The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M. Raven McAllan

mean?’ It hit Mary that in her months at the Grange, no one really mentioned the duke at all, other than he had been abroad for many years. Had anyone ever said he was at the castle? She searched her mind but couldn’t recall any conversations. After all, the locals would know what was going on and have no cause to talk about it to her.

      ‘Ah, Brody? Well it’s like this. Or –’ Miss Wishlade said with a frown, ‘– I believe it is. Mind I only know what I hear from Mrs Loveage, but he came back a changed man and did nothing.’

      ‘Came back?’ So he had been away then? ‘How changed?’

      ‘Oh I forgot you weren’t here before.’ Miss Wishlade looked around the garden and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, the young Duke – not that he was the Duke in those days – he was, not to put it too finely, a hellion my dear. A rake and a womaniser. His poor mama was in despair. He took but never repaid if you know what I mean.’ She coloured as she spoke. ‘Even though the estate is wealthy, no coffers are bottomless. I tried to tell her, he’d been spoiled, that there was nothing malicious in his behaviour. That if you are brought up to believe you are so important you bow to no other diktats than those you chose to, you are not going to listen to reason. Sadly, he was treated in that manner by his mama. His papa, bless his soul, tried to intervene but when a thrashing resulted in the uproar his mama created, why, it was no wonder it had no real effect.’

      Mary pondered Miss Wishlade’s words. ‘But surely he went away to school?’ From what her brother had let slip, school tended to beat all delusions of grandeur out of everyone.

      ‘Well, yes, but whatever it achieved was lost each time he came home. I dare say his schooldays meant he wasn’t quite so obnoxious,’ Miss Wishlade said fairly. ‘But it still meant he had no concept of money management, or how to run the estates.’ She shook her head. ‘Or in those days have any desire to learn. Or so it appeared.’

      ‘He seems like a wastrel,’ Mary observed tartly. No wonder he looked at me so insolently. He is no gentleman whatever his title.

      ‘The problem is, my dear, when you are told the world owes you, then why sadly, you tend to take those sentiments at face value and follow that path.’ Miss Wishlade sat back in her chair and shook her head. ‘If truth be told I feel sorry for him. His mama is very strong willed, and no one really stood up to her.’

      ‘Not even her husband?’

      Miss Wishlade shook her head until her white coiffed hair stood out from her skull. ‘Oh no dear, as I said, he tried, but in the end? Why something happened and Brody left. No one knows all the ins and out of why and what happened next, but it is rumoured he was working for the crown. I suspect we’ll never know.’

      Mary agreed with her. She searched for something to say to change the topic but Miss Wishlade pre-empted her.

      ‘Now he’s home? Who knows what he’s like? Although Mrs Loveage says he’s kept himself to himself. Even when his mama took the rest of the family away, he’s not really been out and about. He’s been very quiet. No one has really seen hair nor hide of him. I thought though, when we saw him earlier, that he’s a man with a lot of anger in him.’ She paused and tilted her head to one side like an inquisitive bird. ‘And even more sorrow. Poor man.’

      It was still no reason for him to stare at a woman in such an insolent and denuding manner. Mary had an awful though, one she immediately scotched. Surely he didn’t believe in droit de seigneur? Those days were long gone.

      ‘Anyway, whatever it is, it looks like he’s back with us again,’ Annie said as she caught the end of the conversation. ‘Which is good.’

      Mary nodded. It all sounded somewhat far-fetched. Something made up to explain his boorish attitude? If so, it wasn’t enough to appease her.

      What if it was right though? That he’d been away fighting for his country, instead of what she might have supposed – if she’d thought about him at all – that he’d been in London or visiting one of his other estates with the rest of his family. Like many of the ton? She was feeling a little uneasy about her holier than thou attitude. Wasn’t it as bad as his ‘I do what I want’ one?

      She needed to get away and think about the revelations.

      As soon as luncheon was finished and her offer of helping with the tidying up refused, Mary made her farewells a good two hours before she normally did. The food was delicious, and she missed the somnambulant period that usually came after, plus the hour of crafts that followed their laziness.

      It wasn’t until she’d ridden away from the cottage and accessed the overgrown lane she usually took that she breathed easier. There was no doubt she’d meet his grace one day, but after that scorching look at the school, she’d prefer it to be later rather than sooner. She needed time to plan just how she would react. To take him down a peg or two would be preferable, but not likely. To slap him hard would be even more satisfying, but she thought that as probable as the Whigs taking office. Mary sighed. Why did she see difficulties ahead?

      Plan for the worst, hope for the best. Her husband’s words danced into her mind. A good adage to follow.

      Impatient now, and ready to reach the safety of home, Mary clicked her tongue to encourage Darcy to increase her slow pace to a slightly livelier one.

      Darcy, amiable as ever, responded and they proceeded briskly to the corner where the track met the bridleway, before disaster struck. Mary, deep in thought, didn’t have the reins as securely as she could have.

      Evidently, Darcy, now eager to get out of the heat, away from the flies and sensing the unusual opportunity to sleep the afternoon away in her own field, didn’t see the partridge until it whirred up under her hooves and flew away with a lot of noise and action.

      Darcy reared and took off like a racehorse – which she certainly was not.

      Mary grabbed ineffectually for the reins so unceremoniously yanked out of her hands, missed, and slid off backwards over the horse’s rump then down onto the ground. It was hard and rutted and the jarring took her breath away. Her hair fell out of the few pins left in it and tumbled over her shoulders, and into her eyes.

      She blew the strands from her face, muttered something not really supposed to be uttered by a lady, tucked the long tresses behind her ears, and looked around to see Darcy disappearing into the distance.

      Mary swore, stood up, promptly caught her foot under a tree root and fell back on her rear again. That pain was nothing to the one that now shot through her head. One of total annoyance and frustration.

      Hellfire and damnation. Now what do I do? It seemed shanks’ pony time had arrived several weeks earlier than the season demanded. With a long huff that fluttered the grass next to her, Mary considered her situation. In all the time she’d used these tracks and bridleways she’d only seen one person, and he, she now knew, was Hubbins the local poacher. One of the gossipy titbits Miss Wishlade had shared, was that Hubbins had been caught with a trout in his bag that he couldn’t vouch for. Luckily for Hubbins, neither could the bailiff. However, a scuffle had broken out and Hubbins was now the less than proud owner of a black eye and a broken arm. Therefore, it was unlikely anyone else would pass by and either offer her a lift or get Mr Niven to come and collect her.

      Mary, my girl, just get on with it. She wriggled her foot out from under the root, stood up and dusted her gown down. To her horror she noticed the lace that frilled around the neckline and covered her breasts to make the dress decorous and not semi-indecent was torn in places. One garter had come untied, the silk in tatters, and that stocking was laddered and now lay in wrinkles around her ankle. The other, still in place, had no knee. A waste of a pair of good everyday stockings. She supposed she should be thankful it wasn’t her fine silk special hose she’d ruined.

      But the worst thing was that now the demure day dress had taken on the role of a teasing evening gown, albeit a dusty and tattered one.

      It was the last straw. If she were a lesser woman Mary swore she would have broken down and cried. As it was she