“Mrs. Yorke, Your Grace,” Dunreave corrected.
Quint’s lip curled. “I don’t give a damn what her name is. I just want her gone forthwith.”
“Of course, sir.” Dunreave bowed. “I’ll find Mrs. Yorke and tell her she is dismissed at once.”
“Yes. Do that.”
Feeling like a churl and yet helpless to stop the frustration burning through his mangled hide, Quint decided against the ride he had planned for this morning. Instead, he spun on hisheel and stalked toward the drawing room, determined to find the source of the scent.
By God, if only his mother would allow him to wallow in the countryside in peace. Bad enough that she sent him an endless string of letters exhorting him to join her in London or to accompany her to country house parties or Christ knew what societal nonsense she had deemed a proper lure. This was the third housekeeper she had sent him in the span of six months.
He stopped near the broken fountain hidden in an alcove just behind the great hall when he heard a strange sound—the tinkling of water sluicing and trickling merrily down. But no, that couldn’t be. The fountain was broken.
Quint stalked into the alcove, shocked to discover that the ornate, carved fish that decorated the massive fountain were indeed spitting water, just as they had been designed to do a century earlier.
He hadn’t ordered the fountain’s repair.
When had it been done? And without his knowledge?
Clenching his jaw, he left the alcove, following the familiar path to the drawing room. With each step, the scent grew stronger. Until he had reached the open door and made a more astonishing discovery still.
Greenery.
Everywhere.
It festooned the mantel, hung suspended over the heavy old curtains, and in two corners of the drawing room stood not one, buttwotrees, ornamented with candles and shining trinkets and baubles.
He had finally discovered the source of the scent.
Not only had someone repaired his fountain without his consent. They had also decorated his goddamn drawing room.
“Dunreave!” he roared.
Joceline had yetto meet her employer, the Duke of Sedgewick. However, she had a sinking suspicion that she was about to, if the irate hollering and stomping footfalls nearing her were any indication.
“Dunreave!”
Oh dear.
The maid at her side cowered, dropping the candles she had been carrying to the floor in a clatter.
“Mary, you may return to the kitchens to assist Mrs. Stewart,” Joceline told the wide-eyed girl, saving her from the duke’s impending wrath.
She had been warned that the Duke of Sedgewick was a monster—and by his own mother, no less. Joceline was prepared to face him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Yorke.” Mary fled in a flurry of drab skirts.
Joceline had only sufficient time to stiffen her spine and assume the position of an infantry soldier about to take charge. And not a moment too soon.
For the Duke of Sedgewick stalked into the hall from the drawing room, a tall and imposing figure. He was dressed to go riding, a hat clasped in his leather-glove-clad hand at one side. His blue-green eyes shot irate fire at her.
He didn’t look like a monster at all. Indeed, the duke was unusually handsome. His dark-gold hair was far too long for fashion, hanging about his chiseled jaw and brushing his broad shoulders. His forehead was high, his lips full, his cheekbones well-defined. His sun-bronzed skin suggested he spent a large amount of time outside, and his coat fit snugly around his powerful arms. How strange for a duke. The aristocrats Jocelinehad known had been soft and pale and round about their middles. They had been nothing at all like this virile, masculine man who exuded rugged power. The Duke of Sedgewick was strikingly gorgeous.
He was also glaring at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Belatedly, she dipped into a curtsy, aware she had been staring. “I am Mrs. Yorke. Your Grace, I presume?”
