A nudge at her hand shook her from her reverie.
‘You’re right, Hector. It is of no use mooning after a handsome face.’
She was unsettled with being forced to leave Lydney Hall, that was all. It would pass. All things did pass, given time.
‘Come, let us go home.’
Hector trotted up the lane ahead of Rosalind, stopping at intervals to investigate an interesting smell. Rosalind tramped in his wake and contemplated her future with little enthusiasm.
Thirty years of age, and the past fourteen years of her life spent raising Freddie, their stepsister, Nell, and stepbrother, Jack, after their own mother died of childbed fever. Rosalind had long accepted she would never marry or have children and she had always been content with her lot until her beloved stepfather had died quite unexpectedly last spring, leaving chaos in the wake of his passing.
Step-Papa had made his will, leaving pensions for both Rosalind and Freddie and making provision for a generous dowry for Nell. The title and estates now belonged to fourteen-year-old Jack, Eighth Earl of Lydney, and those estates were held in trust for him until his twenty-first birthday. But the late Earl’s younger brother—named in his will as guardian to his children—had predeceased him by three short months and the Court of Chancery in London had appointed Nell and Jack’s maternal uncle, Sir Peter Tadlow—their closest male relative—as their guardian.
Yes, Rosalind had been content, until Sir Peter had descended upon Lydney Hall to ‘fulfil my obligations to my dearest nephew.’ It had not taken long for his true nature to emerge. Lydney Hall was soon plagued by visits from Sir Peter’s friends and acquaintances, with Jack’s inheritance paying the bills. Sir Peter did not hide his utter contempt for Rosalind and Freddie and their humble parentage—their father had been a soldier, the son of a silversmith, who had eloped with the granddaughter of a duke—and he and his visitors viewed Rosalind as ‘fair game’ and Freddie as an object of ridicule. They would have remained at the Hall and tolerated any amount of unpleasantness, however, had it not been for Sir Peter’s plans for Nell.
Rosalind swallowed down her impotent rage at the thought of seven long, frustrating years with Jack’s estates and future under the control of that...wastrel.
As she arrived at the gate of Stoney End, the modest house they had called home for the past fortnight, Rosalind tore her brooding thoughts from her long-term future, directing them to the next few days instead. Immediately, a handsome face with a mesmeric gaze and sensual lips invaded her thoughts and that peculiar blend of yearning and curiosity swirled through her once more.
Leo.
Would they meet again? Should she fear such a meeting? Should she fear him?
Her intuition told her no...at least, not in the way she might fear another meeting with Lascelles. But there remained a thread of unease. Even as an innocent, she sensed the danger of a different kind that he posed.
To her. To her heart. To her peace of mind.
Leo Alexander Beauchamp, Sixth Duke of Cheriton, reined his horse to a halt and twisted in the saddle to peer back along the lane.
The woman—back straight, head high—continued on her way, her shawl wrapped tightly around her form, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips as she walked. Her face materialised in his mind’s eye. Not a predictable youthful beauty, but a hypnotically attractive woman. She had met his gaze with challenge but, more enticingly, with a welcome lack of calculation and coquetry—two traits he had become adept in recognising in the ladies of the ton in the thirteen years since Margaret, his wife, had died. A titled, wealthy widower—even one who was a father of three—was always of interest to the fairer sex.
Mrs Pryce. Presumably there must be a Mr Pryce somewhere. He should put her from his mind, then.
And yet...there had been a definite spark when their eyes had locked, as when a hammer struck stone. He huffed a near-silent laugh—an apt metaphor, perhaps: the clash of a mighty force against an unyielding substance. She had certainly exhibited a steely resistance to Lascelles. The thought of his cousin triggered the sudden awareness that he was sitting on his horse in the middle of a country lane, staring after a stranger. He squeezed Conqueror into motion.
And there was Vernon, waiting for him, a wide smile on his face.
‘Whatever you’re about to say...don’t.’
‘Me?’ Lord Vernon Beauchamp—Leo’s brother and his junior by four years—feigned a look of innocence. ‘I am only concerned you may not find your way back to Halsdon without my guidance.’
‘I’m not in my dotage yet,’ Leo growled. It was something of a sore point, as he had recently passed his fortieth birthday. ‘My homing instinct is as keen as it ever was.’
Vernon glanced over his shoulder, then quirked a brow at Leo. ‘I can see that.’
Leo narrowed his eyes at his brother. ‘She’s married.’
Having been in the position of cuckolded husband himself, Leo was not about to inflict that indignity on any other man.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘we are only here another ten days. If I stay that long.’
‘Still fretting about Olivia?’
‘I do not fret.’
He was a duke: head of a large extended family, wealthy, powerful. Nothing could threaten him.
‘Cecily is wise to Olivia’s wiles and tricks,’ Vernon went on, in complete disregard of Leo’s obvious wish to be done with the topic. ‘Lord, that girl is a minx, Leo.’
Leo knew it. His only daughter and youngest child, eighteen-year-old Olivia was on the brink of her introduction to polite society. Her upbringing alongside her older brothers had instilled in her a deeply felt sense of injustice at the unfairness that allowed them so much more freedom than she could now enjoy. Leo had left her in London in the care of his sister, Cecily, who had raised Leo’s children after their mother was murdered.
‘I said I do not—’
‘And Beauchamp House is more secure than the Tower of London,’ Vernon went on, seemingly oblivious to Leo’s growing irritation. ‘They will be safe without you for a couple of weeks.’
Leo curbed his exasperation. Families! They saw too much and they understood too much. He might have no need to fret, but that did not stop him worrying about his children, and Vernon knew it. ‘And Alex?’ he said. ‘Who will keep a tight rein on him?’
The younger of his two sons, Alexander was twenty, and growing more sullen and secretive by the day.
‘Avon will keep him out of trouble...at least he gives you no cause for concern.’
Dominic, Marquess of Avon, was Leo’s eldest son and the heir to the dukedom, who indeed gave Leo little cause for concern. In fact, he was almost too serious for such a young man. Leo’s heart clenched. Was it because his children had lost their mother so early in life that he worried so about them? An unusual feeling stirred, deep in his gut.
Fear. No, not fear. Vulnerability. That was it. He didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. How he wished he could keep them all—particularly Olivia—shut away safely at Cheriton Abbey for the rest of their lives, even though the Abbey hadn’t proved a place of safety for Margaret, who had been violated and strangled in a summerhouse. The impossibility of completely controlling his family’s surroundings was a constant worry. Leaving London to come to Halsdon Manor—against his natural instincts to stay put and to protect—was how he proved to himself he would not succumb to this irrational fear.
Uncomfortable with such feelings and thoughts,