The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M. Raven McAllan

The man was unbending by the minute, and now looked around Brody’s age, not ten years older.

      ‘Not amazed or unhappy?’

      Henning raised his shoulders. ‘I don’t know to be honest.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What I do know is this. As was his usual routine, the duke rode out one day and was caught in a vicious hailstorm. We all thought he recovered well, but he wasn’t strong after that and the second time it proved fatal. He… oh dear, I don’t like to say this, it seems disloyal.’ The man blushed. ‘Oh my, I mean,’ he stopped speaking and lapsed into an agitated silence.

      Brody took pity on him. ‘I understand your feelings but I need to know. My father is dead, my mother will not talk about it, and my staff seem to think me uninterested in my heritage. None of which is helping my return to head the house of Welland. Therefore, Henning, I throw myself at your mercy and beg you to tell me what you know.’

      Henning dipped his head. ‘Sadly little more than that, Your Grace. He returned from that ride and succumbed to the fever. No one thought he would take such a risk again, but he did. That was…’ his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

      ‘But he did? And that was the ride that killed him?’ Brody asked.

      ‘So it seems, your grace. As before, it was a lowering sky and snow was hinted. Even so, his lordship insisted on going out alone. He’d been in to see me earlier and was his normal self, and made no mention of having to go anywhere. However, it seems he told your mother he needed to ride – no explanation why or to where, although she did say to the coroner she asked him and he replied it was just a ride to shake the cobwebs away. As he often did that, although not usually in such weather, she had no reason to argue with him. This is, you understand, hearsay?’

      Brody nodded. ‘Go on.’

      ‘He made his way to the stables, dismissed the groom who went to attend him, saddled a young and green stallion, and rode away. It wasn’t until he failed to return for dinner that the alarm was raised and a search instigated.’ Henning took another sip of brandy.

      ‘We found him around midnight, crawling along the back drive. It was assumed his horse had caught its foot in a rabbit hole and he was thrown. After a subsequent hunt we found the horse next to one such hole, already dead. Your father was brought home on a hurdle, but died three days later from an inflammation of the lungs without any explanation for his ride. After that we carried on much as normal until, well, now.’

      ‘Which will be the new normal.’ Brody paused to formulate his thoughts. Henning might think his father wouldn’t take silly risks but Brody knew his parent had been wild in his younger days, To try out a young horse in less than perfect weather would be something he’d do without thinking twice. ‘Is that why the gates on the back drive are shut and that route unused?’

      ‘Exactly, Your Grace.’

      Brody made up his mind. ‘No longer. It’s the shortest way to the village.’ And Miss Mary. Now why should that thought pop into his mind? There was as much chance of anything happening there as him becoming the next king. ‘Can you see that the drive is levelled and the gates repaired?”

      Henning brightened. ‘Certainly. While you’re here?” He looked somewhat hesitant about continuing.

      ‘Spit it out.’ Brody advised him. ‘I don’t bite.’ Not innocent employees anyway. Less than innocent and willing ladies, all the time. Damned if that thought didn’t perk his pego up. He willed his erection to go away. Having just achieved a working rapport with Henning he didn’t want to lose it. Luckily the desk was between them.

      ‘We used to have a dance after the harvest was done. It’s not been held these past few years, but now it would give everyone the chance to meet you again. People understood your mama didn’t want to be bothered whilst your papa was ill, but now, if you do indeed mean to take up the reins, why not start with this?’

      It made sense. Brody stood up and clapped the other man on the back. ‘An excellent idea. I’ll get word to my mother and siblings that it will be… hmm, around the last week in September? That’s…’ he did rapid calculations, ‘…four weeks if we hold it on the first Saturday in October. Then it won’t clash with anything the church does.’ He remembered enough of years past to know how important the religious festivals were. ‘Can you arrange that? I’ll speak to cook.’ If she is off the sherry. He thought rapidly. ‘I suspect my first task should be to write to Mama. If I can work out where she is at the moment. I’ve lost track.’

      ‘Mallow.’ Henning’s eyes twinkled. ‘At Lady Fernley’s. I have a list.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘My Lord, I’ve been sending her weekly updates on what we, we, not you, are doing.’

      Brody laughed. Poor Henning. ‘Let’s face it; my bit would scarcely cover two lines of script. Eating, riding, sleeping. Just existing. No more though, and I’ll take over the epistles. It would be best to come from me that her input can decrease now.’

      And cease. He still had to discover why she chose to shut him out.

       Chapter Three

      Mary couldn’t remember a night quite so dream-filled since just after Horry had died. Those dreams had been more of the nasty and dark kind, not the frustrating type. Yet in both she woke grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there. However, whereas before she’d woken up bereft, because her husband was never going to be next to her again, the night just passed she had felt more of an ache deep inside. The longing and expectation you experienced as you waited for a lover to fill you.

      She flung back the covers with exasperation and got out of bed. Enough was enough. Her life had changed and it was up to her to take charge of it. She’d chosen not to be part of the ton, not to be hemmed in and confronted on all sides by suitors who thought no more of her than a cup of chocolate in Whites. Instead she’d chosen to be seen as a young widow who was in effect the custodian of the Grange until such times its usage – unspecified as to how – changed. That persona suited her and was close enough to the truth to not make her feel uneasy when people commiserated. It was just some facts she’d supressed. Like a lot of money and her title.

      Why the local had chosen uphold what the school children called her – Miss Mary, not Mrs Mary Lynch – she had no idea but she liked it. She was no longer Lady McCoy – or, she thought with a jolt, the Dowager Lady McCoy – and, unless she went back to her brother with her tail between her legs, would likely never be again. Each time that thought hit her, she became ever more determined that once her year of grace was over, she intended to continue her life how she wanted it. It would be an uphill struggle, she had no doubt of that, but even if she had to stall until she was twenty-five she was determined to do as she desired.

      ‘Right.’ Mary spoke to herself as she dressed in her plain cotton chemise and simple sprigged lilac cotton gown. Old and serviceable, it was a firm favourite of hers and she knew it suited her dark curls, even as it upheld her status of a widow, not totally out of mourning. Or did it? Maybe the colour was too definite?

      So be it. Enough was enough. If she had followed Horry’s diktat, she would have been in colours months ago. However. whilst she lived with Desmond and Patience, the idea had horrified them, and in deference to her hosts and their sensibilities she’d kept to greys and purples. Here in Welland village she’d lightened up a bit, but now she decided her wardrobe needed updating. She’d call on Miss Wishlade, ask for advice, and choose some pretty coloured gowns and outerwear for autumn.

      With that in mind, Mary hummed under her breath and waited as Barlow, her groom, saddled her beloved mare, Darcy, and let him give her a hand into the saddle. As ever she countered his pleas to accompany her, and rode along the drive towards the gates and the lane, which went towards Welland in one direction and the tiny hamlet of Bliston in the other.

      Miss Wishlade lived halfway up the steep hill on the far side of the Welland estate. A spritely widow who said cheerfully she’d stopped counting her age when she reached