Page 2 of The Hero

His head was now bare, but there were a few green pieces of reeds tangled in his hair. That mud streaked his cheek. His clothing was thoroughly wet. His expression had become an angry scowl rather than his previous one of arrogant disdain.

“I could wade in and get it for you if you like.” She began to lift her gown again so it wouldn’t get wet.

“Stop!” His expression was one deep of irritation. “It is not seemly for a lady to reveal her bare feet and calves in the way that you were doing and appear to be about to do again.”

Harry’s grin grew. “Then it’s just as well I’ve never claimed to be a lady.” She laughed her enjoyment as she slid and slithered down the riverbank before stepping into the cold water to search for the missing riding crop. The mud felt glorious between her toes.

She spotted the leather stick almost immediately, helped by its round silver top glinting in the sunlight through the clear water.

“Eureka!” She held the riding crop up in triumph as she waded back out of the water. “There.” She held it out to the man, who was now staring at her with complete incredulity.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he accepted the leather crop.

“Harry.” She thrust out her bare hand. “You?”

His gaze dropped to that appendage. “Ladies curtsey in greeting. They do not shake hands.”

She chuckled. “I believe we have already had the part of the conversation in which we established I do not possess ladylike traits.”

“But I, thankfully, have those of a gentleman.” He continued to ignore her hand as he gave a formal bow which, although Harry did not intend commenting on it—she did know what good manners were, despite what her appearance might indicate to the contrary—looked slightly ridiculous given his otherwise disheveled state. “Gideon Harrington, the Duke of Oxford.”

Ah.

That certainly explained his haughty countenance, expertly tailored clothing, and the beautiful black gelding lazily grazing on the nearby corn stalks.

“Harry is a man’s name,” the duke continued before she could comment.

“Which I am sure you realize I am not,” she allowed cheerfully. “Are you one of Lord and Lady Whiting’s weekend visitors?”

His frown darkened. “How do you know they have visitors this weekend?”

Because she obviously couldn’t be one of them: Harry mentally added the insult he hadn’t. This man, although exceedingly handsome, really was far too full of his own importance. Too much so for her not to enjoy herself a little at his expense.

“Perhaps I know because I am employed in their household?” She made it a question rather than a statement. She had no intention of giving him a reason to accuse her of lying once he learned the truth.

Predictably, he gave disbelieving snort. “I somehow doubt that, when you are poaching salmon on their land.”

“Trout, actually,” she corrected good-naturedly as she indicated the bucket where she had placed the half dozen fish she had caught. “I should not like to interfere with any salmon that might be spawning early.”

He made a low grumbling sound. “Are you not concerned that I might mention your poaching to Lord Whiting?”

She gave a shrug. “Mention away. I sincerely doubt Lord Whiting will be concerned about my having landed half a dozen of his trout for dinner.”

The duke’s nostrils flared. “You seem very confident of that fact.”

Harry eyes widened when she saw the cynical speculation in that dark gaze. “I trust you are not implying anything untoward, Your Grace?”

* * *

Was he?

Gideon had no idea what he was implying. Except to know this young lady was exceptionally appealing, despite her sun-kissed skin and outspoke manner. She also seemed certain she would not receive reprimand for her behavior from the middle-aged gentleman Gideon knew Walter Whiting to be.

Exceptionally appealing?

This girl must be at least a dozen years younger, if not more, than Gideon’s own age of three and thirty. She also behaved and looked like a hoyden, with her golden skin, unconfined dark hair, and bare feet and legs. Nor, knowing he was a duke, did she possess any of the manner of deference toward him he was accustomed to receiving from the ladies in Society. From all in Society.

“I meant no such thing,” he bit out tersely. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I must leave you to enjoy your ill-gotten gains whilst I continue the rest of my journey to Whiting Manor. I wish to change out of these wet clothes sooner rather than later.” His nose wrinkled with distaste.

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