What Would a Duke Do? Read online

  Despite her impulsive inclinations, she’d never pretended to be an audacious, adventurous sort. With each passing minute, real concern for Jackson grew. As did the unpleasant realization that she very well may have to spend the night huddled in the coach or trod home in the dark.

  Alone.

  With wild, hungry creatures meandering about.

  Each alternative held as much appeal as kissing Pennington. Kissing Pennington? Good heavens, where did that odious thought come from? Is it truly odious?

  Yes, she very sternly chided her romping imagination. Of course it is. Everything to do with him was disagreeable, the charlatan. Pretending to be her friend and paying her marked attention all the while plotting to steal her home.

  She’d sooner pull every hair from her head than touch her mouth to his.

  Liar, chided an annoying voice in her mind. Thoroughly vexed, she admonished the voice to shut up.

  After giving each gelding a pet on his withers, she adjusted her askew bonnet more firmly upon her head. She retied the ribbons beneath what she considered a too-strong jaw for a female. Grandmama, a twinkle in her eyes, declared it was no such thing. It was merely Gabriella’s tendency to jut her chin out in obstinacy that made her jawline appear prominent.

  Considering her grandmother’s penchant for doing the exact same thing, Gabriella was hard put to argue against her jesting.

  Hands on her hips, a frown turning the corners of her mouth downward, she weighed her options. Stay here or walk home? Could she even manage the unharnessing of the hobbled team and to lead them to Hartfordshire? If so, surely she’d meet Jackson on his return.

  Nevertheless, indecision beleaguered her.

  She’d attend to her personal needs then decide what to do.

  Gingerly picking her way through the sparse underbrush, she at last found a well-concealed spot several yards from the road that promised more privacy. Yes, this would do nicely. Just to be on the safe side, she withdrew her dagger. One never knew what other creatures might seek a drink from the river this evening.

  A short while later, having restored her knife to her boot and just as she lifted her skirts to step over a broad branch, far-off hoofbeats echoed. A relieved smile bent her mouth. Thank the Divine powers. She’d be home in time for dinner, after all, and a good long soak would take the chill from her bones.

  And a toddy. Don’t forget the toddy. Abundantly dosed with whisky.

  Another luxury the Breckensoles rarely indulged in, but one enjoyed by the entire family on occasion.

  A horseman called to the other, and upon hearing his rough Cockney-accented voice, she paused, one foot raised and head canted. These weren’t riders from Hartfordshire Court. Wisdom decreed she remain concealed until she learned exactly who they were. Hopefully, the smooth snake that had slithered across her path a few moments ago hadn’t lingered.

  With stealth and care, Gabriella retreated into the woods until the undergrowth grew denser once more. She crouched behind an ancient oak, her heart banging so fiercely against her breastbone, she feared the men would hear the loud staccato. Settling onto her knees, she flinched as the bruised flesh from being hurled onto the carriage floor objected. Making herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, she silently praised God that her green ensemble camouflaged her to a degree.

  Breath held and squinting slightly, she peeked around the trunk, scrutinizing the travelers.

  Upon spying the crippled coach, the two rough-looking men cantered to a stop. The portly older fellow slouched in his saddle, whilst a younger, thinner version of him considered the vehicle, a sly grin blooming across his grimy, unshaven face.

  The hairs on her arms raised straight up from wrist to shoulder, and she clapped a gloved hand over her mouth to keep from making any noise. Oh, God. Had they arrived a few minutes later, she would’ve already returned to the carriage. From their filthy, scruffy appearances, she’d be bound they weren’t honorable sorts. Vagabonds, most likely.

  “Well, well. Wot ’ave we ’ere, Wills?” Resting an elbow on his thick thigh, the older man leaned forward.

  The younger chap chuckled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “An opportunity, Da.”

  As the men slid from their saddles, Gabriella shrank further to the root-ridden ground and closer to the trunk, scarcely daring to breathe. Fear’s vice-like grip squeezed her lungs and cramped her burning throat.

  Hitching up his baggy trousers, Wills opened the carriage door. He dangled one of Gabriella’s packages in the doorway. “Looky ’ere.”

  Grandmama’s medicine.

  In short order, they tore her parcels open, tossing the chemises and Grandmama’s remedies into the middle of the road. If that weren’t awful enough, Wills stomped on the delicate undergarments before grinding the medicine bottles beneath his heel. The crunch of glass breaking sent a shudder through Gabriella and anger welling behind her ribs. Damned rotter. At least try to sell the items rather than destroy them.

  He tipped the few coins remaining in her reticule into his grimy palm. The dainty bag, crocheted by Grandmama for Gabriella last Christmastide, met the same fate as the chemises. He crowed anew at discovering the pouch of tobacco and promptly stuffed it inside his coat.

  The father held up the blue velvet cloak intended for Ophelia. “Wouldn’t Miss Minnie like to prance ’round in dis?” He gave his son a lewd wink and minced around, swinging his large bum and the garment back and forth. “I’m bettin’ she’d show ’er appreciation fer somfin’ dis fancy.” He grabbed his groin, imitating a vulgar movement.

  “Do ye s’ppose she let me ’ave one of ’er fancier whores?” Wills bobbed his head and licked his lips. “One o’ ’em gels tha’ smell an’ dresses pretty? And ’av nice teeth an’ skin?”

  “Not unless they’ve taken t’ swivin’ wif swine.” His father hooted as he draped the cloak over his saddle. “Ye smell like a pig, son, an’ rut like one too.”

  Sweat trickled a sticky path down her spine, and Gabriella swallowed against the burning nausea throttling up her throat. It was a good thing she hadn’t eaten a midday meal, for it might very well have made a violent, noisy reappearance.

  The frightened team neighed and pranced nervously, but Wills grabbed their harnesses, and cut the grays free.

  They meant to steal Admiral and General. God curse them. Fiends. Devil’s spawns.

  Gabriella’s stomach churned anew, and hot tears leaked from her eyes. Grandpapa had only purchased the pair last year, after waiting a lifetime to splurge on one of the few things he had ever wanted.

  With gloating sneers curling their mouths, they mounted their horses and galloped away.

  Wills’s voice carried back to her. “I ’opes we come ’pon t’ wench an’ she’s young. I ’aven’t ’ad a good …”

  Gabriella remained squatted in place for several long blinks. Her breathing ragged and uneven, she sluggishly stood upright using the coarse trunk to steady herself. If she hadn’t sought privacy in the shrubberies, hadn’t needed to relieve herself, she’d have been inside the carriage.

  Wills would’ve…

  Oh, God.

  Another flash of icy-cold terror rippled over her.

  No help for it now, she’d have to walk home and pray no more strangers ventured down the remote lane. Or that those two blackguards returned this way. She’d nearly reached the road when the unmistakable sound of another rider approaching met her ears.

  Those hoofbeats also came from the direction of Colechester.

  It had been months since she encountered another person on this isolated road, and today within minutes, she’d done so twice? Well, she hadn’t actually encountered them because she concealed herself in the woods, but that was beside the point.

  Retreating into the deepening shadows once more, she awaited the horseman’s approach with bated breath. Friend or foe? A means of sending word to home or another villain to avoid?

  As had the other riders, the man—a gentleman from his e
xpensively tailored attire—slowed his horse, and a low whistle preceded his, “Holy hell.” Another muffled half-curse, half surprised exclamation escaped him as he stood in his stirrups surveying the conveyance. “What the blazes?”

  Gabriella slid her eyelids shut and gave a short shake of her head. No. No. It cannot be. Please, don’t let it be. Anyone…anyone, dear God…but him.

  The Duke of Pennington was good and truly the last person she wanted to see right at this moment. Covered in dirt and leaves, tears dried upon her cheeks, and frightened half out of her mind she didn’t have the strength to match wits with him. Not now. Not when her reserves were spent.

  She raked her disbelieving gaze over his polished Hessians to track up his biscuit-colored buckskins stretched over muscled calves and thighs. He sat regal and self-confident. A man sure of himself and his position. She ventured higher still, past his buff-toned coat and brown leather-gloved hands gripping the reins, to his familiar granite jaw, the slashing blade of his nose, and his mismatched green and blue eyes beneath severe midnight eyebrows.

  Blast, astride his mount he presented a fine figure of a man, her artist’s discernment reluctantly conceded. How difficult would it be to capture the two distinct shades of his eyes on paper?

  Just then, she swore he looked straight at her, directly through the greenery and the dusky twilight. Right into her eyes, as if he knew exactly where she stood, frozen in disbelief. A disconcerting jolt zipped to her stomach.

  Dash it to ribbons.

  Dash it to ribbons?

  No, that didn’t begin to describe her frustration. She blew a puff of air out her nose in a silent snort. Why did he of all people have to come along? After she’d pointedly told him to leave her alone.

  The duke scrutinized the coach, then slowly, methodically inspected the surrounding area before his gaze came to rest on her hiding place once more.

  He knows. He knew she hid here.

  How?

  That slow, lazy smile that so annoyed her she yearned to slap it from his handsome face, hitched his well-formed mouth skyward at the corners. He sank back into his saddle, casually looping his reins around one hand.

  “Miss Breckensole, it’s safe to come out now.”

  “Merde.” Maxwell swore beneath his breath, examining the disabled coach once more. What the hell happened here? Obviously, the axel had snapped and the back wheel shattered, but why were these belongings strewn about? Another systematic sweep down the length of the road confirmed neither the coachman nor the team were anywhere to be seen.

  Yet Gabriella was.

  Had she opted to stay behind rather than ride one of the horses bareback to Hartsfordshire Court? Her driver ought to be sacked for leaving her here. What could the man have been thinking? No doubt, she had something to do with his absence, stubborn chit.

  From beneath his eyelashes, he sliced a covert glance to the shadowy woods. Just there, hovering half-concealed by that large tree, she still refused to come out of the forest. If she’d witnessed this destruction—and she most probably had—terror undoubtedly rendered her immobile.

  If it hadn’t been for her faint, involuntary gasp when he’d first reined Balor to a stop, he’d not have spied her either. All too familiar frustration and ire stiffened Max’s shoulder muscles when he thought of Breckensole residing in the home that had once been in his paternal grandmother’s family.

  Not now. Soon, but not now.

  Despite the sobriety of the moment, his lips twitched upward. She’d been outraged that he’d dared to ask her to go riding. He’d truly wanted her to accompany him on an outing, because despite everything, he liked her. Liked her very much, indeed. For months now, she’d fascinated him. Even before he’d learned of her grandfather’s perfidy.

  He could almost visualize the proper, but unpredictable, Gabriella Breckensole astride a horse in that green and black confection she’d been wearing in Colechester this afternoon. The image of her shapely legs exposed from ankle to thigh, hugging the horse’s sides, created an unexpected but powerful sensual reaction. A response he’d have contemplated further if it weren’t so bloody cold and darkness was quickly descending. Not that he was feeling particularly chilled. No, in fact inferior brandy yet warmed his gut.

  However, if after her characteristically icy reception in Colechester, he hadn’t indulged in two glasses at The Pony and Pint rather than his usual one, he’d have come upon the disabled vehicle sooner. And he might’ve been able to prevent this.

  God’s teeth. What if he’d gone beyond his usual restraints and quaffed the third brandy to help buffer the sharp abrasion of her scorn? Who knows what would’ve happened to her? As it was, even if he immediately took her before him on the saddle, they’d not make the house before night’s mantle shrouded them.

  What a remarkable idea, holding Gabriella Breckensole before him, his arms wrapped around her lush form, her rounded bum pressed into his thighs… Egads, enough. She’s likely frightened mute, and I’m indulging in lurid imaginations. Besides, he did have a degree of pride. She’d all but snubbed him in Colechester and demanded he leave her alone. He couldn’t though.

  A slight movement caught his attention again. Nothing about her rigid, untrusting demeanor suggested she meant to join him on the road any time soon. Did she intend to continue lurking in the trees? All night? Was her loathing of him such she’d risk her safety or health by refusing to leave the concealment?

  That knowledge grated, bitter and raw. When had she come to hate him? And more on point, why? He’d asked the question innumerable times. He did not, however, ask himself why he kept asking himself that question.

  One hand braced on his hip, he swiped the back of the other across his forehead. By God, if the people who’d done this had known she was there… A vicious band tightened about his middle, stalling his breath for a long, gut-wrenching moment. He clenched his jaw against a wave of rage so powerful, the surge caused him pause.

  They’d have set upon her. Harmed her. Or worse, damn the bloody bastards. Another swell of fury pelted his ribs. Was Gabriella injured? Blast him for a fool for not considering that straightaway. No woman should be subjected to something of this nature. It was ingrained in him to help, even if she didn’t want his assistance. He’d do the same for anyone.

  “Miss Breckensole?” When she remained silent, tension spiraled up his spine. The air left his lungs in a whoosh.

  Christ above. Had she been…?

  His eyelids flitted shut for an agonizing blink, and he set his jaw against the godawful thought he ought to have instantly considered. Mindful to keep the alarm from reaching his voice, he gently put forward, “Gabriella, are you…unharmed?”

  Was there any other way to tactfully ask if she’d been set upon? Despoiled? Violated?

  Only a sleepy bird’s call punctuated the discomfiting silence.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” Her answer came as a faint whisper, so soft, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her, yet she didn’t move from the security of the woods.

  Examining the horizon, he heaved a sigh then swung a leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground. “Do you intend to remain in the forest the entire night? There may well be all sorts of wild creatures—bears, wolves, badgers, lynx, and wolverines—hereabouts.”

  Perhaps not precisely here, but surely somewhere in the whole of England, hungry beasts roamed about stalking their next meal.

  “Go bugger yourself, you pompous twit.” Distinct vexation riddled the vixen’s mutinous response.

  He’d vow, she didn’t think he’d heard her inappropriate comment.

  Regardless of the seriousness of the situation, an unfettered chuckle escaped him. Damn, but he admired the minx’s spirit. In fact, in his seven and twenty years, he’d never met a more extraordinary, frustrating woman. After tying Balor’s reins to a nearby branch, Max shook his head in resignation, and with long strides, made directly for her.

  Her harsh intake of breath earned her another derisive chuckle. />
  “Yes, I see you. You’re most lucky the miscreants who destroyed your possessions did not.” He jabbed a thumb in the sagging vehicle’s direction. “I cannot leave you skulking in the greeneries, Miss Breckensole. Nightfall is nearly upon us, and though I confess, I cannot imagine why you are here and neither your coachman nor your team are present, a duke would never desert a lady in need.”

  “And of course, you always do what a duke would do, don’t you?” she put forward, rapier sharp sarcasm dripping from each word.

  Her accusation stung. As much from the utter contempt she hurled toward him as his lack of understanding why she felt such hostility. He bent into an exaggerated bow, made even more awkward given he straddled a log. Doffing his hat, he only just managing to keep from toppling face first into the dirt.

  “Always, my dearest Miss Breckensole. Always.”

  Always, at least, when it came to her, damn his eyes. Which made the incredulous task he’d set himself equally pleasurable and disagreeable.

  A theatrical sigh, followed by what most assuredly was another mumbled curse met his poetic declaration, and as he reached the road’s edge, she emerged from her hiding place. Wariness lingered in the gaze she settled upon him. In the vanishing light, her hazel eyes appeared deep green, either a reflection from her gown or her verdant surroundings,

  “Now, pray tell me,” Max pointedly kept his tone light but empathetic as he gestured casually. “How, might I ask, came you to be here alone?”

  “I am here, Your Grace, because as you can clearly see, my coach has a broken wheel and my driver, Jackson, went for help.” She flung a gloved hand, the palm dirt-smeared, toward the abused vehicle.

  Your coach has a great deal more wrong with it than a broken wheel. Rather than state the obvious, he asked, “How long have you been stranded?”

  Frowning down at the timepiece pinned to her spencer, she crinkled her nose adorably.

  Were those new freckles atop the bridge? He hadn’t noticed them earlier today.