The Duke's Cinderella Bride. Кэрол Мортимер

her, during the brief times she was able to escape the seemingly ever-watchful gaze of Lady Sulby, to go down to the rugged shoreline and enjoy its wild, untamed beauty.

      Jane had quickly discovered that she liked Norfolk winters the best—when the sea would seem to rage and fight against the very restrictions of nature as an inner part of her longed to fight against the ever-increasing social strictures that were placed upon her. For, after she had shared the nursery and schoolroom with Olivia, until she reached the age of sixteen, she had stopped being treated as Olivia’s equal and had become more maid and companion to the spoilt and pampered daughter of the house.

      Jane paused as she passed the cheval mirror in Lady Sulby’s bedroom, studying her reflection critically and knowing as she did so that she was everything that was not fashionable. She was tall, for one thing, with long legs and a slender willowy figure. She wished she could say that her hair was an interesting auburn, but instead it was a bright, gleaming red. And, although her complexion was creamy, she did have that unattractive sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tiny nose. Plus, her eyes were green.

      None of this was complemented in the least by the gowns Lady Sulby had made up for her. They were always of a pastel shade that did nothing for Jane’s vibrant colouring. Her present one, of the palest pink, was so totally unflattering with the red of her hair.

      Of course it was very doubtful that Jane would ever meet anyone who would want to marry her. Unless the local vicar took pity on her and made an offer. And as he was a middle-aged widower, with four unruly young children all under the age of eight, Jane did so hope that he would not.

      She gave a weary sigh as she collected the requested silk shawl from Lady Sulby’s dressing table, noticing as she did so that Lady Sulby’s jewellery box had not been returned to its proper place in the top drawer.

      But Jane’s attention was diverted from the jewellery box as she heard the sound of a carriage outside, travelling down the yew-lined gravel driveway to Markham Park.

      The Duke and his brother Lord Sebastian St Claire at last? Or one of the Sulbys’ other guests?

      Curiosity impelled Jane to move quickly to the window to look outside. A huge, magnificent black carriage, pulled by four of the most beautiful black horses Jane had ever seen, was being driven down the driveway by a black-liveried groom. Two other servants dressed in black perched upon the back, and a ducal crest was visible on the door.

      It was indeed the Duke, then.

      He did seem to like black, didn’t he? Jane mused, even as she gave in to further temptation and gently moved the brocade curtain to one side, the better to be able to see the Duke himself when he stepped down from the carriage.

      A groom had hopped nimbly down from the back to hold the door open for him, and for some inexplicable reason Jane’s heart seemed to have increased in tempo. In fact it was beating quite erratically, she noted frowningly. Just in anticipation of the sight of a Duke? Was her life really so dull?

      She gave a rueful smile as she acknowledged that it would indeed be exciting to at last see the much-talked of Duke of Stourbridge.

      Her breath caught in the slenderness of her throat as first a booted foot descended onto the lowered step, quickly followed by the ducking of a head as the Duke of Stourbridge stepped completely out of the carriage and then down onto the gravel driveway, straightening to take his hat from the waiting servant before lifting his haughty head to take in his surroundings.

      Goodness, he was tall, was Jane’s first breathless realisation. Quickly followed by the acknowledgement that, with hair the colour of mahogany shot through with streaks of gold, and those powerfully wide shoulders and athletically moulded body, he was also the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on. His features were severe, of course, as befitted a duke who looked to be in his thirtieth year at least, but there was such hard male beauty in that austerity that just to look at him took Jane’s breath away.

      In fact she did not seem able to stop looking at him.

      There was intelligence as well as arrogance in that wide brow, though the precise colour of his eyes was something of a mystery as he viewed his surroundings with unmistakable disdain, looking down his nose at the scene before him. The sculptured mouth had narrowed, and dark brows were rising in haughty surprise as he turned to see his hostess hurriedly descending the steps towards him, rather than waiting inside Markham Park for him to be formally announced.

      ‘Your Grace!’ Lady Sulby swept him a low curtsey and received a haughtily measured inclination of that arrogant head in return. ‘Such an honour,’ she fluttered. ‘I—But where is your brother, Lord St Claire, Your Grace?’ Lady Sulby’s voice had sharpened to an unbecoming shrill as she realised there was no one else inside the Duke’s carriage.

      Jane could not discern the Duke’s reply—could only hear the deep rumble of his voice as he obviously made his hostess some sort of explanation for his solitary state.

      Oh, dear. Everything did not appear to be going to plan. Lady Sulby’s plan, that was. And an already thwarted Lady Sulby was not to be displeased further by the delay of the delivery of the shawl she had requested Jane to bring to her almost ten minutes ago.

      Jane moved quickly down the hallway to Olivia’s room to collect the parasol before hurrying to the wide staircase with the required items, aware of the rumble of voices below as Sir Barnaby engaged his guest in conversation.

      Lady Sulby had previously expressed high hopes of Olivia making a favourable impression on the Duke’s youngest brother, Lord Sebastian St Claire, and now that the young lord had failed to arrive Lady Sulby would no doubt be in one of the spiteful moods that usually had the servants running downstairs to the sanctuary of the kitchen at the first opportunity. Jane knew she wouldn’t be allowed the same privilege until after she had helped Olivia change into her dress for dinner and styled her hair.

      When the family were at home Jane was usually allowed to dine with them in the evenings, but Lady Sulby had informed her only that morning that once their guests had arrived she would be expected to take her meals downstairs with the other servants.

      Which would not be any hardship at all, when Jane considered the few dresses she had in her wardrobe. None of them was in the least suitable for dining with a duke, she acknowledged ruefully as she hurried to the staircase. And if she could deliver the shawl and parasol while the Duke still engaged the attention of his host and hostess, then she would perhaps manage to avoid the rebuke Lady Sulby was otherwise sure to make concerning her tardiness.

      Jane could never afterwards explain how it happened. Why it happened. She was only aware that the staircase was no longer firm beneath her slippered feet, and that instead of hurrying down the staircase she instead found herself tumbling forwards.

      Or at least she would have tumbled if a pair of strong hands hadn’t reached out and grasped her upper arms to halt her.

      She found herself instead falling forward into a hard, immovable object. A man’s chest, Jane quickly realised, as she found her nose buried in the delicate folds of an impeccably tied, pristinely white necktie, her senses at once assailed by the smell of cologne and clean male flesh, both mingling with the faint smell of a cigar.

      The Duke of Stourbridge’s clean, male chest. The Duke of Stourbridge’s perfectly tied cravat too, Jane discovered seconds later, as she struggled to right herself and looked up into that aristocratically austere face and discovered that his eyes—those eyes whose colour she had been unable to discern earlier, as she had looked down at him from the window of Lady Sulby’s bedroom—were of the strangest, most intense shade of gold. Not brown, not hazel, but pure, piercing gold, rimmed with a much darker brown that somehow gave him the appearance of a large bird of prey. The mesmerising appearance of a large, dangerous bird of prey…

      Hawk’s mouth tightened at the unexpectedness of this physical assault. Having spent the last two days confined to his carriage, the comfort of which had nevertheless not been enough to prevent him from being rocked and bumped about on the sadly uneven roads, he wished only to be shown to his rooms and provided with hot water for a bath before