Why couldn’t even one of his feckless male relatives have left a legitimate male offspring to succeed him? Was it asking too much? Those worthless knaves had spread their seeds everywhere except in their own wives’ bedchambers.
He wandered down a small path that led toward an open field dotted with wildflowers to his right and some woodlands to his left.
A flash of light amid the trees caught his attention, and he decided to investigate the source.
In truth, these small rows of trees hardly qualified as woods and were more of a glade than an actual forest. They were slender, easily bending in the strong winds that often swept to shore with the warning of a storm. Their barks were a stark white and their delicate leaves a silvery green that shimmered in the sunlight and shivered upon a light breeze.
He saw the flash of light again, this time closer.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone out here?”
There was a flutter amid the leaves as several birds must have been startled by his shout and flew away.
In the next moment, a young woman dropped down from one of the trees only to land as softly as a cat upon the grass directly in front of him.
“Smartly done,” she grumbled, intending no compliment. “You’ve chased away the birds.”
“My apologies,” Rob said, wondering who she was.
She did not appear to be a trespasser, not with the impudent tip of her chin or the withering look she shot him, as though he were the one infringing here.
“Who are you?” he asked, his tone perhaps more gruff than necessary.
It was no polite way to greet the young lady, but she seemed capable of holding her own. “Who areyou?” she retorted.
“I asked first.”
Her gaze raked over him as she assessed him, as though she were trying to determine whether he was a gray speckled sparrow or a pied woodpecker. Finally, she stuck out her hand as though expecting him to shake it as he would a man’s.
He considered merely bowing over it in courtly fashion, then decided against it because she did not seem to be the sort of young lady who would appreciate the polite gesture. So he just stood there awaiting her answer.
She sighed. “I am Florence Newton, a friend of Jocelyn, Duchess of Camborne.”
“Ah, then you must be the bird-watcher friend she’s told us about.” Since her hand was still extended, he shook it. This felt odd because he was not in the habit of taking a firm grip on a woman’s hand. “I am Robert Durham, the Duke of Durham. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She cast him a wry smile. “You’re the poor wretch they are all trying to match at this house party. Is this why you have run off already to hide in the woods?”
He laughed. “Yes, you have found me out.”
She eyed him speculatively this time. “Do you like birds?”
“To eat? To hunt?”
“To admire,” she replied. “Do you really shoot them?”
“On occasion. I also eat them from time to time. And you?”
She nodded. “I am guilty of feasting on quail or game hen on occasion. Unfortunately, it is one of the necessities of life in order not to starve. But birds are such beautiful creatures and so graceful in flight.”
“Is that a sketchbook tucked under your arm?”
She drew back a step, as though worried he might reach for it. “I like to draw them, and I take notes on their nestsand nesting habits. I happen to be chairwoman of the Ladies Ornithological Society in Lower Bramble. Have you heard of it?”
“The bird society or the village of Lower Bramble?” Rob asked, finding Florence Newton a little eccentric but amusing. She wore spectacles, had nondescript dark hair, and her gown was buttoned to her throat.
Yet she was not unattractive.
“Either one,” she replied.
