Chapter One
1813, Gloucestershire, England
Earlier this morning, I rode my mare along the stone wall separating my father’s property from the scruffy woods of the Dukedom of Aberfeld. Through the trees in the lush forest on our side, I saw three men working among the dead logs, broken branches, and splintered saplings of the neglected stretch of land across the boundary. In the bright sunshine, a half-naked fellow swung an axe in an overhead assault on a vast toppled trunk, displaying a well-muscled back and strong sinewy arms, shiny with sweat. What the deuce? He was Philip Trent, the new duke himself, hacking away at the edge of the clearing. I watched for a few moments, my senses aroused as never before, my pulse pounding. I hardly believed my eyes as he swung the long handle again and shouted out in victory as a limb fell to the ground. I hastily turned my horse and rode off before the duke looked up and discovered me just yards away on the other side of the stone boundary wall. I was entirely breathless and had to pause and restore my senses. Once I regained my equilibrium, I found my groom Hew, my usual companion on a morning ride. He’d stopped to pry some pebbles from the hoof of his limping mount. When I rejoined him, we headed back home to Bowen Hall.
My thoughts remain a jumble of contrary impressions. My old antagonist is now a duke, brought home to the tumbledown estate his uncle ruined. Everyone in the neighborhood speculates about how the cantankerous old duke’s death will affect the derelict farms he so disastrously neglected for the last decades. What will the new peer, brought home from the British Army in the Iberian Peninsula, do with the dukedom? Since the old duke’s funeral, rumors have spread about the heir. The optimists predict the tenth duke will take up residence and set about restoring the estate. Others expect he will follow in his predecessor’s footsteps and indulge more in gambling than agriculture. Meanwhile, mothers will betray ambitions for Philip as a possible match for their daughters. Oh, yes, I am certain the duchess stakes will soon begin.
I never imagined I would have a physical reaction at seeing him stripped to his britches and boots, looking like the bareknuckle fighters my brother described at boxing contests. I am surprised at my extreme response, relieved no one witnessed my blushes, rapidly heaving breaths, and shivering shoulders. I’ve seen my brothers and Philip swimming in the river nude, but long ago when they were mere boys with childish bodies, not showing the manly ripples of muscles and the power of a robust body. How different Philip looks now.
I’ve known Philip my whole life, though not for the last six years or so. Never could stand the fellow back then, though he often spent time with my brother William. He didn’t like me, either. He was one of those rascals who yanked my braids and tried to substitute salt for sugar in my tea. He especially disliked the way I tried to follow my brother that one summer, the one that ended my attempts to join them swimming in the lake.
I am twenty-two years of age, daughter of Baron William Bowen, christened Margaret, but always called Meg. We live in Gloucestershire on a small holding abutting the Dukedom of Aberfeld. To my father’s distress, the old ninth duke, over ninety, lost most of his fortune through his own negligence. After the death of his second wife, the old duke slid into senility. He was thoroughly fleeced by his steward and agents, as though he had been a ram ready for shearing.
Years before, his heir presumptive, Philip Trent, the duke’s only nephew, often spent summers at Aberfeld in companionship with my brother William. I was excluded from their activities and they were hostile to me. Once when I insisted on a swim in Aberfeld’s lake, they ducked me until I thrashed, practically clogging my lungs with water. When I crawled out of the water with my soaked shift clinging to my ten-year-old body, Philip made fun of me, mocking my flat chest with only two tiny buds instead of puffy nipples and desirable curves. Mortified, I never thought of Philip again with anything but contempt for his cruelty. It still stings.
A month or so ago, the old duke died and Philip, already at twenty-seven years with the rank of colonel, was called home from His Majesty’s Army where he was on the staff of a general who fought under the Marquess of Wellington. Philip arrived back here in Gloucestershire last week to take over his property, or so I heard. The entire neighborhood has been agog with the upheaval and eventual inevitable changes at Aberfeld, offering wildly different opinions on what might become of the new duke. I tried to ignore the conversations, though I admit I am curious.
I wasn’t eager to encounter him until I secretly saw him. He’d been odiously rude and arrogant long ago. Once, he peeled off my French doll’s wig and tossed it in the fountain. No matter how I tried, it never looked decent again. When I rode my beloved donkey, he teased me and called me a scullery maid. Just before his last visit, before the old duke sent him off and ordered him to stay away, Philip had tagged along with William to escort me to a dance party to teach youngsters the steps for familiar figures. I wore a new grown-up gown and my hair was dressed on top of my head. Though I was merely thirteen, I felt as mature as a girl making her come-out in Society until Philip tormented me about my flat chest and awkward posture. “You’ll never cut a pretty figure until you have a bosom,” he’d teased. I was never able to summon a suitably insulting reply to Philip’s jibes. “I’ll bet you think you look pretty,” he’d once remarked, inferring I was anything but. Later, I concocted the perfect retort, but never in time to be effective.
Recalling his forest image brings a delicious shudder running up my spine and I can’t suppress a grin. A magnificent body, sleek and strong. Those officers in the Peninsula must have been boxing and running foot races to pass the time between drilling and fighting. My old adversary, my nemesis, now appears different, desirable. When I spied on him, his bare-chested wet skin moved me in unfamiliar ways. I am practically drooling as if he’s a cream cake I want to devour.