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F ew guests came to Redcliff Manor.

In truth, no one had a reason to come unless they wished to stare at the few who remained in residence.

The late Marquess, her father, had unfortunately cast a dark cloud on the name, the estate, and the now barren coffers.

As the new Marquess had written to confirm that he never wished to step foot there, all of this made a quiet life for Verity Redcliff.

Until now.

A handsome stranger stood in her doorway with the most disgruntled expression she’d ever seen.

She clutched the open door, eyeing him warily. A good minute passed and he said nothing. All he did was stare.

At last, Verity opened her mouth. “Welcome to Redcliff Manor. Who might you be?”

The well-dressed stranger blinked like an owl before frowning at her. So, he was conscious.

Bracing herself for hearing something dreadful, she instead found herself waiting and waiting.

Perhaps he is a mute?

“Who are you?” she asked again.

She didn’t expect guests and wanted him gone. The little she had left to her name was her reputation, which she would not permit some stranger to ruin. Even if he was dressed extremely well.

She studied him and wondered what might be amiss.

There was nothing wrong with him beyond his silence, from what she could see.

A perfectly cut coat with beautiful, wind-tousled hair.

His posture was elegant, and he was everything refined.

Were it not for his riding breeches, she would have assumed he had stepped right out of the streets of London.

Trying again, she asked, “Well? Have you come for a reason?”

He blinked, saying nothing as he eyed her with disdain. The narrowing of his eyes said that something was going on inside his head.

Verity didn’t think she would like what he was thinking. Perhaps he meant to insult her. What was she, really, if not a lady any longer but not quite a servant either?

Her gown was threadbare and overly simple. She wore no rings or earbobs, and her hair hung in a loose plait down her back like she wasn’t more than eight years of age.

I may not be pretty or splendid or rich, but I am still a lady. I have my pride.

She resisted the urge to huff.

“I will ask you one more time, Sir,” she said sternly. “Who are you? What is your business here?”

Those eyes of his were too dark to be any color but black.

She didn’t understand how that could be possible.

But they were black all the same, staring her down.

He looked all the way down to her shoes—the serviceable boots were the last she had and could not be hidden with her old gown—and studied her face again.

Perhaps we met in London? Perhaps he is attempting to place me? But I doubt it. That was four years ago, and I only attended one Season for three months. This is if he is a gentleman.

But how could he not be? I wonder if he is a lord. I suppose I should have made that assumption.

She stepped back to close the door in his face, no longer entertained. Only then did he noisily clear his throat. A warm flush bloomed on his face and faded so quickly that she nearly missed it.

“My Lady,” he greeted tersely. “I have come for Lady Redcliff. I heard she’s is in residence.”

Verity narrowed her eyes at him, wondering how he didn’t know her. Who would call on her and not know her face at this time?

But then most ladies didn’t answer their own doors.

Either way, he didn’t seem interested in budging in one direction or another.

“I am in residence, clearly. And who might you be?”

His brow creased. “You cannot be Lady Redcliff. She is an elderly woman.”

Although Verity supposed she could mention her aunt, who was not the lady of the house, she didn’t feel inclined to niceties at the moment. “Some would consider me ancient. Do you have some business with the house? You do not appear at all like our neighbors.”

“Because I am rarely in residence myself,” he said, sounding testy as if she was the one on his doorstep. She considered reminding him of proper manners, but then he continued. “The Duke of Halewood, at your service. But you may address me as Lord Northcott.”

Goodness gracious. It is him. They say the Duke is made of iron. I should have known. Those eyes… Besides, we always knew he would eventually come this way.

Verity pursed her lips, mostly to keep from letting her mouth drop open.

He clearly expected respect, perhaps a curtsy.

Her stomach twisted with discomfort, though she gave it no attention.

She didn’t even want to give the Duke any attention.

Society cared little for her family, and she refused to care for any of them in return.

So she asked, “Have you come to claim what’s left of the estate, then?”

Not all of the land here was entailed, after all.

In fact, only the manor itself was entailed, along with a single strip of road.

The rest of it belonged to her. Barren as most of it might be, she cared for the tenants and had refused to sell to anyone who might dare cast them out.

Her father had always expected their neighbors to come and ask for the land, and she was born believing it as well.

The Duke frowned before answering. “I am only here because of our lands’ boundaries. I’m missing some documents and came to view your books.”

Either he lost his maps and files, or he’s come to investigate the boundaries further in case he wants to lay claim to this estate. He wouldn’t be the first in the area to come sniffing around.

Tempted as Verity was to still close the door in the face of a duke, she restrained herself. She softened her smile marginally before stepping back to grant him entry. And she said nothing about his presumptuous manner, as she knew it would do little good.

“Please come in, Your Grace. Allow me to take you to the parlor. My aunt is already seated. You may join us, and we shall prepare some tea,” she informed him.

The more she spoke, the less he would notice the leaks and stains they passed in the hall. Or so she hoped.

“Your aunt?”

She gritted her teeth behind the smile. “Lady Wetherby, my aunt.”

“Then you really are Lady Redcliff. My apologies. I believe we haven’t been properly introduced,” he said pointedly, slowing down.

Before she could grab the doorknob, her aunt stepped into the hall to greet them. “Whatever took you so long, dear? The drapes will never be completed now. Ah, it was a guest, then. You were right. Chess it will be. And who do you think you might be, infringing upon our peace?”

“Aunt Eugenia,” Verity said in a measured but warning tone. “Allow me to introduce you to our long-lost neighbor, the Duke of Halewood.” She ignored his gaze, having had years of practice. “Your Grace, this is Lady Wetherby, my aunt.”

Her aunt squinted up at the Duke. “They call you the Iron Duke.”

“Auntie,” Verity muttered, tensing up.

The Duke merely blinked. “Do they? I don’t pay mind to gossip. It is unseemly.”

“But that is where a piece of truth always lies.”

Eugenia was a rich widow who never had children of her own. Her sharp tongue had only grown sharper throughout the years. But Verity didn’t have the heart to scold her. After all, her aunt had come here for her, prepared to protect her in any way.

But Verity refused to accept a farthing from her, only her company.

“We can discuss gossip later. The hall is drafty.” Her aunt gave her a look before focusing on the Duke. “Come sit and tell me whatever excuse you have for sniffing about your neighbors after all this time.”

“Very well,” he said.

His gaze flicked between the two women, though Verity ducked her head and followed her aunt into the parlor.

Once he was seated, the Duke recounted his tale while Verity took her leave to fetch tea, since her small staff would be preoccupied. Fortunately, she learned quickly and returned before long.

Stepping back into the parlor, she found the Duke pointing to several documents laid out on the table.

“We know where and whom you speak of. I believe it’s the northwest corner,” her aunt was saying.

“We have a record of this parcel being purchased back in 1507, but there is nothing further after 1734. There was a fire here at the time, you know. Perhaps this is the one you mentioned. It might have been sold off. The estate bore witness to hard times—the buying and selling never halted.”

Verity stiffened, realizing what they were talking about now. The knot in her gut she’d nearly forgotten about tightened.

“Could it still be yours?”

Eugenia pursed her lips. “Good heavens, no. My wealth is independent. If it’s not entailed, it either belongs to the absent Marquess or my niece here.”

“Do you speak of the Holcome family?” Verity eyed the map warily.

“Holcome or Smith or Red,” the Duke corrected her in what she was quickly learning was his normal tone—almost cautious, mostly bored, and altogether snobbish. “The names have not been maintained well in these records, and these files are very odd.”

“If anyone wrote to you, Your Grace, it would have been the current tenants on that plot, and that is the Holcome family. Our records are maintained well enough, for my father did not mismanage his estate,” Verity asserted.

The Duke stiffened. “I did not mean to insinuate any such insult.”

“Good.” She lifted her chin, though she didn’t believe a word from his lips. “Simply because they appear disorganized, does not mean that it is.”

“Then you understand how your father’s records are organized?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he was testing her. Mocking her. The way he sat before her, so rigid and stern, left her uncomfortable and tense. There was no way for her to be entirely certain of what he was thinking. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like strangers.

And I don’t like him.

No one said anything until Eugenia cleared her throat with a pointed look in her direction.

“I manage the more recent records,” Verity eventually admitted. “I haven’t needed to look into the old deeds and rentals. Few tenants read, after all, and so I manage mostly through handshakes.”

“You handshake?”

She shifted to the edge of her seat. “It is respectable.”

Plenty of landowners and tenants work in this manner. Or does he disdain such a notion because I’m merely a woman?

“If you insist.”

“I do,” she retorted as the two of them stared each other down.

Eugenia cleared her throat noisily again until Verity forced herself to look away.

Her chest constricted, making her breathing uneven.

One could almost sense the air thickening, what with the tension between her and this obstinate gentleman.

Every inch of her body felt so hot and damp. It made her neck itch.

“Your Grace,” she added.

Eugenia attempted to maintain diplomacy. “I expect we shall be able to find a solution. If the documents aren’t here, then perhaps they are in another file somewhere in the house.”

Verity couldn’t help but toss in, “Certainly. We cannot be expected to have everything readily available for just anyone who stops by.”

“Certainly. I should have prepared you for my arrival. An estate like this surely has countless shelves holding the past,” the Duke said slowly, as if he had to force out each word. “Perhaps I can return tomorrow so that you and your staff have enough time to find such records.”

“That would be best,” Verity said, wondering if she could pretend they were not at home on the morrow.

Rising, Eugenia let out a dry chuckle. “Yes, tomorrow is always ideal. For sunshine, perhaps. For men who think they know everything because of money and titles. And for fresh biscuits.”

The Duke turned to study at her with a creased brow.

Verity did as well when he couldn’t see, before clearing her throat. “What a wonderful idea, Aunt Eugenia. Perhaps we had better halt today’s attempts at studying the past. We will search for more records, and once we find them, we will inform you, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps I might join you on the morrow to assist in the search,” he suggested, slowly turning to meet her gaze.

Her smile faltered as she forced a nod. She would not show her annoyance. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he affirmed in a clipped tone.

“Tomorrow, then. I shall see you out,” she offered.

But just as Verity took a step toward the hall, where she could politely toss him out, there was a loud crack that made all three of them jump.

Light flickered a second later. They all twisted toward the window. The noisy yet innocent rain had turned into a storm. She winced as another crack of thunder sounded. Eugenia gasped, putting a hand over her heart.

A long moment passed as the three of them stared out the window. How long had it been raining? Verity had been too distracted to pay the weather much mind this afternoon.

If he’ll just take his leave, then I can finally have my peace back. But how am I supposed to throw him out in this weather?

“Oh dear,” Eugenia said, her lips pursed.

She glanced at the Duke for a long moment before turning to Verity. The woman didn’t have to say anything but peer over her spectacles to confirm what no one wanted to say.

Still, she said it. “I fear you may not need to return on the morrow. We cannot send you out in this weather—you’ll catch your death.”

The Duke frowned. “I cannot stay.”

“But you must,” Eugenia insisted, leaving no room for argument. “Do make yourself comfortable, Your Grace, and pray that the storm dies down soon. Because you won’t be leaving until it does.”