Page 8 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

“You are certain I cannot help you with your things?”

“I am quite certain, thank you.” In fact, his very presence was enough to cause her reason for concern. Who was this man, and why had he appeared so suddenly? Two days in a row, at that. She glanced at his well-made greatcoat and dismissed the headmaster concept immediately. If he was in these woods and dressed so well, he was either a guest of her father’s—which was unlikely, since Papa would have told her—or a guest of the reclusive duke.

She rather assumed it to be the latter. Perhaps he was the duke’s tutor. Though she’d heard it said that the duke was a handful of years older than Hattie was, so a tutor seemed odd. Dash it, if he was going to be visiting her neighbor, would she have to see him again?

“You mentioned postponing this conversation. May I ask when I shall see you next?” he said, stealing the question from her thoughts. Though he sounded as if he believed it was an inevitability, whereas she was afraid of the possibility.

“I’m not certain you ever shall. We are unacquainted, and I will certainly not be returning to this spot if that is what concerns you. In fact, I rather wonder if you have been following me.”

His smile was wide and far more handsome than he deserved. “I could ask the same thing. You are the one trespassing on my land.”

Oh. On his land? Hattie swallowed, tightening her grip on her painting before it could slip from her fingers. If this was his land, that could only mean one thing. “You are the duke.”

He didn’t flinch but instead nodded gravely. Bending into a low bow, he raised his face, his eyes on her. “Most people simply call me Bentley.”

“Your Grace,” she said, dropping into as low a curtsy as she could manage while balancing the paints and brushes. At least she’d been right about one thing: the man was clearly authoritative.

He motioned for her to rise. “Please, I do not wish to be so formal.”

As though she had any other option. Hattie had never knowingly stood in front of such a high-ranking person until today. She was a regular visitor at the Earl of Hart’s home, as she was a friend of his niece, Giulia, but the earl never frightened her. This tall, dark, scruffy-faced man was quite the opposite. She did not know what to make of him, and that was altogether terrifying.

“May I have the pleasure of your name?” he asked.

She hardly had anyone else nearby to do the introductions, and neither could she refuse a duke. She dipped her head. “Miss Hattie Green.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “My neighbor?”

Drat, she should have given a fake surname. Now he knew where she lived. “I didn’t realize you were aware of who your neighbors were, Your Grace. All we know of you is that you wear your hair long and refuse the vicar’s calls.” Hattie snapped her mouth shut.

A sparkle of amusement lit his eyes. “I should not be surprised that the townspeople speak of me. What is a community if not a source of gossip?”

“A source of kinship and support, I should rightfully think. Gossip comes second,” she added flippantly.

Bentley seemed to be attempting to take her measure, his head tilting to the side while he raked his gaze over her face. “Shall I arm myself against a renewal of ducal gossip now? I fear that you’ll send the vicar back to my door after learning how agreeable I am.”

“Oh, you needn’t fear on that front. I shan’t say a word about you.”

“Why not?”

“And have the whole town thinking I’ve gone and tried to catch myself a duke?” She scoffed lightly. “Goodness, how desperate do you believe me to be? Besides, I cannot tell the vicar you are agreeable.”

His eyebrows hitched together. “Why is that?”

Widening her eyes in innocence, she said, “I can’t very well lie to a clergyman, now, can I?”

* * *

Despite the slur this woman had just thrown his way, Bentley found himself disappointed with her sudden departure. He watched her pick her way through the trees, balancing the paint-covered palette and brushes while carefully holding her completed painting in the other hand. She reminded him of a barmaid with platters of food resting upon each outstretched palm, but somehow Miss Hattie Green managed to look much more confident. Given the barmaids he’d had the pleasure of interacting with, that was a feat.

Now that she was a safe distance away, Bentley allowed his shoulders to relax. He wasn’t sure what had just occurred between himself and the woman. He usually fought such friendly, neighborly conversations. When her father had introduced himself all those years ago at the lake, Bentley had immediately written the place off as somewhere he should not visit again. Building relationships was dangerous. Particularly when the woman was so lovely and full of spark.

Though, she interested him, too. He’d never before seen a woman with such pale skin so utterly covered in freckles. She looked as though she’d been carefully painted herself, speckled with the end of a brown-tipped paint brush until her flawless, porcelain skin was completely covered.

And it was beautiful.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tore his gaze from the petite, retreating figure and headed back toward Wolfeton House. He quickened his steps, eager to be back in the safety of his home. He shouldn’t have stopped and spoken with her, but he’d been taken with her painting and had gotten caught up in the tones of her colors.

Miss Green’s honesty was amusing, and he’d had to make a great effort not to reveal his surprise at her words. Of course, he’d assumed that the people of Graton speculated about him, but to have it confirmed did not bother him as he might have believed it would.

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