The Rusticated Duchess Read Online Free Page A

way,” Gloria demurred, using one of her gloved hands to tap Colman’s stiff arm. “No need for this, Colman.” In an emergency she had her own pistol tucked inside her cloak but saw no reason to tell anyone of the fact.
    Months earlier, she had left Lennox House in a town carriage one morning, to all observers out for calls, and had arrived instead at Devon’s villa in Merton. There she had been joined by her son, his train of attendants and their baggage in a series of staggered deliveries throughout the day. They’d stayed one night in Merton, where Meriden and Devon had spent the late afternoon and evening teaching her to shoot the weapon they’d brought her.
    “Where have you walked from?” the man on the bay steed asked incredulously, even as Colman finally lowered the pistol. Gloria tensed, remembering that he would already have taken in her fashionable attire, complete with its muddy hem. “There are few places around here where one might walk in February. The road is hardly fit for a horse, let alone a lady’s shoes.”
    “I walk as often as possible,” she said simply, then stepped to the side, forcing Colman to follow if he wished to remain between her and the men. “And we were only turning back here. Ride on, gentlemen, and pray excuse what must seem to you to be unnatural caution.”
    Colman glared at the men, the pistol dangling at his side. Gloria knew he wouldn’t hesitate to raise it again in their direction, and the men understood his warning too. Nodding their heads, they released their horses and trotted forwards, past the pair and through the castle gate.
    “Well, is that likely to be trouble now?” Colman growled, as Gloria stepped past him. She didn’t fuss as he forsook his ten paces distance and walked beside her, the pistol finally slipping away. Her heart pattered faster as she considered his question. She hadn’t recognised the aristocrat, and she’d lived in London long enough to know everyone who frequented there. He might have been of Norman descent, but he didn’t patronise the ballrooms and banqueting tables.
    “Doubtful,” she finally said quietly. “His Grace felt sure we would be safe here, and I didn’t recognise him. He’s probably a distant relative of whoever holds the title.”
    “Aye, an’ one who wears London finery?” Colman asked. “I saw his boots, m’lady.”
    They trudged along silently while Gloria thought, until finally she conceded, “We won’t walk anywhere near so close again.”
    “I think not,” Colman grumbled and paced silently beside her, stiff and still and watchful, until they reached the gate to Blessing Cottage and she escaped his hovering presence.
     
    * * * *
     
    “Who is she?” Clare asked directly, dismounting in the forecourt and dropping to his feet.
    His steward, Jamie Seton, shrugged. “Never seen the lass before,” he claimed.
    “I know she’s no local chit, Seton,” Clare rasped, staring off into the distance as he thought. “She’s as blue-blooded as I am or I’ll eat my hat. She may have had mud on her hems, but she didn’t give a damn and they were black silk.”
    Clare didn’t bother to say it aloud, but the young lady had been wrapped in unrelieved black velvet as well, a sign of prolonged mourning very few could afford, particularly someone so young who ought to be looking forwards to a happy marriage and a nursery full of children. Still, her actions had been more telling. Unlike young women of other classes, she’d looked right back at him with all the regal bearing of a queen, uncowed by Clare’s aristocratic features or age, their fine horses or her own audacity in traipsing so close to the main gates. In addition, she had a guard—a guard who walked diligently in her train and not beside her as a father or brother or lover would have done. She had a guard who had aimed a high-quality pistol at Clare’s head without batting an eyelash, with shades of infantry training in his gait and posture.