The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M. Raven McAllan

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СКАЧАТЬ for attendance seemed a good idea to him. The more children who got an education, the better he – and whatever anyone thought it would be he – could ensure his estates were well maintained and prospered. ‘I’ll shave, change into my riding clothes and boots and meet you back here.’

      Boleyn beamed. ‘I told Mrs Loveage you’d soon be chafing at the bit and raring to take up the reins again. Once you recovered.’ His majordomo turned on his heel smartly, and slipped behind the green baize door discreetly located under the imposing staircase.

      Recovered from what? Brody pondered the question as he made his way up the stairs two at a time to swap his house shoes for riding boots and a jacket which, although more befitting his status, didn’t set him too far apart from anyone he might meet, and jeopardise his intentions to be a hands-on owner.

      Hands-on. He wished.

      Damn. That thought reminded him once more of his late mistress, Mercedes. Mercedes of the ‘black as a raven’s wing’ hair and deep blue eyes, which could soften into submission, or flash with anger. Their time together had been brief, tempestuous, and more than enjoyable. Mercedes insisted it was not for ever, she wouldn’t leave and go to England with him. Instead, she said, it would be best they part with affection before he returned to England.

      A year or so earlier, Brody had been sent to another part of the country to reconnoitre a way for troops to infiltrate the area. On his return he had found her battered and bleeding, with her hair shaved and carved into her chest the word – in English – ‘traitor’.

      She died in his arms, and Brody swore never again would he lose his heart. He’d closed in on himself and done his job with ruthless determination.

      It was no wonder he’d taken so long to regroup.

      Since then, Brody ruminated, his cock was in danger of forgetting what its mission in life really was, and was in trouble of seizing up through disuse. It had been a lowering realisation that to enjoy delights of the flesh, one needed to be where the ladies were. Sadly where those willing to play could be found, so also could their children or worse, their spouses.

      Plus, those debs desperate for a husband, with all the ruthlessness needed to ensnare an eligible man by fair means or foul, appeared from nowhere. Usually it seemed… foul. At a soiree his mother had cajoled him to attend, he had to threaten one lady when she’d followed him into the antechamber of the gentlemen’s smoking room. Unbeknown on his side and with full, snare-intentions on hers. Brody been treated to an eyeful of bosom and a threat to say it was him who coerced her into the room. He had departed via the window, but not before he told her in no uncertain terms who would come off the worse if she tried any such thing. Indisputably, it wouldn’t be him, he’d make sure of that. His ire and determination left one very scared debutant to hightail it out of the chamber and him to go back to the soiree via the ivy and to make his farewells to his hostess. Thence to avoid all such events. For that he gave thanks and left London swiftly, before any more ingenious plots to ensnare him could be put into fruition.

      There and then, Brody made his mind up. His body would get its relief via his hands or not at all. Over a month later he’d kept to that and would continue to do so… Until…until what he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t until some forward debutant – or her ambitious mother – got their talons into him. Luckily, in this part of the country he’d get plenty of notice if any such plans seemed likely and would be able to employ avoidance tactics.

      Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.

      ‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’

      Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.

      ‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’

      ‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’

      She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.

      ‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’

      She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.

      He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’

      She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’

      Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.

      ‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’

      ‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.

      ‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’

      She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.

      ‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness СКАЧАТЬ