Miss Dane and the Duke

Donna thrived amid the chaos. She was in her element supervising the polishing of panelling and staircases and was all for redecorating the entire house from attics to cellars.

‘Donna, the bank loan is not bottomless,’ Antonia cautioned. ‘And I intend spending some of it reroofing the tenants’ cottages – they’re in a scandalous state. If all is sound and clean, but plain, then the new tenant will be able to put his own stamp upon the decorations. I have had a most encouraging response from a Mr Blake, the agent for the gentleman who advertised in The Times. I will suggest he comes down to see the house and, if he’s interested, we can discuss such details then.’

Lying in bed that night, kept awake both by the smell of fresh paint and the moonlight flooding in through the window, Antonia stretched luxuriously in the half-tester bed. They no longer had to share a room and Antonia now occupied one of the chambers at the side of the house overlooking the pleasure grounds. Restless, she got out of bed and crossed to the window, admiring the greensward, newly scythed by Old Johnson after much grumbling.

The moonlight was almost as bright as day and even reflected off the river, a curve of which cut across the grounds. It was calm, still and almost unseasonably warm for April and Antonia felt no desire to go back to bed. Her days were very full, but at night, unless she managed to fall asleep at once, her mind kept turning to thoughts of her provoking neighbour.

She managed to curb unruly memories of being in his arms, of the touch of his lips on hers, but when she closed her eyes she saw his face as clearly as if he were standing before her. It seemed more than just a few weeks since she had last seen him.

She gave herself a brisk mental shake. This would not do. The more she thought about him, the worse it became. If she could not sleep she should do something useful, or even go for a walk. The light was good enough for a stroll around the lawns, or perhaps to venture as far as the river.

Something her brother Howard had told her years ago when she was still living at Rye End Hall and he was just a schoolboy came back to her. It was better to fish at night, he had declared, for then the fish rose more easily to the lure.

It was a mad idea, but why not try a cast tonight? It seemed a very simple business when she saw other people do it and she knew where the rods and lines were. How surprised Donna would be to find a nice fat perch on her plate for breakfast.

Antonia dressed hastily in a plain gown and pulled on a stout pair of shoes, then tiptoed downstairs before reason could reassert itself and send her back to her bed. The rods were in the store-room where she had last seen them. She pulled them out and found they were all different, which was confusing.

Antonia tried a couple for weight, then selected the smallest before remembering she would need bait. In the pantry, she cut rind from the bacon, lit a horn lantern, then, feeling quite an old hand at the sport, crept out and across the lawns.

The night was almost completely still. There was no wind and, other than a faint rustling as a night creature slipped through the grass, no sound. Antonia found a patch of dry gravel to stand on, set down her lantern and attempted to bait the hook. This proved more difficult than she expected, the hook was sharp and the bacon slippery. Eventually, she succeeded and, throwing her arm right back, cast the line over the water. Nothing happened. Antonia peered at the rod in the lamplight and fiddled with the reel until it was running smoothly, then tried again. This time the bacon shot right across the river and snagged on the rushes on the opposite bank.

After several attempts, Antonia’s arm was aching and she was realising that there was more to fishing than met the eye. ‘One more try,’ she muttered. To her great surprise, the line landed in the middle of the river with a satisfying plop.

Despite this triumph it was soon clear that fishing was a less stimulating activity than she had been led to believe. The silence stretched on, broken only by an owl hooting as it drifted over the meadow. The line hung in the scarcely moving water and Antonia stifled a yawn.

She was just wondering idly what time it was and when the fish were going to start jumping when the rod in her hand gave a jerk and the line began to run out. She had caught something! Antonia grasped the handle of the rod firmly and began to reel in the line until the squirming silvery fish was clear of the water. She landed it clumsily on the grass, dropped the rod, then realised she had no idea how to proceed now.

She pounced on her catch, grabbed at it with both hands, alarmed to discover just how slippery and muscular a live fish was. She turned and twisted as it leapt in her hands then found herself thoroughly entangled in her own line as it wrapped around her ankles.

‘Oh, keep still,’ she pleaded with the fish, but it did not oblige, lashing its tail to cover the front of her dress in water and scales.

‘I should have known it would be you.’ A voice half-weary, half-amused, sounded almost in her ear.

Antonia shrieked in alarm. As her hand jerked, it freed the hook from the perch, which leapt from her grip into the river. Antonia spun round to face Marcus Renshaw. Of course. He was quite at ease, leaning against the trunk of a willow that bent over the water.

‘Is there no end to your talents, Miss Dane?’ he enquired, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.

‘Do not dare laugh at me,’ she stormed. ‘You scared me half to death and you made me drop my fish.’

‘A very respectable perch by the look of it. A shame you let it slip through your fingers.’ The angrier she became, the more amused Marcus appeared.

‘I let it? lf you had not crept up behind me like some thief in the night…’ She took a hasty step forward the better to berate him and felt the fine line wrap itself more firmly round her ankles. ‘Oh, bother this line, it has a life of its own.’ She clawed at it, making it tighter and more knotted in the process.

‘Stand still and I will untangle you.’ Marcus sauntered over and dropped to one knee beside her. Antonia stood looking down on his bent head, telling herself that of course he must touch her ankles. She shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do with her hands, and he admonished sharply, ‘If you wriggle you will make it worse. Come, this is no time for maidenly modesty, Miss Dane – do you want to be here until dawn?’

‘Well, hurry up then,’ she snapped, glad that at least the moonlight would leach the colour from her flushed cheeks. ‘Can you not cut it?’

‘Cut a line?’ He sat back on his heels and looked up at her, his eyes glinting in the subdued light. ‘Really, Antonia, I can see you are no true angler. lf you had not dropped the hook in the folds of your gown I could be quicker, but I have no intention of running its barbs into my thumb.’

‘Well, do your best.’ She subsided, quivering with a mixture of emotions ranging from indignation and embarrassment to a strange excitement and a terrible compulsion to let her hands run through the thick hair on the bowed head before her.

Chapter Eight

It seemed forever before Marcus rose to his feet, the hook held securely between finger and thumb, the line trailing free on the grass. ‘There you are, now you can begin again. Where is your bait?’

‘Over there, but I think I have fished enough for one night.’

‘Bacon?’ He peered into the dish. ‘What were you intending to catch with that, for goodness’ sake?’ The amusement was back in his voice.