An Improper Aristocrat. Deb Marlowe

and excitement as fervently as the débutantes of the ton craved young and single heirs to a dukedom, as constantly as the opium eaters of her mother’s country craved their drug.

      Chione cast her gaze down at her tea. What she craved were far simpler things: food for the table, a warmer coat for Will, the ability to pay her remaining servants’ wages. But she would achieve none of those by drinking tea with Lord Renhurst.

      ‘Do try not to worry, my lord. We shall muddle through.’ Strategically, she paused and cocked her head. ‘Listen, do you hear barking?’

      The viscount’s manner abruptly changed. He set down his dish of tea. ‘Well, then,’ he said briskly, ‘we will scheme together to bring you about, but another time. I cannot stay longer today.’

      Chione had to hide her smile at his sudden eagerness to be gone. ‘Of course. Thank you so much for talking with Mr Bartlett for me.’

      ‘Certainly.’ He paused and a stern expression settled once more over his features. ‘I’ve let you have your way so far, Chione, but I’m watching you closely. If I need to step in, I will.’

      ‘I appreciate your concern, sir.’

      He offered his arm, listening intently. ‘Will you walk me out? I must be off.’

      Chione resisted the impish urge to drag her feet. They stepped outside and she wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She breathed deep of the sea scent blowing strong on the wind. It was the kind of wind that brought change, her grandfather had always said. She closed her eyes and hoped it would bring change. She hoped it would bring him home again.

      ‘Good day to you, Chione. We will speak again soon.’ Lord Renhurst’s groom pulled his phaeton up to the house and he hurried towards it. He skidded to a stop, however, when a horse and rider suddenly emerged from the wooded section of the drive.

      The sun obscured her view, and Chione caught her breath, believing for an instant that she had indeed wished Mervyn Latimer home. The rider approached, and stopped in front of the house, allowing her to see that it was not the imposing form of her missing grandfather, but that of a younger man instead.

      A man, indeed, and a specimen of the species like she had never seen.

      Most of the men in the village were fishermen, gnarled from their constant battle against wind and sea. Lord Renhurst and her grandfather were older, and stout with good living. Her brother had always looked exactly what he had been—a rumpled, slightly grubby scholar. But this man…She gave a little sigh. He dismounted and she could not look away. He stood tall, broad and powerful. He looked, in fact, as if he could have ridden straight from the pages of one of her adventure novels.

      As if he had heard her thoughts, he strode boldly towards the house. The closer he came, the faster her heart began to trip. He stopped and the skin on Chione’s nape prickled, every tiny hair there standing at quivering attention.

      ‘Good day,’ he said to the viscount, who still stood in the drive. ‘I am looking for Oakwood Court.’

      His clothing looked as unusual as he. A coat of dark green, made of fine material, but cut loose, with a multitude of pockets. Snug trousers and scuffed, comfortable-looking boots. His linen was clean and his neckcloth a bit limp, as if he had been tugging at it.

      ‘You’ve found it, sir,’ Lord Renhurst replied. Chione thought he might have conversed further if not for a loud and happy bark that sounded suddenly nearby. ‘Sorry, must be off,’ he said as he edged towards his phaeton. Gravel crunched as the vehicle began to move, then the viscount twisted around on the seat. He looked back at her visitor and advised loudly, ‘Good God, man, take off your hat!’

      ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ The gentleman removed said article and turned to face Chione once more. He raked her with an assessing glance and his face softened a bit. ‘Can you tell me where I might find Miss Latimer?’

      Chione’s mouth went dry. Gracious, but the man could not be real. He did not speak, he rumbled, with low tones that she could feel, echoing in the bones behind her ear, vibrating in the pit of her belly. His hair was too long to be fashionable, and dark. Nearly as dark as her own, in fact. Yet his eyes were the same colour as the cerulean sky overhead. It was a striking combination, especially when set off by sun-browned skin.

      She swallowed and forced herself to gather her wits. ‘Yes, I am Miss Latimer,’ she said. But Lord Renhurst’s last words finally dawned on her and made her realise how near the dog’s barking had come. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said.

      The gentleman was oblivious to the danger. ‘Miss Latimer, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve come a great distance to find you.’ He bowed. ‘I am Treyford.’

      The barking had grown louder still and had changed in tone. Chione could see the beast now, coming from the stables. She was no longer making noise for the sheer fun of it, now she was broadcasting a frenzy of doggy ecstasy.

      ‘The pleasure is mine,’ Chione strode down the steps towards her visitor. ‘Pray, do excuse me.’ She reached up and snatched the very fine beaver hat from the man’s grasp just before the dog reached them. Then she turned and threw the thing away with all her might.

      

      Trey’s jaw dropped as his brand new hat sailed out to the middle of the gravelled drive. Good God, was the girl mad? Was this why Richard had been so adamant that Trey protect his sister?

      He soon realised his mistake. The largest, ugliest dog he had ever seen came out of nowhere and pounced on the hat with a yelp of joy. The creature shook the thing as if to break it, tossed it in the air, growled ferociously at it, then settled down right there in the drive and began to tear into it with powerful jaws.

      ‘I am sorry,’ Miss Latimer said, ‘but she would have knocked you flat in order to get it.’

      The lady looked at him at last. He saw recognition in her eyes—eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. Slightly slanted, they were rimmed with the most astonishing eyelashes he had ever seen.

      ‘Treyford, did you say?’ she asked. ‘As in the Earl of Treyford? How nice to meet you at last! I feel we must know you already, so frequently did Richard mention you in his letters.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘But what a surprise to find you in England, my lord. I had thought you meant to stay and continue your work in Egypt.’

      A shout from what he took to be the path to the stables distracted her, and Trey seized the opportunity to study the girl. She looked younger than he had expected. Richard had spoken often of his older sister and it had been obvious that they were close, her support a steady influence that Richard had relied upon. He knew she must be near to five and twenty, but she still looked little more than a girl.

      She was also prettier than he had expected—a far cry from the strong-willed spinster he had imagined. Her skin was flawless, with a slight exotically olive tint, but still very pale in contrast to her dark eyes and even darker hair. Her face, finely moulded with high cheekbones, was set in a serious expression, as if she carried heavy burdens.

      The shout came again, and Trey recognised her name.

      ‘Chione! Just see what I’ve got!’

      Her face had softened. ‘It is young Will,’ she said, as if that explained anything. ‘Most likely covered in mud, but do not fear. I will not allow him near enough to ruin any more of your wardrobe.’

      ‘Chione!’ The boy came into view. He looked perhaps nine or ten years old, and carried a large open basket that bounced against his side as he ran. He was indeed slathered head to foot in mud.

      ‘Beef, Chione!’ he called in triumph. ‘I was walking past the vicarage with my string of fish and Mrs Thompson called out to me. She vowed she had been longing for her cook’s fish stew, and she asked me to trade. An entire joint of beef, can you imagine? I’ve got it right here!’

      ‘How nice, Will,’ Miss Latimer began, but a look of caution crossed her face as the boy drew near. ‘Watch your feet. Careful!’