Page 4 of The One With the Rogue Duke

“Gotta love a woman who knows her mind.”

“Clear those stars from your eyes, Grice.”

The old man only laughed in reply. “If you find yourself in a huff over her, we’ve got a whole heap of hay to pitch.”

“Grice!” a voice cried out in alarm. “Regulus is loose!”

“Damn,” Grice cursed as his feet padded toward the call. The two rushed out of the barn, expecting bright hot sun. Instead it was covered in a large, looking shadow.

The sight that met them was enough to scare a seasoned groom. A large, black Friesian, up on his hind legs, batting at the air whinnying at another groom trapped against the stable wall.

Slowly, Ash approached the front left shoulder, palm out and down, using a soft voice to calm the horse. From the corner of his eye, he could see the groom trembling, for good reason.

First, he spoke to the man. “Stay calm, son. No fast movements. You’re going to be all right.” Another shuffle toward the horse and more soothing words—this time toward Regulus—had the horse rethinking its outburst.

“That’s it.” Ash kept talking and moving closer until all four legs settled back on the ground, and he could finally put a soft hand on the animal’s neck.

Once Regulus had settled, Ash checked back in with the man against the wall of the barn. “Take her inside,” Ash encouraged the groom. “Show her you’re not afraid.” The young man nodded solemnly and came to lead the horse back in.

Grice, hat in hand, said, “If I wasn’t such a clever-boned man myself, I’d say two spooks was an omen of some kind of witchcraft. But,” he slapped his hat on his head, “seeing as I’m the smart one of the two of us, I won’t be saying that.”

Omen. Witches. Ash only knew of one shrew shrewish enough to be collected in that basket. Fire raced through his blood. Perhaps at the recent events. But more likely at those to come.

Hell and damnation. He was here now and wasn’t likely to bail.

May as well fork the hay.

Chapter 3

Ash

“Truth. She’s horrible.” Ash huffed as he pitched the fork into the heaping pile of hay.

“Fact. She’s deceitful.” Another huff.

“Authenticity. Doesn’t have it.” His fork went in deep for that one, lifted, swung it over his head.

“Genuine. Not one bone. Not,” he puffed, “a single,” he grunted, “one.”

“Reality. She might just be a witch—”

“Ahhh!”

Good lord, not another crisis. Ash grumbled looking for his shoulder only to catch sight of a walking pile of hay.

“Get it off!” she demanded, not sobbingly he noted, but like a princess—nay a queen—would direct. “Now.”

“Why’d you walk into this if you could see I was stacking hay?”

With great insistence, along with an arm extended outward as if she were holding a scepter, she ordered, “Just get it off of me.”

And none too sarcastically, he replied, “Yes, my lady.” And because she couldn’t see him, he salaamed before sauntering over and extracting a bunch of hay off of her head.

He knew what she looked like. More or less. She had been a diamond of the first water at her debut. Everyone had noticed. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t. But either A, he forgot or B, he had seriously understated it in his memory vault.

Because the more hay he removed, the tighter his breeches felt. Gold-spun hair. Check. Ocean blue eyes. Check. But what Grice hadn’t waxed poetic about was the softness of her skin, that which the backs of his knuckles incidentally grazed as he removed more hay. And what Grice also hadn’t mentioned was that those eyes might be blue like the ocean, but they were also fierce like water could be. Powerful. And though they be narrowed at him in vexation, they pierced a different response throughout his body. One he did not like one bit.

The bright sun sprinkled its rays on her high cheek bones and downward on her burgeoning bosom. Heaving as it was, in fury.