Raven McAllan - The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M

‘Exactly, Your Grace.’

Brody made up his mind. ‘No longer. It’s the shortest way to the village.’ And Miss Mary. Now why should that thought pop into his mind? There was as much chance of anything happening there as him becoming the next king. ‘Can you see that the drive is levelled and the gates repaired?”

Henning brightened. ‘Certainly. While you’re here?” He looked somewhat hesitant about continuing.

‘Spit it out.’ Brody advised him. ‘I don’t bite.’ Not innocent employees anyway. Less than innocent and willing ladies, all the time. Damned if that thought didn’t perk his pego up. He willed his erection to go away. Having just achieved a working rapport with Henning he didn’t want to lose it. Luckily the desk was between them.

‘We used to have a dance after the harvest was done. It’s not been held these past few years, but now it would give everyone the chance to meet you again. People understood your mama didn’t want to be bothered whilst your papa was ill, but now, if you do indeed mean to take up the reins, why not start with this?’

It made sense. Brody stood up and clapped the other man on the back. ‘An excellent idea. I’ll get word to my mother and siblings that it will be… hmm, around the last week in September? That’s…’ he did rapid calculations, ‘…four weeks if we hold it on the first Saturday in October. Then it won’t clash with anything the church does.’ He remembered enough of years past to know how important the religious festivals were. ‘Can you arrange that? I’ll speak to cook.’ If she is off the sherry. He thought rapidly. ‘I suspect my first task should be to write to Mama. If I can work out where she is at the moment. I’ve lost track.’

‘Mallow.’ Henning’s eyes twinkled. ‘At Lady Fernley’s. I have a list.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘My Lord, I’ve been sending her weekly updates on what we, we, not you, are doing.’

Brody laughed. Poor Henning. ‘Let’s face it; my bit would scarcely cover two lines of script. Eating, riding, sleeping. Just existing. No more though, and I’ll take over the epistles. It would be best to come from me that her input can decrease now.’

And cease. He still had to discover why she chose to shut him out.

Chapter Three

Mary couldn’t remember a night quite so dream-filled since just after Horry had died. Those dreams had been more of the nasty and dark kind, not the frustrating type. Yet in both she woke grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there. However, whereas before she’d woken up bereft, because her husband was never going to be next to her again, the night just passed she had felt more of an ache deep inside. The longing and expectation you experienced as you waited for a lover to fill you.

She flung back the covers with exasperation and got out of bed. Enough was enough. Her life had changed and it was up to her to take charge of it. She’d chosen not to be part of the ton, not to be hemmed in and confronted on all sides by suitors who thought no more of her than a cup of chocolate in Whites. Instead she’d chosen to be seen as a young widow who was in effect the custodian of the Grange until such times its usage – unspecified as to how – changed. That persona suited her and was close enough to the truth to not make her feel uneasy when people commiserated. It was just some facts she’d supressed. Like a lot of money and her title.

Why the local had chosen uphold what the school children called her – Miss Mary, not Mrs Mary Lynch – she had no idea but she liked it. She was no longer Lady McCoy – or, she thought with a jolt, the Dowager Lady McCoy – and, unless she went back to her brother with her tail between her legs, would likely never be again. Each time that thought hit her, she became ever more determined that once her year of grace was over, she intended to continue her life how she wanted it. It would be an uphill struggle, she had no doubt of that, but even if she had to stall until she was twenty-five she was determined to do as she desired.

‘Right.’ Mary spoke to herself as she dressed in her plain cotton chemise and simple sprigged lilac cotton gown. Old and serviceable, it was a firm favourite of hers and she knew it suited her dark curls, even as it upheld her status of a widow, not totally out of mourning. Or did it? Maybe the colour was too definite?

So be it. Enough was enough. If she had followed Horry’s diktat, she would have been in colours months ago. However. whilst she lived with Desmond and Patience, the idea had horrified them, and in deference to her hosts and their sensibilities she’d kept to greys and purples. Here in Welland village she’d lightened up a bit, but now she decided her wardrobe needed updating. She’d call on Miss Wishlade, ask for advice, and choose some pretty coloured gowns and outerwear for autumn.

With that in mind, Mary hummed under her breath and waited as Barlow, her groom, saddled her beloved mare, Darcy, and let him give her a hand into the saddle. As ever she countered his pleas to accompany her, and rode along the drive towards the gates and the lane, which went towards Welland in one direction and the tiny hamlet of Bliston in the other.

Miss Wishlade lived halfway up the steep hill on the far side of the Welland estate. A spritely widow who said cheerfully she’d stopped counting her age when she reached eighty, a goodly age for anyone, and now kept active by making gowns for the locals and knitting and tatting garments for those she deemed worthy.

Evidently, she deemed Mary worthy.

They’d met at church and when Mary had enquired diffidently if Miss Wishlade could remake a grey gown into one more serviceable, Miss Wishlade had looked her up and down, and then nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at ten. Marmalade Cottage over towards Manton way, by Home Farm and don’t be late. I only do plain sewing, mind you, but that fits the bill, admirably.’

It had been no surprise to Mary to learn Miss Wishlade had been the present Duke’s sisters’ governess for many years, before she retired to the cosy cottage she now resided in. She oozed authority in the nicest way possible.

Over the months their unlikely friendship had grown, until now it was such that they exchanged weekly visits. One week Mary would send Barlow with the carriage to bring Miss Wishlade to the Grange for lunch, the next Mary would make her way up the escarpment, past the castle and thence to Marmalade Cottage for one of Annie, Miss Wishlade’s companion’s light lunches, or if they ate later, delicious stews or roast dinners. Usually followed by a pudding so filling Mary thought if she fell off her horse she would merely roll down the hill. Hopefully not into the duck pond.

She took the little used bridle path which meandered below the castle and tackled the hill at a place more suited to pedestrians or horses, but definitely not for carts or carriages. At least it meant she could let Darcy pick her own way between the thistles and poppies, and ignore the meadowlarks and starlings that flew around her. Likewise the hare, which darted across the track and which, with any other horse, could have caused a ruckus. Darcy merely snorted, shook her head, and plodded on.

It was a perfect morning. The sun wasn’t too hot and was still in the process of burning off the early mist that hung like a net curtain over the fields. The hedgerow was covered with cobwebs, which sparkled and gleamed like the jewels in a tiara. Tiny creatures darted in and out of the bushes, and somewhere a skylark sang its melodious song. The last of the wheat was nigh on ready to be harvested and the late ripening apple trees she passed ready to drop their fruit.

Mary sighed in contentment. She loved this time of the year, when the earth gave up its bounty and settled into silence for the long cold winter months ahead. When the barns were full, the haystacks made, and the pantries and larders groaning with the fruits of the people’s labour.