My Darling Duke

“We need to get him out of the rain,” he said, dipping and then hoisting the old man over his shoulder.

Kitty hurried after him as they made their way toward the dense section of the woods, away from the shattered makeshift bridge and the swollen waters. As they entered the tree line, a few large oaks provided some relief from the rain. The alcove was thick with sheltering trees, the scent of oak moss and pine redolent in the air. The grass was verdant and soft, and the duke lowered himself to his knees, slinging the coachman to the forest floor. The duke remained on his knees and pressed an ear to the coachman’s chest.

The duke pushed himself up and glanced at her. His eyes were ravaged with pain and grief. “One foolish decision and now a good man has died.”

Shock tore through her. “He’s dead?”

The duke lowered himself again, pressing his ear close to the man’s chest and then his mouth. With a grimace, he straightened. “I cannot hear his heartbeat or feel the heat of his breath. I fear he is truly dead.”

For a moment the two stared at each other without further sound or movement.

Kitty looked at the duke in ill-concealed fright. “Surely it cannot be so. How dreadful!”

Her heart ached at the naked agony in Thornton’s gaze. “He has a wife…children and grandchildren.”

“I…” Her throat went tight at the senseless loss. “I’m so sorry.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Why did I risk going over the bridge?”

The hollowness in his voice tore at Kitty. Uncaring that the muddied ground would damage what was left of her dress, she lowered herself to her knees and touched his shoulder in gentle support.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Your Grace.” It had all been so sudden and violent. She couldn’t believe the grumpy coachman who had seemed overly familiar with the duke could have just died so. “I am so sorry,” she whispered again.

“God damn you,” the duke roared, slapping the man’s chest.

The sacrilege, beating a dead man’s chest. He repeated the motion, this time his sound of fury and denial muted. Just as she was about to order him to stop, one of the man’s fingers twitched. She screamed and then slapped a hand over her mouth.

“What is it?” the duke demanded, his eyes scanning behind her, sharp and calculating.

“I…I thought he moved.” Every foolish gothic book she’d ever read in the late evening blared through her mind. It did not help that the sky had the ominous darkness of a fiercely brewing storm or that the wooded glen was so empty.

His eyes cut to the man on the ground, and he bent over, pressing his ear to the man’s chest for several seconds. The duke’s eyes closed, regret lining his handsome features. “He did not; he’s dead,” he said flatly. Yet his eyes spoke of pain and grief.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he said, bowing his head as if in prayer.

Several moments passed in taut silence. Kitty had no notion of how to comfort him. “Your Grace, I believe we should—”

A groan came from the body on the ground, and he twitched. Kitty gasped, grabbed onto the duke’s shoulder, and tried to haul herself up. She tumbled into the mud and rolled down the gentle slope. Somehow, she came to a sprawling stop on her back. She hurriedly turned over, still sliding in the muddy grass, pushed herself up, and stared at the body. “Did you see that he moved?” she yelled.

The duke’s face was a mask of astonishment as he stared at her, then back at his coachman. The man jerked and then turned over to his side, coughing up mouthfuls of water. When he was done, he sat up, his bleary gaze scanning the woods, a fierce scowl on his weathered face. The man who’d presumed to be dead was muttering under his breath, rubbing at his chest as if the spot was sore, and glaring at the duke.

“Ye had to thump so hard, Yer Grace?”

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “I’m glad you’re well, George.”

The duke glanced back at her. His lips parted, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dratted man started to laugh. Rolling belly laughter that sounded like thunder itself, and at the heart of it, she heard the relief. “Did…did you perchance think George was the living dead, Miss Danvers?”

Kitty scowled, humiliation heating the tips of her ears. She was vexed to feel herself coloring. She had reacted like a silly, hysterical miss. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she finally burst out. “I do not believe it is humor that is required in this situation, Your Grace!”

There was an amused expression in his eyes as he said, with perfect gravity, “Miss Danvers, how you’ve brightened my day. I shall not forget today anytime soon.”

Pulling her tattered

dignity around her, she struggled to her feet. Tendrils of hair clung damply across her forehead. Mud slurped at her half boots, and her hem was muck-encrusted. Kitty had never felt more bedraggled, while the duke was still flat on his arse in the mud, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

After a few moments of rest and recovery, the coachman pushed to his feet and glanced from the duke to her. Then he, too, grinned, and Kitty scowled.