Least Likely To Marry A Duke. Louise Allen

he had her at a disadvantage. She was partly responsible for his accident, she was looking a fright and under these circumstances she had no idea how to behave with him.

      ‘Miss Wingate. I was intending to give myself the pleasure of calling on your father tomorrow. If his health permits, of course?’

      Why am I cross? Verity asked herself as she explained that the afternoon was the best time for her father and that, naturally, he would be delighted to meet the Duke. Because I care what he thinks, she answered. And that is infuriating. Just because he had broad shoulders and a firm chin and blue eyes and looked as though his smile—if he ever produced one—would be delicious, there was no reason to fawn over the man. She spent her life ensuring that, as far as it was within her power, men did not get fawned upon to the disadvantage of women. Once had been quite enough in her experience.

      Now the Duke was looking around him. A small furrow appeared between straight brows two shades darker than his hair. ‘You are alone, Miss Wingate? I cannot see your maid or your labourers.’

      ‘My groom will be collecting me at eight.’ She glanced up to the east, noting the position of the sun. ‘It must almost be that now. If you will excuse me, I will secure my excavation.’ The skull was the most important thing, of course, but she had to make sure that the descent of one long-limbed male had not disturbed or damaged anything else.

      ‘May I assist?’

      ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘I mean, no, thank you, Your Grace. If you could just stand over here, clear of the cut surfaces and the floor? Yes, there, perfect.’

      Stop it, she scolded herself as she picked up the brush and tidied up the fallen pebbles and earth. He is not perfect, merely a well-formed gentleman. And do not pretend you were not examining the rear view just now. You knew perfectly well the tails of his coat would disguise any sign of damage done by that jawbone.

      The Duke had broad shoulders and a trim waist to go with those long legs. It was maddening—surely something had to be imperfect? Other than his manner, of course. Who would need an ice house when they had the Duke of Aylsham to hand, ready to cast a chill over any situation?

      The sound of wheels on gravel heralded the arrival of Tom with the pony and trap. He pulled up well clear of the excavation as he had been taught and came over, hat in hand. ‘Good morning, sir. Miss Wingate, are you ready?’

      ‘This is the Duke of Aylsham, Tom, and, yes, I am ready. Please put the tools in the back and then this box, very carefully.’

      * * *

      Will watched the retreating vehicle, picked up his hat and flicked the worst of the soil off it with his handkerchief. Both hat and handkerchief appeared ruined to him, but Notley, his valet, would no doubt work his magic on them, along with the scuffed boots, scarred gloves and soiled coat.

      He made his way around the mound to the gap between it and the next, smaller, tumulus. For some reason he wanted to have his feet on his own land before he thought about that little episode.

      What a hoyden Miss Wingate was, not at all what a prelate’s daughter should be. Will lengthened his stride along the headland, making for the point where a hedge and track cut back towards the house. Dressed like a working woman, no hat, no gloves, hair coming undone on her shoulders, grubbing about on hands and knees in the earth—and handling a human skull as though it was a pudding basin. Outrageous. And she had been laughing at him because of where that confounded jawbone had attacked him, he could tell, even though she had kept her face perfectly straight. There had been a devilish twinkle of amusement in her eyes. They were a rather attractive brown...

      The unfortunate Bishop must be sick indeed if he was allowing his daughter to carry on in such a manner, Will concluded as he reached the track. In no way was such an occupation fit for a gentlewoman. Even his stepmother drew the line at grubbing about in earth for old bones. It was most unfortunate, because there was no way in which he could prevent his half-sisters from making her thoroughly unsuitable acquaintance, given that they were now neighbours. He could hardly snub a bishop.

      How old was she? Twenty-three or four? Those dark eyes, that hair, like golden toffee streaked through with rich brown, those long legs and the elegant curves as she had risen to her feet... Her feet had been encased in boots more fitted for an under-gardener, but the flash of ankle he had glimpsed had been slender and rounded.

      Stop it, Will, his conscience admonished as he climbed over a stile. She is clearly going to be an embarrassment as a neighbour and you have no business thinking about women at the moment in any case. Not for another forty weeks.

      This mourning was a confounded nuisance. It was all very right and proper, of course. And he sincerely and deeply grieved for the loss of his grandfather, but he desperately needed help with his brood of half-siblings and a wife would be perfect for that. A wife with nerves of steel and a rigorous sense of duty, he added to his mental list of requirements. But no lady who was suitable to be the wife of a duke would consider flouting convention and being wooed and wed before the mourning period of a year was over.

      And now he had gone half the distance he had intended to cover that morning and the encounter with Miss Wingate had made him forget to record points about the land as he went. Will climbed the next stile, sat down on the far step and got out his notebook.

       Blockage in the west ditch, the fence across the tumuli...

      A warm, mocking brown gaze... Mocking. She thought that entire episode was amusing, the confounded chit.

      * * *

      ‘Good morning, Papa. Good morning Mr Hoskins, Larling.’ Verity caught sight of herself in the long mirror as she entered her father’s bedchamber on the stroke of half past nine and gave her reflection a nod of approval. She had bathed, changed, breakfasted and organised the events of the early morning into a suitably edited version in her head and now, looking the perfect model of a senior clergyman’s daughter, was ready to keep her father company while he breakfasted.

      Her father smiled his lopsided smile, the Reverend Mr Hoskins jumped to his feet and mumbled a greeting in return and Larling, the valet, placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table.

      A savage brain seizure almost two years before had left her father unsteady on his feet, liable to tire rapidly and with virtually no comprehensible speech. It had, mercifully, not affected his very considerable intellect. James Wingate was still a formidable scholar of the early church in Britain and was continuing his work with the assistance of his Chaplain and secretary, Christopher Hoskins.

      Trial and error had helped the household establish a strict routine. Verity rose at dawn, had a cup of coffee, put an apple in her pocket and went off to her excavations for two hours, returning to bathe and take breakfast. At nine thirty her father broke his fast, in bed, while she entertained him with the results of her morning’s excavating and plans for the day.

      When he rose the Bishop would retire to his study with Hoskins and they would work, communicating in their own manner, until luncheon at twelve thirty. Then her father would rest for two hours and either resume his researches until four or receive callers.

      Which left Verity the afternoon free, provided there were no visitors and the cares of housekeeping did not entangle her for more than the morning. And today there was nothing to detain her. The threat of a descent by the Duke tomorrow she would worry about when it happened.

      Her father finished his porridge and lifted an eyebrow, her cue to recount events so far.

      ‘I have succeeded in removing the skull intact, Papa. I can see no sign of anything buried with the body, but then, the rest of the skeleton is not visible, being under the far side of the mound. I will clean it and take measurements and then I can rebury it and fill in the cut. You recall that I have already made sketches of the exposed interior of the mound.’

      He nodded, smiling his approval, encouraging her to continue. The only problem was, nothing else had happened at the excavation other than her unexpected visitor.

      ‘The