Cinderella And The Duke. Janice Preston

Dedication

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      February 1812—Buckinghamshire

      ‘For pity’s sake!’

      The sheep darted on either side of Rosalind Allen, ignoring the open gate into the field where the rest of the flock grazed. Rosalind whirled around to see them scatter up the lane.

      ‘Stupid ani—’

      Her jaw snapped shut at the sight of an approaching horse and rider: a stranger. Instinctively, she tugged her shawl tighter around her head and body. But at least the sheep had wheeled around on spying the horseman and were dashing back in her direction. Rosalind threw her arms wide and waved the stick she had been throwing for Hector, to try again to divert the sheep through the open gate. This time the sheep swerved through the gateway and galloped, baaing loudly, to the far side of the paddock to join the rest of the flock, who were being discouraged from joining the runaways by Hector, Rosalind’s dog, still sitting on the spot where she had commanded him to stay.

      Rosalind trudged to the gate, which listed drunkenly on its solitary hinge. She tucked the stick under one arm as she hefted the gate up and struggled through the mud to close it. Only when it was latched did she recall her hoydenish appearance. Conscious of the approaching rider, she pulled at her skirts, silently cursing. When she had set out on her walk, she had hitched her skirt to mid-calf level, using a belt, to keep the hem from soiling. Apart from old Tom the shepherd, she had never seen anyone else on her walks, but now—too late—she recalled a hunting party of gentlemen from London was staying at the nearby recently sold Halsdon Manor. She’d heard the huntsman’s horn earlier in the day, but had forgotten it until now... This man must be one of that hunting party.

      ‘Oh, no, don’t cover up those pretty legs, dear heart.’ The voice slithered through the silence. ‘Does a man good to see such an enticing sight after a hard day.’

      Rosalind stiffened as, behind her, the squelch of his horse’s hooves ceased. A worm of fear wriggled in her belly. Nothing would surprise her about the so-called gentlemen of the ton after her family’s experience with Nell’s guardian, Sir Peter Tadlow, and his cronies. Thank goodness Nell—her stepsister—was no longer at Stoney End; she had departed early that morning in their family coach to stay with her aunt, Lady Glenlochrie, in London to prepare for her debut into society. Hopefully she would be safe in her aunt’s care until the start of the Season.

      The visitors to Halsdon Manor would not recognise Rosalind or Freddie, her brother, for they had never been welcome in society circles, but Nell was a different matter. Heaven knew who she had come into contact with whilst staying with various family members over the years.

      Willing herself to stay calm, Rosalind finished fixing her skirts and only then did she turn to face the horseman, Hector’s stick hidden in the folds of her skirt, the rough bark reassuring against her palm. The gentleman was tall and dark with classically patrician features. His skin was unusually swarthy and he sat his sweat-stained black hunter with insolent grace. His finely moulded lips were stretched in a smile that did not touch his eyes, the darkest Rosalind had ever seen. He raked her from head to toe with a gaze full of cold calculation that left a trail of wariness and vulnerability in its wake.

      ‘Good afternoon to you, sir.’

      Head high, Rosalind moved to pass the horse and rider, to head back up the lane in the direction of her home. Her attempt to brazen it out failed. The man backed his horse sharply around in front of her, blocking her path—so close the smell of the animal filled her nostrils and waves of heat from its sweat-soaked skin washed over her face.

      ‘Not so fast, m’dear.’ The rider’s tone was sharp, his eyes intent. ‘I simply wish to introduce myself.’ He raised his hat. ‘Anthony Lascelles, at your...service.’

      Rosalind’s stomach