He was still rubbing his jaw with his large hand, and a smattering of small scars on the back of his knuckles drew her unwilling attention.
“It is my land. I am the Duke of Blackmore.”
The words sank into Grace’s thoughts. The old Duke had died in his sleep over three months before and rumours abounded as to when his heir would finally come back and take up his title. “You?”
He didn’t smile. “And you are…?”
Grace found it difficult to form the words. This was Nicholas Sinclair. The last time she’d seen him, he was but a lad of fifteen, right before his brother had perished and he’d run off to join the Navy. All the girls in the village had swooned over the two brothers and their good looks, including Grace. Of course, she’d been only five years of age at the time, but she would never forget his arrogant smile.
The years had not been kind to him, the promise of youth had given way to a harsh featured man with angular cheekbones and a strong jawline. Oh, he was still as handsome as sin with his hair midnight black, and his eyes a deep-set blue, but there was now a smattering of grey at the temples and his eyes were those of someone who had seen too much. There was no kindness in them, and Grace wondered with a small shiver if there was any kindness in him at all.
“Do you not speak now?”
Swallowing, Grace gathered her skirts and stood, peering down at him still seated on the ground. “Of course, I speak. I was just shocked to discover you had finally arrived, tis all. Everyone had given you up for dead.”
He didn’t rise. “As you can see Madam, I am very much alive, and you haven’t answered my question.”
“And as we are not acquainted Sir, you have no right to know who I am,” she replied haughtily, lifting her chin. If her voice wavered a little, she hoped it didn’t show.
He rose then, his imposing stature putting him nearly a head taller than she was. “Madam, I emphatically disagree. I can assure you I have every right to know who you are. You are from this village I assume?”
Grace clenched her jaw tightly, heart pounding. “I am.”
His eyes hardened further. “Then clearly you belong to me.”
His words had a bite of steel to them that sent another shiver down her spine and Grace found herself wondering what would happen if she struck him for his insolent words.
She belonged to no one, least of all him. “I will never be owned by anyone,” she responded tightly.
“What about your husband madam – whoever the unfortunate individual may be?” Part of him knew he was foolish to trade insults with this strange woman.
“I have no husband Sir and have no intention of taking one.”
“A happy coincidence. I doubt any man would want a sharp-tongued harridan like you in his bed,” the Duke replied cuttingly, his eyes raking down her homespun dress.
Grace drew in an outraged breath. “And you Sir, have appalling manners for a duke,” she stated frostily, gratified to see his eyes narrow slightly. “Good day your grace.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, brushing past him and heading with hurried steps out of the orchard toward the village. Her heart was hammering against her chest, her fingers white from clutching her book tightly against her. The Duke of Blackmore was home.
He would soon find out who she was as her father was retained at his grace’s pleasure. As the vicar of the village and of the estate, he answered directly to Nicholas Sinclair himself.
Her heart lurched at the possibility of the Duke making a complaint about her. If he did so, she would probably not see the outside her room for the rest of the year, and even worse, with no books to read.
Grace finally reached the vicarage and pushed open the door, her mind consumed with the need to extract herself from the possible repercussions of her foolish words to the new Duke. Why couldn’t she ever keep her mouth shut?
Paying no heed to the never-ending background chatter from her sisters that echoed throughout the house, she made her way as swiftly and discreetly as possible to the bed chamber she shared with her sister Temperance.
As the eldest of eight girls in the household, Grace had become an expert at blending in with the furniture. The alternative was to attract the attention of any or all of her sisters or having to deal with the current Mrs. Shackleford’s latest attack of the vapours. She scarcely remembered her own mother who died of consumption when she was eight years of age.
Even though the Reverend had wed twice more after her mother had died, Grace had always been the one her sisters turned to whenever they got into scrapes. In her younger days, it had to be said that most of the time, the predicaments the sisters found themselves in were generally instigated by Grace herself.
While she was under no illusions regarding her own lack of ladylike virtues, Grace had slowly become increasingly concerned that she had unwittingly passed her unruly behaviour on to her younger siblings.
At twenty-five, she had no intentions of ever looking for a husband and was content to remain a spinster. However, that did not mean the same fate had to await her sisters. After several futile attempts to instil some kind of discipline, Grace gradually realized the only way she could discourage her siblings’ wild ways was to avoid her sisters whenever possible. However, she had to admit, this strategy wasn’t terribly successful.
Ranging in ages from eighteen down to ten, the youngest three sisters had spent most of their lives running wild following the older four, who had in turn taken their lead from Grace. They simply did not know how to behave any differently. And then of course there was the added complication of
