Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (5)

“I do hope you all won’t consider it too rustical, but I thought we’d take a stroll into Newbridge today,” Lady Lovejoy announced at breakfast an hour later. “There’s a rather lovely Norman church and today is market day. Nothing like London, of course, but quite quaint.”

Freya spread a slice of bread with fresh butter—sweet and lovely—and wondered if she might gather more rumors about Lady Randolph in Newbridge.

“Oh, let’s!” Regina exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly and imperiling her teacup.

“A country market can be so interesting sometimes,” Lucretia Greycourt observed. “I once was offered what I was assured was a potion to arouse lust in gentlemen by a wrinkled old woman with quite a staggering amount of moles on her chin. The kind that sprout hairs. I do believe she thought herself a witch.”

Lord Lovejoy cleared his throat portentously. “One oughtn’t discount the evil of witches in this part of England.”

Freya found herself glancing at Harlowe and caught him staring back, a smoldering intensity in his eyes.

She swiftly averted her gaze, realizing as she did so that she was holding her breath. He’d threatened to expose her. At the time she’d felt only rage, but now cold fear made her back prickle. She hadn’t completed her mission.

She needed more time.

“Real witches?” Messalina asked with polite skepticism. “The sort who dance about fires naked at midnight?”

Young Mr. Lovejoy chuckled, but he sounded a tad nervous.

Lady Holland frowned—probably at the mention of nude cavorting.

But Lord Lovejoy was quite grave. “Nearly every year a woman is brought before me as the local magistrate and charged with witchcraft.”

The Earl of Rookewoode arched a black eyebrow. It made a stark contrast to his snowy wig. He wore an elegantly cut dark-blue suit today and looked exceedingly handsome and urbane. “But Parliament has made witch-hunting no longer legal.”

“Oh, indeed, my lord,” Lord Lovejoy replied. “But these are provincial people who adhere to the old ways. They care not for London’s laws.”

“London’s laws will soon change,” Lord Stanhope said importantly. “A new Witch Act is to be put before Parliament in the autumn, making witch-hunting once again both legal and encouraged.”

There was a short silence as everyone at the table digested that.

Freya’s hands were clenched in her lap, where no one could see them. She only hoped her expression didn’t give away her unease at this discussion.

“And thus we descend back into the superstitious Dark Ages,” Rookewoode drawled.

The viscount pursed his lips together as if cutting off a nasty reply.

Lord Lovejoy looked troubled. “Hunting witches is no step back in these parts. Not when nearly everyone believes in them.”

The earl’s lips twitched as if he were amused by the discussion, but he asked gravely, “What do you do when you’re presented with a supposed witch, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Naturally I have to dismiss the cases, but that doesn’t keep the people from believing most sincerely in witchcraft,” Lord Lovejoy replied. “You have to understand that these people blame witches for sickened sheep, blighted crops, and miscarriages. Even if I can’t convict them, often the accused witch’s house is burned or they meet with some other misadventure.” He shrugged. “It’s a sort of rough justice, I suppose.”

“But surely these women are innocent, my lord?” Messalina objected, looking quite appalled.

“One shouldn’t discount the strength of the devil or his subjects,” Lord Stanhope muttered. “No doubt these people have reasons for chasing away these ungodly women.”

Freya glared at him from under her eyelashes. What a horrible man. She’d met his sort before, and though she should be wary of him, what she truly felt was indignant anger.

The door opened and a pleasant-faced gentleman entered.

“Ah,” Lord Lovejoy exclaimed. “Our newest guest. May I present Mr. Thomas Plimpton?”

Mr. Plimpton smiled and bowed and then took a seat next to Arabella, saying something to her as he sat that made her blush.

Once again Freya glanced at Harlowe without conscious thought. This time, though, she was not the center of his attention. Now he was staring malevolently at Mr. Plimpton.

Freya took a sip of tea. Whatever had the rather nondescript Mr. Plimpton done to offend the duke? She was almost piqued that his attention was divided.

“We had just made plans to visit Newbridge today,” Lady Lovejoy said after an awkward pause. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Plimpton? We have a lovely Norman church and other country sights.”

“Of course,” that gentleman replied.

Which was how, half an hour later, they all set off to the little town nearby.

Freya walked behind Arabella and Lucretia Greycourt. The two girls hadn’t met until the day before, but had somehow already found a close bond.

She was aware of Messalina in quiet conversation with Lady Lovejoy, slightly ahead and to the side. Messalina wore an elegant walking dress, the rose-pink overskirts pulled back and bunched in deceptively casual disarray in the back. Her yellow underskirt was revealed, scattered with tiny knots of embroidered roses.

It was a beautiful dress, although with her olive complexion and black hair Freya privately thought Messalina would do better in richer colors. But yes, she was beautiful.

She could admit that.

Her childhood friend had grown into a strikingly handsome lady only a little taller than Freya.

In another life they might be walking arm in arm down this country road.

“I hadn’t taken you for a thief,” Harlowe growled in her ear, and Freya was hard-pressed not to jump.

She took a deep breath, trying to slow the wild beat of her heart. Stupid to have lost track of where he was in their little party. “I’m not a thief.”

He waved his hand in front of her nose, and it took her a moment to realize it was the hand he’d worn Ran’s ring on.

She could feel heat enter her cheeks, which only made her defensive. There was no reason for her to feel guilty. “I’m not.”

“Then you won’t mind returning to me my ring.” He faced forward, his aristocratic profile cold and heartless.

“It’s not your ring,” she replied, her voice calm. They trailed the rest of the house party, but she didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention.

Harlowe stalked along beside her, a dark cloud on an otherwise beautiful day. The sun was out, not too hot, not too cold, and with a gentle breeze. The hedges along the road were full of wild roses, exuberantly in bloom, and the sky was blue and wide.

She’d grown up in the country. In the Scottish Lowlands just across the border. She and Messalina had loved to walk or ride through the Scottish hills, and for a moment longing filled her breast—whether for Scotland or the innocent days of her childhood she wasn’t entirely certain.

Beside her, Harlowe cleared his throat. “I can lend you money if you’re in need of it.”

Her brows rose. “I don’t need your money.”

“Don’t you?” He glanced at her quickly. “Then why steal my ring?”

“I don’t intend to sell it,” she snapped.

“You are the most irritating woman,” he said softly, his expression not changing at all. “Admit you need my help and I’ll give it to you.”

“Even if I did need your help,” she replied through gritted teeth, “I would never ask you for it.”

“Darling,” he rumbled, his deep purr raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “Don’t press—”

He was interrupted by his dog bursting from beneath a hedge and running straight into his legs.

Freya couldn’t help it; she laughed.

“Get down, Tess,” Harlowe muttered, but his hands were gentle as he scrubbed her ears.

The dog shook herself happily, then shoved her nose into Freya’s skirts.

“Tess,” Harlowe growled.

“She’s all right,” Freya murmured. She might dislike the master, but she had nothing against the dog.

She scratched Tess beneath the chin.

Tess wagged her tail.

“She’s dirty,” Harlowe said gruffly.

“Dogs like being dirty,” Freya replied, scratching Tess’s ears now.

Harlowe looked at her oddly.

Tess’s ears perked, and then she wheeled and went running off into the shrubbery again.

“What sort of dog is she?” Freya asked impulsively, wiping her hands on a handkerchief. The dog had been rather muddy.

“Indian.”

Freya’s brows rose. “You brought her all the way back from India?”

He shrugged. “She’s my dog. I couldn’t leave her there.”

She stared at him. Of course he could’ve left Tess across the sea when he’d returned home to England. Gentlemen did it all the time. “Is she a special sort of dog? An Indian dog of aristocratic breed?”

He turned his head and grinned at her, two dimples incised into his cheeks.

Freya blinked, feeling as if she’d been hit in the chest. Harlowe was absolutely devastating when he smiled.

But he didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “She’s a street dog, quite common in India. Her dam whelped in the fort three years ago. Tess was the sole survivor of the puppies. She was only two months old when her mother disappeared—too young to survive on her own—so I brought her into the house and a year later to England.”

She stared at him. “Didn’t your wife object? Many ladies prefer small lapdogs to larger animals, let alone a stray dog.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Sophy died a year before Tess was born.”

“Oh.” It was obviously a topic he didn’t want to talk about. His voice held sadness when he said his wife’s name.

Which shouldn’t bother her at all.

Up ahead someone laughed loudly. Mr. Plimpton had angled himself between Arabella and Lucretia.

Harlowe cursed beneath his breath.

Freya threw him a startled glance. “I collect you don’t like Mr. Plimpton.”

“He shouldn’t be allowed near ladies,” the duke replied, not bothering to lower his voice. “You should warn Lady Holland.”

Freya’s brows drew together. Arabella was well dowered and Freya had no doubt that Lucretia, as the niece of a duke, was as well.

In fact both girls were heiresses and thus prime pluckings for a fortune hunter.

“Why do you say that?” Freya asked worriedly. “What do you know of him?”

He shook his head. “He once dallied with the heart of a lady I knew.”

Freya frowned. “I’ve never heard anything against him. Why isn’t this common knowledge if what you say is true?”

“You needn’t take my word for it, madam.” He glanced at her, his eyes no longer friendly. “I’m losing patience. Give me back my ring by midnight tonight or I’ll tell Lady Holland how I first met you.”

And with that he lengthened his stride, drawing ahead of her.

Freya stared after him, angry, frightened, and a bit disappointed that he so obviously didn’t care to walk with her anymore.

Silly.

The last thing she wanted was to become further involved with His Grace the Duke of Harlowe. He was her enemy. And now she must find a way to put him off without giving him Ran’s ring.

Messalina happened to look over her shoulder at that moment and caught Freya’s eye. She smiled tentatively.

Freya glanced away and felt a shard of pain through her breast.

It was so tiring. So useless and fraught, and it would never end, would it?

What had happened at Greycourt fifteen years ago would reverberate forever in their lives.

The thought was a weight on her shoulders. If only she could put it down. Forget.

But there was no forgetting, was there?

Aurelia was murdered.

Ranulf maimed.

And Papa dead from a broken heart.

The world could not go back from that one point in their history.

Freya inhaled and straightened, looking up. Messalina was no longer glancing back, and she saw that they were at the outskirts of the town.

There were wagons on the road, laden with goods to be sold at the market, and a boy driving a half dozen geese in the same direction.

Their little group moved off the road and onto a walking path, and in the shuffle Freya found herself beside Lady Holland.

Freya leaned close. “I’ve heard that Mr. Plimpton is not a suitable gentleman.”

Lady Holland’s dark eyebrows shot up at the news. “Good gracious. I can’t believe Lady Lovejoy would invite the man if she knew of such a thing.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t, my lady.”

Lady Holland frowned at Mr. Plimpton’s back. He was whispering something to Lucretia now. “She dashed well should. Drat. That reduces the eligible gentlemen to only four.”

Freya murmured, “I’m not sure Lord Stanhope is…”

Lady Holland waved a hand. “I know. I know. The man’s a toad. I shouldn’t count him and that makes only three now and with the Misses Greycourt in attendance hardly a level playing field for my Arabella.”

“Arabella has much to recommend her,” Freya said.

“Not least her dowry,” the older woman murmured. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Miss Stewart. I love my daughter, but I’m also a practical mother. Arabella doesn’t shine in company—particularly vivacious company.” She shot another look at the trio ahead of them. Mr. Plimpton was laughing at something Lucretia had said while Arabella looked on with a faint smile. “I want her happy and with a gentleman who will care for her.”

Freya cleared her throat delicately. “Have you thought what you will do if we cannot find a gentleman good enough for her?”

“I can’t let myself do that, Miss Stewart,” Lady Holland said. “A lady of Arabella’s rank without a husband lives but a half life—at least I’m sure that’s what Lord Holland would say.”

“She’d have to live with Regina eventually, wouldn’t she?”

“Quite. And that, I’m afraid, is a recipe for discord.”

Freya frowned. There was another option for Arabella, of course. Freya could offer her sanctuary with the Wise Women in Dornoch. Arabella could learn their ways, perhaps find a calling in silversmithing, weaving, beekeeping, or any of the many other traditional Wise Women occupations. She could even find something entirely unique to do—all were welcome as long as they contributed to the community. But in exchange Arabella would have to give up her present life. Live in faraway Scotland and never, ever tell her family or friends about the Wise Women.

Lady Holland looked up as they entered the crowded town square. “Oh, here we are at last.”

Ahead of them, Arabella and Lucretia had stopped by a woman selling hot buns while Mr. Plimpton had moved on to charming Messalina and Lady Lovejoy. The man was a menace, and Freya felt grudgingly thankful to Harlowe for warning her. She knew that Lady Holland would have a quiet word not only with her own daughters, but also with Messalina and Lucretia tonight.

“Would you like one?” Arabella smiled, indicating the currant buns, as Freya came abreast of them.

“Thank you,” Freya replied. She met Lucretia’s curious gaze and looked away. Lucretia had been only eight when the Greycourt tragedy happened—a mischievous girl who had often tagged along with Freya and Messalina, determined not to miss any excitement. They’d sometimes hid from little Lucretia in that cruel way older children had, but there had been other days when Freya had spent whole afternoons teaching Lucretia to look for birds’ nests in the heather.

The stab of melancholy? longing? regret? was sudden and overwhelming.

Freya turned to survey the market.

On one side of the square was an inn with a painted sign proclaiming it the Swan. In the center of the square was an ancient fountain. And on the other side was the Norman church. Stalls and carts were crowded all the way around the fountain, the owners bawling their wares. Here was a woman selling onions and leeks, there a man with a string of fresh sausages, and farther on a man sharpening knives, his foot furiously working his grindstone. People crowded the little town square, no doubt come from several miles around.

Someone must have information about Lady Randolph here.

Freya trailed behind Arabella and Lucretia, eyeing the various stalls. She decided on an elderly woman hawking vegetables, berries, and small bunches of flowers.

“Fine strawberries I have,” the woman cried as Freya stopped before her.

Freya smiled as she looked at the berries, temptingly displayed. “You must be the strawberry woman my friend Lady Randolph told me about. She spoke highly of you.”

The old woman’s toothless smile faltered before she rallied. “Aye, I have the sweetest strawberries of any in a day’s ride.”

Freya glanced up, meeting her eyes. “That’s exactly what Lady Randolph said. But I’m thinking of buying one of your posies today.”

The woman had been eyeing her nervously but perked up at the prospect of a sale. “Pick the one you like, mistress, only a halfpenny a bunch.”

“Well, then I’ll have three,” Freya replied, opening her purse. She held out a shilling. “Someone told me that my friend died of a strange disease. Do you know aught of it, mother?”

The old woman eyed her hand for a second. Then with a quick look right and left she snatched the shilling. “Weren’t disease what killed her, my lady.”

“Witchcraft, then?” Freya murmured to test her.

The old woman surprised her with a derisive snort. “No, nor witchcraft, either. ’Twas the sins of a man that laid her low. And now you must move away, mistress.” She tilted her head in the direction of the stall next to hers. A young man was openly staring at them. “This talk is dangerous.”

Freya nodded and took her posies, sticking one in the top of her fichu where the ends crossed over her chest. Then she wandered away from the old woman’s stall, handing the other two posies to a couple of small girls who giggled at the gift.

Sins of a man. Had Lady Randolph taken a lover before she died? If so, it would give Lord Randolph one of the oldest reasons for murder.

She glanced at the crowd, looking for the best person to approach next, and glimpsed Arabella’s bright gold hair. She was standing next to Lord Rookewoode, her face tilted up, her expression painfully open. The earl was handing her some sort of pastry from the stall in front of them, his smile framed by devilish dimples.

The man was dangerous.

Freya bit her lip. No doubt Lady Holland would be pleased if that resulted in a match.

Freya was less certain.

She turned away and saw Harlowe, standing at the edge of the market crowd, his hand on Tess’s head. He was looking around the marketplace as well, and even from across the square Freya thought he looked tense.

How strange.

She started in his direction and then heard a particular cry.

“Ribbons and trim! Pretty ribbons and trim I have!”

She glanced at the crier.

It was a woman dressed in a ragged black cloak with a gray hood. She stood beside a cart drawn by an enormous dog, a shaggy gray-and-white lurcher. The cart was filled with her wares. The woman looked up, and Freya recognized the Crow.

What was she doing here? Freya had had no notice of a meeting.

She strolled over.

“Will ye have a pretty blue ribbon, mistress?” the Crow called loudly, her black eyes glinting. “I have sky blue and sea blue and robin’s-egg blue.”

Freya peered in the cart. She fingered one of the ribbons tied loosely to a pole. “Have you green? A nice grass green?”

The woman met Freya’s eyes. “O’ course.”

She bent over her cart to rummage in a box and Freya leaned closer, taking care that her expression remain the same when the Crow whispered, “I’ve news that someone at the house party is a Dunkelder.”

“Who?” Freya murmured as she held up a ribbon, squinting at it.

“I don’t know,” the Crow said, and then louder, “Only two a penny, mistress. An’ if you buy four I’ll give you the fifth free.”

“Does the Dunkelder know who I am?” Freya asked, ducking her head as her breath came faster.

The Crow murmured, “I don’t think so. But should he find that you’re a de Moray he’ll know all.” Her black eyes flicked up. “And this is Dunkelder territory. There’ll be others. Walk softly.”

Freya stared blindly at the colorful ribbons in her hand.

“Lady Macha,” the Crow whispered. “I cannot stay here. I’ve other business to see to. You’re on your own.”

Freya met the other woman’s worried gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

She fumbled for a coin from her purse and took the ribbons.

“Be careful,” the other woman warned as Freya turned to go. “If the Dunkelder finds out who you are, he’ll kill you.”

Christopher watched as the members of the house party scattered about the town market. He followed, winding through the crowd, keeping an eye on Plimpton and trying to ignore the press of all the bodies around him. Plimpton was ushering Lady Lovejoy about as if he had not a care in the world, damn him.

Someone jostled his elbow.

Christopher turned, his upper lip lifted in a snarl, and the youth who had run into him stepped back. “Beg your pardon, m’lord.”

The boy hurried off.

Christopher closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelling the stink of too many bodies, feeling the pounding of a headache start.

When he opened them again, he saw Miss Stewart across the square staring at him. Damn her.

He turned away, shame making his neck hot. Why must it be she to see his weakness?

Tess whimpered and pressed against his leg.

He dropped his hand to her head, letting her soft fur calm him. This was England. The crowd wasn’t pressed together here. There was no danger of suffocation. And he shouldn’t care one whit what the bloody little thief thought of him.

Still. Coming along on this outing hadn’t been a good plan.

He blew out his breath and searched for Plimpton. Lady Lovejoy was walking ahead, arm in arm with Messalina now, while Plimpton had fallen behind as he peered at a stall selling penknives.

Christopher pushed his way through the crowd to get to Plimpton.

“Do you have them?” he asked when he reached the other man’s side.

Plimpton started as if a gun had gone off beside him.

He turned, wincing delicately as if Christopher had made a particularly egregious faux pas. “I think we need privacy for this discussion, don’t you, Your Grace?”

“I think I want this done with as soon as possible,” Christopher retorted. “When we return to the house, for example.”

He saw Plimpton swallow. Evidently the man hadn’t expected Christopher to demand the letters immediately.

“Erm…b-but that won’t do.”

“Why not? Do you have the letters or don’t you?” Christopher’s upper lip curled.

Plimpton’s gaze slid away. “A-as a matter of fact, I shan’t have them until another few days, when the post delivers them to me.”

“What game are you playing?” Christopher snarled quietly.

“No game!” Plimpton licked his lips nervously. “Truly! I thought it safest to travel separately from the letters, that’s all. I’ll have them very soon and then I’ll send you a note to meet.”

It sounded like a load of balderdash, but then Plimpton had never struck Christopher as very bright. Perhaps he had chosen such a convoluted way to bring the letters to Lovejoy House.

“Take care you don’t forget,” Christopher said through gritted teeth. “Else I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

“Is that a threat?” Plimpton’s face had gone white. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned forward and flicked a nonexistent speck off Plimpton’s coat front, murmuring, “If I’ve left you in any doubt, I do apologize.”

Christopher pivoted to make his way through the mass of people and saw, not half a dozen feet away, Miss Stewart hastily turning away.

Had she overheard their conversation?

It was the last straw in a trying morning. He wasn’t about to let Miss Stewart’s curiosity mar Sophy’s name.

He strode to Miss Stewart and pointedly offered his arm. “Will you walk with me?”

She opened her mouth, looking mulish.

He stretched his lips in a parody of a smile, all his teeth bared. “I won’t ask again.”

She snapped her mouth shut and placed her hand on his arm. “How boorish.”

“Am I?” He guided her to the edge of the crowd, Tess close by his side. “Were you spying on me?”

“No!” She looked so indignant he considered believing her. Then her expression turned to one of speculation. “Were you and Mr. Plimpton discussing something you didn’t want heard?”

“That’s my own business.” He felt his temples begin to throb. He needed a reprieve from this crowd. “As it happens I don’t particularly enjoy self-righteous spinsters listening in on my private conversations.”

A quick glance around showed that no one was paying attention to them. He steered her in the direction of the church, away from the marketplace stalls and the gathered people.

Miss Stewart huffed, saying rather breathlessly, “I don’t particularly enjoy being accused of nefarious doings by a man so stupid he’d conduct private business in a crowd.”

“What a little witch you are,” he said absently—and felt her stiffen. He glanced down at her and saw that her green-gold eyes had widened in something that looked almost like fear. “What is it?”

“You threatened poor Mr. Plimpton,” she said.

Christopher snorted and pulled open the door to the Norman church. Tess darted in with them. “He’s only poor in pocket, I assure you.”

Inside, the church was cool and dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine outside. It was a pretty little church. The inverted U-shaped arch of the door was repeated in the arch between the nave and chancel, and both were decorated with a chevron pattern.

He glanced down at Miss Stewart and saw that her face was upturned as she studied the windows. Less than an inch of her hairline peeked beneath her cap. Her hair might be dark blond or dusty brown—impossible to tell—and he had the wild urge to rip the cap from her head.

“Do you think they were smashed during the Reformation?” she mused.

The windows were all clear glass. If there had once been stained glass in the church it was all gone. “Probably. Or by Cromwell’s Roundheads.”

“Men do seem to enjoy smashing things—even beautiful things.”

“Not all men, surely.” He watched her with her prim little mouth, her sad eyes, and said gently, “Besides. Women can be just as destructive, I find.”

He felt her stiffen and was glad. Here was a proper opponent to take his ire out on. She might be a virago, but she was also strong and strongly opinionated. He needn’t fear that she would collapse into a weeping heap at the slightest comment.

She made a scoffing sound. “Do you really think so? When the destruction that men wield results in wars? Death and maiming?”

“You don’t count women such as Helen of Troy?” he murmured, watching her. She couldn’t speak this way with every man she met—otherwise she’d be without a job. What made her so confrontational with him?

“Helen of Troy is a myth,” she said with scorn. “Butcher Cumberland isn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. The Duke of Cumberland had been the English commander at the bloody slaughter of the Scots at Culloden only fourteen years before. “You’re a Jacobite.”

“No, of course not. They were idealistic fools fighting a war they had no hope of winning.” She blew out an impatient breath. “I just don’t approve of wholesale butchery.”

“And you hate men,” he said slowly.

“Don’t be silly.” She walked away from him, up the little nave, her heels echoing on the flagstones. “I don’t hate every man.”

Him. She hated him.

He intended to find out why. He felt heat rising in his chest as the pain in his head returned full blast. “What have I ever done to you, madam?”

She threw a mocking glance over her shoulder. “You still don’t know?”

Suddenly his patience was at an end.

He took two strides and grasped her arm, halting her. Swinging her around to face him. “No. I can only imagine that your brain is inflamed and you’ve dreamed up some injury. You’ve been waspish to me since the moment I laid eyes on you—despite the fact that I helped you.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“No? You and the lass and baby would’ve been fine against those bullies had I tossed you from my carriage?”

Her lip curled. “I can’t think how an animal like you is allowed into polite society.”

The heat, the weeping, the stink of sweaty bodies. Did she know somehow? How once he’d been reduced to the nearly subhuman?

He gritted his teeth. “Can’t you?” He bent over her, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, of home, enraged beyond what the circumstance required. “I’m a duke, while you, madam, are merely a thief.”

“I’m not—”

“Give me back my ring,” he growled. “I’ll no longer wait for tonight. Give it to me now or I’ll tell them all.”

“Never,” she hissed.

Something within him snapped. Perhaps it was the scent of honeysuckle, perhaps it was the way her soft lips curled in a sneer.

He took both her upper arms, drawing her so close he could feel the heat of her skin. “You will give me back that ring.”

“If I were a man, I’d call you out,” Miss Stewart said with complete earnestness. “I’d meet you with swords and gut you.”

“What a bloodthirsty little thing you are,” he drawled, knowing his indifference would provoke her the more. He was aware that his cock was half-hard. This is madness. “As if you could best me at swords—or any combat, armed or not. You’ve the inflated pride of a child in the nursery.”

“I’m not a child.” Her glare was full of scorn.

He let his gaze drop pointedly to her bosom, heaving beneath her fichu and a silly little bouquet of flowers. He cocked his head, slowly appraising her figure. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

For a moment he thought she might explode, like a dueling piece poorly primed.

Then she said, low and deadly, “Tomorrow morning. Five of the clock. Name the place.”

He hauled her against his chest, so close he felt her breath brush his lips. “You want an assignation with me, madam?”

She ignored his double entendre. Her gaze was direct and fiery. “I want your blood.”

“For God’s sake.” He sneered.

“If you can best me at swords, I’ll give you the ring,” she said softly, her voice shaking—though he knew it wasn’t from fear. “If I win, you’ll not ask for it again and you’ll not tell anyone of what happened in London.”

“Do you really think I’d take up a sword against a woman?”

“Coward.”

He let her go, stepping back so suddenly she staggered. He’d wanted to shake her—or fuck her, he wasn’t entirely sure which.

For a moment they stood there, chests heaving, glaring at each other.

He should ignore her and her ridiculous goading. Should turn and simply walk away. But he was tired of her insults. She needed to be put in her place.

And he needed his ring.

“Very well. But when I win, you will hand over my ring without further ado.” He pulled his lips back in a grin. “I accept your challenge, Miss Stewart.”