He didn’t need a dukedom to make a success of his life.
Chapter Two
Kent—1819
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
The words beat time to Frederica’s heartbeat. Pippin’s hooves picked up the rhythm and pounded it into hard-packed earth. The trees at the edge of her vision flung it back.
The damp earthy smell of leaf mould filled her nostrils. Usually, she loved the dark scent. It spoke of winter and frost and warm fires. Today it smelled of decay.
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She would not wed Simon the slug. Not if her uncle begged her for the next ten years.
The ground softened as they rode through a clearing. Pippin’s flying hooves threw clods of mud against the walls of a dilapidated cottage hunched in the lee of the trees until a tunnel of low-hanging hazels on the other side seemed to swallow them whole. Frederica slowed Pippin to a walk, fearful of tree roots.
At the river bank, she drew the horse up. Her secret place. The one spot on the Wynchwood estate where she could be assured of peace and quiet and the freedom to think. A narrow stretch of soft green moss curled over the bank where the River Wynch carved a perfect arc in black loam. The trees on both sides of the water hugged close.
Barely ankle deep in summer, the winter flood rushed angrily a few inches below the bank, swirling and twisting around the deep pool in the crook of its elbow. Downstream, beyond Wynchwood Place’s ornamental lake, the river widened and turned listless, but here it ran fast, its tempo matching her mood.
Breathless, cheeks stinging from the wind, she dismounted. Pippin dipped his head to slake his thirst. Satisfied he was content to nibble on the sedges at the water’s edge, she let his reins dangle and strolled a short way upstream. She stared into the ripples and swoops of impatient water, seeking answers.
No one could force her to wed Simon. Could they?
The casual mention of the plan by her uncle at breakfast had left her dumbfounded. And dumb. And by the time she had regained the use of her tongue, Uncle Mortimer had locked himself in his study.
Did Simon know of this new turn of events? He’d never liked her. Barely could bring himself to speak to her when they did meet. It had to be a hum. Some bee in Uncle’s bonnet. Didn’t it?
If it wasn’t, they’d have to tie her in chains, hand and foot, blindfold her, gag her and even then she would never agree to marry her bacon-brained cousin.
A small green frog, its froggy legs scissor-kicking against the current, aimed for the overhanging bank beneath her feet. She leaned over to watch it land.
‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’
The deep voice jolted through her. Her foot slipped. She was going—
Large hands caught her arms, lifted her, swung her around and set her on her feet.
Heart racing, mouth dry, she spun about, coming face to face with a broad, naked chest, the bronzed skin covered in dark crisp curls and banded by sculpted muscle.
The breath rushed from her lungs. Swallowing hard, she backed up a couple of steps and took in the dark savage gipsy of a man with hands on lean hips watching her from dark narrowed eyes. Hair the colour of burnt umber, shaded with streaks of ochre, fell to a pair of brawny shoulders. His hard slash of a mouth in his angular square-jawed face looked as if it had tasted of the world and found it bitter.
Fierce. Wild. Masculine. Intimidating. All these words shot through her mind.
And frighteningly handsome.
A tall rough-looking man, with the body of a Greek god and the face of a fallen angel.
Heat spread out from her belly. Desire.
A shiver ran down her spine. Her heart hammered. Her tongue felt huge and unwieldy. ‘Wh-who are you?’ Damn her stutter.
Arrogant, controlled and powerful, he folded strong bare forearms over his lovely wide chest. He looked her up and down, assessing, without a flicker of a muscle in his impassive face. A dark questioning eyebrow went up. ‘I might ask the same of you,’ he said, his voice a deep low growl she felt low in her stomach.
She clutched at the skirts of her old brown gown to hide the tremble in her hands and inhaled a deep breath. Every fibre of her being concentrated on speaking her next words without hesitation, without showing weakness. ‘I am Lord Wynchwood’s niece. I have every right to be here.’ Panting with effort, she released the remainder of her breath.
He took a step towards her. Instinctively, she shrank back. He halted, palms held out. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll end up in the river.’
The exasperation in his tone and expression did more to ease her fears than soft words would have done. She glared at him. ‘Of c-course I w-won’t.’
He backed up several paces. ‘Then move clear of the edge.’
Since he had ruined the solitude, shattered any hope for quiet contemplation, she might as well leave. Head high, she strode past him, carefully keeping beyond his arm’s length, and caught up Pippin’s reins. Prickles ran hot and painful down her back as if his dark gaze still grazed her skin. She couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder.
He’d remained statue-still like some ancient Celtic warrior, bold and hard and simmering like a storm about to rage. A terrifyingly handsome man and thoroughly annoyed, though what he had to be annoyed about she couldn’t think.
How would he look if he smiled?
The thought surprised her utterly. ‘Wh-who are you, s-sir? W-what are you doing in these woods?’
‘Robert Deveril, milady. Assistant gamekeeper. I live in the cottage yonder.’ He hesitated, pressed his lips together as if holding back something on the tip of his tongue. She knew the feeling only too well. Except for her, it was because it was easier to say nothing.
And yet after a moment, he continued, ‘I thought your horse had bolted the way you tore past my house, but I see I was mistaken. Forgive me, milady.’
Suntanned fingers touched his forelock in a reluctant gesture of servility. If anything, he looked more arrogant than before. He pivoted and strode towards the path with long lithe strides.
‘Y-your h-house?’ A recollection of flying dirt striking something hollow filled her mind. No wonder he’d been surprised and come to see what was happening. Heat flashed upwards from her chest to the roots of her hair. ‘P-p-p—’ Oh, tongue, don’t fail me now. She forced in a breath. ‘Mr D-Deveril,’ she called out.
He halted, then turned to face her, looking less than happy. ‘Milady?’
‘I apologise.’
He frowned.
‘It w-w-will not h-happen again.’ Mortified at her inability to express even the simplest of sentences when off-kilter, she turned to her mount. It wasn’t until the cinches on Pippin’s saddle disappeared in a blur that she realised she was close to crying and wasn’t sure why, unless it was frustration and the realisation of just how inconsiderate she’d been.
‘Let me help you, milady.’
At the sound of his deep, rich, oh-so-easy words, she almost swallowed her tongue. ‘G-g-go away,’ she managed.
Clinging to Pippin’s saddle, she turned her head. A good two feet away, he waited, calmly watching her, the anger still there, but contained, like that of the panther she’d once seen in a cage. Beautiful. And dangerous.
Yet she wasn’t afraid. She just didn’t want to look like a fool in front of this man.
‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘I’m sorry I scared you. I thought you were in