The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M. Raven McAllan

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      Now, because Boleyn had known him since he was in the cradle, he accepted the man’s furrowed brow and silent disapproval as given. Boleyn had disapproved of Brody’s ways well before he headed to the continent and Brody supposed he’d done nothing to change the man’s opinion since he got back.

      ‘What have I done now?’ Brody asked resignedly. ‘Except empty the brandy bottle before noon.’

      Boleyn looked him up and down, and it took all of Brody’s concentration not to fidget. He really did feel like a scrubby schoolboy once more, albeit with a three-day growth on his chin. Boleyn might only be fifteen or so years older than him, but he had the knack of making Brody regress.

      ‘Or not done?’ Brody added.

      ‘Too much to mention, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Boleyn said austerely. ‘In other’s, not enough. May I suggest you start to rectify that before all is lost.’

      Brody looked at his feet, just to avoid Boleyn’s sorrowful and disappointed expression. It made him appear like a lugubrious bloodhound. Brody sighed, put his glass down on a side table, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. ‘Who, what, and where? How much do I need to grovel?’

      Boleyn smiled and his relief was so evident to see, Brody felt like a heel. He knew he’d dragged his feet with regards to insisting he became more involved with the daily workings of his heritage. But with such determined resistance from those who held onto the reins, he’d decided to become more used to civilian life before demanding things change.

      Now he wondered just what his servants thought of him. Oh yes, they all knew him in his younger days, when he’d been a rake and a rogue, and enjoyed every moment of it. Then, wagering, wenching, and wine had been his raison d’être. No longer. Of course they didn’t know that and Brody had no idea how he could impart the knowledge, except by example perhaps? If given the chance.

       Take it, you are the Duke. Take that chance, don’t wait for it to be given.

      Boleyn coughed delicately and Brody realised he’d been wool-gathering again.

      ‘Sorry,’ he apologised sincerely to the older man. ‘Tell me, plot my day for me. Set me back on the straight and narrow, but…’ he grinned, ‘…give me time off for good behaviour.’

      Boleyn’s worried expression cleared and he bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. I vow, I despaired of ever hearing those words from your lips.’

      Brody decided not to enquire which of his words met Boleyn’s approval. He’d just bask in the approval while he could.

      ‘So, my agenda?’ he prompted. Now he was in the right frame of mind, he might as well get a move on, just in case the mood dissipated. Not that he thought it would, but Brody had seen too much to assume anything.

      ‘Well now.’ Boleyn rested the tips of his fingers on his chin, an expression Brody recognised as Boleyn in pensive mode. ‘A shave first, for, not to put too fine a point on it, you look like a vagrant.’

      Brody ran his fingers over his chin. The three-day-old growth was neither fashionable nor sculpted. It was merely facial hair. Untidy, stubbly, facial hair.

      ‘Point taken. First a shave. Then?’

      ‘Then you should take up the reins and re-immerse yourself in the estate. If that’s your idea?’

      Brody nodded. ‘I’ve wallowed and been sidestepped enough. No more.’

      ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Boleyn smiled. ‘If I may suggest a visit to old Mrs Wiggins? She’s in Apple Cottage, since Joe, you remember her son, passed. He was in one of the foot regiments and was lost at Waterloo.’

      Brody winced, and nodded. The carnage was all too fresh in his mind. Even though no one knew he was there, he’d been around, and seen more terrible things in one day than anyone would want to see in a lifetime.

      ‘And Miss Cinderford,’ Boleyn continued. ‘She’s next door. They both have fond memories of you and never fail to ask after you.’

      ‘Cinders?’ Brody used the nickname for his old nurse. ‘I thought she’d be long gone by now.’

      Boleyn shook his head. ‘Hale and hearty. Still walks to church twice on Sundays, takes her turn on the flower rota and teaches the children their scriptures at Sunday school. She’s been looking forward to your return.’ He didn’t add, as he well could, ‘and you’ve been back months and seen no one’. ‘Chef will have some pastries for you to take to the ladies. It’ll save Mrs Loveage a detour when she goes to visit the pensioners on the other side of the river. She tries to get round them all once a week, now your mama is absent.’

      Mrs Loveage, his housekeeper – known to Brody’s younger self as Lovey, and at one time an undernursemaid – was another stalwart who wasn’t in the first blush of youth. If Boleyn was trying to make Brody feel guilty, Brody knew fine well the man had more than succeeded. If he ever wed, that activity would fall to his wife. If. A little word with a big meaning.

      ‘Of course. Now I can help.’

      Boleyn looked sceptical and Brody grinned. ‘Well not in everything but when you or she think I’m needed. What else?’

      ‘Cakes for the school. It’s the monthly treat for those who attend regularly. With cook laid up, Mrs Loveage is charge.’

      It was the first Brody had heard of the cook’s illness. Guiltily he wondered what else his staff had kept from him because they thought – mistakenly – he was indifferent.

      ‘What’s wrong with the cook?’ He needed to know. Dammit she is my responsibility.

      ‘Cooking sherry.’

      What? ‘The cook is addicted to cooking sherry?’

      Boleyn shook his head and coughed. ‘Ahem, only for one week in each month, my lord. And we manage.’

      Brody digested that somewhat puzzling statement for several seconds before the light dawned. Those damned days when the curse ailed Mercedes so badly that she took to her bed alone. Although he didn’t think the cooking sherry ever went with her. More likely the finest wine and a bottle of port. As ever, the thought of Mercedes hit him hard and sent a searing rush of anguish through him. Brody blocked his painful thoughts off and concentrated on what was being said.

      ‘Good, so, you were saying about the school children and cakes?’ He changed the subject hastily. He really didn’t want a conversation about a woman’s body at that moment.

      ‘This month all forty-seven pupils are eligible. Miss Grey is overjoyed with that.’

      Brody supposed Miss Grey was the new schoolmistress. He vaguely remembered his mama saying Miss Pettifer, the previous incumbent, had left to take care of her widowed father. He wondered idly whose idea the cakes were but decided it might be best not to enquire. Just in case it was seen as a criticism. This Duke thing is fraught with pitfalls. He cast his mind back to the elegant lady his body had lusted over all those weeks earlier. He’d never seen her since, even though he’d kept an eye out for her on his sojourns around the area. Was she Miss Grey? Damn, definitely not in my league then. He certainly could not proposition someone who was, СКАЧАТЬ