Page 1 of The Untamed Duke
Chapter 1
Men were confounding creatures. Prone to capricious moods and jealous displays, and mulish behavior. It was the only explanation for Tristan Buchanan’s dogged pursuit.
“Will you run from me again? As you did yesterday?”
Lady Grace Willsdown sighed, the solitude of the ivy-clad gazebo evaporating like wispy smoke as Lord Longleigh’s voice penetrated it. Blast. He must have cut across the perfectly manicured lawn, the warning crunch of his footsteps on gravel unnoticed while she was immersed in her book.
Only yesterday, Tristan practically chased her about Calmont Down’s garden maze. She avoided disaster by kicking his shin, scolding his behavior as unseemly for such a respectable viscount. The tall, green walls of the hedges had swallowed his curses as she zigzagged down narrow paths in escape. Later, when he limped into the main drawing room where she took tea with the viscount’s own mother, Lady Darby, and their host, Lady Calmont, Grace did not ask if he’d spent the entire afternoon searching for the maze exit.
No matter how many times Lord Longleigh declared an adoration lasting until the end of time or how often he plaintively insisted, “I love you”, she repeated her refusal. The tactful rejections probably qualified her as an expert on the subject, something other women might study and learn from. Tristan simply ignored them.
Grace refocused attention on the hefty tome detailing Viking invasions during the medieval era. Lately, she’d begun ignoring the viscount when he became overly persistent.
Ignore the behavior. Eventually, he must give up.
Sometimes the tactic sent him stomping away in angry defeat. Yesterday, it resulted in a bruise on Tristan’s shin and a telling limp.
“Why do you avoid me? Our time together is so enjoyable. Other than those unfortunate moments when you kick me.”
His slur-laced words compelled Grace’s eyes up. Lowering the book so it rested in her lap, a finger serving as a temporary bookmark, she blinked as guilt stabbed her. These rejections would be much easier if only she didn't care for him. He and his sister were very dear, like the siblings she never had.
Was he intoxicated? She couldn’t imagine he was. Tristan never over-indulged. The man was a walking example of self-possessed, abundant charm. Capable of holding his liquor with admirable skill. How many times had she heard it said?How clever Viscount Longleigh is! Such a charming rogue. So handsome!And he was. A clever, charming, handsome rogue she had no desire to wed. A pity, that. Someday, a lucky woman would gain an absolutely wonderful husband.
Not her, for God’s sake. But somebody.
Grace turned the book over and untied a scrap of black ribbon from her wrist. Gathering her hair into a loose ponytail, her lips pressed thin with growing discomfort. An intoxicated Tristan was an unknown element. It was best she prepare for whatever arose.
One foot on the gravel path, the other planted on the first of the gazebo steps, Tristan faltered. But his face darkened when Grace cautiously flipped the book upright and resumed reading.
“Good God!” Flinging an arm wide, he nearly lost his balance. Embracing a marble pillar steadied him. “Does nothing interest you other than books, horses and that godforsaken heap of stones you call home?”
Grace calmly finished perusing the page until reaching its last word. She recognized his mood. He would needle and prod until she snapped back with a response.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, finding a second bit of ribbon in the pocket of her gown.
Laying it against the seam of the current page, Grace closed the heavy tome with a wistful frown. Her forefinger traced the title’s gilt embossing. Considering the numerous interruptions over the past few days, she doubted finishing the book. Perhaps Lord Calmont might consider its loan.
“I have other interests. And please, do not call Bellmar Abbey godforsaken.”
“What are they? These interests.” Tristan’s tone bordered on petulant. “Tell me. What amuses you? Entrances you? Tell me what you like, and I shall transform myself. It appears the only way I’ll gain your attention. If I thought it mattered, I’d have words tattooed all over my body. Then you could readmelike one of your damned books.”
Grace ignored the scandalous suggestion, but her lips twitched.Croquet.She liked croquet. Envisioning Tristan as a round little ball, she imagined his surprise if she ever whacked him with a wooden mallet.
She swallowed her giggle when he released the column and advanced another riser, hands clenched. These past few nights he’d scowled at any man approaching her, even those merely following a gentleman’s code of polite interest in her wellbeing. During today’s outdoor festivities, he hounded her steps until it was either escape or scream aloud.
Every nuance of Tristan’s body exhibited exasperation as he gazed at her, uncomprehending her lack of enthusiasm for his courtship.
Grace could not understand his fixed interest when she’d never encouraged anything more than an affectionate, platonic relationship. His interest was truly puzzling. Oh, she considered her own features pleasant enough, but she held no illusions that stick-straight blonde hair and direct brown eyes qualified her as an extraordinary beauty capable of ensnaring a man’s devotion. And while it was true she possessed the capability of carrying on an intelligent conversation, many girls managed the same, so she was nothing special.
All talent as a conversationalist aside, others considered her an outsider. A terror on horseback and a bluestocking. A strange girl far more concerned with horses and dusty books than how many suitors trailed in her wake, which until recently consisted solely of Tristan Buchanan, Viscount of Longleigh.
“Let your hair back down,” he muttered, feet shuffling wide in a bolstering of his stance. Another tread conquered, and he stood within the cool shade. “It’s so damned lovely…”
“Tristan, you are not yourself.” Grace rose from the bench, nerves stretched tight, her skin prickling. Tiny beads of sweat marked Tristan’s brow, his eyes bright with glassy sparks. He was definitely foxed.
What should I do? Escape or reason with him?
“We shall discuss this later.”
