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“They are demanding to see you, Your Grace.”
“I cannot go to Daventon. I cannot see them.” His hands fisted beneath his desk. If his father had not been so selfish and careless, the lives of these people would not have been so.
Meyer looked down at the parchment he was holding. “We cannot decrease the rent any longer if that is what you are considering. At least not until the brewery begins production.”
“Tell them to give me time,” he said.
Meyer looked uncertain but nodded. “I shall tell them something convincing, Your Grace.”
“Do you have any more unpleasant news?”
“No, Your Grace. That will be all.” Meyer slid the sheet he had been holding across the desk. “That is the report on the progress of the brewery.”
“When are the stills due to arrive?” Harry asked, glancing at the contents of the sheet.
“A week or less, Your Grace,” Meyer answered.
“Very good. The quicker they arrive the better. Has there been word from Smith?”
Meyer’s frown became worried. “No, Your Grace.”
Mr. Smith was a merchant who imported goods from the East Indies, and Harry had recently invested in the venture. He held the sigh that rose in his chest, hoping the reason for the silence was not misfortune. Smith had not communicated with them in three months.
He gave Meyer several more instructions, and when the man had left, Harry placed his elbows on his desk and allowed his face to settle in his palms. He had gained a lot from his marriage, and he was investing the funds, but the result would not be immediate. What worried him the most were his tenants.
A while later, he stood to pour himself some beer, and that was when he caught sight of a slight figure crossing the fields through his window. The red hair was unmistakable, and he found his feet carrying him out of his study. He went after her.
Chapter 8
The duchess did not notice him follow her, and she muttered to herself as she walked, which he found amusing. In her hand was a basket, which incited him to wonder where she was going.
He knew he would be caught the moment a bark sounded from behind him.
She turned around, then blinked. “Did you follow me?”
“Should I not?” he asked, walking to stand in front of her. Cato joined them, but Harry’s attention was on his wife.
“Well, you are the duke, and you may do as you please.”
“And you are the duchess. Where are you going?”
She gestured toward the greenhouse in the distance. “I wish to collect some herbs for tea.” Cato nudged her hand and she smiled tenderly at him. She seemed to truly adore the dog, and Harry was further drawn to her because of it.
“There are servants for such a task.”
“I know, but I wish to collect them myself. I am very fond of plants and gardening, you see,” she explained, her eyes sparkling as she spoke.
“Then, may I accompany you?” he heard himself ask. He was supposed to keep away from her, yet he could not bring himself to do that. She did not appear to be as repulsed by his appearance as he thought, and a part of him was amazingly tempted to seduce her.
“Yes, Your Grace, that would please me.” She smiled.
Please her, he thought, his mind wandering to a dimension where there was naught but passion and pleasure. He could easily envisage her beneath him, his deft hands drawing a sensual moan from her lips.
“Call me Harry,” he said, wishing to remove the barrier of formality between them.
She tilted her head and a lovely smile spread across her features. “And you may call me Bridget.”
“Well, Bridget, what sort of herbs will you be collecting this morning?”
