The Duke's Bridle Path

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Tidy and skinny, I’ve no doubt.”

  The afternoon was gone and so was Ramsdale’s patience. “Send him up, but don’t bother with another tray. I doubt he’ll be staying long.”

  Pinckney used a small brush to dust the crumbs from the table onto a linen serviette. “And will you be going out this evening, my lord?”

  Ramsdale had been ruralizing in Berkshire for the past month, being a doting godfather to a friend’s infant daughter. Had a fine set of lungs on her, did his goddaughter.

  Pinckney withdrew, and Ramsdale gathered up what passed for his patience as a slim young fellow was admitted by the footman.

  “My lord.” The scholar bowed. He had a scraping, raspy voice. He also wore blue-tinted spectacles that must have made navigating after dark difficult, and in the dim light of the sconces, his countenance was very smooth.

  Too smooth. “Have you a card?” Ramsdale asked.

  The scholar’s clothes were loose—probably second- or third-hand castoffs—and his hair was queued back and tucked under his collar. He passed over a plain card.

  Phillip Peebleshire. Ah, well, then.

  “You look familiar,” Ramsdale said.

  “We are not acquainted, my lord, though I have tutored younger sons from time to time.”

  Probably true. “Well, have a seat, and lest you think to impress me with your vast qualifications, let’s begin by having you transcribe a few lines from this document.”

  Of the two seats opposite Ramsdale’s desk, Peebleshire took the one farther from the candles. Ramsdale passed over Uncle Hephaestus’s first codicil—there were nine in total—and Mr. Peebleshire took out a quizzing glass.

  “I have paper and pencil,” Ramsdale said, “or pen and ink if you prefer.”

  “This codicil,” Peebleshire read slowly, “is made by me, the undersigned testator, Hephaestus George Louis Algernon Avery, being of sound mind and composed spirit, as witnessed in triplicate hereto, and does hereby revoke any previous codicils, but not my will, which document is dated—”

  Ramsdale plucked the document from Peebleshire’s pale hands. “You can translate at sight?”

  “The legal documents all tend to follow certain forms, my lord. The vocabulary is limited, until you reach the specific bequests and conditions of inheritance. A modern holographic will written in such arcane language is unusual, though.”

  “My uncle was an unusual man.” Generous, vindictive, devious, and merry. In life, Ramsdale hadn’t known what to make of him. In death, Uncle had become purely vexatious.

  Ramsdale repeated the exercise with the second codicil—the only one he himself had muddled through in full—and again, Peebleshire translated accurately at sight.

  Bollocks. Ramsdale rose and took a candle from the branch on his desk. “What compensation do you seek for your services?”

  Peebleshire named a sum per page—shrewd, that—as Ramsdale lit several more branches of candles around the room. The wages sought were substantial, but not exorbitant for a true scholar.

  “How quickly can you complete the work?” Ramsdale asked.

  “That depends on how much of it there is.”

  Uncle’s will ran on for thirty pages, and the codicils for another sixty. As near as Ramsdale could fathom, seven of the codicils were rants against the established orders at Oxford and Cambridge, with much ink spilled casting aspersion on the reputation of one Professor Peebles.

  “Nearly a hundred pages,” Ramsdale said, “and I also have correspondence Uncle wrote to various scholar friends. Can you translate French?”

  “French, German, and all of the romance languages, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, Latin. My Coptic is less reliable, and I am not confident of the Norse languages. I’m gaining proficiency in spoken Arabic, but the written language is a challenge.”

  If that recitation were true, Ramsdale would have to admit to surprise. “Then you are clearly qualified to meet my needs,” he said, “but before we discuss the rest of the terms, I have one more question for you.”

  Because Ramsdale had lit every blessed candle in the room, he could see his guest well. Peebleshire sat forward, apparently eager for the work.

  “What is your question, sir?”

  “How will I explain to your dear papa, that his darling offspring has taken to parading about London after dark in men’s clothing, Miss Peebles?”

  Order your copy of How to Find a Duke in Ten Days!

  Read on for an excerpt from

  No Other Duke Will Do!

  * * *

  Julian, Duke of Haverford, is hosting a house party for the sole purpose of finding a husband for his sister. Elizabeth Windham has been sent to the same gathering for the sole purpose of finding a husband… though she insists all she’s truly interested in is locating a good book in Haverford’s vast library collection….

  “Miss Windham, good morning,” Julian said.

  The lady was Miss Windham now, not Julian’s Elizabeth of the towering oak and summer sunshine, not the charming phantasm of his dreams, and yet he wanted to kiss her again. She wore a simple green dress that hinted at the curves beneath, especially as she strode across the library and began wrestling with a window.

  “Lady Glenys must instruct the footmen to open these windows each evening after the card parties break up,” she said. “The cigar smoke isn’t good for the books or the portraiture.”

  “The footmen should also be soaping and oiling the window hardware,” Julian replied, reaching past her to shove the window open. Cool air bearing a hint of the sea wafted into the room and blended with the scent of lily of the valley on Miss Windham’s person.

  Julian moved away lest he stand about like an idiot, his nose pressed to Miss Windham’s neck.

  “I’ve come to find a book to take with me to our picnic across the lake,” she said, surveying rows and rows of literature. “I finished the three you lent me.”

  “You’d rather spend this afternoon here with the books than socializing on the lakeshore. You love books.” And Julian loved knowing this about her.

  “I love what books can do,” she said, moving to another window. Julian let her struggle a bit, because he liked the lines of the dress from the back almost as much as he did from the front.

  Almost. The window gave and she moved to the next.

  In defense of his dignity, he opened the two windows on the far side of the fireplace rather than again assist the lady.

  “Books,” she said, dusting her hands, “can reach from beyond the grave and provide comfort and knowledge from somebody long dead. Books can instruct and entertain, they can—well, you must treasure them as I do, for you’ve amassed a fortune in books.”

  Julian had no fortune whatsoever unless acres of Welsh countryside counted. “The first Marquess of Haverford was a bibliophile, and his descendants have maintained and added to his collection as a family tradition. I doubt many of these books have been read since my father’s birth.”

  Elizabeth would read them, though. If she were his duchess, winter by winter, shelf by shelf, she’d learn the depth and breadth of all three of the collections. Julian would learn too, for she’d read to him, and he to her.

  And then they’d read to their children.

  “You do not behold your library with any joy,” Elizabeth said, when all the windows were open. “Or perhaps, like me, it’s the prospect of the afternoon’s activities that dims your pleasure in the day. Do you realize that all of the coachmen, footmen, grooms, and porters who came with your guests are idling about the carriage house, the attics, and the stables when they ought to be assisting your own staff?”

  “I’ve been too busy with the bachelors and young ladies idling about to notice the outer reaches of my domain doing likewise.” Too busy noticing the exact rhythm of Elizabeth Windham’s strides.

  She had a vocabulary of walks. In the out of doors, she moved quite freely, and inside the house, she could set a good pace too. She also had a ladylike saunter sui
table for strolling the gardens or accompanying another guest into the breakfast parlor.

  “Have a word with your butler, and get the idlers off their backsides,” she said, swiping a finger over the bottom of the marquess’s portrait. “As soon as this party concludes, you will have his lordship’s portrait cleaned, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Yes, Your Grace, for truly, Elizabeth Windham was meant to be a duchess.

  “Tell me about Mr. Sherbourne. He was intent on making an entrance in the breakfast parlor this morning, and your sister says he might not even have been invited.”

  Sherbourne owns my soul. “I can guarantee you he wasn’t invited, for no acceptance of an invitation has shown up in my correspondence, and he’d best not be directing mail to my unmarried sister. If she invited him personally, he still has no excuse for arriving a day late.”

  Elizabeth took a window seat, sunshine slanting over her shoulder and making the simple green gown shimmer like new leaves in a morning breeze.

  “I told Lady Glenys that,” she said. “I gather she’s been too overwhelmed planning this event to keep track of every detail. You must be certain to praise her for how smoothly she handled Sherbourne’s arrival at breakfast.”

  When was the last time Julian had praised his sister for anything? “Who praises you, Elizabeth?”

  “You said you like my kisses.”

  Didn’t see that one coming. “I adore your kisses. Let’s find you another a book, shall we?”

  The library door stood wide open, the windows stood open, and from down the corridor, Julian heard the last of his guests finishing their breakfasts. He held out a hand to Elizabeth and she joined him between the bookshelves.

  His kissed her, or she kissed him. The undertaking was gratifyingly mutual.

  In the first instant their kiss proved to Julian that dreams and recollections did not match reality. Elizabeth Windham put together two concepts that in Julian’s experience had no connection. She was both sweet and fierce, attractive in her soft curves and tender overtures, and compelling for the sheer determination of her grip on his arse.

  She hauled him closer and her tongue danced across his mouth. He reciprocated, and a stolen kiss became an utter rout of his self-restraint. Julian backed Elizabeth up against the shelves—biographies, the last rational corner of his mind noted—and drew her as close as a man could hold a woman.

  She held him even closer and wrapped her leg around his thigh. Elizabeth would delight in pleasures taken amid the scent of books and forever after, Julian would look more fondly on his collection of biographies.

  The lady eased her mouth away and rested against him.

  “The door is open,” she whispered.

  Julian’s first thought was, “The door to opportunity…” but reason returned in the next moment. The door to the library stood open, assuring that sensible people would commit no improprieties therein. He and Elizabeth were not visible from the corridor, of course, but one of them really ought to move.

  He was a duke, the host of the gathering, and responsible for protecting her reputation. All of that was very true, but what inspired Julian to prudence was a nascent erotic interest that needed only a hint of inspiration to become obvious arousal.

  He eased away, even as he stole a parting kiss. Elizabeth looked as tidy as a dowager’s sewing box, while Julian felt as if he’d fallen headfirst from the mighty oak. Rather than stare into her eyes, his gaze landed on the books behind her.

  “We’ve upset the biographies,” he said, taking another step back. “Some of those volumes recount the illustrious doings of my ancestors.”

  She turned, presenting the elegant line of her shoulders and back, and began setting the books to rights.

  Saved by the books, Julian thought, forcing himself put more distance between himself and the nape of Elizabeth Windham’s neck.

  Order your copy of No Other Duke Will Do!

  DESPERATELY SEEKING SCANDAL

  THERESA ROMAIN

  Chapter One

  * * *

  If a gentleman wishes to catch a lady of good fortune, he will need good fortune himself. There is no creature so suspicious as a wealthy woman, especially if she is not beautiful. Any male attention is regarded as suspect.

  And rightly so.

  Vir Virilem, Ways to Wed for Wealth

  Rushworth Green, Berkshire

  She was certain now. The man was following her.

  Ada had suspected it when the fair-haired gentleman regarded the milliner’s shop window far longer than a man normally would. Now that he was waiting for her outside of the confectioner’s, pretending to hold a conversation with Ada’s groom, she was certain of his ulterior motives.

  When one was the sister of a duke who had recently wed in scandal, alas, one constantly encountered people with ulterior motives. When she’d been the sister of an unwed duke, it had been the same. Four years ago, when she’d had a London Season and was known to have a substantial dowry—ditto, ditto.

  Her brother Philippe’s recent marriage to Harriet Talbot, the daughter of the estate’s former horse master, had only reminded the ton that Lady Ada Ellis existed. That she had been jilted four years before. And that her thirty thousand pounds were yet unclaimed.

  To avoid gossip, she now ducked into shops that she didn’t need to visit. She eyed each stranger warily. Unsettling though such preoccupations were, she almost welcomed the break. She’d already spent hours today poring over accounts. Numbers that had always added up before, this time refused to obey. She had to have them in perfect order before her brother returned from his honeymoon trip, so he’d keep her on as steward.

  “Been shopping today, my lady?” said the confectioner.

  “I…have.” She looked at her empty hands. She didn’t need a thing in the world, but there had to be some reason for her to come to Rushworth Green. “I’m looking on behalf of my brother and his wife. When they return from their honeymoon travels, Her Grace will want to change the house to suit her tastes.”

  Until the words came out of her mouth, she hadn’t realized they might be true. But the notion made sense. Every Duchess of Lavelle for hundreds of years had added on to or altered Theale Hall, while every duke oversaw the land and the tenants.

  And the dukes’ spinster sisters… what became of them?

  Ada wrenched her mind away from that question. “Mr. Porter, do you recognize that man speaking to my groom?”

  “To your horse, rather? He’s staying at the White Hare, my lady, with his younger brother. Gave his name as Goddard.”

  “Goddard?” She didn’t recognize the name, though reporters at scandal rags adopted outlandish pseudonyms. There was no way to know a Jones from a Finkleworth.

  She turned away from the shop window toward the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Porter. A dozen caramels, please.” She stripped off her gloves and tucked them away. If one had to be trapped in a shop by a man who was almost certainly a London reporter, that shop might as well be one that offered sweets.

  Porter’s round, ruddy face settled into its familiar smile lines as he counted out the paper-wrapped candies. He had known Ada almost since her birth, and he had never discouraged her fondness for confections.

  Once she paid, she took the folded paper sack from the confectioner, opening it at once. Butter! Sugar! The smell alone was heaven.

  The mysterious man was still outside. Ha! He met her eye through the shop window as Ada peered at him. Then he had to look away and act innocent, holding forth about halters or the horse’s conformation or whatever it was. Her groom Fowler looked bored, good man.

  Oh, never mind this. Ada could stay in the shop forever and eat caramel candy, or she could exit the shop and still eat caramel candy and also find out who this strange person was. Folding over the top of the sack again, she bade good-bye to Porter and marched out of the shop, candies in hand and skirts in a whirl of blue-striped muslin.

  Walking up to her bay gelding, Equinox, she greeted
Fowler as he held the horse’s bridle and that of his own mount.

  “You have been making a friend,” she said to her groom.

  Fowler, a thin and grizzled man of middle age, looked uncomfortable. “An acquaintance, my lady.”

  “Indeed. And who might this acquaintance be?” She lifted her brows, looking down her nose at the stranger.

  “Colin Goddard, my lady.” The man in question swept a bow. He was handsome, annoyingly so, with the sort of waving gilt hair that gentlemen disordered and arranged for maximum appeal.

  “Colin Goddard, what business have you with my groom?”

  “None at all. I was just admiring your horses.”

  Fowler made an indescribable noise. Equinox snorted, bobbing his head. The gelding was an impatient fellow who didn’t like to be kept standing. The gray cob, Fitzhugh, looked up the high street with a mild and curious eye.

  “I see,” said Ada. “And now that you’ve admired them, do you plan to make your way through the village and look into more shop windows? Or would you like to have a caramel candy”—she shook the paper bag—“and tell me for which periodical you write?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t decline a candy.” The man dared grin, the sort of smile that said, I’m charming and I know it. “I hadn’t better do anything more, for the sake of my reputation.”

  “Nonsense. It’s my brother’s reputation you have in mind.”

  “Lady Ada, I—”

  “There, see? If you were merely smitten by my horses, you wouldn’t know my name.”

  “Curses. You are too sly for me.” He shrugged, taking a candy from the bag. In its little paper twist, it looked like a fat butterfly.

  “Fowler, you have one too.” Ada held out the bag. When the gelding stretched his neck, she rubbed his velvety muzzle. “None for you, Equinox, though you shall have an apple once you’re back in your stall.” He was as fond of sweets as Ada, but she had seen his teeth stuck together with treacle once before, and she wouldn’t repeat that experience for anything.