Page 3 of How Not to Marry a Duke

As angry as he was, he couldn’t help but notice she was beautiful. Bits of straw clung to her hair and his fingers itched to pluck them out. Still, she was either mad or simply illogical, and arguing with her over a pig was not why he was here. He’d been managing his injury, and now it hurt anew. He needed to return home, remove the bandages, and inspect the damage.

“The pen is not secure,” he pointed out.

“Henry has a knack for releasing the latch.”

“You don’t say.”

Her chin lifted at his flat tone. “You have yet to state your purpose here, sir. I told you my name. What is yours?”

He’d chosen this village for a reason. Far from London, no one knew him here, and he had no intention of revealing his true identity. “Mr. Daniel Millstone. I reside down the lane.”

Her eyes lit and her expression softened. “A neighbor! Well, Mr. Millstone, I had hoped to meet you under different circumstances. As you can see,” she said, waving to the cart on the patch of grass he’d noticed earlier, “my belongings have just recently arrived.”

He eyed the overloaded wagon. Whoever had packed the rickety contraption had done a sloppy job. Warwick’s mathematical mind excelled at geometry, and he inwardly cringed at the way the baggage and valises had been haphazardly tossed into the wagon. If they had been properly loaded, much more could have fit. A portrait was strapped to the back of the wagon with a rope. A ten-year-old child could have secured it better. How it hadn’t fallen out during its jaunt down the bumpy country road was beyond him.

Wait.

Warwick’s brow furrowed as he gazed at the portrait. The man’s image was vaguely familiar, like a specter in the back of his mind. Where had he seen him before?

“I apologize for a most unusual welcome. I had planned on stopping by to introduce myself with a basket of baked goods, but along with unpacking, there is much to be done around the cottage.” She let out a sigh. “Perhaps we can start anew, and if you’d be kind enough to return another time, I’ll be sure to have tea ready so I can properly say hello.”

“You misunderstand. My visit is not for social purposes.”

Her brow creased. “It’s not?”

“No. Your dogs are a nuisance; they bark at all hours of the day and night.”

“My dogs? Oh, I understand.” She walked to the makeshift fence and placed two fingers between her lips and let out a loud whistle. Both hounds loped to her side. Tongues lolling, they sat back on their haunches. She stroked the top of the dogs’ heads and ears. “Remus and Romulus are not my hunting hounds; I’m treating them for digestive problems. The barking isn’t their fault. You’d bark as well if you suffered from the same condition.”

Only his manners prevented him from laughing at the ridiculousness of that statement. Surely, she was mad. First a pet pig, now the ill dogs. “You are not the only person in this village, madame. Your animals are disruptive.”

Her lips thinned. “Disruptive?”

“Is it your habit to repeat everything?” he asked.

“To repeat…” Her spine stiffened and she faced him, blue eyes blazing. “I assure you, the barking will be temporary. Just until the dogs fully recover. As for you, Mr. Millstone,” she said, placing a hand on her hip, “I can honestly say that I have never encountered such an arrogant man in my life, other than my own aristocratic brother. You and Edwin would get along nicely.”

My aristocratic brother. Edwin.

His gaze returned to the portrait. With pulse-pounding awareness, he realized why it disturbed him. The man looked like an older version of someone from his past, someone he didn’t recall with fondness, and there was only one titled man he knew with that name.

Lord Edwin Cameron, the current Earl of Foster. The portrait must be of Edwin’s father, the old Earl of Foster.

His gaze raked over Adeline. She looked nothing like her fair-haired and pale-skinned father and brother. He’d believed she was a country mouse, not an earl’s sister. She’d even introduced herself as a miss and not a lady. The Earl of Foster may not be a friend, but he was still a part of the aristocracy, and Warwick had no intention of continuing to argue with an earl’s sister, a lady.

“I see,” he said.

“Do you?”

It was best if he left. From his physical discomfort, he suspected his arm had started bleeding and needed to be attended to. Even though he was never one to back down from an argument, no good could come from confronting the unusual woman facing him.

His voice was gruff. “I’ll leave you to your business, and bid you good day, miss.”

…

How could such a handsome man be such an arrogant arse!

Adeline let out a held-in breath as she watched Mr. Daniel Millstone walk away. Her arrival at her cottage in the quaint Chilham village was not as she’d expected, and her neighbor was no exception. He hadn’t even spared a backward glance as he strode down the dirt lane toward his home. He may possess a sour disposition, but she’d have to be blind not to notice his tall, muscular build—a build she had closely encountered in the garden during the Henry incident. With his tawny hair, chiseled jaw, aristocratic nose, and vivid green eyes, he had the face and form that could make a lady glance back on the street or a barmaid linger as she offered him a tankard of ale.