Forbidden to the Duke

‘Be quiet and listen.’

His chin tilted down. His brows rose. ‘Yes, Miss Cherroll?’

‘I will not stay here.’

He waited, his gaze locked onto hers.

‘My sister needs me for the children,’ she said.

‘I understand completely,’ he said, his voice agreeable, and stepped to the door. ‘You can take my carriage to visit them as often as you wish.’

One stride and he would be out of her vision.

‘It is not a problem at all. Send your maid in Warrington’s carriage for your things. The housekeeper will be with you shortly to help you select a room.’

He was gone by the time she opened her mouth.

AUTHOR NOTE

Bellona’s story was formed while I was writing my previous book, A Captain and a Rogue.

I first envisaged her as wanting to be like the Grecian heroine Laskarina Bouboulina, who owned a large warship and would have been active around 1822, when Forbidden to the Duke begins. I also planned for Bellona to be a bit of a Robin Hood in spirit. With knife and archery skills that can protect her from many dangers—except the most surprising ones.

But Bellona became a different character from the warrior I first imagined. When this story begins she’s on the path to separation from the security of her family and making her own world. The new hobby she finds at the end of the book wasn’t planned until the words were being written, but I feel it truly expresses who she was meant to be, and the part of her she’s hidden from herself.

I hope you enjoy Bellona and Rhys’s journey, and that you see them as I do—two people who have to step out of the roles they were born into and rise to be the beginnings of a new legacy.

Forbidden

to the Duke

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

To Juanita Ballew, ‘Sis’, a real heroine.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The pudgy-eyed gamekeeper pointed a flintlock straight at Bellona’s chest. His eyebrows spiked into angry points. ‘Drop the longbow.’ His gun barrel emphasised his words and even without the weapon his size would have daunted her. He’d not looked so large or his stare so bloodless from a distance.

Noise crashed into her ears—the sound of her heart—and the beats tried to take over every part of her. She forced the blackness away and locked her stare with his. Charred hatred, roughened by the unshaven chin, slammed out from his face.

She nodded and tossed the bow into the twining berry thorns at the side of the path. The canopy of sycamore leaves covered him in green-hued shadows.

He put one hand to his mouth, thrust his fingers to his lips and whistled loud enough to be heard in Greece. The shrill sound jabbed her, alerting her that he wasn’t alone. She’d never seen anyone else in the forest but this devil. She would be fighting two men and at least one weapon.

‘...shoot at me...’ He spoke again and the words snapped her back into understanding.

She cursed herself for not taking more care. She’d not heard him behind her—but she should have smelled his boiled-cabbage stench.

‘I be bringing his lordship,’ he said. ‘Your toes be dangling and the tide be washing your face before they cut you down. You won’t be shooting at me no more. You’re nothing more’n a common wench and people in lofty places be wantin’ you to hang.’

Her fingers stiffened, her mind unable to send them commands. She held her chin high. She’d thought she was in a safe land. She’d thought she’d escaped men who wanted to hurt her. Showing fear would be dangerous. ‘You—’ She couldn’t have taken her eyes from his. ‘I’m a guest of the Earl of Warrington and I have misplaced myself.’

The man’s nose bunched up as he talked. ‘But you ain’t on the earl’s land now, Miss Lady Nobody. You’re no better’n me.’ He waved the gun. ‘You’re a poacher and I’ve seen you here aplenty times before. I just niver could catch you.’

‘The earl will be thymomenos, angered.’

He snorted. ‘But this is the duke’s land. His Grace don’t lose no sleep over what an earl would think.’

She forced her fingers alert. ‘You are the one who should think. You must know I live near.’

‘But you ain’t no real lady. I already told the duke all about you and how you been scattering my traps and he thinks I’m imaginin’. Your eyes is even uncommon dark like some witch borne you. I told him you’re half-spirit. They hanged Mary Bateman. If they don’t be hangin’ you, you’ll end up lyin’ with vermin in gaol. Good ’nuff for you.’

He indicated the trail behind himself by swinging the barrel of the gun towards it. ‘Don’t move a feather.’ The gamekeeper swaggered. ‘His Grace be right behind me. I told him I set my traps near and this time I be catchin’ somethin’ big. You’ve ruined your last snare.’

Footsteps in the leaves signalled the approach of another. Bellona rested her left hand on the top of arrows tucked into the quiver strapped around her waist. ‘You can go to the devil.’

The shoulders of another man came into view, and Bellona swallowed. She needed all of her strength. Two men to fight.

The gamekeeper stepped off the path so the other one could see her.

The duke stopped beside the gamekeeper and the scent of the air became clean. The newcomer examined her, not scowling or smiling.

She would not have thought this man a peer had she seen him without introduction, but she would have known him for a gentleman. His neckcloth looped in a simple, soft knot. His boots reached his knees and his dark riding coat had plain buttons. He wore every thread as if it had been woven to his own order. Sunlight dappled over lean cheeks. His eyes were the same colour as her own.

Her stomach clenched, but not with fear. She’d made a mistake. She’d looked into his eyes. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of something inside herself.

She stepped back.

‘Your Grace, I caught the murderous culprit what’s been stealing the hares from my traps and wishin’ curses on us all. She be a common thief, a murderous woman and full of meanness, just like I said.’ The gamekeeper’s words spewed out, leaving even less air for Bellona to breathe. ‘You want I should send the stable boy for the magistrate?’

The duke gave the slightest shake of his head. ‘You are mistaken, Wicks. I will see her back to my estate safely and ensure that she is escorted on her way.’

‘She be a thief, Your Grace, and a bewitched woman. Why, see how her eyes be puttin’ evil my direction now. She be tryin’ to burn me into ash right where I stand.’

‘Miss—’ the newcomer directed his words to Bellona and he leaned forward as he peered at her ‘—have you been poaching on my land?’

She sensed somehow that he jested with her. ‘No. Never,’ Bellona said, shaking her head. The knife was in her boot. But she didn’t want to attack. She only wanted to flee.

The duke’s lips firmed and he took in a small breath on his next words. ‘Wicks...’

The gamekeeper’s stance tightened and he rushed his words. ‘She tossed her bow into the briars. She’d kill a man herself for blood sport. She’d cut out his heart and cook it.’

The duke’s lips tightened at one side and his eyes dismissed the other man’s words.

‘I don’t eat hearts,’ Bellona inserted, directing a look straight into the vile man. ‘Only brains. You are safe.’

‘Your Grace,’ the gamekeeper sputtered, outrage and fury mixed. ‘She’s—’

‘Quiet.’ The duke’s words thrust into the air with the seriousness of a sword point held to the throat.

He stepped towards her, moving over the fallen log in the path, his hand out. ‘The lady and I have not been introduced, but as this isn’t a soirée, I think—’

Instinctively, she pulled an arrow from the quiver and held the tip against the duke’s grey silk waistcoat—pressing.

His arm halted, frozen.

‘Do not touch me.’ Her words copied his in command.

His eyes widened and he straightened. ‘I was going to take your arm. My pardon. It’s usually received well, I assure you.’

She kept the arrow at his stomach, trying to keep the spirit around him from overtaking her.

The gamekeeper moved so the weapon again pointed at her. ‘Just give me the word, Your Grace, I’ll save you. She be tryin’ to kill a peer. No sense wasting good rope round that boney neck.’

‘Put the flintlock away, Wicks. Now.’ The duke didn’t take his eyes from Bellona. ‘This woman and I have not finished introductions yet and, by my calculation, the arrow tip isn’t exceedingly sharp.’

‘It’s sharp enough,’ she said.

‘Miss...’ He blinked. He smiled. But they were just outward movements. ‘Most people get to know me a little better before they think of weapons. Perhaps you should consider that. It might make an attempt on my life more enjoyable for you if there were some justification.’

She never saw his movement, but his hand clamped around her wrist, securing her, not tight, but shackle-strong.

‘My property.’ He stepped back from the arrow. Then he extricated it from her fingers, the warm touch of his hand capturing her in yet another way before he released her. ‘My rules, Huntress.’ He studied her face. ‘Or if my observation is correct, should I refer to you as goddess?’

As he examined the arrow, she took another step back. She gave the merest head toss of dismissal and readied her hand to the single arrow left in the quiver.

His eyes flickered to the sharpened tip of the projectile he held, but he wasn’t truly examining it. He twirled it around, tipped his head to her and held the feathered end to her. ‘I have met the lovely Countess of Warrington and although you resemble her, I would remember if I’d met you. That means you’re the sister named for the goddess of war. The woman hardly ever seen.’

‘You may call me Miss Cherroll.’ The rules she’d studied fled from her, except the one about the curtsy and she could not force herself to do it. She took the arrow.

She only wanted to leave, but her limbs hadn’t yet recovered their strength. She controlled her voice, putting all the command in it she could muster. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

‘If you’ve been talking to Warrington, I suppose not.’ He tilted his head forward, as if he secluded them from the rest of the world. ‘What is he fed for breakfast? I fear it curdles his stomach—daily.’

‘Only when mixed with entertainments not to his liking.’

‘Well, that explains it. I can be quite entertaining.’

‘He claims you can be quite...’ She paused. His eyes waited for her to continue, but she didn’t think it prudent, either to Warrington or the duke.

The duke continued, taking in the words she didn’t say. ‘Not many are above him, and, well, I might give him the tiniest reminder of my status, when it is needed.’ He shrugged. ‘Our fathers were like brothers. He thinks he has become the old earl and I have not attained the grandness of my sire. My father did limp—and that knee was the only thing that kept him from perfection. The injured leg was the price he paid for doing the right thing. He once thrust himself between someone and the hooves of an angry horse.’

‘I would not be so certain of the earl’s opinion.’ She paused, softening her words. ‘He says you are quite the perfect duke. A duke from heel to head.’ Warrington had stared at the ceiling and grimaced when he spoke.

‘A compliment. I’m certain. From Warrington.’ He shrugged. ‘Too many things distract me from perfection. I just trudge along, doing what I can. Hoping to honour the legacy my father left behind.’

He turned to the other man, sending him along. ‘I’ll see Miss Cherroll home.’ Taking a step towards her, he paused when she moved the pointed tip the slightest bit in his direction. ‘Assuming she doesn’t do Warrington a boon and impale his favourite neighbour.’

When he stopped moving, she relaxed her hand.

‘I will manage well enough on my own.’ She turned, pulling the skirt’s hem from a bramble, and moved closer to the bow. ‘I know the way.’ She heard her own words and turned back to the duke and leaned her head to the side. ‘I have been lost here before.’ She pulled the bow into her hand, freeing it from the thorny brambles clasping it.

‘I would imagine so. Wicks claims you are here more than he is. I might call on you,’ he said, ‘later today to assure myself you arrived safely home.’

She shook her head. ‘Please don’t. Warrington is always claiming I bring home strange things from my walks.’

‘My dear, I’m a duke. He won’t be able to say a word. It’s a rule of sorts.’

‘You truly don’t know him well, do you?’

‘Well, perhaps he might grumble, but his good breeding would insist he appear welcoming. At least in your presence.’

She held the nock end of the arrow as if she were going to seat it against the bowstring. ‘You’re right in that my English father named me for the Roman goddess of war. And, it’s said I’m completely lacking in the ways of a proper Englishwoman. But I do remember one phrase. “I am not at home.”’

‘Miss Cherroll. I would think you’d not mind sharing tea with me seeing as you have already shared my property.’

She shook her head. ‘I have been called on before. I have not been at home.’

‘Ever?’

She firmed her lips and shook her head.

‘Why not?’

She didn’t answer his question. She could not speak of her memories aloud. Putting them into words brought the feel of the rough fingertips to her neck.

His brows furrowed. Even though she knew a proper lady didn’t scurry along the trail, she did, leaving the duke standing behind her.

* * *

Rhys Harling, Duke of Rolleston, sat at his desk, completely unmoving. Wicks stood in front of Rhys, repeating the same words he’d said two days ago and the two days before that. Rhys hoped the air would clear of the man’s dank scent when he left.

Wicks waved the arrow like a sceptre. His lips didn’t stop moving even when he paused to find new words.

Wicks rambled on, falling more in love with his discourse as he continued. If the gamekeeper were to be believed, the woman created more mischief than any demon.

It had been five days since Wicks had caught the woman. The gamekeeper had approached him twice to discuss the lands and could not keep from mentioning her.

Rhys interrupted, his voice direct. ‘She did not try to impale me. Neither her teeth nor her eyes—which are not rimmed by devil’s soot—show brighter than any other’s in the dusk and she is not as tall as I am. You cannot claim her to be something she is not. I forbid it.’

‘You can’t be faultin’ me for lookin’ out for your lands, Your Grace.’

‘I don’t. But she’s the earl’s guest. You must cease talking at the tavern about the woman.’

‘Who told you?’ His chin dropped and he looked at the floor.

‘Who didn’t tell me?’ Rhys fixed a stare at the man. ‘Wicks, you should know that words travel from one set of ears to the next and the next and before long every person who has shared a meal with someone else has heard.’

‘She does stick in my craw, Your Grace.’

He didn’t blame the gamekeeper. Rhys couldn’t remove her from his mind either. The quiver cinched her trim waist. A twig had poked from her mussed hair. The magical thing he’d noticed about her was the way her hair could stay in a knot on her head when most of it had escaped.

Rhys had known when the gamekeeper first mentioned the trespasser who it would most likely be. He’d wanted to see her for himself.

Wicks wasn’t the first person to discuss her. Even the duchess, who talked only of family members who’d passed on, had varied from her melancholia once and spoke of the earl’s sister-by-law Miss Cherroll. The foreign-born woman rarely let herself be seen by anyone outside the earl’s household and that caused more talk than if she’d danced three dances with the same partner.

‘Forget her,’ the duke said. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman who likes to traipse the trails. I can’t fault her for that.’

He couldn’t. He’d travelled over those same trails countless times, trying to keep up with his brother, Geoff.

Looking for the woman had been the first time he’d been in the woods since Geoff’s death. The gnashing ache grinded inside him again, but the woman’s face reminded him of unspoiled times.

But she was...a poacher of sorts. Nothing like her sister—a true countess if tales were to be believed. He wouldn’t put it past Warrington to keep this bow-carrying family member in the shadows, afraid what would happen if the woman met with members of the ton.

‘You didn’t feel she could near strangle a man with one look from her eyes?’ Wicks asked. ‘I could feel that devil in her just trying to take my vicar’s words right from mind. She still be trespassin’ ever’ day. Taunting me, like. She tears up my traps and she lurks out in the wood, waiting until I check them and then she tries to kill me.’

‘I’m sure she’s not trying to kill you.’

‘This arrow weren’t whipping by your head.’ He pulled every muscle of his body into an indignant shudder. ‘And since I caught her last time, she stays too far back for me to snatch her again.’

‘You will not touch her.’ Rhys met Wicks’s stare. Rhys stood.

Wicks’s lips pressed together.

‘You will not touch her,’ Rhys said again and waited.

‘I don’t want no part of that evil witch,’ Wicks said finally. ‘I looked at her and I saw the Jezebel spirit in her. I be sleepin’ on the floor and not in my bed so she can’t visit me in my night hours and have her way with me.’

Rhys put both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. ‘That is a good plan. However, if you sleep with your nightcap over your ears it will do the same.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Rhys nodded.

Wicks’s lips moved almost for a full minute before he spoke and his shoulders were pulled tight and he watched the arrow in his hand. ‘Well, I’ll be considerin’ it. Floor’s cold.’

‘Do you think perhaps she is a normal kind-hearted woman, Wicks, and merely doesn’t want little creatures harmed?’

‘I wondered. But that seems odd to me. When I gave her my smile—’ He bared perfect teeth except for one missing at the bottom. ‘She didn’t even note. Just raised her bow right towards me and let this arrow loose.’

Rhys rose, walked around the desk and held out his hand. Wicks slowly placed the arrow across Rhys’s palm.

‘If you see her again,’ Rhys commanded, ‘at any time at any place, you are not to give her one moment of anything but respect. You are not to smile at her or approach her, or you will answer to me in a way you will not like.’

‘Not right,’ Wicks said, his nose going up. ‘Being shot at while doin’ my work.’

‘I will handle this. Do not forget my words. Leave her be.’

‘I will,’ Wicks said. ‘I pity her. Has too many airs to settle into things right for a woman’s place.’

Rhys glared.

‘But I be keepin’ it a secret.’ He nodded. ‘I ain’t givin’ her another one of my smiles. She missed her chance. And if she tries to have her way with me, I be turnin’ my head and keepin’ my nightcap tight.’

He used both hands to clamp his hat on his head as he shuffled out, grumbling.

Rhys studied the arrow and thought of his mother’s melancholia. How she hardly left her room, even for meals. How she talked more of people who’d passed than of her own friends, and how she claimed illness rather than go to Sunday Services. His brother’s death had taken the life from her as well. The one moment the duchess’s thoughts had wavered into the present had been when she asked Rhys if he’d heard of the earl’s guest, but by the time he’d answered, his mother’s thoughts had wavered back into the shadows of the past.

He brushed his hand over the arrow fletching. Window light bounced over the feathers, almost startling him. Raising his eyes, he saw the sun’s rays warming the room. He stood, walking to the sunlight, pausing to feel the heat on his face. He lifted the feathery end of the weapon, twirling it in the brightness.

Winter’s chill had left the air, but he’d not noticed the green outside the window until now. The woman had also worn the colours of the forest, he remembered. She’d not looked like a warrior goddess, but a woodland nymph, bringing life into morning.

He snorted, amazed at the folly of his imagination. He’d not had such foolish thoughts in a long time. Nor had he longed for a woman’s comfort overmuch in the past year. Now, he imagined the huntress and his body responded, sending reminders of pleasure throughout his being.

Leaning into the window frame, holding the arrow like a talisman, he tried to remember every single aspect of her. What she’d said and how she’d looked. Each word and moment that had transpired between them.

He pulled the soft end of the arrow up, looking at the feathers one last time before tapping the nock against the sill, staring at the reflections of sunlight.

This woman at the earl’s estate, who was willing to fight for rabbits, but could keep the servants whispering about her, might be just the woman who could bring his mother back to life. She’d already reminded Rhys that he was still alive.

* * *

Within the hour, Rhys was in the Earl of Warrington’s sitting room. The duke clasped an arrow at his side and waited as he expected he might. He moved to the window again, wanting to feel the heat from the sun streaming through the panes. Trees budded back to life. A heathen spirit might do the same for his own home.

The mantel sported a painting of three young girls playing while their mother watched. He wagered the painting was of Greece and one of the girls could have been the one on his property. Except for the single painting, the room seemed little different than Rhys’s own library.

Rhys looked out over Warrington’s snipped and clipped and trimmed and polished world, almost able to hear the laughter from years before.

Only, the laughter was not his, but directed at him.

Of course, both he and Warrington had matured now. They had left foolish prattle and childish games behind.

Warrington strode in. Rhys could still taste the medicinal the others had found in the apothecary jar and forced into Rhys’s mouth when they were children. That had to be his earliest memory.