Miss Dane and the Duke

Antonia stood, inwardly shuddering with mortification, forcing herself not to struggle and thus appear even more undignified and unladylike than she already must. After all, when in the presence of this gentleman, she could explain the circumstances of this unfortunate incident. And what was more, she fumed, she expected an apology for the behaviour of his keepers for their overzealousness in straying onto her land and their insulting familiarity with her person. That was better. Anger and indignation would stop her drooping with embarrassment.

When the butler finally reappeared to usher them in she straightened her back, raised her chin and stalked in with as much hauteur as she could manage in the circumstances.

She found herself in a study. The magistrate into whose presence she had been hauled was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk, his fingers drumming impatiently on the leather surface beside a pile of papers which had been pushed to one side.

Oh, no. Antonia stared in horrified recognition at the man she had seen only hours before. The Duke of Allington returned her stare without the slightest sign he had ever set eyes on her before.

‘Well done, Sparrow. You have enlivened what was proving to be a thoroughly dull day. I was hoping for a diversion from this tedious correspondence.’ His long fingers flicked the pile of papers dismissively. ‘A female poacher is more than I could have looked for. Thank you, you and Carling may go.’

‘What, and just leave her, Your Grace?’

‘I hardly feel she is likely to prove more than I can handle; or do you think she has a dangerous weapon concealed somewhere?’ The dark eyes were warm as he surveyed the clinging, bedraggled gown. Antonia had the sinking feeling that its dampness was doing nothing to hide her figure beneath. She felt herself blush, but she gritted her teeth, determined not to bandy words with him in front of the keepers.

With barely concealed reluctance the two men shuffled out, closing the door behind them. Antonia put up a hand to push the hair off her face and realised she had succeeded in spreading dirt, and what felt horribly like pheasant’s blood, all over her forehead.

Allington got up and came round the desk to look at her more closely. ‘You are certainly a novelty, my dear, and a considerable improvement on the usual crew who plunder my birds. At least, if you were cleaned up, you might be.’ He continued to stroll round her.

Antonia wondered just how foolhardy it would be to slap his face.

‘Now, what shall we do with you, I wonder?’ He came back round to face her and leaned against the desk. ‘I suppose you realise I could sentence you to hard labour for this? Your fingers would not be so nimble at setting snares after that.’

He lifted Antonia’s right hand, turning it over caressingly between strong fingers whilst holding her furious gaze with his eyes. Even in the midst of her anger, she saw the sudden surprise as his touch registered the soft skin where he must have expected work-hardened roughness.

Seizing her advantage, Antonia snatched her hand away and, in a swirl of muddy skirts, put a heavy chair between herself and the Duke.

‘You are no village girl, not with hands like that,’ he said slowly. ‘So who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my birds?’ he demanded, voice suddenly hard.

‘A lady, sir, and one who does not relish being manhandled by either you or your men.’ She spoke as she would to some buck who had behaved badly at a ball.

She saw the doubt strike him, then he rallied. ‘Damn it, woman

, do you expect me to believe that? Look at yourself.’ His scornful stare swept from the top of her disordered hair to her boots emerging from beneath her muddy hem.

‘Kindly mind your language, Your Grace,’ Antonia said, sinking on to the chair with as much grace as if she were at Almack’s, and not in danger of having her knees give way beneath her.

Marcus Renshaw sketched her an ironic bow. ‘My humble apologies, madam. I should have realised, from the moment I set eyes upon you, that I was dealing with a member of the Quality.’

Antonia looked down at herself, furious that she could feel the colour in her cheeks. Mud-caked walking boots were all too obvious below a torn and besmirched hemline. Her old and faded gown was ripped, there were bloodstains where the birds had touched the skirts and her elbow protruded through the hopelessly threadbare sleeve. Without her bonnet, her dark brown curls, always hard to manage, now cascaded about her shoulders and she could feel her face was filthy.

She glared at him, resenting his easy elegance. The Duke’s broad shoulders and long, muscular legs were set off to perfection by riding clothes… Antonia recollected herself, annoyed at the spark of attraction she had felt for an instant.

‘If I present a disordered appearance, it is no wonder,’ she retorted. ‘Having been set upon, dragged through the mire and brambles, I am amazed I do not look worse, And,’ she pursued, before he had a chance to reply, ‘All I was doing was walking in the woods.’

‘Trespassing on my land, in possession of my game’ His voice was flat, his face hard. ‘I expect my keepers to earn their wages. Madam,’ he added sarcastically.

‘Your land? I hardly think so, Your Grace. Those woods are Rye End Hall property.’

‘Not for these past five years.’ He regarded her with sudden interest. ‘What do you know of Rye End Hall?’

‘I own it,’ Antonia informed him coldly. With an effort she hid her dismay at the discovery that her father had sold off land. How much more had gone without her knowing? It had never occurred to her to check through all the deeds, only to look at the estate maps when the solicitor had handed them back to her. If woods so close to the house had been sold, what else might have gone?

‘You appear surprised, madam?’ It was a question, but his voice held more sympathy than previously. ‘Surely you have not been sold short in your purchase of Rye End Hall?’

‘I have not purchased it, Your Grace. I inherited it on the death of my father.’

‘Your father?’ Now he did sound taken aback. ‘You cannot be Sir Humphrey Dane’s daughter.’

‘And why not?’ Antonia’s chin came up defiantly. Whatever her father and her brother had become, the Danes were an old and proud family.