Page 8 of Daisy and the Duke
Her stepsister, Bella, fielded so many suitors during her first two Seasons that she often forgot their names. Daisy (who never officially had a coming-out) had no suitors at all. The servants and tenants and villagers near Rutherford Grange considered Daisy to be some strange creature—not one of them, but also not one of the society they all served.
She recalled a recent letter from her old schoolmistress, Mrs. Bloomfield. Among the news from Wildwood Hall, the lady had also extended an offer. If Daisy wanted a change, she could teach at Wildwood.Your French is excellent and you have always had a quick mind for figures and calculations, she’d noted. Daisy understood that Mrs. Bloomfield was also offering her escape, for there were almost no options for a woman in Daisy’s position.
Teaching at Mrs. Bloomfield’s school held a certain appeal. Daisy had always been happy there as a student, and she might have a chance to meet a man of the emerging middle class who would appreciate Daisy’s accomplishments and not be so concerned about her lack of dowry.
“Lack of mushrooms is all that I should worry about today,” she reminded herself out loud. And dreams of a different future were just dreams. Daisy belonged at Rutherford Grange, and nothing would change that. Ever.
She sang for a little while, a cheerful, lilting tune to restore her spirits. Then she continued to hum as she zigzagged through the patch of woodland, arrowing in on likely places for mushrooms. She took a few here, a few there, careful to always leave a little so that they’d continue to produce. She sang as she went, switching between French and English as the tunes came to her.
Daisy climbed into a little hollow to gather a few more mushrooms, and she was still in it when she heard hoofbeats from beyond. She thought little of it as she emerged. People were always coming and going, and locals knew the best shortcuts through the trees to shave a little time off their errands.
The hoofbeats slowed.
“Excuse me, are you lost?”
Daisy turned around at the question, and then shewaslost, because she saw who asked it.
Before her, mounted on a gorgeous black stallion, was possibly the most intriguing man she’d ever seen. He sat easily in the saddle, looking as if he was born to do so. Daisy noticed that while his hair was rich brown, his eyes were a startlingly pale blue, like that of someone who stared out at too many horizons.
He wore a loose white shirt of fine linen. Perhaps due to the heat of the afternoon, or the exertion of his ride, his shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing an expanse of chest. Daisy had never seen that much male skin before in her life, and rather than modestly avert her eyes, she instead stared like a dolt.
Finally, she dragged her gaze lower, only to realize that the man’s riding pants were fitted to a degree that seemed unattainable for a mere mortal tailor to accomplish, and that the man’s thighs, though covered, were still far too interesting for an unmarried woman to view safely. His riding boots thus became a focal point of last resort, reassuringly workaday and spattered with mud.
Daisy glanced down at her plain wool gown, which was muddy at the hem, and blushed. Her jacket had been reasonably fashionable three years ago, but was no longer. And her hat was nothing more than a straw topper with only a ribbon to secure it. Hardly an outfit to make an impression on a man.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, bringing his horse up a little closer. “But I noticed that you’re out alone, and you’re zigzagging as if you’re not sure of your direction.”
“I’m going to where the mushrooms are,” she explained, holding out the basket.
He leapt down from the horse, taking the leads loosely in one hand. He was at home with the horse, so he must be a groom on one of the nearby estates. He asked, “Was it you singing before?”
“Did I bother you?”
“Not at all. I was just surprised at how…populated these woods are. First the old lady at the cottage, and now you…”
“You met Tabitha! How lucky. Her house is certainly off the track. I can’t tell you how many people around here can’t seem to find it, even when they have perfect directions. Anyone delivering to her usually just brings it out to Rutherford Grange instead. Rutherford Grange is easy to find.”
Just then, the horse stepped forward and stuck its muzzle into the basket.
“Don’t you dare!” Daisy cried, pulling the basket away. “I spent a long time picking those. They’re not for you, handsome as you are.” She lifted one hand to stroke the horse’s powerful, glossy neck.
“His name is Stormer,” the groom said. “Would you like to give him a treat?”
“May I?” she asked, even as she accepted the carrot the groom produced from the leather satchel. She held a hand to the horse’s muzzle and fed him the piece of carrot. The horse ate it happily, and she fancied she could see appreciation in the deep brown eye regarding her.
“Such a magnificent creature,” she breathed.
“One worthy of a duke, so I am told.”
“Oh, it’s the duke’s horse,” Daisy said, enlightened. “You’re so lucky to be able to exercise him!” Now the man’s mix of garb and his casual, confident manner made more sense. If he was in charge of the stables, and had access to the finest animals, it accounted for why he was so comfortable in the saddle.
The man was giving her an odd look, but then he smiled. “Yes, Iamlucky, Miss…”
“Forgive me. I suppose there’s no one to introduce you to me!” Daisy laughed, thinking of the formal education that instructed how a lady must never meet a man without the buffer of a formal introduction, preferably given by a dragon of a grande dame who approved the potential acquaintance. “Mrs. Bloomfield would say that in the light of unexpected circumstances, I must make do. I am Miss Daisy Merriot.”
“Tristan Brooks, at your service.” He offered a little bow from the waist, and a smile that might have been sarcastic. It was hard to tell. The right side of his face was marked by a scar that pulled at his mouth. Nevertheless, his lips seemed designed for smiling, being full and mobile and expressive. She wondered if she could make him laugh, and then she realized that she was staring at him quite shamelessly. Again.
Then he asked, “Who is Mrs. Bloomfield?”
