Chapter One
Rosalind Weaver arrived at the home of the Duke of Fallon with nothing but the clothing on her back and a confident smile on her face. Sheâd practiced the expression during the two-mile walk from the public coach and had even rehearsed what sheâd say to the duke, but nothing could have prepared her for Fallon Hall. Four stories tall and fully as large as three fine houses in London, it grew truly intimidating as she trudged the long gravel drive to the circular area at the end. Even here, her journey hadnât ended. She had a whole flight of stairs to climb to the front door.
As she ascended, the door in question opened, and a servant in livery climbed down to meet her halfway.
âWhat are you thinking, miss?â he said. âA new maid goes around to the back.â
She lifted her chin in the best imitation of hauteur she could manage. âIâm not a maid. Iâm here to see His Grace.â
âYou are?â the man said. âYou came on foot, did you?â
âIâll discuss that with your employer. Now, if you donât mind, would you please tell him Miss Rosalind Weaver is here.â
The man appeared torn. He couldnât risk effrontery with the dukeâs guest, but people of that station never arrived with no carriage and hems covered with dust from the road.
âStay here,â he said finally and went back up the stairs and into the house.
She did as heâd ordered, counting out the minutes in her head. She couldnât go away again. Even if she could find the energy to walk back to the coach road, she hadnât any money for the fare. She would get in the house and through the front door, and she would see the duke.
When sheâd waited more than she could bear, she started upward again. This time, a butler appeared on the threshold. His gaze took her in, showing no more approval than the servant had. Then, his features settled into a neutral expression. âThis way, please.â
Sighing in relief, she followed him into a cavernous entry hall. She kept her gaze focused forward, as if she passed through such splendor every day. She couldnât show the staffâor the duke, himselfâany self-doubt.
The butler led her into a dining room.
âMiss Weaver, Your Grace,â he said softly and then left.
For a moment, she couldnât help but stareâat the huge hearth, the heavy candelabras around the room, the table and, most of all, the man at the other end.
The Duke of Fallon, Richard March by name, stood, setting his napkin to the side of his plate. âWho sent you here, Miss Weaver?â
She dropped a curtsy and then straightened to her full height. âI came on my own.â
âWhy?â
âTo negotiate.â
âI donât believe that you and I have an arrangement in the works,â he said.
âYou do with my father,â she answered. âAn agreement for me to become your wife. Iâve come to close the deal.â
âDo tell. Have a seat.â He pointed toward the chair at the opposite of the table from him. So far away they wouldnât be able to see each other clearly. âTom, set a place for Miss Weaver.â
A footman whoâd been standing in the shadows came forward to pull out her chair. From the sideboard, he produced china and silver and then platters, first of roast beef and then potatoes. The odors wafted into her nostrils, making her stomach cramp with hunger. Still, she forced herself to cut dainty pieces and not shove the food into her mouth.
âHow did you get here?â he asked after a moment.
She glanced up at him. That far away and with the shimmering of the candlelight, his facial features were mostly planes and shadows. Sheâd seen him often enough at home, though, when heâd visited to oversee some of his property. Always tall on his huge chestnut gelding, his skin kissed by the sun, his black hair and eyebrows shaggy. One time, heâd looked at her directly, and the blue of his eyes had made her breath catch. A striking if not a handsome man.
âMiss Weaverâ¦â he prompted.
âIâm sorry.â She took a breath and set her fork and knife aside. âI took the public coach.â
âAnd then, walked here? All alone?â
âIt was the most direct way,â she answered.
âWhen I last saw your father, he kept a carriage,â he said. âHe hasnât gambled everything away yet, has he?â
âNo, sir. Not yet.â
âHe doesnât know youâve come, does he?â
She didnât reply. Heâd hardly see her if she shook her head, so she let silence be her answer.
âYou didnât trust him, so you came on your own,â the duke said.
âAs your wife, Iâll have no secrets from you,â she said. âBut, Iâd rather not tell you now.â