Nobody’s Lady (Lord Love a Lady #1)

Chapter 1 An Inauspicious Beginning

AN INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNING

Michael Redmond, the eighth Duke of Cortland (with several other titles to boot), tipped his flask upside down and scowled when nothing came out.

The day had begun with so much promise!

En route to London, he and his dedicated man of business, Mr. Martin, had been dozing peacefully.

They’d just finalized the details amassed within the mountain of paperwork they carried with them—hundreds of pages the duke was to present to Parliament in support of his amendment.

They’d spent the entire winter gathering the evidence.

And now it was gone.

As was his carriage. As were his horses, his jacket. And his boots! Hic. A man ought never to be without his favorite boots!

“Damn bloody highway bobbers.” Thick and slow, Michael’s tongue refused to cooperate. “Highway mobbers—rob—bers. Robbers.”

They’d stolen everything. And, Devil take it, Michael had failed to carry his pistols today!

The robbers had dangled from branches hanging over the road, dropped onto the carriage, and without a single shot fired, overpowered his outriders.

What good was an outrider who could be disabled so easily? Michael had been tempted to deliver a tongue-lashing and sack every last one of them on the spot, but in hindsight, foiling such an attack would have been nearly impossible.

In addition to that, Michael was a fair-minded employer.

Arty and…What was the other one called? Cam, that’s right.

Decent fellows, really. If not for Arty, there would have been no whiskey!

In fact, both outriders, as well as his driver, had just so happened to have flasks of spirits hidden in their clothing.

Clever fellows…And Arty had withdrawn not one but two from his breeches. Lucky for him.

Catching up from behind, Arty fell into step beside him.

He must have astutely realized his employer was out of drink for he took the empty flask from Michael’s hand and replaced it with another.

Then, putting a heavy arm around him, he urged them forward.

Hiking for hours now, Michael no longer noticed the mud and sludge oozing between his toes.

He leaned into his servant as they proceeded along the highway.

Stumbling and swaying, they would likely cover the width of the road as well as the length of it, but this was of no consequence Surely, the inn was around the next bend!

“A leg shackle at the end of the season, eh, Your Grace? How about some advice for the wedding night?” Arty slapped Michael on the back in a jovial manner.

He was apparently beyond comprehensible thought at this point.

As was Michael. For under normal circumstances, no servant would have broached such a subject with the duke—ever.

Michael, by necessity and inclination, was a private man.

He never discussed personal matters with anybody, including his fiancée.

What was her name? Oh, yes, Lady Natalie.

All but Martin broke into uproarious laughter.

Of course, as his personal servants, they were well aware he’d not led a celibate life.

Many a night, they’d waited for him down the street from the home of a high-priced courtesan or a beautiful and lonely widow, while he’d found pleasure inside.

They’d known not to gossip about his activities, however, as he demanded discretion from those he employed.

Damned if he would provide fodder for the busybodies of the ton.

But ah, no, his bride need not worry.

Except that…

Michael shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his thoughts. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Oh, yes, upon her acceptance of his proposal.

And he’d danced with her often, as would be expected throughout the upcoming season. At the end of May, they would marry. It would be the wedding of the year. The highlight and grand finale. None of it could be avoided. He’d signed the contracts. He would not disappoint her father.

Surely she wasn’t frigid! He hoped not anyhow. But, a niggling voice reminded him, whenever he was with her, he never felt any…sizzle.

Likely, she was coy, shy—too innocent to know the mechanics of it, even. He’d have to teach her. Hopefully she would be willing.

With Lilly, there had been plenty of sizzle.

Lightning struck nearby, and thunder boomed closely in its wake. A few sprinkles began to fall. Rain? But of course, it would rain! Why ever would it not?

That was what he got for thinking her name. He knew better than to allow his thoughts to drift in that direction. More thunder grumbled in the distance.

Must be the drink. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her for years, nearly a decade in fact. Or so he tried to convince himself.

Michael refused to allow his thoughts to linger on…her.

He was a different man now, betrothed to…whatshername.

Lady Natalie! Yes—everything a duchess ought to be.

Poised, elegant, of noble birth, and beautiful.

She was the daughter of one of the most powerful men in all of England.

But he could not picture her face. Instead he remembered golden eyes.

Oh, hell, now he was becoming maudlin. Tipping back his head, he took another long draw of the whiskey.

Very good stuff, really, quite excellent.

In a deliberate attempt to steer his thoughts away from his upcoming nuptials, Michael broke into verse. Recognizing the old tune, Arty, Cam, and John joined in with ribald enthusiasm.

Oh say, gentle maiden, may I be your lover?

Condemn me no longer to moan and to weep

Struck down like a hawk, I lie wounded and bleeding

Oh, let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep

Enter your keep, nonnie nonnie, enter your keep, nonnie nonnie

Let down your drawbridge, I’ll enter your keep.

Stumbling along as they sang, John broke into a falsetto to sing the maiden’s part. Stepping in front of Michael, he dipped into an exaggerated curtsy.

Alas, gentle errant, I am not a maiden

I’m married to Sir Oswald, that cunning old Celt

He’s gone to war for twelve months or longer

And he’s taken the key to my chastity belt!

They sang the raunchy ditty as the sprinkles turned into large drops, which in turn grew to a torrential deluge.

Warmed from the inside, the men marched onward.

Ducking his head to shield his eyes from water streaming down his face, Michael caught sight of his feet. How very odd! Toes he rarely paid heed now peeked through his torn and bloodied stockings.

“Halt!” he ordered drunkenly, holding out one ducal hand.

His comrades staggered to a stop, and Michael stripped off his stockings.

Gawking at a few gruesome lacerations, he was amazed he hadn’t noticed any pain.

“Damned bloody pansy-ass holes—hose.” The other men’s more serviceable stockings offered their feet far greater protection.

Michael removed his stockings and threw them into the woods.

With a flourish, he then swept his hand forward, indicating they resume where they had left off.

As the miles passed, each took a turn composing his own lyrics while the others sang the nonnie nonnie part repeatedly. And, as men were wont to do whilst drinking and separated from genteel company, they invented lyrics unfit for anyone’s ears but their own.

Their hearty laughter echoed off the trees around them.

Michael hadn’t participated in such uninhibited raucousness in years, and all in all, he found the day to be rather refreshing—except for the losing of his coach and boots and years’ worth of work, that was.

A sign up ahead! Thank God! Michael had never been so happy to come upon an inn as he was in that moment. A petrified-looking wooden sign directed them off the road to a small clearing in the trees and the Forty Winks Inn and Tavern. They had been trudging through the mud for nearly six hours.

Six bloody hours!

Hoping to see his other coaches, the ones which carried his trunks and other servants, Michael peered into a long carriage house that lined the drive.

Only a few smaller buggies, a small cart, and an unfamiliar carriage were parked inside.

Hmm…A rather inauspicious sign. Nothing to worry over, however. Michael was a duke.

Dukes were never turned away.

Donning his noble demeanor, Michael shook off the remaining effects of the liquor, brushed at his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. What the hell? He glanced at his hand in confusion. It had come away with bits of grass and dirt. His valet was going to have conniptions over this.

If he could find him, that was.

Before departing from the Three-Legged Dog Inn earlier that morning, his valet, Duncan, had ascertained Michael was appropriately attired in his necessary ducal finery.

In addition to preparing His Grace’s unmentionables, Duncan had skillfully tied Michael’s ivory linen cravat, carefully brushed the perfectly fitted wool jacket and breeches, and polished Michael’s timeworn favorite hessians to a high shine.

There was an image to be maintained, and Duncan’s reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman was at stake.

Michael didn’t feel very ducal now.

With the arrogance acquired by one in such a position, however, he surmised his very manner, his bearing, would alleviate any doubts as to his identity. He opened the door to the open sitting area, identified the innkeeper behind a wooden bar, and strode forward with his normal self-assurance.

The innkeeper eyed him warily. “What can I be doing for you?” he asked suspiciously.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “I am Cortland.” He barely slurred his words at all.

“The Duke of Cortland. My servants and myself require five rooms. A private suite for myself, of course.” It wasn’t a question, but a command.

Rather, a statement of fact. Martin stood beside him, in pleasant agreement, while John, Arty, and Cam swayed unsteadily near the door.