Page 14 of The Duke's Golden Belle
Michael ignored the jibes. “Perfect,” Michael replied. “Whoever it is, they must have a purpose for their being here, and I want to know it. A decent person would not be squatting on the outskirts of my property,” Michael asserted.
“Indeed, Your Grace. Dusk would give us a couple more hours before dinner, so no one would know we are gone,” Conners suggested. “And with the evening upon them, we might apprehend the identity of the person or persons.”
“I hadn’t considered there could be more than one,” Michael admitted, silently reprimanding himself. He was a fully trained spy and needed to regain his better focus. The engagement that had blindsided him was consuming him, not because he didn’t want it, but because he thought he might. Conners might be a petulant valet, but he trusted the man to have his back.
Three hours later, the two men tied their horses up to a tree at the base of the hill the cottage sat on, and carefully covered the remaining distance on foot. As they approached the cottage, Michael saw the flickering light of a candle and signaled to Conners, who slowed a few steps behind. The cottage’s structure mimicked the estate home with the same grey stone and slated roof. They had constructed it with leftover stone from the most recent renovation in the mid-eighteenth century, under the direction of Michael’s grandfather. Both men moved silently to the window and listened, glad for the quiet of the evening. Michael could hear movement inside. Opting for prudence, he and Conners lifted their heads slightly above the sill of the window.
A tall man stood with his back to them. His stringy blond hair hung limply and framed the ragged collar of his black jacket. But what drew Michael’s attention were the boots he wore. Scarred Hessians with a long, deep groove running down the back left one, precisely as his lost boots had been scarred. “Do you see the boots?” Michael hissed to his companion.
“I do, Your Grace, and not only do I fear we have a thief in our midst, but one lacking in common sense and taste,” Conners murmured. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. But they suit the rest of his attire. Shall we storm the cabin and retrieve them?”
Michael glared at him. “I think not,” he hissed. “I am not convinced he is alone.” He wanted to know more about this man. And he wanted his boots. They were broken in and fit perfectly. And this . . . thief was wearing them. There had to be an explanation. He thought back to the day he fished a boot from the river.I wonder. “I want you to have Oliver watch the cottage and report his actions to me.”
“Do you plan to allow him to stay?” the valet teased.
“Conners, you test my patience beyond reason.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Michael peered into the window once more. He stared at the man, noting he had a beard as he tried to commit his appearance to memory. The dim light of the candle and the waning light of the moon illuminated the man’s profile and nothing else—except his boots—his well-worn, comfortable boots. Michael eased back from the window and sighed. “Let’s go back. I’ve seen enough for tonight.”
The two men rode back to the manor house in contemplative silence, and in time to remedy their hunger.
* * *
Isabelle stared into the flames of the fireplace, curled up in the small Louis XVI-style floral damask sofa in front of her fireplace. The small area had always served as her small refuge, a place to read books, think, or even dream. She heard a slight scratch at the door and turned to see Beatrice enter with a tray of tea. The maid placed the tray on the side table flanking the small settee in front of the fireplace. “The house seems chillier today, so I brought you some hot tea, my lady.”
“Thank you, Beatrice. I think I’ll have dinner in my room tonight. I don’t feel quite myself and would relish a little extra rest before tomorrow.” Isabelle’s stomach had been a roil of nerves in anticipation of tomorrow’s outing with Michael. With no idea of what to expect, she focused on what she knew and liked. And she found she liked his kisses . . . a lot. And she wanted more.
“Yes, my lady. I will speak with Cook and have your dinner delivered on a tray. Would you care for dessert?”
“I heard Cook was making my favorite lemon bars, so yes, please,” Isabelle returned, staring at the fire. Tomorrow she would go to town with Michael, her betrothed, and shop.What was she thinking? Shopping together in front of the town?This was only going to lead her down the aisle. She didn’t need kisses and didn’t need to be a duchess.But she wanted kisses. His kisses.
But his kisses came with everything else—the people, the noise, the fear, and everything she didn’t want. Ever since she was a child, she had preferred solitary activities to ones with lots of people. When she saw Michael, much of her resolve vanished, traded for an aura of safety that his smile seemed to promise her.Could he promise such a thing?
Exhausted from the mental gymnastics she was putting herself through, Isabelle tucked her toes beneath her robe, grabbed the book laying on the sofa, and sipped her tea.
ChapterEight
The next day
A beautiful sunrise greeted Isabelle the next morning, making her grateful she had forgotten to close her curtains. When she had retired to bed last night, she had pulled the drapes open and lay there mesmerized by the brilliance of the full moon and the carpet of stars across the sky. She had no idea how long it had taken her to fall asleep, but she felt fully rested and restored mentally. A small fire burned in the fireplace— proof Beatrice had visited previously. Chase lifted one eye and, spying Isabelle awake, scooted to her face for his morning kiss.
“It’s a great day when your sweet little face is the first thing I see in the morning, Chase.” She gave him a quick kiss on the nose. “I have plans with the duke, but today, you will stay home and be a good boy. I do not know all the mischief you got into the other day, but I feel lucky you weren’t injured or lost.”
He gave a soft whimper of protest.
“No, sweet boy. You will stay home.” She gave him another quick kiss and opened her covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and stepping into the slippers. “Let’s get up and surprise Beatrice.”
As she stood, Chase walked to her pillow and pawed quickly at his favorite spot, as if softening it further, before settling down and closing his eyes.
“Beatrice laid out my burgundy, but I rather think the navy blue might be warmer and more comfortable,” she said, withdrawing the garment from the wardrobe before performing her ablutions. “I’m going shopping today,” she said.
The door opened, and Beatrice stepped inside carrying her morning chocolate and biscuit. “How did you sleep, my lady? Do you feel better this morning?”
“I think last evening’s malaise was nerves, Beatrice. I am in an unchartered territory with the duke and my reactions seem more emotional than they were with his older brother, Daniel.”
“If you will forgive me for my impertinence, my lady, compared to the previous duke, God rest his soul, this man is like night and day. Despite the surprise, this betrothal must have been, he seems to care about you and your feelings,” the maid said, gently working around Chase and his pillow to make the bed.
