Kasey Michaels - How to Tempt a Duke

Charlotte rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You really have to stop that, Rafe. It’s both tedious and annoying. Did George or Harold deserve to be born as they were? Is anyone born to what they deserve? It’s how you behave that determines how the world sees you, and how you see yourself. Now turn your hat around a bit. The dent is showing, and lends nothing to your consequence.”

Rafe threw back his head and laughed in real amusement. “You would have made a top-notch master sergeant,” he said, and then dutifully readjusted his hat. “And my boots, master sergeant. Do they pass muster?”

Her answer to his spontaneous outburst was a lift of her chin and a definite “Hruumph!”

“Your Grace,” Mr. Cummings said as he drew his mount to a halt some ten feet away and doffed his cap. “We were told to expect a visit this morning. Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, John,” he said, urging his own mount forward and extending his right hand. “May I be honest with you? I’m here to throw myself on your mercy. Is there anything you’d like me to see here today?”

“Well, uh, Miss Seavers could…” Cummings shot a quick glance toward Charlotte, who, Rafe noticed, quickly shook her head. “That is to say, it would be my pleasure, Your Grace, to show you our much-improved sawmill. We’ve…uh, I’ve instituted some changes since His Grace’s sad death, and accidents have been reduced more than half. I’m happy to inform Your Grace that we haven’t lost a finger or a hand in more than six months.”

Rafe looked toward Charlotte, whose cheeks had gone faintly pink. What the devil was going on here? “Is that so, John. Very commendable on your part, I’m sure. I should very much like to see these improvements.”

“I’ll leave you two to get at it, then,” Charlotte said, already turning her mount.

Rafe grabbed at the reins. He needed to find out what the devil was happening here. “Oh, no, please, Miss Seavers, I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to return to Ashurst Hall unescorted. I fear I must insist that you accompany us.”

She smiled with her mouth as she skewered him with those intelligent eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

They followed John Cummings to the sawmill, passing the long single line of workers who variously waved their caps in the air or tugged their forelocks, depending on their age and station in the pecking order, Rafe imagined. “Your Grace, welcome home.” He heard that all along the way; polite greetings, if not enthusiastic.

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