The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M

Brody nodded. ‘I’ve wallowed and been sidestepped enough. No more.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Boleyn smiled. ‘If I may suggest a visit to old Mrs Wiggins? She’s in Apple Cottage, since Joe, you remember her son, passed. He was in one of the foot regiments and was lost at Waterloo.’

Brody winced, and nodded. The carnage was all too fresh in his mind. Even though no one knew he was there, he’d been around, and seen more terrible things in one day than anyone would want to see in a lifetime.

‘And Miss Cinderford,’ Boleyn continued. ‘She’s next door. They both have fond memories of you and never fail to ask after you.’

‘Cinders?’ Brody used the nickname for his old nurse. ‘I thought she’d be long gone by now.’

Boleyn shook his head. ‘Hale and hearty. Still walks to church twice on Sundays, takes her turn on the flower rota and teaches the children their scriptures at Sunday school. She’s been looking forward to your return.’ He didn’t add, as he well could, ‘and you’ve been back months and seen no one’. ‘Chef will have some pastries for you to take to the ladies. It’ll save Mrs Loveage a detour when she goes to visit the pensioners on the other side of the river. She tries to get round them all once a week, now your mama is absent.’

Mrs Loveage, his housekeeper – known to Brody’s younger self as Lovey, and at one time an undernursemaid – was another stalwart who wasn’t in the first blush of youth. If Boleyn was trying to make Brody feel guilty, Brody knew fine well the man had more than succeeded. If he ever wed, that activity would fall to his wife. If. A little word with a big meaning.

‘Of course. Now I can help.’

Boleyn looked sceptical and Brody grinned. ‘Well not in everything but when you or she think I’m needed. What else?’

‘Cakes for the school. It’s the monthly treat for those who attend regularly. With cook laid up, Mrs Loveage is charge.’

It was the first Brody had heard of the cook’s illness. Guiltily he wondered what else his staff had kept from him because they thought – mistakenly – he was indifferent.

‘What’s wrong with the cook?’ He needed to know. Dammit she is my responsibility.

‘Cooking sherry.’

What? ‘The cook is addicted to cooking sherry?’

Boleyn shook his head and coughed. ‘Ahem, only for one week in each month, my lord. And we manage.’

Brody digested that somewhat puzzling statement for several seconds before the light dawned. Those damned days when the curse ailed Mercedes so badly that she took to her bed alone. Although he didn’t think the cooking sherry ever went with her. More likely the finest wine and a bottle of port. As ever, the thought of Mercedes hit him hard and sent a searing rush of anguish through him. Brody blocked his painful thoughts off and concentrated on what was being said.

‘Good, so, you were saying about the school children and cakes?’ He changed the subject hastily. He really didn’t want a conversation about a woman’s body at that moment.

‘This month all forty-seven pupils are eligible. Miss Grey is overjoyed with that.’

Brody supposed Miss Grey was the new schoolmistress. He vaguely remembered his mama saying Miss Pettifer, the previous incumbent, had left to take care of her widowed father. He wondered idly whose idea the cakes were but decided it might be best not to enquire. Just in case it was seen as a criticism. This Duke thing is fraught with pitfalls. He cast his mind back to the elegant lady his body had lusted over all those weeks earlier. He’d never seen her since, even though he’d kept an eye out for her on his sojourns around the area. Was she Miss Grey? Damn, definitely not in my league then. He certainly could not proposition someone who was, to all intents and purposes, in his employ.

‘Cakes then. Excellent.’ Brody had no wish to change anything unless he felt a need to do so. Cakes for attendance seemed a good idea to him. The more children who got an education, the better he – and whatever anyone thought it would be he – could ensure his estates were well maintained and prospered. ‘I’ll shave, change into my riding clothes and boots and meet you back here.’

Boleyn beamed. ‘I told Mrs Loveage you’d soon be chafing at the bit and raring to take up the reins again. Once you recovered.’ His majordomo turned on his heel smartly, and slipped behind the green baize door discreetly located under the imposing staircase.

Recovered from what? Brody pondered the question as he made his way up the stairs two at a time to swap his house shoes for riding boots and a jacket which, although more befitting his status, didn’t set him too far apart from anyone he might meet, and jeopardise his intentions to be a hands-on owner.

Hands-on. He wished.

Damn. That thought reminded him once more of his late mistress, Mercedes. Mercedes of the ‘black as a raven’s wing’ hair and deep blue eyes, which could soften into submission, or flash with anger. Their time together had been brief, tempestuous, and more than enjoyable. Mercedes insisted it was not for ever, she wouldn’t leave and go to England with him. Instead, she said, it would be best they part with affection before he returned to England.

A year or so earlier, Brody had been sent to another part of the country to reconnoitre a way for troops to infiltrate the area. On his return he had found her battered and bleeding, with her hair shaved and carved into her chest the word – in English – ‘traitor’.

She died in his arms, and Brody swore never again would he lose his heart. He’d closed in on himself and done his job with ruthless determination.

It was no wonder he’d taken so long to regroup.

Since then, Brody ruminated, his cock was in danger of forgetting what its mission in life really was, and was in trouble of seizing up through disuse. It had been a lowering realisation that to enjoy delights of the flesh, one needed to be where the ladies were. Sadly where those willing to play could be found, so also could their children or worse, their spouses.

Plus, those debs desperate for a husband, with all the ruthlessness needed to ensnare an eligible man by fair means or foul, appeared from nowhere. Usually it seemed… foul. At a soiree his mother had cajoled him to attend, he had to threaten one lady when she’d followed him into the antechamber of the gentlemen’s smoking room. Unbeknown on his side and with full, snare-intentions on hers. Brody been treated to an eyeful of bosom and a threat to say it was him who coerced her into the room. He had departed via the window, but not before he told her in no uncertain terms who would come off the worse if she tried any such thing. Indisputably, it wouldn’t be him, he’d make sure of that. His ire and determination left one very scared debutant to hightail it out of the chamber and him to go back to the soiree via the ivy and to make his farewells to his hostess. Thence to avoid all such events. For that he gave thanks and left London swiftly, before any more ingenious plots to ensnare him could be put into fruition.

There and then, Brody made his mind up. His body would get its relief via his hands or not at all. Over a month later he’d kept to that and would continue to do so… Until…until what he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t until some forward debutant – or her ambitious mother – got their talons into him. Luckily, in this part of the country he’d get plenty of notice if any such plans seemed likely and would be able to employ avoidance tactics.

Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.

‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’

Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.

‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’

‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’

She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.

‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’

She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.

He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’

She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’

Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.

‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’

‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.

‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’

She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.

‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness up…’ she glanced at Brody.

‘Hester and Hero to my curricle,’ he supplied the answer, and named two horses who had recently arrived. ‘And my apologies, Ronald. Having not been in polite company for so long, indeed I have forgotten my manners.’ It wasn’t, Brody knew, strictly true. He still had a black dog riding on his shoulder and it was unfair to take it out on his loyal staff.

Mrs Loveage stared at him fixedly and then let her eyes flicker to Ronald and back again. Brody frowned. What was she getting at? She sighed and with one final pat of the dough she’d been working she covered it with a cloth and put it to the back of the stove. He glanced at the lad and saw an expression of yearning on his face.

‘If you wish to accompany me, Ronald, I’d be grateful.’

The expression changed to one of incredulity.

The smile Mrs Loveage bestowed on Brody made him understand he’d done the right thing.

Ronald reddened again and bobbed a half bow. ‘Yes um… yes, you sees I’d like to be a tiger or sommat one day. I loves the ‘osses – horses.’

‘Then now’s the chance to show me what you’re capable off. Do you have boots?’ Brody asked as a swift glance at the other man’s work boots told him neither would feel happy with Ronald wearing them.

Ronald’s face dropped. ‘Ah, no. ‘S all I got, m’lord.’

‘Then wait one minute whilst I nip upstairs. I have a pair, which should fit you. And a suitable jacket.’

Ronald gasped, then went white. He swayed, and gulped. ‘M’lord…’ he said weakly.

‘There now…’ Mrs Loveage said complacently, ‘…I knew His Grace would see you right and tight. You stay put, m’lord, and me and Boleyn will sort out what’s needed.’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and nipped out of the room before Brody could pass comment. To his amusement, he heard two sets of footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs. It seemed his staff knew his wardrobe as well as he.

Brody turned to Ronald who stood, mouth agape and with a stunned expression on his face.

‘As you see…’ Brody said with a grin, ‘… even I do as I’m told when Mrs Loveage dictates. I assume you know our route?’ He himself did, but surmised it would make Ronald feel more at ease if he let him dictate that small thing.

Ronald nodded enthusiastically. ‘My ma lives a few cottages along from Mrs Wiggins and the school’s nowt but a step nearer. Mind you, I reckon you best go to Miss Cinderford first like, or she’ll be a mort put out and you’ll get the edge of her tongue.’ “Now you’re finally going to see her,” hung in the air between them.

‘Then Cinders first it shall be,’ Brody said amicably as Mrs Loveage puffed back into the kitchen, followed by a slightly less-breathless Boleyn, who carried a hacking jacket and an old but highly polished and serviceable pair of riding boots. He held them aloft. Idly, Brody wondered where they’d been stashed, for he couldn’t remember seeing those particular items since his return. No doubt they’d been removed from his orbit in case he chose to wear them.

Brody inclined his head ‘Perfect. If you shape up, Ronald, we’ll see about proper clothes for you, but for now, I think these should do. I’ll see you in the stables in twenty minutes. Just time for Mrs Loveage to pretend she doesn’t see me sneak a cake for each of us.’ He plucked what that lady called a queen cake from the pile cooling on a rack, passed it to an astonished Ronald, took another one for himself, and began to munch on it.

Ronald grinned, then sobered when he remembered whom he was grinning at, and took the boots and coat from Boleyn. ‘M’lord I’s’ll not lets you down. And ten minutes is enough.’ He left the room at a run and was soon seen rapidly disappearing across the kitchen garden in the direction of the stables and the rooms above, where several male members of staff lived.

Brody snagged another bun and grinned. ‘Do you think he’ll work as a groom? He’s a bit tall for a tiger.’

He was pleased to see both Mrs Loveage and Boleyn consider his question carefully.

‘Well…’ Mrs Loveage said at last. ‘He’s horse mad that I do know, always has been. He’s helped around the few horses left here since your papa died and Compton… his head groom…’ she added as Brody raised his eyebrows in a silent question. There was no need to own up to his complete ignorance of what went on when he was away.

‘He left when your mama decided only to keep your horses, and those which were hers and the children’s, and get rid of the rest. She said, and I must say it made sense, that those who didn’t belong to them or you wouldn’t be used, so it was best to let them go somewhere they’d at least be exercised. I think, mind this is tittle-tattle so no telling others, Compton wasn’t best pleased.’ Mrs Loveage sniffed. ‘His job here was a bit of a walk in the park so to speak and he was loath to see that lost. Anyroads, this past year or so, young Ronnie there has taken a more active part and aided Belton, the new man, while he got settled. Stop that.’ She smacked Brody’s hand as he tried to help himself to a third bun. ‘There’ll be none left for tea if you don’t give over. Now shoo. Out of my kitchen.’ Brody turned to the back door; he knew when he was beaten. After all, he would get some at teatime. He hadn’t taken three paces before Mrs Loveage called after him.

‘The basket’

He turned back. ‘I need my head examined.’

‘No, you need your brain to have more to do.’

As ever, his housekeeper had the last word. Brody sketched her a salute and made his way outside. Whatever shortfalls there had been on the estate, and it beggared belief to assume there would be none, the kitchen garden wasn’t one of them. Vegetables and herbs were there in abundance, not long off being ready to be picked, and then dried, salted, or pickled. He snapped a pea pod from the stem and shucked out the peas inside to toss them into his mouth and savour their unique flavour and aroma. Fresh vegetables such as this, and the broad bean he replaced it with in his mouth, were something he sorely missed when abroad. It wasn’t that they weren’t cultivated, more he had been unable to avail himself of them.

Now he sniffed the herb and vegetable scents that filled the air and thanked the lord he was home once more, and determined the ducal estate would again flourish under the Duke’s direction – not just on the Duke’s behalf. It was, he repeated to himself, his private avowal.

He arrived at the stables as Ronald was checking the harness on the horses. The young lad looked to all intents and purposes the tidy and proper groom of a prosperous country estate. The jacket was slightly too big, and Brody rather thought the boots pinched the youth, but the grin on his face showed he did not care. If he was as good with the horses as intimated, then Brody knew whom his new groom would be. For now though, he said nothing, just nodded his thanks and waited until Ronald stood back.

‘All’s well, m’lord.’

‘Let’s go then, you get up with me, take the reins and we’ll get these parcels delivered.’

It was pleasant tootling along the lanes with someone well versed in local affairs next to you. Once Ronald accepted that Brody meant what he said, did genuinely want to know all that was going on around them, and was interested in every last detail of affairs pertaining to the castle and its surroundings, he spoke freely. With a competence Brody understood and respected, Ronald took the vehicle, the matched chestnuts and the passengers safely along the narrow lanes, chatting all the while. He interspersed his narrative with asides about the state of hedges belonging to neighbours, the chance of a good pheasant-shooting season, and one Miss Susan Foulkes whom, Brody understood, Ronald had his eye on. Although not out of his teens the young man had his head screwed on properly and Brody made a mental note to find out what he could with regards to the young lady.

They approached the lane that snaked from the top of the steep escarpment where the castle perched – a perfect position to check out invaders in its less than peaceful past – to the valley bottom. A scant half a mile later it reached the village, which took its name from both the castle and the river that meandered around its boundaries.

They paused at the crossroads and Ronald held out the reins in Brody’s direction. ‘You best take ‘em now, m’lord, I mean Your Grace.’

Brody thought for a second and shook his head. ‘You take ‘em down. You seem to remember their mouths are soft and you’ll know the incline is sharp. Use the brakes with caution but remember they’re there.’ He grinned. ‘So am I, if you need me, though I doubt you will.’

Ronald flushed with pleasure and took a long indrawn breath. ‘Well if you’re sure. I’ve taken the wagon to church every week for them that need to get back sharpish-like, and driven the gig down often enough but never sommat as bang up as this.’

‘There’s a first time for everything and as my groom-cum-country coachman – you’ll have to get used to driving anything I ask. On you go, I have all faith in your abilities or I’d not have offered.’

Brody sat back, arms folded and satisfied, and watched the myriad of expressions chase over the youth’s face. If all went well Ronald could in time work his way even higher but for now, Brody decided he’d overwhelmed the lad enough and sat back with an air of unconcern, even though he was primed to take over if needed to.

There was no need. Once, the nearside horse pecked at a rabbit, which had a death wish and ran between the horses’ legs, but Ronald soothed and steadied him without the animals missing a stride. Brody was pleased that Mrs Loveage’s encouragement was working out.

Nothing else happened to upset animals or humans and within a few minutes, they reached the bottom of the hill and the first few houses of the village. On one side of the lane, the sturdy Norman church with its unusual elegant spire sat in a slightly elevated position, its lychgate tucked safely away from the lane’s edge. Next to it was the school, where several children waved from the grounds as the curricle went by.

‘Ho, Ronnie there’s a prime pair.’ One young girl waved and shouted and then danced around in a circle. ‘Yes, yes, yes, cake day.’ An elegant lady, possibly in her early twenties, hushed the child even as she looked covertly at the vehicle and its occupants.

It’s her. Brody got an impression of a fine bosom under plain and serviceable dark blue cotton, and dark brown hair in a riot of curls. He wished he were close enough to see what colour her eyes were. He was as certain as could be it was the lady he’d seen all those weeks before on his return to the area. The lady he’d deliberately not asked questions about. After all, a brief glance of a shapely rear and breasts you wanted to bury your head between didn’t give enough information to use to discover an identity. At first he’d thought he’d find out soon enough, and then he’d had too many other things on his mind to give thought to the question. His skin tingled as he thought he might now be one step nearer to discovering who she was, what she was, and if there was any point in approaching her.

Ronald waved back, as the prancing child whistled loudly, to be, it seemed, reprimanded by the lady with the fine bosom. Brody decided he’d need to learn the unknown lady’s name sooner rather than later. He couldn’t continue to think of her in such a way. What if, when he eventually met her, he let that sobriquet slip? It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Time for them to run off some of their energy,’ Ronald said. ‘That noisy one, in the red apron, is my youngest sister. She’s intent on learning and become a teacher herself. Miss Mary, that’s her there, encourages her and our ma is happy for it. Cissy is bright, not like the rest of us.’

‘Miss Mary?’ He committed the title to memory. Not the schoolmarm then? Now at least he had a name for her. ‘Miss Mary who?’

Ronald shrugged. ‘You know, Your Grace. I cannot mind. All I know is she helps out, comes over from the Grange once a week.’

Probably an under-housekeeper, Brody surmised. She had too much elegance to be a lower servant, and not enough to be gentry. The gown was a mark of that.

Damn.

He cast his mind over his surroundings. As far as he knew the Grange, a tidy house a mile or so from the village, had been unoccupied for years with just a skeleton staff to keep it from falling into disrepair. He’d have to do his best to forget about the woman. Even though she didn’t work for him, he couldn’t be seen to consort locally. More was the pity, that bosom begged for attention. So did the rest of her.