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Taming The Duke
Jackie Manning
There was comfort in her touch… A kind of healing that brought peace and stirrings of love where Dalton Warfield never expected to find them – within himself! But could he truly surrender to the graciousness that was Alicia Spencer – when he was the Duke of Wexton and she outcast by the Ton?Alicia Spencer’s first foray into Society had brought about her reputation’s ruin – all through the scheming of one dowager duchess. Now her healing talents with horses had bound her to a passionate bargain with her enemy’s son – Dalton Warfield, a man who’d courted her gift yet captured her heart…!
‘You’re staring at me.’
She bit her bottom lip as she studied him with an innocence that nearly undid him. What the hell was the matter with him?
Maybe his strange feelings were the result of learning how another human being with nothing to gain sacrificed something for him….
Suddenly Bashshar whinnied, tossing his head, his ears back. Dalton leaped forward, grabbing the stallion’s bridle, holding the horse firmly. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you return to your cottage.’
‘Bashshar has a right to express himself when he wants,’ she whispered.
‘Bashshar is injured and not responsible for what he’s doing. Besides, he obeys only me.’
Alicia pulled the shawl tightly around herself and lifted her chin in that stubborn way Dalton was beginning to recognise. ‘Then give Bashshar the orders, not me. For I don’t obey you, your grace.’
Taming the Duke
Jackie Manning
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Ellyn Manning Smith.
What a joy you are, my darling daughter.
Your dad and I are truly blessed.
Special thanks to my critique group, especially to my
writer pals, Linda Lee Duffy, Maureen Greene and
Kathy Stowers. I’m doubly blessed to have such good
friends and expert critique partners. Love you, guys.
Chapter One
Marston Heath, England, 1811
“Lady Alicia! Come quickly!”
From the cool shelter of the herb garden, Alicia heard her maid’s summons and jumped to her feet. Clasping a basket of freshly gathered cross-wort blossoms, Alicia called, “Hortense, whatever is the matter…?” Her words faded when the servant bolted toward her, Hortense’s long legs windmilling beneath her black skirts.
Alicia rushed in her direction, dropping the basket. “Hortense, what has happened?”
“It’s your father, my lady.” The lanky woman paused to gasp for air. “His lordship has just arrived and is—” she gulped a deep breath “—awaiting you in his study.”
“My father?” A feeling of foreboding crept over Alicia. He wasn’t due home for three more days—not until after the horse auction. “Does he appear…unwell?” she asked delicately, aware of her father’s weakness for drink.
Hortense caught her breath. “I’m not sure, milady. I’ve never seen the master in quite such a state.” She fanned her flushed face with her apron skirt.
“Sit and rest on the garden bench, Hortense, while I tend to this.” Alicia jumped over a clump of sweet basil and broke into an unladylike run along the garden path. If only she had accompanied her father to London. She should have known better than to rely on him for such an important errand.
By the time she reached the manor house steps, she was out of breath. Minutes later, Alicia tapped on the heavy door to the study. “Father, it’s me.” Her calm voice concealed the nervousness she felt.
A brief silence followed, then she heard her father’s heavy footsteps creak the oak floorboards. The bolt clicked inside the lock, and the door opened. Alicia slipped inside and faced him.
When sober, her father prided himself on his immaculate attire. Now, he wore his dusty traveling cape. His white cravat was smudged and undone, his periwig tilted askew atop his bald head. What intensified Alicia’s worry was the dazzling smile across his unshaven face.
“Father, you look so…unusual. Whatever is the matter?”
“The matter, Daughter?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Hounds of Jericho! Nothing’s the matter, Daughter. In fact, I bring glorious news.”
The smell of whiskey on his breath confirmed her worst suspicions. “Glorious news, Father?”
He moved behind his desk. “Our fortunes have been reversed by a miraculous intervention.”
Alicia eyed him warily. “Oh, Father, you didn’t gamble the money I gave you to bid on the mare, did you?”
Her father chuckled. “You remind me of your mother when you accuse me so.” Pointing to the chair beside his desk, he said, “Take a seat while I tell you of our good fortune.”
Anger and frustration welled inside her. He had promised that this time he could be trusted. She had wanted him to prove his trustworthiness as much as she had wanted Good Times, the magnificent Thoroughbred mare her father was supposed to have bid on at Tattersall’s Auctioneering Yard. The horse possessed the ideal bloodlines for Alicia’s growing racing stock. She braced herself for his excuse. “Very well, Father. Tell me what happened.”
“Your new mare awaits you in the pasture.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “Good Times?”
His smile faded for a moment, then reappeared as brightly as before. “Er…nay, not Good Times. But Cinnamon Rose is a mare of better lineage and conformation than Good Times will ever be.” He avoided her gaze, edging her fear up a notch.
“But the bidding isn’t due to begin at Tatter-sall’s until tomorrow,” she said. “Where did you find this horse?”
“I came upon the mare by the grace of good fortune.”
A familiar uneasiness invaded her mind. “I gave you almost two hundred pounds, my year’s savings, to bid on Good Times.” Alicia sat up stiffly and straightened her shoulders. “You gambled my money, then bought some bonesetter of an animal with what was left.” She stood up. “Don’t insult me by lying, Father.” She glanced away, not wanting to repeat this embarrassing scene again. “How could you do this again after promising me—?”
He opened the desk drawer and plunked down the bulging silk purse she had given him when he’d left for the auction. She blinked when he spilled bright gold coins across the desktop and stared while he counted out the full amount she’d given him.
Alicia dropped into the chair. “If we own a new mare, I want to hear every detail about how you acquired her.”
Her father grinned as he steepled his large hands in front of himself. “Cinnamon Rose is champion stock,” he said finally. “Why don’t you see the mare first, then we can speak more on the matter? The mare’s tied to the willow by the stream. Go and see her, then decide for yourself.”
Alicia rose from her chair. “I’ll do just that. But I’ll be back to hear how you managed to gain a horse without paying so much as a shilling.”
When Alicia passed the stable a few minutes later, she heard a soft nickering. Jupiter, one of the three Thoroughbreds that made up her breeding stock, whinnied at her from the paddock. She called to him. “I’ll be back later to give you some tender carrots, sweet one.”
Her beloved horses—they were her joy, her comfort, her life. Jupiter was the first foal she had bred that showed the promise of quality racing lines. With a choice mare such as Good Times…
Alicia bit back her frustration. No, she wouldn’t allow this setback to anger her. Besides, she had no one to blame but herself. Although she had wanted to believe that her father could overcome his weakness for drink, she must face the truth. He would be helpless amid the horse-mad gambling world that frequented Tatts. His stories of when he rode the Prince of Wales’s horse, Escape, to victory at Newmarket would guarantee her father free drinks until dawn.
A gaggle of geese honked at her as she cut through the fowl yard and hurried toward the pasture beyond. She had no right to find fault with her father, especially after the disgrace she’d brought to the family name. And in the three years since her fall from grace during her social debut, she’d resigned herself to an old maid’s life. Better to be alone with her horses than to accept one of the unsuitable men who had offered for her.
Alicia banished the bitter memories from her mind, refusing to nurture the grudge against the unfairness of it all. Now, her days were filled with satisfying work and profitable income from healing the animals of her neighbors and friends.
When Alicia came to the grassy edge of the stream, the aroma of roses from her mother’s garden drifted on the July air. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight glimmering off the water, she scanned the area beneath the ancient willow, but there was no horse in sight. A gust of wind billowed her skirts; she brushed down the pink muslin fabric, her gaze searching the pasture.
She was ready to march back to her father, demanding to know what game he was playing, when a horse’s soft nicker rose from the other side of the trees. There, in the sunlight, stood the most splendid mare Alicia had ever seen. She stopped to stare. The animal, as though on cue, trotted toward her. Alicia sensed the horse’s strength and well-being.
The cinnamon-colored Thoroughbred tossed her head, the silky black mane shimmering in the golden afternoon. The mare walked gracefully toward Alicia, who watched, mesmerized by the horse’s elegant demeanor.
Her father had been right. This animal was a fine piece of blood. Their fortunes would be reversed if this horse proved as superior as she appeared to be. Breeding this mare with Jupiter could result in winning racing stock.
The mare lifted her refined head in a playful game. Alicia reached to touch the satiny red coat and found it as soft as a dove’s back.
“Like all beautiful ladies, she takes your breath away, doesn’t she?”
Startled by the deep masculine voice, Alicia whirled toward the sound. In the dappled shade beneath the oak tree, a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in an elegantly tailored, black superfine waistcoat, leaned lazily against the tree trunk. His snowy white shirt and dazzling cravat gleamed brilliantly against the dark shadows of his jacket. He grinned crookedly at her. She noticed his lean hips and thighs, encased in buff, calf-length trousers. The elegant silver spurs he wore on his black leather boots were more suited for show than for riding, Alicia thought. He sketched the briefest of bows.
Alicia met his amused blue-eyed stare. “Do you always hide behind trees, ready to pounce upon unsuspecting maidens?”
He laughed. A warm, rich, intimate laugh, as though she had just shared a funny secret about herself.
She took a deep breath. His abrupt appearance caused her knees to feel like jelly, jarring her with the loss of speech—something that rarely happened to her. Maybe her strange reaction was caused by the trick of sunlight and shade, which played across his aristocratic features. Black shiny hair, longer than what was fashionable, framed his regal face. His deeply chiseled mouth lifted in a sardonic tilt, and she realized he was very much aware of her assessing gaze.
His blue eyes twinkled. “I only pounce on lovely maidens, and a prettier maid than you I’ve yet to see.”
The flippant compliment returned her wits to her. “Who are you and what is your business at Marston Heath?” Just then, Cinnamon Rose pranced toward him and nuzzled against his jacketed sleeve. “Do you have something to do with this mare?”
“Forgive me, my lady. Your rare beauty makes me forget my manners.” The intelligent eyes beneath that lazy gaze told her this man never forgot anything.
“I’m Dalton Warfield, the duke of Wexton, at your service, Lady Alicia, and I’m here to see if Cinnamon Rose suits your fancy.”
Alicia gasped. Warfield—the duke of Wexton. Although it had been three years since that fateful night of her social ruin, all the shame and injustice of that evening ignited within her.
Her heart pounded. She blinked back at him, as angry as if the incident had been yesterday. Those vivid blue eyes—just like his mother’s—brought back the painful accusations.
Alicia fought for control. “What do you have to do with my father bringing home this horse?”
Dalton raised a well-defined black brow. “Your father didn’t tell you of our arrangement?”
Alicia felt her anxiety rise. “Our arrangement?”
He patted Cinnamon Rose on the neck. “A month ago, one of my stallions—Bashshar—suffered an accident that left him badly injured. Since then, his physical wounds have nicely healed, but the horse suffers greatly from hysteria. I’m afraid I’ll have to put him down unless…I was hoping you might treat him.”
Alicia felt her stomach clench. “My father knows of this?”
A hint of surprise flickered across Dalton’s face. “Of course. In fact, your father agreed that you would come immediately to our country estate. In exchange for your healing skills, I’ve offered him Cinnamon Rose, one of my family’s more promising mares. He said your stable needed a quality mare.”
Oh, Father, how could you? She felt like she had been kicked in the stomach. Fighting for control, she took a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry that your horse is injured, but I’m certain that you can afford more than your share of healers.” She took another fortifying breath. “But there’s no way I’ll consider your offer. My answer is no.” She gave a lingering glance at Cinnamon Rose. “And take your bribe along with you.”
She strode purposefully toward the path. Dalton’s long strides quickly caught up to her.
“It is said that your sweet nature can tame savage beasts, my lady,” Dalton drawled. “So maybe you refuse me, not because you are unkind, but because of my wealth. I assure you, my horse’s misery is as great as if he belonged to a beggar man. Or is your compassionate nature only a rumor, then?”
Alicia stopped and turned to face him. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand. “Your wealth has nothing to do with it, your grace. And I find such your suggestion offensive.”
“Offensive?” His brows formed a V.
Alicia’s patience was at an end. “Do you pretend to know nothing of your mother’s part in my fall from grace?”
Dalton stood, his mouth open. “What the deuce are you talking about?”
Alicia took a deep breath. Obviously, her loss of reputation was such a trifle to him that he’d forgotten all about it. “Very well, if you wish to play sport with me, I’ll tell you why I won’t honor my father’s arrangement.” She brushed back an auburn tendril from her cheek. “Only a scoundrel would forget what your mother did to me. And I don’t honor arrangements with scoundrels.” She turned and dashed along the path, but his long strides soon overtook her.
“Do you know that if you were a man, I could challenge you to a duel for besmirching my mother’s honor?”
She paused. Whether it was the injured tone in his voice, or the very fact that Wexton refused to understand it was she who was the injured party, Alicia couldn’t ignore his charge.
“A duel, is it?” She glanced up at him, wiping her hands together in glee. “How I’d relish to meet you on the field of honor. Oh, if only I could run you through—”
“I believe you would!”
“But you’re not worth dulling my blade,” she snapped. “Now please stop following me. Our business is concluded.”
Dalton clenched his teeth as he watched Lady Alicia stride past the rose garden, her long chestnut hair cascading down her back. Damn, what was all that breeze about his mother causing her to fall from grace? A scoundrel, she’d called him. Why, the woman was dicked in the nob!
Cinnamon Rose raised her head and whinnied a low horse laugh. “Ah, you think it’s funny, too?” he said, grabbing the horse’s halter as he led the mare along the path. He wasn’t sure whether to confront Alicia’s father now or later. Yet Dalton surmised that confronting her father was exactly what Alicia was planning to do this very minute.
No, Dalton could wait until she faced her father, all tearful and dithery, most likely. Before he left, he should check out the horseflesh in their stable to be sure what he had heard was true. Her father might be a baron, but the Spencer family was purse-pinched and in dire need of new sporting blood for their stable. Yet if it was true, why had Lady Alicia thrown a rub in the way? Why, indeed?
He’d heard she was a tempting armful, but no one warned him of her temper and headstrong ways. Not to mention her passionate spirit, which sparked the beauty’s dark eyes with fire.
Why hadn’t she married? Perhaps her young man had died in the war. The thought reminded Dalton of his older brother, Drake, a soldier among many who had met the same fate.
He must ask his sister, Olivia, about Alicia Spencer’s background. He should have done so earlier, but he’d never expected that she’d refuse him.
Anger. The air was still charged with it. Yet her father had shown no animosity toward Dalton. What had he said to fire up such resentment in her?
Damn the luck. Better to use his time thinking of another way to coax Lady Alicia into seeing his stallion, Bashshar. Dalton knew that one glance at the pitiful animal, and even the hard-hearted Alicia would melt and want to help him.
Dalton’s thoughts wandered back to the lady. He gathered the lead rope and led the mare toward the carriage. “Come, Cinnamon. We’ve not been beaten yet. Like brother Drake used to say, when you’ve drawn your last ace, it’s time to play the one up your sleeve.”
“Hounds of Jericho!” Alicia’s father pounded his fist on the desktop. “You’ll march right back and apologize to him. Do you hear, Daughter?”
“I can’t believe you would ask such a thing of me.” Alicia paced in a tight circle. “I refuse, and you can’t make me, Father,” she shouted, surprising them both. She had never raised her voice to him before, but this time, she was filled with a sense of betrayal. Her father cared so little for her feelings that she didn’t care what he thought of her.
Her father’s face colored a deep puce. “Very well, Alicia. I’ll give you a choice.” His heavy jowls shook with anger. “Widower Sedwick Rollins has asked for your hand. If you refuse to tend the duke’s stallion, then I’ll be forced to tell Rollins that you’ll marry as soon as a special license can be obtained.”
