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That mantra, Chester’s life’s motto, set him apart from his embittered sire.
“No, thank you, though I well remember Mrs. Stewart’s pie.” Shaking his head, Chester fished in his pocket for a few coins. “Another time, I give you my word. I quite look forward to it.”
After laying the money on the smooth walnut—battling the urge to slap them down and vent some of his pent-up frustration—he collected his beaver hat.
He’d have made Perygrim some time ago if Magnus hadn’t picked up a stone a quarter mile back and required tending. The horse’s misfortune provided him a much-needed respite before facing the dragon who’d begat him.
Holding his tongue might prove Chester’s greatest trial.
Diligence and discipline, man. You were not cast from the same malformed mold.
He barely contained a derisive snort.
But I am a product of his loins.
Stewart collected the coins, smiling broadly and revealing the rabbit-like front teeth Chester remembered so well.
“I know I speak for others as well as myself when I say we’re pleased you’ve returned, m’lord. I’ll make sure to stock that Bordeaux you’re fond of in the future, and I’ll bet my missus will keep a fresh supply of Sally Lund buns on hand now too.”
“Thank you. All the more reason to return very soon.”
Chester scanned the cozy taproom again. How many times had he and Byron enjoyed a dark ale whilst bantering with and razzing each other, as brothers are wont to do?
One elbow resting on the bar, he inclined his head.
“I’ve missed this, Stewart. Missed Newbury and her citizens.”
Truly, he had.
He far preferred the country’s serene pace than teeming Town life, which was why he attended nearly every country house party he’d been invited to these past years.
“I hope you’ll honor us with your presence often, m’lord.” Touching his fingers to his brow, Stewart angled his stout form toward the kitchen. “I’ll have your mount brought ’round now.”
With another nod, Chester pulled on a black leather glove as he marched to the entrance, acknowledging the curious, slightly leery patrons observing his progress with a smile or a nod. They’d find him much more approachable, friendlier, and fairer than the current duke. He’d make sure of that.
No more whispers about DeCourcy the Demon Duke. Devilish and dastardly duke too.
Maybe he’d strive for a new moniker, something a trifle more flattering to the duchy.
The Dancing Duke?
No, too frivolous.
Perchance the Dashing Duke?
Pompous and full of self-importance.
The Dignified Duke?
A memory sparked—swimming nude in the lake, something he intended to do again now that he had returned home. Nothing remotely dignified about that.
He reached to press the latch when the door sprang open, practically smacking him in the face. The sturdy panel came to an abrupt halt when the wood hit his boots. His injured toes curled in protest despite their stout leather protection.
Arms laden, a petite, dull brown-clad flurry barreled into him, whacked her forehead on his chest and, giving a startled squeal, dropped one of her baskets.
Eggs and greens scattered everywhere, including atop his feet, and he instinctively clutched her elbows to keep her from crashing to the scuffed floor too.
A whiff of roses and lilies and some other essence wafted upward. Nostrils flared, he inhaled, trying to decipher the other scents. Perhaps a tinge of orange blossom or lemon? Fresh and light and wholly memorable.
