Romancing the Duke

“What is it?” he asked.

“B-b-bat.”

He almost smiled despite himself. “The b-b-bats are all gone, Miss Goodnight.”

“No, they’re not. They’re not. There’s one caught in my hair.”

“There’s nothing in your hair. That’s an old wives’ tale. Bats don’t get caught in people’s hair.”

“There. Is. One. In. My. Hair,” she pronounced in distinct syllables, each word rising a halftone in inflection. And then, in one frantic high-pitched squeal: “Getitout!”

To be sure, bats didn’t normally get caught in people’s hair. But he’d forgotten, hers wasn’t normal hair. This curly mane of hers could snare a rabbit. Perhaps a horse.

Ransom worried, as he plunged his fingers into her dense, wavy locks, that this hair could possibly ensnare him.

It had his curiosity entangled, that was certain. These locks must be dark. She sounded dark-haired, with that sultry voice, and most girls with hair this aggressively curly were dark. And if her hair was dark, her eyes were probably dark, too.

Before he could quash it, an image bloomed in his mind’s eye. A raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty with plump, red lips.

“Keep still,” he said.

That goes for you, too, he told the stirrings in his groin.

He wove his fingers into her roots near the scalp and shook the curls apart. “Did that free it?”

“No. It’s still there. I can feel it.” A shudder ran through her.

“I see how it is. You’re a strong, independent woman of property. Right up to the moment something creeping or crawling comes along. Then it’s, ‘Oh, dear! Oh, help!’ ”

She growled.

“It’s small,” he told her, having found the thing. “No bigger than a titmouse. Far more frightened of you than you are of it.”

She sighed. “Why do people always say that? It’s never helpful.”

“I’d tell you to distract yourself by focusing on my face, but that wouldn’t help. You swooned the last time.”

“I didn’t swoon because of your—”

He made a shushing noise and worked his fingers downward, separating and shaking free the tangled hair. He didn’t want to hear her explanations or apologies.

With his free hand, he held her shoulder. He stroked his thumb up and down, soothing.

Just to keep her still, he told himself.

Not because he cared.

He wanted her fearful. He wanted her to run away from this place, and from him. The way any young woman with sense would do.

He most definitely didn’t want her to stay in his arms, warm and trusting, with her heart beating faster than a bat’s wings.

He felt the moment the bat untangled itself and flapped free. The weight was gone from her hair, and now the unburdened locks filled his hand, soft and wild and sensual.

“There,” he said. “It’s flown away.”

“You knew that would happen,” she accused. “The sunset. The bats.”

He didn’t try to deny it. “Consider it repayment for the weasel.”

“Oh, you . . . You . . .”

“Cruel bastard?” he suggested. “Heartless rogue? Blackguard? Villain? I’ve been called all of the above and more. My favorite is ‘knave.’ Fine word, ‘knave.’ ”

“You ill-mannered wretch I importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.” She pushed away from him and rose to her feet. “You can keep all the bats to yourself. I’m leaving.”

Really? She was leaving already?

This was almost too easy.

Ransom followed her out of the room and back down the corridor, to the stairs that led down to the great hall.

“You needn’t leave this very moment,” he said. “At least wait until my manservant returns. I can give you a bit of money, and he can find you a coach in the village.”

“I don’t need a coach or money. I’ll walk.”

“Walk?”

“I know some people in Newcastle. Newcastle can’t be that far.”

“Oh, not far at all. Just . . . some twenty-five miles or so.”

She paused midstep. “Then I’ll be walking for some time. I had better get started.”

He followed her toward the entryway. Walking to Newcastle, his eye. What the hell was she thinking? Perhaps those fairy tales she’d grown up with had rotted her brain. Was she planning to skip through the woodlands and meadows, plucking mushroom caps for parasols and letting friendly woodland animals guide her way?

“Don’t think this is over,” she informed him as she gathered up her caged weasel and valise. “You were right, I do have many friends. Influential friends. There are thousands of people scattered all over England who’d love nothing more than to have little Izzy Goodnight as a houseguest. Some of them are surely solicitors.” He heard the rustle of papers. “So I will be in contact with Mr. . . . Blaylock and Mr. Riggett, and I’ll see you at Chancery in three years. Farewell, Your Grace.”

As she breezed past him, his arm shot out. He snagged her by the elbow.

“Not so fast. What do you know of Blaylock and Riggett?”

“Their names are on the deed. I told you, I served as my father’s secretary. I do know how to read a legal document. Now, if you’ll kindly release me, I will bid you a not-very-fond farewell.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “No.”

“No?” she echoed.

“No.”

Ransom kept a firm grip on Miss Goodnight’s arm. After what she’d just said, he wasn’t letting her go anywhere. Not tonight.

“I’m confused, Your Grace. You just put a great deal of effort into scaring me off.”

Yes, he had. But that was before he heard the names of his own most trusted solicitors fall from his lips. Blaylock and Riggett had been his men of business for years. They had power to manage everything in his absence. But they should never sign away a property without his knowledge and consent.

Something was going on. Ransom didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it.

“Your efforts worked, Your Grace. Congratulations. I’m leaving. I’ve no desire whatsoever to spend a single night in that horrid room.”

“You’re not leaving.”

She gave a little hiccup of laughter. “Are you conceding your claim of ownership and forfeiting the property?”

“No,” he said. “And I’m not offering to host you as a guest in my house, either.”

“Well, then I fail to see what—”

“I’m offering you a post. As my secretary.”

The silence with which she received this news was stony.

Hell, Ransom wasn’t happy about it, either. But with those two words—“Blaylock” and “Riggett”—she’d made it painfully clear that he needed someone to go read his correspondence for him. He had estates and responsibilities. If his solicitors were mismanaging his affairs in his absence, thousands would be affected. He needed to unravel just what was going on.

“I will hire you to read through my correspondence for me,” he said. “I know it’s hardly the ideal arrangement.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would never entrust a woman with the task. But time is of the essence, and there’s no one else around.”

He heard her inhale slowly.

“I mean to compensate you handsomely,” he said. “Fifty pounds.”

“Per annum?”

“Per day.”

That breath she’d inhaled whooshed out of her.

“Think on it. You seem to have wits, if not the best ideas on how to apply them. Chances are, the answer to our little property dispute is somewhere in that pile of paper. When we confirm that the castle is still mine, you’ll have the money to go somewhere else.”

He could sense her softening.

Or maybe his senses deceived him.

“One hundred,” she said.

“What?”

“I want one hundred a day. I’ll use it to fix up the castle once it’s confirmed to be mine.” A coy note crept into her voice. “And I want you to say please.”

He gave her arm a swift tug, drawing her to him.

She collided with his chest.

“Don’t be a fool,” he said low. “You need money. We both need answers. The arrangement makes sense for us both.”

“Then release my arm. And ask nicely.”

He lowered his head until he felt a stray curl of her hair against his cheek. “Two hundred. Two hundred pounds per day is a very nice sum indeed.”

“Saying ‘please’ costs you nothing.”

He kept silent, refusing to relent. If she was going to be his employee, she needed to learn that he alone gave the orders.

“My goodness,” she whispered. “Are you truly so afraid of asking for help? It’s that terrifying?”

He balked. “I’m not afraid at all.”

“I hear you saying that.” She pressed a hand to his shirtfront. “But this frantic, pounding thing in your chest is saying otherwise.”

Little minx.

There was exactly one reason his blood was pounding, and it had nothing to do with “please.” It had to do with “yes” and ”God, yes” and “just like that, but harder.”

“I beg your pardon.” The familiar voice came from the entryway. “I seem to be interrupting.”

Duncan.

Ransom gave himself a shake. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s obvious, Your Grace.”

Obvious, and worrisome. It was a testament to this woman’s effect on him that Ransom hadn’t even noticed his valet’s return.

“I never thought I would say this, Your Grace, but it’s strangely heartening to see you back to your old debauchery. I’ll clear out of your way for the evening.”

“No,” Miss Goodnight jumped to insist. “Please, don’t misunderstand. This isn’t debauchery. I was just lea—”

“Duncan, this is Miss Isolde Goodnight. My new secretary. Tomorrow, we will find her new lodgings. But tonight, she will stay here. She’ll need a clean, comfortable room, a proper bath, and a hot dinner.” He gave her wrist a squeeze before releasing it. “Isn’t that right?”

Chapter Five

Izzy had always been raised to believe that “please” was a magic word.

She’d been misled.

Apparently, the magic word was “dinner.” In addition, the words “bath” and “comfortable room” had their own particular charms. When spoken in quick succession, they had the power of an incantation. Izzy hadn’t been able to say no.

“I hope this will do for tonight, Miss Goodnight.” Duncan showed her into a small, sparsely furnished chamber. “I know it’s meager, but it’s the only proper bed in the castle. My own.”

“How generous of you to offer it.” And how strange, that it would be the only one. “The duke doesn’t have a bedchamber?”

“No.” Duncan sighed, as if to communicate that this was a point of frequent contention. “He sleeps in the great hall.”

Izzy studied the manservant. He was tall and lean, with dark hair turned silver at the temples. Unlike the duke, he was turned out in a brushed black coat, a crisp neckcloth, and gleaming boots.

“So you are Rothbury’s valet?”

“Yes. Though it pains me to say it when his appearance is so willfully slovenly. It’s an embarrassment.”

“And how long have you been living here?”

“Seven months, miss. Seven long months.”

Heavens. Seven months was a long time. “What happened?” she asked. “How was the duke injured?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">