Dukes By the Dozen

He tensed, his shoulders stiffening, but kept his gaze fixed on the horse’s ears. “Lots of men are named John.”

“I suppose.”

When she fell into contemplative silence, he nudged her with his shoulder. “And this John you mentioned, he lives in the village?”

“I don’t know.”

“But he’s one of my tenants, surely.”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Well, what’s his surname?”

She shook her head.

“But you said you know him.”

“I do,” she shot back defensively. “I know that he’s good and kind, hard working, and intelligent. That he loves his family and has the heart of a poet. He’s sympathetic, considerate, caring—” Dashing, alluring, enthralling…with a gaze that could see into her soul and a touch that had her yearning to surrender.

Until the night of the masquerade, when her mask came off and the magic vanished. When the reality of her father’s mill came crashing back.

“Well, he sounds like a remarkable man,” he mused.

“He is.”

“And nothing like me.”

Far too similar, in fact. But she’d never

tell him that. “Not in the least. You’re both two very different men.”

His mouth twisted at that, as if he knew she’d just lied to him. But he let the subject drop and said instead, “We’ve got two more baskets to deliver today, to two cottages on the way back to the village.” He paused as the large wheel dipped into a depression on the dirt road. “Would you be willing to come out with me again tomorrow?”

Oh yes! She shrugged a shoulder as nonchalantly as possible. “I suppose, if you need help with the baskets.”

“I won’t need help with the baskets.” He nudged her again, but this time by touching his thigh to hers. “I just want to spend time with you.”

That quiet confession sparked a faint thrill inside her. She knew not to become infatuated with him. For heaven’s sake, he was a duke, and she was a miller’s daughter. They had no honest future together, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who let men bed her. Not even dukes. Not even ones as handsome and interesting as Monmouth.

But she simply couldn’t resist. The only other man who had made her feel as beautiful and intelligent as Monmouth had during the past few days was no longer part of her life, and she simply wasn’t strong enough to deny herself this small happiness. No matter how fleeting.

Yet the future of her father’s mill continued to hang over them, and she knew that he’d refuse to discuss it tomorrow, just as he’d done today. Unless…

A perfectly devious idea struck.

“We have two baskets left?” She turned in the seat to try to look behind at the wooden box beneath the seat of the dog-cart where they’d conveniently placed them. “Two baskets? But I’m certain there’s only one.”

He darted a glance at her. “Are you sure?”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps we should stop and check. How awful to arrive at the cottage without a basket.”

He reined in the horse, then set the brake and tied off the ribbons. When he jumped to the ground and started to the rear of the dog-cart, she snatched up the ribbons, released the brake, and started the carriage forward.

Surprised, Monmouth scrambled to catch up with the carriage as she drove it away at a slow pace. She certainly wasn’t used to driving, even an easily handled carriage like this, and her hands clenched around the ribbons so tightly that her fingers were white. But she was in no danger, not at this slow pace, and certainly not with this horse, whose plodding gait would have been fit for a child’s pony cart.

“Just pull back slowly on the ribbons, and the horse will stop,” he explained, falling into a walking pace beside the carriage.

She slid him a narrowed glance as if he’d gone daft. “I don’t plan on stopping and letting you back onto the cart. Not until you agree to discuss the mill.”

“I don’t want to ruin an otherwise nice day by—”

She flipped the ribbons, and the horse sped up, forcing him into a faster pace. He’d give up soon and relent. After all, his boots were not made for walking. “I want to discuss the mill.”

“Terms of surrender, you mean,” he chided, now having to bounce along in a jog.

“Terms of negotiation,” she corrected. “Surely a duke knows diplomacy when he sees it.”

“Or at least blackmail,” he grumbled.

Another determined flip of the ribbons, and the horse started into a fast trot.

With a curse, he grabbed the dashboard with one hand and jumped up onto the mounting step on his left foot. He swung himself up onto the cart.

When he slid onto the seat beside her, his hand covered hers to take the ribbons from her. But his other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to him, bringing her so tightly against him that she could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her bosom and the pounding of his heart, echoed in the rapid pulse of hers.

When she tried to push herself away, the frustrating man refused to budge, except to bring the horse to a stop. His eyes never left hers even as he threw the brake and tied off the ribbons.

Anger flared through her, but so did something else just as hot, just as consuming. “How dare you—”