Chapter One

An Inauspicious Beginning

An isolated road southwest of London, March 1824

Michael Redmond, the eighth Duke of Cortland (with several other titles to boot), tipped his flask upside down and scowled when nothing came out.

The day had begun with so much promise!

En route to London, he and his dedicated man of business, Mr. Martin, had been dozing peacefully. They’d just finalized the details amassed within the mountain of paperwork they carried with them—hundreds of pages the duke was to present to Parliament in support of his amendment. They’d spent the entire winter gathering the evidence.

And now it was gone.

As was his carriage. As were his horses, his jacket. And his boots! Hic. A man ought never to be without his favorite boots!

“Damn bloody highway bobbers.” Thick and slow, Michael’s tongue refused to cooperate. “Highway mobbers—rob—bers. Robbers.”

They’d stolen everything. And, Devil take it, Michael had failed to carry his pistols today!

The robbers had dangled from branches hanging over the road, dropped onto the carriage, and without a single shot fired, overpowered his outriders.

What good was an outrider who could be disabled so easily? Michael had been tempted to deliver a tongue-lashing and sack every last one of them on the spot, but in hindsight, foiling such an attack would have been nearly impossible.

In addition to that, Michael was a fair-minded employer.

Arty and…What was the other one called? Cam, that’s right. Decent fellows, really. If not for Arty, there would have been no whiskey! In fact, both outriders, as well as his driver, had just so happened to have flasks of spirits hidden in their clothing. Clever fellows…And Arty had withdrawn not one, but two, from his breeches. Lucky for him.

Catching up from behind, Arty fell into step beside him. He must have astutely realized his employer was out of drink for he took the empty flask from Michael’s hand and replaced it with another. Then, putting a heavy arm around him, he urged them forward. Hiking for hours now, Michael no longer noticed the mud and sludge oozing between his toes. He leaned into his servant as they proceeded along the highway. Stumbling and swaying, they would likely cover the width of the road as well as the length of it, but this was of no matter. Surely, the inn was around the next bend!

“A leg shackle at the end of the season, eh, Your Grace? How about some advice for the wedding night?” Arty slapped Michael on the back in a jovial manner. He was apparently beyond comprehensible thought at this point. As was Michael. For under normal circumstances, no servant would have broached such a subject with the duke—ever. Michael, by necessity and inclination, was a private man. He never discussed personal matters with anybody, including his fiancée. What was her name? Oh, yes, Lady Natalie.

All but Martin broke into uproarious laughter. Of course, as his personal servants, they were well aware he’d not led a celibate life. Many a night, they’d waited for him down the street from the home of a high-priced courtesan or a beautiful and lonely widow, while he’d found pleasure inside. They’d known not to gossip about his activities, however, as he demanded discretion from those he employed. Damned if he would provide fodder for the busybodies of the ton.

But ah, no, his bride need not worry.

Except that…

Michael shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Oh, yes, upon her acceptance of his proposal.

And he’d danced with her often, as would be expected throughout the upcoming season. At the end of May, they would marry. It would be the wedding of the year. The highlight and grand finale. None of it could be avoided. He’d signed the contracts. He would not disappoint her father.

Surely she wasn’t frigid! He hoped not anyhow. But, a niggling voice reminded him, whenever he was with her, he never felt any…sizzle.

Likely, she was coy, shy—too innocent to know the mechanics of it, even. He’d have to teach her. Hopefully she would be willing.

With Lilly, there had been plenty of sizzle.

Lightning struck nearby, and thunder boomed closely in its wake. A few sprinkles began to fall. Rain? But of course, it would rain! Why ever would it not?

That was what he got for thinking her name. He knew better than to allow his thoughts to drift in that direction. More thunder grumbled in the distance.

Must be the drink. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her for years, nearly a decade in fact. Or so he tried to convince himself.

Michael refused to allow his thoughts to linger on…her.

He was a different man now, betrothed to…whatshername.

Lady Natalie! Yes—everything a duchess ought to be. Poised, elegant, of noble birth, and beautiful. She was the daughter of one of the most powerful men in all England. But he could not picture her face. Instead he remembered golden eyes. Oh, hell, now he was becoming maudlin. Tipping back his head, he took another long draw of the whiskey. Very good stuff, really, quite excellent.

In a deliberate attempt to steer his thoughts away from his upcoming nuptials, Michael broke into verse. Recognizing the old tune, Arty, Cam, and John joined in with ribald enthusiasm.

Oh say, gentle maiden, may I be your lover

Condemn me no longer to moan and to weep

Struck down like a hawk, I lie wounded and bleeding

Oh, let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep

Enter your keep, nonnie nonnie, enter your keep, nonnie nonnie

Let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep.

Stumbling along as they sang, John broke into falsetto voice to sing the maiden’s part. Stepping in front of Michael, he dipped into an exaggerated curtsy.

Alas, gentle errant, I am not a maiden

I’m married to Sir Oswald, that cunning old Celt

He’s gone to war for twelve months or longer

And he’s taken the key to my chastity belt!

They sang the raunchy ditty as the sprinkles turned into large drops, which in turn grew to a torrential deluge.

Warmed from the inside, the men marched onward.

Ducking his head to shield his eyes from water streaming down his face, Michael caught sight of his feet. How very odd! Toes he rarely paid heed now peeked through his torn and bloodied stockings.

“Halt!” he ordered drunkenly, holding out one ducal hand. His comrades staggered to a stop, and Michael stripped off his stockings. Gawking at a few gruesome lacerations, he was amazed he hadn’t noticed any pain. “Damned bloody pansy-ass holes—hose.” The other men’s more serviceable stockings offered their feet far greater protection. Michael removed his stockings and threw them into the woods. With a flourish, he then swept his hand forward, indicating they resume where they had left off.

As the miles passed, each took a turn composing his own lyrics while the others sang the nonnie nonnie part repeatedly. And, as men were wont to do whilst drinking and separated from genteel company, they invented lyrics unfit for anyone’s ears but their own.

Their hearty laughter echoed off the trees around them.

Michael hadn’t participated in such uninhibited raucousness in years, and all in all, found the day to be rather refreshing—except for the losing of his coach and boots and years’ worth of work, that was.

A sign up ahead! Thank God! Michael had never been so happy to come upon an inn as he was in that moment. A petrified-looking wooden sign directed them off the road to a small clearing in the trees to the Forty Winks Inn and Tavern. They had been trudging through the mud for nearly six hours.

Six bloody hours!

Hoping to see his other coaches, the ones which carried his trunks and other servants, Michael peered into a long carriage house that lined the drive. Only a few smaller buggies, a small cart, and an unfamiliar carriage were parked inside. Hmm…A rather inauspicious sign. Nothing to worry over, however. Michael was a duke.

Dukes were never turned away.

Donning his noble demeanor, Michael shook off the remaining effects of the liquor, brushed at his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell? He glanced at his hand in confusion. It had come away with bits of grass and dirt. His valet was going to have conniptions over this.

If he could find him, that was.

Before departing from the Three-Legged Dog Inn earlier that morning, his valet, Duncan, had ascertained Michael was appropriately attired in his necessary ducal finery. In addition to preparing His Grace’s unmentionables, Duncan had skillfully tied Michael’s ivory linen cravat, carefully brushed the perfectly fitted wool jacket and breeches, and polished Michael’s timeworn favorite hessians to a high shine. There was an image to be maintained, and Duncan’s reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman was at stake.

Michael didn’t feel very ducal now.

With the arrogance acquired by one in such a position, however, he surmised­­ his very manner, his bearing, would alleviate any doubts as to his identity. He opened the door to the open sitting area, identified the innkeeper behind a wooden bar, and strode forward with his normal self-assurance.

The innkeeper eyed him warily. “What can I be doing for you?” he asked suspiciously.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “I am Cortland.” He barely slurred his words at all. “The Duke of Cortland. My servants and myself require five rooms. A private suite for myself, of course.” It wasn’t a question, but a command. Rather, a statement of fact. Martin stood beside him, in pleasant agreement, while John, Arty, and Cam swayed unsteadily near the door.

The innkeeper, a robust older gentleman, looked from Michael to Martin and the men across the room, and then after a short pause, burst forth in uncontrollable laughter. Bending over, the provoking man slapped his leg several times. After finally catching his breath between chortles of mirth, he wiped a few tears from his eyes.

“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 be telling you 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 the innkeeper. 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 (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.”