Taming The Duke
There was comfort in her touch… A kind of healing that brought peace and stirrings of love where Dalton Warfield never expected to find them – within himself! But could he truly surrender to the graciousness that was Alicia Spencer – when he was the Duke of Wexton and she outcast by the Ton?Alicia Spencer’s first foray into Society had brought about her reputation’s ruin – all through the scheming of one dowager duchess. Now her healing talents with horses had bound her to a passionate bargain with her enemy’s son – Dalton Warfield, a man who’d courted her gift yet captured her heart…!
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‘You’re staring at me.’
She bit her bottom lip as she studied him with an innocence that nearly undid him. What the hell was the matter with him?
Maybe his strange feelings were the result of learning how another human being with nothing to gain sacrificed something for him….
Suddenly Bashshar whinnied, tossing his head, his ears back. Dalton leaped forward, grabbing the stallion’s bridle, holding the horse firmly. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you return to your cottage.’
‘Bashshar has a right to express himself when he wants,’ she whispered.
‘Bashshar is injured and not responsible for what he’s doing. Besides, he obeys only me.’
Alicia pulled the shawl tightly around herself and lifted her chin in that stubborn way Dalton was beginning to recognise. ‘Then give Bashshar the orders, not me. For I don’t obey you, your grace.’
This book is dedicated to Ellyn Manning Smith.
What a joy you are, my darling daughter. Your dad and I are truly blessed.
Special thanks to my critique group, especially to my
writer pals, Linda Lee Duffy, Maureen Greene and Kathy Stowers. I’m doubly blessed to have such good friends and expert critique partners. Love you, guys.
Chapter One
Marston Heath, England, 1811
“Lady Alicia! Come quickly!”
From the cool shelter of the herb garden, Alicia heard her maid’s summons and jumped to her feet. Clasping a basket of freshly gathered cross-wort blossoms, Alicia called, “Hortense, whatever is the matter…?” Her words faded when the servant bolted toward her, Hortense’s long legs windmilling beneath her black skirts.
Alicia rushed in her direction, dropping the basket. “Hortense, what has happened?”
“It’s your father, my lady.” The lanky woman paused to gasp for air. “His lordship has just arrived and is—” she gulped a deep breath “—awaiting you in his study.”
“My father?” A feeling of foreboding crept over Alicia. He wasn’t due home for three more days—not until after the horse auction. “Does he appear…unwell?” she asked delicately, aware of her father’s weakness for drink.
Hortense caught her breath. “I’m not sure, milady. I’ve never seen the master in quite such a state.” She fanned her flushed face with her apron skirt.
“Sit and rest on the garden bench, Hortense, while I tend to this.” Alicia jumped over a clump of sweet basil and broke into an unladylike run along the garden path. If only she had accompanied her father to London. She should have known better than to rely on him for such an important errand.
By the time she reached the manor house steps, she was out of breath. Minutes later, Alicia tapped on the heavy door to the study. “Father, it’s me.” Her calm voice concealed the nervousness she felt.
A brief silence followed, then she heard her father’s heavy footsteps creak the oak floorboards. The bolt clicked inside the lock, and the door opened. Alicia slipped inside and faced him.
When sober, her father prided himself on his immaculate attire. Now, he wore his dusty traveling cape. His white cravat was smudged and undone, his periwig tilted askew atop his bald head. What intensified Alicia’s worry was the dazzling smile across his unshaven face.
“Father, you look so…unusual. Whatever is the matter?”
“The matter, Daughter?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Hounds of Jericho! Nothing’s the matter, Daughter. In fact, I bring glorious news.”
The smell of whiskey on his breath confirmed her worst suspicions. “Glorious news, Father?”
He moved behind his desk. “Our fortunes have been reversed by a miraculous intervention.”
Alicia eyed him warily. “Oh, Father, you didn’t gamble the money I gave you to bid on the mare, did you?”
Her father chuckled. “You remind me of your mother when you accuse me so.” Pointing to the chair beside his desk, he said, “Take a seat while I tell you of our good fortune.”
Anger and frustration welled inside her. He had promised that this time he could be trusted. She had wanted him to prove his trustworthiness as much as she had wanted Good Times, the magnificent Thoroughbred mare her father was supposed to have bid on at Tattersall’s Auctioneering Yard. The horse possessed the ideal bloodlines for Alicia’s growing racing stock. She braced herself for his excuse. “Very well, Father. Tell me what happened.”
“Your new mare awaits you in the pasture.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “Good Times?”
His smile faded for a moment, then reappeared as brightly as before. “Er…nay, not Good Times. But Cinnamon Rose is a mare of better lineage and conformation than Good Times will ever be.” He avoided her gaze, edging her fear up a notch.
“But the bidding isn’t due to begin at Tatter-sall’s until tomorrow,” she said. “Where did you find this horse?”
“I came upon the mare by the grace of good fortune.”
A familiar uneasiness invaded her mind. “I gave you almost two hundred pounds, my year’s savings, to bid on Good Times.” Alicia sat up stiffly and straightened her shoulders. “You gambled my money, then bought some bonesetter of an animal with what was left.” She stood up. “Don’t insult me by lying, Father.” She glanced away, not wanting to repeat this embarrassing scene again. “How could you do this again after promising me—?”
