“That’s a good one, mate!” he announced when he’d finally recovered. “And just for that, I’ll allow you fellows to take refuge in the barn. There’s some blankets in the back, and you can clean up at the stream.” Wiping his eyes, he shook his head and laughed again. “A bloody duke! Now that’s a good one! But for now, you’re getting mud all over my floor. Take yourselves outside now…” He shooed them away.
Michael very slowly wiped the spittle that had been sprayed on his face from the innkeeper’s laughter and summoned his haughtiest tone. The innkeeper’s reaction had been strangely sobering.
“We’ve been besieged by highway robbers and forced to hike nearly twenty miles. It is in your best interests—hic—sir, for you to show us to our rooms—without further delay. I am in no mood for jokes and cannot appreciate your attempt at humor.” Michael tried to glare but was having difficulty focusing. A serious but good-humored man, he was never addressed with such rudeness and disrespect. Ever.
The innkeeper straightened and looked him in the eye. As the dozen or so occupants went silent, tension mounted within the taproom. “Listen here, mister. I was going to let you bunk in the stables, but I’m taking back that offer. I don’t allow vagrants and drunks to loiter in my inn, and I’ll not betellingyou again. Take yourself off my property. Now!”
Just then, a rustling on the stairs suggested the drama was about to be interrupted by the arrival of, God save them all, a pair of women of quality. Lowering the lorgnette she had been observing the altercation through, the smallest of the women approached him.
Glancing at her dismissively, he turned back to theinnkeeper. This entire day had been infuriatingly unproductive. Although the situation was only temporary, Michael found it horrifying, really, that such a calamity could befall him. Closing his eyes, he calmed himself.
He must speak coherently. “I?—”
But his words never formed. For when he opened his mouth to speak, a disturbingly familiar voice cut him off.
“Mr. Jackson”—the woman’s cultured voice addressed the innkeeper—“I fear you had best hold your tongue. This filthy, barefooted, and foul-smelling drunk is, in fact, telling the truth. Standing before you, dear sir, is none other than Michael Redmond, the eighth Duke of Cortland.”
Michael pivoted in disbelief. Had he conjured her up with his drunken musings? Surely not. But there she stood, staring at him with those same golden eyes. His breath swooshed out of him, as though he’d taken a blow to the gut, as he watched Lilly execute a deep and elegant curtsy. She lacked any humility, however, and met his gaze defiantly upon rising.
“It has been a long time, Your Grace. Nonetheless, I am honored to make your acquaintance once again. I am now Lady Beauchamp. Perhaps I may be of some assistance this evening.” Her voice echoed inside his head, formal and cool.
Michael knew exactly who she was. He’d dreamt of that voice for months. And those golden eyes—not to mention her silky platinum-blonde hair. But she had been Miss Lilly Bridge then, and the moment he’d been called away from London, she’d moved on to another suitor. Oh, yes, he knew exactly who she was.
Regardless of who she’d been to him in the past, it appeared today she was to be his savior. He sobered considerably at the thought. “Indeed, it has been a long time.” Nearly a decade. “I beg your pardon,my lady.Do forgive my ‘filthy, foul-smelling’ condition. We’ve suffered considerable…er…hardships today.” Bowing, he took her gloved hand in his. Before he could raise it to his lips, however, a small dog—one that was longer than it was tall—took up her defense. Baring sharp teeth, it growled a low warning.
Michael dropped her hand quickly. He didn’t need to add a dog bite to the day’s calamities. Especially from a dog resembling a large rat.
The innkeeper burst out laughing again but quickly checked himself when Michael glared in his direction. With his brows wrinkling, the feisty old man took a moment to assess him more thoroughly. And what did the innkeeper see? Mud covered him from head to toe, but Michael’s garments were expertly tailored, made of the finest linen and wool. Gold buttons fastened his shirt, and, ah yes, now the innkeeper saw it: the ducal posture and deportment. He might have saved them both some embarrassment if he’d only looked closer upon his first inspection. Mr. Jackson turned to Lilly and asked, “It is true, my lady? He is really a duke?” Concern laced his voice.
Kneeling beside her protective pet, Lilly peered up at Michael with a hint of sadness. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Jackson. I’m afraid so.”
SAVED BY A BELLE
Life wasn’t fair.
Although smeared liberally with sweat and dirt, half his hair standing on end, and befuddled with drink, Michael Redmond was more handsome now than when he’d first captured her heart. His current attire, or lack thereof, hid nothing of the powerful musculature on his frame, nor the pride of his bearing. He had been tall and fit at the age of one-and-twenty. At thirty, he pulsed with a vitality which nearly took her breath away. Even standing in a taproom barefoot, his demeanor was noble and arrogant. He’d been full of confidence before, but this was different. He was the same, and yet not. Much like herself.
Lilly reached up to touch the hair bound at the nape of her neck.
She was a widow, a matron, a chaperone to her stepdaughter—whereas he appeared a prime specimen for the marriage mart, drat the man. She knew he hadn’t married. Such a wedding would have been announced. As a duke, he likely was one of England’s most sought-after bachelors.
Well, they could have him.
Scooping Miss Fussy into her arms, she rose warily. She touched her lips to the soft fur on top of the dog’s head and looked at him from under her lashes. For a moment, their eyes held. His had mesmerized her from the very beginning. Like sunshine reflecting through cobalt glass, they glimmered. He was once again just Michael, and she was merely Lilly. But only for a moment.
Glenda stepped forward and elbowed Lilly. Returning herself to the moment at hand, Lilly gestured toward her. “May I present to you my daughter, Miss Glenda Beauchamp? Glenda, His Grace, the Duke of Cortland.” Glenda performed a sweet short curtsy, all the while keeping her eyes downward.
Lilly glanced sideways at Glenda and watched as romantic daydreams dawned behind her gaze. After seeing Glenda in such melancholy for the full year after her father’s death, it was a relief to see some excitement cross her youthful features. Glenda was taller than Lilly with layers of chestnut curls and warm brown eyes. Fair skinned and slim, she was nearly the spitting image of her deceased mother, Lilly’s older sister, Rose.
Lilly would make certain Glenda found a good match, somebody kind. She hoped for a gentleman with a sweet temperament and a tolerant spirit. Glenda wanted a love match, but Lilly had been compelled to warn her of the perils attached to such a messy emotion.
Lilly had known love and the resulting anguish of its aftermath.
Michael—the duke now, Cortland—bowed and addressed Glenda. “A pleasure, Miss Beauchamp. I assume you are traveling to town for the season?” He looked to Lilly questioningly.
It was Glenda who answered, however. “We are, Your Grace. I am to have my coming out. My stepmother is to sponsor me.” By now Glenda had found the courage to look him in the eyes. In fact, she fluttered her lashes as she spoke. “Were you truly attacked by highwaymen? How very brave tocontinue your travels on foot. We must assist the duke, Lilly! Especially after his harrowing experience!”
Lilly nearly rolled her eyes at Glenda’s words. But of course, Glenda considered Michael the epitome of everything a husband-hunting debutante desired.
