“You freaking son of a bitch,” she fumed.
Stomping back toward the door, she opened it further this time. She’d just returned with the tea tray, ready to push through the still-open portal, when the duke’s guest came through it.
“No need to ring, Granville, I’ll show myself out. Have a pleasant evening.”
With a polite nod to his host, and not so much as a glance at Leah, the short, round gentleman headed toward the front door of the house.
“Your…Your Grace?” Leah poked her head into the drawing room. “I have your tea tray. Do you still want it?”
“Yes, thank you. Set it down, please.”
The duke stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out into the darkening night. His silvery hair seemed to glint like the moon he studied so thoroughly. Being careful not to let the expensive china clatter, Leah set the tray down on the table. With the duke’s back turned, she allowed herself a long look at him.
His fingers were long, pale, perfectly manicured. Leah smiled to herself. Pawpaw had always said you could tell a lot about a man from his hands. Of course, he’d never met anyone like the duke.
“Ramsey, your timing is impeccable.”
Leah jumped at the sudden statement.
“I’m sorry?”
“You have impeccable timing,” the duke repeated, turning toward the room without really looking at her. “If you’d been a moment earlier, that idiot Waterson would have stayed another half hour.”
“Glad I could help, Your Grace.” Leah bit her lip and sank into a curtsy, wondering if her cheeks were as nuclear red as they felt.
“Be off with you.”
She lifted her head in time to see that beautiful smile again. This time, it was accompanied by a mischievous wink. Holy shit, the man was stunning. Age difference? What age difference?
Quicker than her stunned brain could process, he’d taken his cup of tea and stood by the window again, an enigma of a nobleman looking out into the boundless night.
Leah left the room, trying like hell to keep her head and to memorize every word he’d said. This was going to turn into an excellent play one day, she just knew it. Or maybe an action-RPG adventure. Or a romantic comedy.
Shakespeare had nothing on the star-crossedness of Leah and her duke.
Avery descended the stairs in a fog. Picking up the sack of scraps Cook had left by the door, he slipped out into the now-chilly evening.
He didn’t bother glancing upward toward the stars as he trudged toward the hounds’ enclosure inside the stables. Even though he’d spent a long time praying for his freedom, he was convinced it would never come.
And, if he were honest with himself, what man who’d killed his mother deserved a better lot?
The heavy stable door swung closed behind him. A whinny of greeting sounded from the left side of the room, where the horses were kept, but he didn’t pause there. He continued through the building until he reached a largish pen, filled with about a score of hounds. They jumped up on the fencing, tails wagging in greeting.
He reached over the gate to pet one of the hounds.
“Evening, Russell.”
The sarcastic greeting, slurred from what was likely a bottle of cheap brandy, came from inside the tack room. Avery ignored it and doled out the scraps from the bag to the ravenous greyhounds. The excited yips and barks quieted as the dogs enjoyed their treats.
Tucking the empty sack into his pocket, Avery turned to leave. With any luck, he’d escape to his training room without further delay. The stable master was hardly one of his allies in the house, and he had no wish to be burdened by a discussion that could have no good effect.
“Off to the Houndstooth Tourney, I hear.” Lachlan Mackenzie sauntered toward Avery, stumbling ever so slightly.
With a deep, steadying breath, Avery replied, “As His Grace wishes.”
Mackenzie spat into the straw at Avery’s feet. Lifting one grizzled eyebrow, the older man smiled mockingly and closed the gap between them. Avery stood his ground, knowing that to back away would be to invite conflict.
“Well, our lord varlet, how about a demonstration of your talents?”
The fist flew at Avery’s face without warning. Relying on his years of fighting instincts, Avery ducked, spinning below the drunk man’s blow and throwing his fist upward. His knuckles connected with Mackenzie’s chin with a sharp crack, spittle flying at the force as the stable master stumbled backward and landed on his ass in the straw.
“You ruddy fool, you’ll pay for that,” Mackenzie slurred. Leaning on the hound pen’s wall, he tried to gain his feet. His legs failed him, buckling beneath him and dumping him at Avery’s feet.
Avery stared down at the drunken man, keeping his face pointedly blank. “Feel free to try again when you’re not too foxed to walk.” He shook out his hand and turned to walk away.
“Got your eye on that new maid, don’t you, Russell?”
Avery whirled at the pointed slur. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
Mackenzie drew a hand across his mouth, leaving a bright red smear from his split lip. “Saw you walking with her. A pretty piece she is, all golden hair and smiles. She’ll make a good toss. I’ve a mind to show her how ta’ treat a man.” His vulgar laugh echoed against the ceiling beams.
Avery wasn’t sure how it had happened, but suddenly he had Mackenzie pinned up against the tack room door by the throat. The man’s pale brown eyes bugged out and he gagged, looking for all the world like a desperate toad. Which, Avery reasoned, was not far from the truth.
“Mark my words, Lachlan Mackenzie: that maid is none of your concern, nor mine. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head about her, or I’ll give you a sound thrashing that you won’t forget for many a fortnight to come. Understand?”
Mackenzie nodded, feet drumming against the stable door uselessly.
“Good.”
Avery let the stable master drop to the ground. Without another word, he left the horses, dogs, and drunkard behind for the relative privacy of his training room.
He tried like hell to empty his mind of all thoughts of Miss Ramsey as he removed his shirt for his exercise. With the soft light of the lantern, and the thin slivers of moonlight that shone through the high window, he could make out the pile of sand that his attackers had made of his last bag. Removing the mostly-empty sack, he replaced it with another and began the tedious job of scooping the sand into the fabric chute.
The repetitive motions did nothing to keep thoughts of Miss Ramsey at bay. He must think of something else, anything else.
His Aunt. Millie. She’d looked especially poor today.
Avery tightened his jaw as he watched the sand fall into the bag. Half full now.
The disease had been progressing faster these last few months. Surely the squalid conditions of her surroundings were of no assistance, but what could he do? With his wages from service and his winnings from the tourneys, it was all he could manage to keep her fed and in medicine.
The medicine.
He winced as he dropped the scoop back into its pail. The medicine that helped her also made her ill when she took it. But Leah had tried to help, and failing that, Leah had reached for his hand.
He swung at the bag and smiled inwardly at the stinging satisfaction of his knuckles. Miss Ramsey, not Leah. And she was none of his affair. None at all.
