I love this house, its lands, and the people who live here. I have grown up with everyone we spoke to today—they have been more present in my life than my own parents. How could I not care what happens to them? I am simply thankful that, now that I shall leave here, they will be well looked after. I would hate to marry and move to another county, knowing that the new duke was cut from a similar cloth as my father."

They strolled into the foyer and handed their hats, coats, and gloves to two waiting footmen.

"We saw you arriving from your ride, Your Grace, Lady Rosalind, and have set out some sandwiches and a hot cup of tea in the drawing room, should you care for a repast."

"Thank you, Dennis. That would be most welcome," she replied, especially since their luncheon had been smashed onto the floor by the brawling townsfolk.

"I shall meet you in there shortly, Lady Rosalind. I must change before we finish our luncheon."

"Of course."

Rosalind went into the drawing room and took the opportunity to pour the tea and arrange several sandwiches on the small plates provided. The duke joined her after several minutes, now attired in a clean shirt and jacket. He sat beside her, and Rosalind had to admit she enjoyed having him so close.

"Thank you for serving. This looks good indeed."

"Yes," she replied, sipping her tea and watching him. "The cook’s sandwiches never fail to please, even if she is somewhat wanting with other courses."

His eyes sparkled in amusement. "Wonderful."

They ate in silence, which gave Rosalind the opportunity to ponder how she had felt in the duke’s arms in the tavern—and what that might mean. She liked him, she knew that. He was kind and not dismissive at all, so very different from the cold, lofty man she had imagined. He was warm and personable—a true breath of fresh air in their stagnant, grand lives.

"These are delicious indeed." The duke reached for several more sandwiches and placed them on his plate.

"They are, I agree, and I am sorry that our lovely lunch was so rudely brought to a halt. I was enjoying myself exceedingly."

"As was I." His gaze met hers, and Rosalind’s skin prickled with awareness. He averted his eyes toward the windows, and she studied him, wondering if he, too, was feeling all sixes and sevens as she was—as if something were occurring between them, something she could not name. The duke might be more attuned to what was unfolding between them, but she was not—a predicament, she supposed, common among ladies who had not yet had their Season or been married.

After all, she had never been kissed, and she wondered whether her feelings for the duke were merely the budding of a platonic friendship or if the tumultuous emotions stirring inside her signaled the beginning of something that could blossom into so much more.

"I hope you were not injured, Lady Rosalind. I know several bodies crashed into us before I was able to reach you."

She shook her head and placed her teacup down on the small wooden table before them. "Not at all—merely startled, but not injured. Thank you for protecting me, Your Grace. You are very kind."

"I could not allow anything to happen to you, my lady. That would not be the act of a gentleman—or a friend, for that matter—which I believe we are becoming…"

"Indeed." Warmth spread through her at his words. "I believe we are too, and in the spirit of that friendship, please call me Rosalind. You are my guardian, after all, and I do not think we need to be so formal."

His mouth twisted into a wicked grin, and her stomach knotted. "Only if you call me Nathaniel in return."