Page 21 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke
Hesitant, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself and putting up her hood, she grabbed a lantern and clambered out.Surely, you could have sent a footman to help me down? Wretched man.
“Here?” she asked the driver. “You are certain?”
The driver pointed to the hedge. “There’s a small gate there. Bit of a path after that ought to take you to the manor.”
“Could you not just take me to the front doors?” She hated the note of pleading in her voice, but it was late, it was dark, this was strange territory, and she did not want to sneak around like a weasel if she did not have to.
Who would see her, other than staff? If he was half the duke he thought he was, they would not breathe a word if they happened to notice an unfamiliar woman wandering around.
The driver pulled an apologetic face. “I would, miss, but His Grace told me not to. You’ll be safe enough. Naught ‘round here but foxes, just don’t lose your way and end up in the field with the bull.”
Valeria gulped. “Very well. Thank you.”
With a steadying breath, she approached the hedge and found the tiny, ancient gate hidden among blackberries and thorns.
Something scratched her arm as she pushed through the gate, holding the lantern as far ahead of her as she could to illuminate the ‘path.’ A barely discernible scratch in the grass would have been a better description.
Trudging through seemingly endless fields, startled by every night sound, praying she had not strayed into the bull’s meadow by accident, she was in a foul temper by the time she arrived at civilization.
The manor was as grand and beautiful as she remembered, soft orange light spilling from a couple of casement windows, suggesting that not everyone in the household was asleep. It was older than her own residence, emulating a Tudor style, crafted from red brick, interspersed with white walls that were patterned by dark beams. It was only three stories, but longer to make up for the lack of height.
Now, where are the stables?
A nicker in the darkness guided her way, the sweet animal scent of the horses and their hay filling her nostrils as she passed by. Another thirty paces took her to a low brick wall and, behind it, a courtyard with an apple tree in the center.
Nerves began to claw up from her fluttering stomach as she crossed the courtyard to what she hoped was the servants’ entrance. Her hand moved to test the handle, only to find that the door was not only unlocked but had been left ajar.
How many women turn back before this point, I wonder?And shedidwonder, her mind swarming with visions of ladies—every age, appearance, station—creeping across that courtyard to push on the same door. She imagined all those who had worn that infuriatingly faint path through the fields, contemplating whether or not the fact that it had been so overgrown meant anything.
Through the servants’ entrance, she found silence: kitchens in shadow, empty corridors, closed doors with no sliver of light beneath, not a single sound other than the ticking of an unseenclock. Her own footsteps were too loud, though she tiptoed through.
But Duncan had not given any instruction about what to do once she was actuallyinsidethe manor. Where was she supposed to go? She had assumed he would meet her, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Blast him! Blast that… oaf!She grumbled to herself until a narrow corridor and another unlocked door threw her out into the entrance hall. Most infuriatingly of all, the front entrance was right there, ahead of her. Apparently, the only locked door in the entire house.
“I was praying, and you have answered,” a pleased voice purred from somewhere nearby.Hisvoice. “I am in the drawing room. Come to me.”
Shenearlyturned on her heel and slammed out of the front doors, to prove the point that she would not be toyed with. But she had come all that way and she was tired; at least she could rest her legs for a while before she made her dramatic exit.
Muttering, she pursued his voice to a nearby door, where the sound of a crackling fire marked the right room, and pushed it open.
Duncan lounged across an armchair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in hand, an irreverent grin on his face. “What took you so long?”
The irritation that had been building within Valeria since the moment she got into the carriage he had sent, fermenting with every step across unknown fields, bubbling up and up with the heat of her embarrassment, promptly exploded.
“Do any of your conquests enjoy this or is this just for your childish entertainment?” she snarked. “Do you watch, giddy as a schoolboy, out the windows while they traipse through your grounds? It is a wonder to me that they do not all get back in the carriage and return home. You are hardly worth all that effort. Indeed, you are not worth walking down a short, paved, illuminated street for.”
Rather than retaliating, or showing any hint of insult, he laughed softly: a rumble in the back of his throat, his eyes darkening so there could be no mistaking him for any childish schoolboy. “With respect, Miss Maxwell, how would you know? You could have found out my ‘worth,’ but all you asked for was my help.”
“I ought to fetch a bar of soap and scrub your mouth with it!” she shot back, flustered. “Do not speak to me so… so familiarly. Do not speak to me as if I am one of your pursuits. In fact, do not speak to me at all until I have decided whether to smack you or smack myself for not burning up your letter and putting an end to this silliness.”
He put up a hand of mock surrender and pretended to lock his mouth with an invisible key. But his intense gaze remained fixed on her, making some silent measure of her, that exasperating smirk upon his lips. As if he knew something she did not. Truly, she could not bear it.
“What?” she snapped.
He shrugged, pointing to his mouth.
“I did not come here to play your games,” she muttered, arms folded across her chest. “What are you staring at me like that for?”
