Those lips parted, and her expression softened. "How do you know this?"
"You don't?" She looked away as if she wouldn’t discuss the matter with him, and Charles found his feelings hurt. He was being quite reasonable, considering the circumstances. "And what are you wearing?" he poked, wanting her to respond to him. "Yes, I know it is men's clothing, but the belly?"
With a huff, she reached under the vest and pulled out a feather pillow. "It was ready to fall to my feet anyway." The vest and shirt immediately settled over lush feminine curves. He was certain her breasts were bound, and yet, they were hard to hide. Breeches and tall boots encased long, shapely legs. An Amazon of a woman, buxom, enticing, the sort a man liked in his bed—
"Father's dying."
Her statement shut down his lust. The old earl? The man was too crusty to die. Then again, he had once thought the same about his own sire.
"I want to buy the land because I need to know that I can take care of this family after he is gone, despite being a woman. And yes, I know he has trusted Mr. Loxley with too much authority. But if I win the bid, then Papa will see he doesn't need a faithless servant."
"What of the incoming heir?"
A shiver of distaste went through her. "A spineless cousin." The expressive eyes she raised to him held a plea. "Please, we have a right to this land. It was once ours."
"Until your ancestors unwisely sold it."
She dismissed the comment with a shake of her head. "I want my father to go to his heavenly rest knowing that all will be well."
There was such earnestness in her gaze. She stood close . . . and he was tempted to give her whatever she wished. However,over twenty years of not trusting a Montclair still thrummed in his veins. He did want the land. "A strip of acreage won't give him peace. Sacking Loxley would be a good first step. Of course, if Loxley learns you are impersonating him, he’ll ruin you."
With an angry sound, she whipped away from him, almost popping him with the pillow. Her back to him, she restuffed her disguise, her movements jerky with anger.
"My lady," Charles started, wanting her to be reasonable. "This isn't a woman's role. I mean, you can't—"
She cut him off by raising her gruff voice. "I'm ready to buy the land, Fernbottom." She marched out of the pine stand.
Chapter 3
By Tracy Sumner
The heat of Charlie’s regard blistered Felicia’s back as she stepped outside the protection of the pine stand.
Charlie.
A nickname bandied about years ago, when she and his sisters were children racing through fields of clover, dirt marring their cheeks, their days free of worry over death, heritage, duty. A name she’d never dared call him, the heir to a revered dukedom. Even then, he’d set himself apart at parish dances and in the village when they chanced to meet. His eyes, just a shade lighter than the crisp, cool waters of the lake at the edge of her family’s property, had always taken her in without remark. Without emotion.
A cerulean challenge she longed to dive into, never to return.
If she’d fancied the Duke of Kenbrook, despite any hope of two families who’d declared war before her birth finding a path to peace through matrimony, this was a youthful folly she’d never again let herself entertain.
Although her gut had once told her, quite forcefully, that he was a boy to be trusted.
The boy was now a man, one attempting to rob her of a parcel of land he didn’t need as much as the Montclairs did. With a quickly drawn breath, Felicia pressed her hand to her chest and took in the scent and force of Devonshire, the home and legacy she had no choice but to safeguard.
Turning back, she crossed to him, refusing to cower and knowing her battle was more with him than that silly oaf, Fernbottom. She’d seen the duke with ripped trousers after a nasty fall from his mount, seen him smile in the early days, and laugh, boisterously, the one time in town when she’d passed the Rose and Crown and taken a sneaking look inside.
He could be Charlie—in her mind, if nothing else—while she negotiated her family’s future. The Duke of Kenbrooks and his regal bearing, the tales of his amorous exploits splashed across the scandal rags, the rich hue of his eyes, his knowing smile, those delectable shoulders testing the limits of his superfinecoat, could disappear momentarily if she recalled the caring, protective older brother.
She trusted her friends, and his eight sisters’ loyalty could not be utterly misplaced.
He straightened his stance upon her return, bracing himself, his gaze lowering once. A brief transfer, circumspect, hardly noticeable. She’d bound her breasts, but there was only so much she could do to hide her curves. However, they’d never been enough to tempt this man, not one whit. Other men, certainly, there’d been interest that didn’t interest her. But not him.
The one she wanted.
He dipped his head as she halted before him. “Lady Felicia, I see you’ve decided to return.” His tone spoke volumes about what he thought of her rash endeavor this day.
Her cheeks flushed, every flaw in her character—temper, rebellion, willfulness—rushing forth to warm her skin. “You don’t need it,” she whispered, deciding the truth was her only hope of salvation. “Your holdings are substantial when we’re struggling to survive. I know you can outmatch any offer I put on the table.”
