Cinderella and the Duke

by Janice Preston

  She stood up. ‘I will go and ask Penny to make some tea.’ She caught sight of Freddie’s scowl, prompting her to add, ‘Unless you would prefer something stronger?’

  ‘No. Tea is fine.’

  Rosalind was distracted by the door opening before she could question his brusqueness.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Thank you, Penny. I was about to come and request tea. You have saved me the bother.’

  Penny—who had been Freddie’s nursemaid and had agreed to accompany them to Buckinghamshire to keep house—smiled as she placed the tray on a table. ‘Shall I pour, ma’am?’

  ‘No. I shall do it.’

  By the time she handed a cup and saucer to Freddie, and sat down with her own cup, Freddie had resumed his customary expression of good humour. When they had drunk their tea, Rosalind worked on her embroidery whilst Freddie picked up his book and opened it.

  As Rosalind set her stitches, she tried to ignore the slow, uneasy coil of her stomach. That anxiety had been present ever since they had arrived at Stoney End, but today there was a different edge to it. A foreboding. Was it because Nell had gone to London, leaving the future for herself and Freddie even more uncertain? She would love nothing more than to go home to Lydney Hall and to live out her days there in obscurity, but would that be possible with Sir Peter in residence? Surely not.

  Or was it that meeting with Lascelles that had increased her apprehension?

  Leo’s face materialised in her mind’s eye—handsome, strong, assured—and a very different feeling stirred...tension of a sort she had never experienced before today, as though something deep within her had recognised him and now stretched out...seeking...yearning.

  Humph!

  ‘Is there anything amiss, Ros?’

  Startled, she looked up to find Freddie regarding her with raised brows. Her cheeks heated, realising she had allowed her snort of exasperation to sound aloud.

  ‘I am quite all right, thank you.’

  Rosalind bent her head to her embroidery once more, pushing all thought of Leo’s lean face and silver grey, penetrating eyes from her thoughts. He might be the most attractive man she had ever met, but he demonstrated a remarkably poor choice of friends and, worse, he was obviously a member of the conceited and condescending world of the haut ton. The world she detested.

  Chapter Three

  Three days later, Leo strode into the local village of Malton, leading one of Lascelles’s hunters, a fine gelding, his coat as black as Leo’s mood. The horse—recommended to him particularly by Lascelles—had thrown a shoe within half an hour of the hunt starting and a swift examination of the animal’s remaining shoes had revealed their sorry states. Leo cursed himself for not examining the horse more thoroughly before they left Halsdon Manor. His cousin was doing a fine job of pushing Leo’s temper to the limit, the bad blood between the two smouldering beneath the surface urbanity.

  This trip to Buckinghamshire had been a mistake. The days were just about acceptable, with outdoor pastimes to occupy them, but the evenings were a trial, the atmosphere fraught. More than once Leo had been within ames ace of leaving and returning to town, but Stanton had arranged to view those ponies the day after tomorrow, and Leo was damned if he would give Lascelles the satisfaction of believing he had driven him away. No. He would stay put and return to London with Vernon and Stanton in a week’s time as previously arranged.

  Disinclined to wait for a fresh horse to be sent from Halsdon, Leo had instead elected to lead Saga the mile and a half to Malton for reshoeing, savouring the solitude. It was a bright morning, with frost still lingering in pockets where the sun had yet to reach and a chilly breeze. As he waited in the February sunshine, Leo felt his irritation dissipate as he watched life in the quiet village of Malton unfold before him. The farrier—Benson by name—chattered nonstop as he worked, calling out greetings to passers-by, regaling Leo with their life histories once they were out of earshot. During a lull in the man’s discourse, Leo’s attention was drawn by a light grey Arabian, complete with side-saddle, tethered a hundred yards or so down the street. The horse had exceptional conformation and a flowing snowy-white mane and tail.

  ‘That is a spectacular animal,’ he said, thinking how much Olivia would love the Arabian.

  Benson peered along the street before fixing his attention once more on Saga’s off fore. ‘Ah, yes, a fine beast, sir, a fine beast indeed.’ He placed the red-hot horseshoe on the animal’s hoof, removed it and deftly pared the scorched areas level before nailing the shoe in place. ‘’E belongs to Mrs Pryce, so he does. Poor young lady. A widder, sir, so they say.’

  Mrs Pryce? Leo kept an eye on the horse and, before long, a figure dressed in a peacock-blue riding habit and matching hat emerged from a nearby doorway, followed by a man who laced his fingers for Mrs Pryce to step on to in order to mount the Arabian. If Benson had not already identified her, Leo would never have recognised her. She looked very different to the shabbily clad woman of a few days before.

  A widow. Anticipation rushed through his veins, stirring his blood...except...so they say? Gossip and conjecture, not fact.

  ‘Has she not long lived here?’

  ‘Only a couple of weeks, sir. She rides in most days to fetch a newspaper and the post, but the others keep themselves to themselves, they do. Living out at Stoney End, they are. That’s a house on the Foxbourne estate, sir, seeing as you’s a stranger yourself to these parts.’

  Foxbourne. That was Rockbeare’s place, where they were due to go on Thursday to inspect that driving pair for Stanton.

  ‘They?’

  ‘She lives with her brother and sister, sir. Or so I’m told—no one’s seen a hair of their heads since they moved in.’ Benson filed the wall of Saga’s hoof, sweat dripping from the end of his nose. ‘There.’ He put the horse’s foot down, and straightened his back, wiping his forehead with one sweep of his beefy forearm. ‘All done.’

  The Arabian stepped daintily down the street in their direction and Leo retreated into the gloom at the rear of the forge as Benson raised his voice in greeting. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Pryce, a fine day it is, is it not?’

  Mrs Pryce responded to Benson with a stunning smile that slammed into Leo with the force of a kick from a horse.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Benson.’

  She cut a graceful figure, her skirts draping elegantly to conceal her legs and feet. Her appearance and manner proclaimed her a lady—unlike her former attire—but she did not move in Leo’s circles. He would not have overlooked such a female, with her clear, direct gaze and her full soft lips. His body responded to the memory of the provocative sway of those rounded hips with the spontaneity of a youth. It was too long since he’d had a woman. A dalliance with a comely widow might be just the remedy for his boredom and help lessen his exasperation with Lascelles.

  Mrs Pryce disappeared from view, and Leo swung up on to Saga and set off in pursuit. Her reaction the other day suggested she might not welcome his company, but he enjoyed a challenge. He recalled his cousin’s words with a twist of disgust. Most definitely not the kind of challenge Lascelles had hinted at. Vernon had been right—Leo could not stomach any kind of coercion, but neither did he particularly relish bedding the readily available widows he came across in society. They had no interest in him as a man. As a person. Their avaricious eyes fixed on his title and his wealth and rendered them oblivious to all else.

  Mrs Pryce presented a rare opportunity. The true identities of the guests at Halsdon Manor had been concealed in an attempt to keep the matchmaking mamas of the county set at bay and Leo was visiting as Mr Boyton, Viscount Boyton being one of his many minor titles. Most parents of marriageable-age daughters were unable to resist the lure of an unmarried duke in their midst and it was easier not to receive invitations to hastily planned balls and parties than to offend the local gentry with refusals. So Mrs Pry
ce would have no idea of his true identity.

  He could play a part.

  Leo Boyton the man—not the Duke with a vast fortune and extensive estates to gild his appeal.

  Saga’s ground-eating trot carried them around a blind bend, beyond which was a river spanned by a bridge. Leo was so deep in conjecture he failed to notice the Arabian had halted as, in the absence of any contrary instructions from his rider, Saga trotted on until they were almost upon the smaller animal. The Arabian let out a shrill neigh and, half-rearing, plunged away from the oncoming threat, causing its rider to lurch violently to one side. As Mrs Pryce scrabbled to gather the reins, a sheet of paper flew from her hands, helped on its way by the breeze. Her hat tilted and slid from the crown of her head, carried on a heavy fall of soft golden-brown waves that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. The hat, with its white feather, came to rest at a lopsided angle at her nape, seemingly hanging by a single pin.

  ‘Oh!’

  That breathy half-squeak triggered a visceral reaction deep inside Leo, setting his pulse pounding. He watched in admiration as Mrs Pryce expertly brought the skittish Arabian back under control. She stared at Leo for several seconds, her eyes wide, then her brows snapped together and she turned her horse, urging him towards the bridge. Before they reached it, however, she halted again, wildly scanning the surrounding area.

  ‘No!’

  She lifted her right leg clear of the pommel and slid to the ground, revealing a glimpse of slim calf as her skirts rode up.

  ‘Stand, Kamal.’

  She hoisted up her skirts and ran to snatch up the letter the breeze had deposited on the riverbank, where she teetered for a few seconds before regaining her balance. Her back to Leo, she straightened her shoulders and shook out the skirt of her riding habit. She then attempted to bring some order to her hair as it wafted around her head in the breeze, but in doing so she dislodged her hat. It whirled into the air, raised on a sudden gust that promptly dropped it straight into the river.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Pryce bent to gather the draping skirt of her habit again and then hesitated on the bank, one foot raised. She stamped her foot back to the ground, dropped her skirts and whirled to face Leo, narrowed eyes shooting sparks. ‘Now look what has happened. That...’ she waved towards the hat, floating off downstream ‘...was my favourite hat.’

  She was all womanly wrath, full breasts heaving.

  She is magnificent.

  Leo tore his attention from her, leapt from Saga’s back and ran along the bank until he was level with the blue hat, whirling in the current, feather fluttering. A nearby sapling grew close enough to the water’s edge to provide an anchor so Leo removed his own hat, locked one arm around its trunk and leaned over the water, stretching towards the hat with his hunting crop.

  There. Almost. He snagged the hat, pulling it close to the bank, then released the trunk and stepped forward to fish it from the river. He registered the subtle shift of soil beneath his foot too late. Before he could retreat, the bank gave way and his right leg plunged knee-deep into the bone-chilling water of the river.

  ‘Hell and damnation!’

  He grabbed the hat, dropping his crop in the process, and hauled himself back on to the bank. Thank God it was just the one foot. He looked back at the river, hoping to retrieve his crop, but it was already several feet away, spinning in an eddy.

  A splutter assaulted his ears and he turned slowly. She must have followed him, for she was closer than he expected, her full lips pursed tight, her eyes dancing. Leo straightened to his full height. How dare she laugh at him? He had done her a favour by rescuing her hat...was it too much to expect a little gratitude...concern even? He’d wager she would soon sober up if she knew his identity.

  Coming the Duke again, Your Grace? Vernon’s jibe—thrown at Leo whenever he was in danger of becoming pompous—whispered in his brain. What was the point in travelling as Mr Boyton if he flaunted his title the minute he was treated with less than due deference?

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  Mrs Pryce’s gaze locked on Leo’s boot, which squelched as he walked towards her. Her brows shot up, her lips quivered and another laugh gurgled forth. Leo’s irritation melted away as his own lips twitched in response.

  He stopped in front of her and bowed. ‘Your hat, Mrs Pryce.’

  He proffered the hat and she took it, holding it away from her as it dripped. She smiled up at Leo, a dimple denting one cheek, her eyes—a beautiful golden-brown, exactly the same shade as her hair—sparkling.

  ‘I thank you, sir. That was most...er...chivalrous. But I am afraid you have the advantage of me, for I do not know your name.’

  ‘Boyton, ma’am. Leo Boyton, at your service.’

  Her expression clouded. ‘At your service...’ Her voice dripped scorn.

  She spun on her heel and marched towards where their horses now cropped the grass side by side. Halfway across the intervening gap, she stopped and whirled around to face Leo. ‘Do not imagine I am not grateful, Mr Boyton, but I cannot be easy here with you, in view of the company you keep. Your choice of friend, sir, does you no favours.’

  Friend? Leo followed Mrs Pryce who, having reached the grey, now hesitated. She bent her head, looking down for a second or two, then sucked in a deep breath, her shoulders lifting as her lungs filled.

  ‘Would you be so good as to assist me, sir?’ The words sounded as though they were forced between gritted teeth.

  Leo grinned, safe in the knowledge she could not see. ‘Of course...but...first, allow me to defend myself.’

  She turned, her narrowed gaze that of a lioness about to pounce. ‘I am pleased you find my predicament so amusing.’

  Leo sobered. How could she tell, from those few words he had uttered?

  She crossed her arms. ‘Pray, continue.’

  ‘You claim, justifiably, that my choice of friend does me no favours, but will you so readily condemn a man for his family, over whom he has no choice?’

  ‘Family? You are related to my neighbour?’

  ‘Yes. We are cousins. We are not close, however.’

  A wry smile curved her lips. ‘I, of all people, cannot judge you by your relations. As you say, one has no choice to whom one is related. But, nevertheless, you have chosen to accept your cousin’s hospitality.’

  ‘That is true. My cousin has lived in the Americas for many years. He returned to England only a few months ago and invited my brother and me to enjoy a few days’ hunting. It seemed churlish to refuse.’

  ‘And your other friend? Mr Stanton?’

  ‘He is searching for a safe pair of ponies for his new wife to drive and there is a pair for sale locally.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And what of your family?’ he asked. ‘It sounded as though you also have relatives you do not care for.’

  ‘My immediate family is delightful.’

  ‘So you do admit to some less than agreeable kin?’

  ‘One or two.’

  She half-turned from him, towards Kamal, then glanced over her shoulder and raised a brow. He ignored her silent command and indicated the letter she held.

  ‘Is that letter from one of them?’

  The paper crackled as her fingers flexed.

  ‘Not from one of the less than agreeable members or I should have happily relinquished it to the river and we...’ she faced him again ‘...would not be having this conversation.’ Her gaze travelled—lingeringly—down the length of his body, leaving a fiery trail of desire in its wake. It came to rest on his boot. ‘Should you not remove your boot to drain the water from it?’

  His foot and lower leg were numb with cold and he would dearly love to do as she suggested, but...

  ‘I fear I would struggle to remove it without help. Unless, of course, you care to offer your assistance?
’

  Her brows rose, as did her gaze, which locked with his. ‘That would hardly be appropriate, sir. Why, I hardly know you.’

  ‘That can soon be remedied.’

  He stepped closer, effectively trapping her between his body and that of her horse. A faint gasp—intrinsically feminine—whispered past his ears and his heart responded with a lurch and a yearning he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. He studied her: her fine, creamy skin, the peachy blush of her cheeks and her straight yet delicate nose, the lush pink lips, the fine golden-brown threads of her brows. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, gleamed as they held his gaze. There was curiosity in their depths. No hint of fear or apprehension.

  Leo stripped off his glove and touched his fingertips to her jaw. Her skin was silky-smooth, soft and warm. The scent of jasmine and warm woman weaved through his senses and blood surged to his loins. Then, on a swiftly indrawn breath, she looked down and away.

  Leo stepped back and her lids flew open. Her gaze sought his again, questioning, and he smiled reassuringly. There was no hurry. She might be a widow, but he had no intention of rushing her. Over the years, he had found the preliminaries—the intricate dance and the anticipation—almost as enjoyable as the act itself. Delay only served to enhance the pleasure.

  There was only ever one first moment of recognition.

  Only one first kiss.

  Only one first time to lie together.

  They were times to savour.

  He slid his hands either side of her ribcage, then smoothed his palms down her sides to the indent of her waist. He tightened his grip and lifted her, the narrowness of her waist and the womanly flare of her hips imprinting in his memory as he raised her to the saddle. She hooked her leg around the pommel, settled her skirts, placed her sodden hat upon the Arabian’s withers and finally tucked her letter inside her bodice. She cast him an unfathomable look, then nudged Kamal towards the bridge. Before they had taken a dozen paces, however, she halted him and reined him around.