Page 7 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Still, wreathed in mist and shadow, it was a striking sight, and Miss Burke seemed to be forcibly struck by it.

“I—I don’t… Are you—?” She looked from Hawesdale to him and back again, nostrils flaring. “Are you the…the steward or…or the housekeeper’s son, or—?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Burke.” The wry smile that curved his lips was only partly in response to her reaction.

Mostly, he was remembering the day he had overheard Cook telling one of the new kitchen maids what seemed to be common knowledge among the staff: “Her Grace, God rest ’er, were that desperate to give His Grace another son. A spare, so to speak. When the years rolled by with no babe in sight, folks did say she took comfort in the arms of another man…” At those words Cook’s smoke-roughened voice had dropped to a whisper, and Tristan had had to hold his breath to hear the rest. “’Tis not for me to say, o’ course. But there’s little enough of the old duke in Lord Tris, to be sure. An’ the head gardener did leave his post thereafter…”

Whether the rumor that the late duchess had consorted with the gardener was true, and whether the second son of the Duke of Raynham in fact belonged to another man, only his mother could have told him for certain, and she had died too soon after his birth to tell him anything. His brother Percy, eleven years his senior, had been unapproachable on matters of far less import; Tristan could never bring to himself to ask about sordid gossip.

After that day, he had taken the only prudent course. He had walled up every weakness he imagined inimical to the son of a duke. He had refused to indulge in behaviors that might invite speculation. And he had followed rules, rather than breaking them, as boys—and men, and even, it seemed, some women—were wont to do.

Ultimately, he had consoled himself with the knowledge that, if the story had been true, the man who called himself his father surely would have disowned him, or at least betrayed his disdain in some word or deed. Instead, he’d willingly granted Tristan’s request to purchase him an officer’s commission. He and Tristan were alike in neither appearance nor temperament, it was true. But really, what did it matter? Tristan was not next in line for the dukedom.

Until he was.

“That is your house?” Erica demanded, bringing him back to the present moment. “And I suppose all this”—she gestured feebly with her free hand toward the woods and the hills—“is also…yours?”

“Yes. Every step we’ve taken today has been on my land.”

Her hand slid from his sleeve. “You mean…the cottage—?”

“Once housed the estate’s head gardener.”

“Then you are—you’re a—”

“A duke.” He felt strangely as if he ought to bow when he said it, as one did when making a proper introduction. And he might have, if not for the mud and the rain and the fact that they had already spent a night in one another’s company. “Raynham, for my sins.”

If her hands had not already been white with cold, her fierce grip on Lady Jane’s reins would have stripped the color from her knuckles. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace.” Her amber eyes swept boldly over him. “I was going to say, you are a coward.”

Chapter 3

And a liar, Erica wanted to add, but a rare flash of self-preservation kept her tongue in her mouth. Tristan Laurens, indeed! Although…

At the wedding ceremony joining her sister to the Marquess of Ashborough, she’d learned one thing. Noblemen were saddled with a long string of names that were almost never used, not even in the family. Vaguely, she’d wondered whether such a man might even forget a few of them. Perhaps the Duke of—what was it he’d said? Ah, yes. Raynham—had a similar litany that included the name Tristan. Tristan, whose father had been fond of the stories of King Arthur and his knights…

What rubbish!

Over the plodding steps of the mare, who followed her dutifully though the reins had fallen slack in Erica’s hand, she heard the splash-stomp of a man’s booted tread. “A coward, did you say? Explain yourself, Miss Burke.”

Did he ever ask? Plead, cajole, beg? She would hear him barking out orders in her sleep tonight.

“And if I won’t, Your Grace? Ah, but I forgot. Your sort considers it a matter of pride to answer an insult. Or is it a matter of honor? Oh, dear. Will you challenge me to a duel, then?” She whirled on him so fast she nearly lost her footing in the mud. “Before you speak, you ought to know my younger brother taught me to shoot, and I almost never miss.”

She tried to convince herself he didn’t look like a duke, standing there covered head to toe in mud, overlong hair plastered to his brow and neck, rain tracing glittering tracks through the scruff of his beard. Yet even through the dirt, his bearing radiated power, authority, control. As did his eyes, which at this distance were black and hard as mica chips. “You almost never…” he repeated, incredulous. “Stop spouting nonsense, Miss Burke. If you can.”

As he spoke he continued to stride toward her, and on the last three words he stopped just inches away. Perhaps his eyes really were black. At the moment, not even a sliver of color rimmed his flared pupils. His breath formed little puffs of steam in the chilled air, putting her strongly in mind of a cartoon sketch of a raging bull.

The fingertips of her free hand drove into his breastbone. “Only a coward would have kept his true identity a secret. Did you imagine if I had known who you were, I would have used last night’s unfortunate circumstance to my benefit? Let’s see…a young woman, stranded overnight with an eligible gentleman…ought I to expect an offer of marriage?” At that, his jaw actually fell open. “Silly me, I thought only to shelter from the storm. And for that matter,” she went on, lifting her fingers for the satisfaction of thrusting them forward again with the next point, “why on earth were you there to begin with? You might have reached your home easily before the heaviest rain began to fall. Only a coward would have chosen that tumble-down shack over the risk of getting wet.”

“Have a care, Miss Burke.” In a flash, his hand came up and pinned hers flat to his chest. A wall of muscle and bone leaped to life under her touch. Were pampered, privileged noblemen usually so wonderfully…hard? “I am—”

But whatever he was remained unspoken. Lady Jane stamped and snorted, heralding the arrival of another set of footsteps.

“Raynham? Is that you?” The man spoke with a strong Scottish accent that carried through the rain as he trudged up the hill from the direction of the gatehouse. He was neatly dressed, bespectacled, and carrying an umbrella.

“Mr. Davies.” The duke dropped his hold on her hand and leaned forward to extend his in greeting. “What brings you out in this weather?”

The man stopped a few feet from them and bowed his head crisply; he made no attempt to shake hands. After holding his own position a moment too long, the duke jerked himself upright, as if a fishhook had caught him in the spine. “Her Grace asked me to keep a lookout,” Mr. Davies said. He looked to be her father’s age, or thereabouts. His clothes, his complexion, everything about him bespoke the sort of person who performed his most important work behind a desk. And everything about his current demeanor suggested he toiled behind that desk at the behest of the man standing before him. Even the rain seemed to make him nervous. He fumbled with his umbrella as if weighing whether or not he should surrender it to the duke.