Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke Read online

  “Here we are, Aunt Nia,” Leo said, sliding over Forrester’s withers and running up to her at the same time as Art. So much for Leo’s incapacity, Vince thought with a wry smile. His knee was swollen but if Leo felt any discomfort, one would not know it by looking at him.

  “Where the devil have you been? I’ve been calling you this half hour.”

  “Sorry, but we—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, appearing to notice Vince for the first time and stiffening. “This is private property. I must ask you to leave.”

  Vince did not leave. Instead, he dismounted and approached her. At close quarters he observed that her eyes, almost too large for the delicate face that housed them, were greener than her gown. They also showed signs of considerable strain, and she seemed tired and preoccupied. Her features were attractive rather than beautiful, freckles dotted the bridge of her pert nose and her slightly jutting cheekbones were pink with annoyance. Whether at him or the boys was less easily determined. She scowled at her charges, slight horizontal lines forming on her forehead as she did so.

  “This gentlemen brought us home,” Art said.

  “We had to run after Ruff.”

  “He got out, you see, and you told us most particularly to keep him in the garden.”

  “And the boys in the village, they—”

  “He stole some sausages from the butcher’s cart, and—”

  “Ruff?” She fixed the dog with an exasperated expression. The dog responded by dropping to his belly and squirming away from her. Vince couldn’t help it. He laughed aloud. The hound was nothing if not precocious. His amusement communicated itself to the lady and her scowl gave way to a reluctant smile. “I shall deal with you later,” she said, wagging a finger at the canine offender.

  “This gentleman paid the butcher—”

  “We wanted to say we were sorry, and that you would—”

  “But they didn’t give us a chance to—”

  “Boys, boys!” She held up her hands, and shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir. I can see they have been scrapping again, and I have you to thank for returning them in one piece.” She screwed up her nose as she contemplated them. “More or less.”

  “It wasn’t our fault, Aunt Nia,” Art protested.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” Vince quickly interjected, before the boys’ tongues ran off on another of their dual explanations that could keep them standing on this crumbling terrace for the next ten minutes. “Vincent Sheridan at your service.” He offered her an effortless bow and the ghost of a wicked smile because…well, because his mind had been taken over by highly inappropriate thoughts, the moment he set eyes on her.

  Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth, which is when Vince noticed what appeared to be paint encrusted beneath her fingernails.

  “Lord Vincent Sheridan?” she asked.

  Chapter Two

  “The very same.”

  Nia took a moment to recover her composure. This was a disaster! She had told the boys to remain within the grounds because they were in no fit state to entertain visitors; especially those of Lord Vincent’s stature. Since he had gone to so much trouble on the boys’ behalf he would naturally expect to be invited into the house and offered refreshment, but she would die before she allowed him to see the state of their living conditions. The grounds and the shabby exterior of the building gave a bad enough impression. Oh lord, why could not the boys have done as they were told, just this once?

  Nia had heard talk of the four Sheridan brothers; their eligibility and good looks. Indeed, when suggesting this area might be just the place for Nia’s family to settle quietly, her friend Frankie St. John had warned her what to expect when her path crossed with that of her elegant neighbours, as eventually it was bound to. She had not exaggerated. Lord Vincent was at least six feet tall, with thick black hair falling across the collar of his fashionably cut coat. A coat that was now caked in mud, thanks to her rebellious nephews’ propensity for finding trouble—or creating it. Much as she loved them, she was not blind to their faults.

  Returning her attention to Lord Vincent, Nia decided that if he had noticed the blight upon his pristine tailoring, he did not seem unduly concerned about it. Well, she supposed he had his own valet, ready and waiting to clean up his apparel, so why would it trouble him?

  He observed the world through eyes that were a deep, arresting blue. They sparkled with unsettling intelligence and, if she was any judge, a modicum of cynical enjoyment. His rugged features were all planes and angles, enhanced by a chiselled jaw and straight aristocratic nose. His body appeared to be a solid wall of muscle. Well, of course it was! He was disturbingly poised, damn him, while she was a bundle of uncertainty. He exuded easy charm and yet there was an aura of danger and excitement about him, too. It would be unwise to cross him, Nia instinctively understood, but then she supposed a man with his riches and connections could, unlike her, afford to stand on his principles.

  “Oh…, Niamh Trafford,” she responded belatedly, bobbing a curtsey and blushing when she realised she had been staring at him with reluctant appreciation for a little too long. Worse, he appeared to be well aware of it—was probably used to such a reaction from devoted females—if the amused smile playing about his lips was anything to go by. Nia so disliked being predictable, and certainly didn’t have time to waste gawping at handsome strangers. “And these are my nephews Leonard and Arthur.”

  “We’re twins,” Art piped up.

  “But I’m older, by ten minutes,” Leo added proudly.

  “We’re eight.”

  “Eight and a half.”

  “Are you really a lord?” Art asked, peering up at Lord Vincent suspiciously.

  “Art!” Nia was horrified at his manners, or lack of them. “Excuse him, if you can, my lord. He knows better than that.”

  “It’s of no consequence.”

  “How badly are you hurt this time?” Nia asked, crouching down to examine Leo’s knee. She removed the handkerchief binding it, conscious that it was made of fine lawn linen, now caked with dried blood.

  “It will need washing and bandaging,” Lord Vincent remarked. “But no permanent damage has been done.”

  “Only to your handkerchief,” Nia replied with a wry smile.

  “That doesn’t matter in the least.”

  No, Nia thought, she didn’t suppose that it did. Why she was so determined to be out of charity with him when he had rescued the boys, returned them home and was behaving with great charm and chivalry, was a mystery to her. Perhaps it was the way that he had so effortlessly handled what could have been a very awkward situation that riled her. Or because he had caught her at a disadvantage. She had hoped to avoid meeting her neighbours at all, especially the Sheridans, by keeping her grandfather’s identity a secret. She could see now that she had been hopelessly naïve, but still…

  Satisfied that Leo’s injury was indeed not life threatening, she shook her head and turned her attention to Art. She brushed the hair away from his forehead, shook her head for a second time when she observed he had one eye swollen half shut, and tutted.

  “Run off and find Hannah,” Nia told them. “Ask her to clean you up and bandage your injuries, and put you into clean clothes. No, on second thoughts, don’t worry about the clothes.” The boys looked very pleased to hear it. “We can delay our outing until tomorrow since it’s almost time for luncheon. I see no reason for you to dirty a second set of clothes in one day.”

  “We don’t do it on purpose,” Leo said.

  “It wasn’t our fault.”

  “No,” Nia said with a heartfelt sigh. “It never is.”

  “Don’t forget we have horses in our blood,” Art said, addressing his comment to Lord Vincent. “We can help you with your stallion at any time.”

  “You are very kind,” Lord Vincent replied gravely.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.”

  “Unlike the two of them,” Nia said, unable to suppress a smile a
s she watched them charge off into the house, pushing at one another in order to be the first to tell Hannah of their adventures, no doubt.

  “Do they do everything at a breakneck pace?”

  “Pretty much.” Nia chanced a glance up at him. “Were you not the same as a boy? No, I don’t suppose you were,” she added, not giving him the opportunity to respond. “Your upbringing would have been worlds apart from theirs.”

  “Not in the least.” He waved a negligent hand towards the unkempt grounds. “My brothers and I would have been in seventh heaven if we had found ourselves here at Leo and Art’s age. We would have climbed trees and fallen out of them, naturally. Built dens, had battles, fought one another…all of the things that your nephews so enjoy.” He shrugged impossibly broad shoulders and treated her to an engaging smile, flashing even white teeth for her inspection. “It’s simply the way of boys everywhere.”

  “You are as bad as they are?”

  His smile widened. “Very possibly.”

  Their conversation stalled and Nia became tellingly aware that she was now entirely alone with this compelling stranger. She felt unsettled beneath the full force of his lazy scrutiny, resenting the fact that he probably found all manner of things to criticise in her looks, her manners, her appearance in general. She wanted to call the boys back on some fabricated pretence. Their chatter would have broken the razor sharp tension that was definitely not a product of her imagination. But if Lord Vincent felt it also, it didn’t appear to worry him. She glanced up at him and noticed a teasing smile playing about his lips, as though he sensed her discomfiture and found it amusing. She thought of the many occasions upon which she had craved solitude in her busy, unpredictable, and disorganised life. It had chosen a most inconvenient time to oblige her. There again, if any of the residents of Stoneleigh Manor decided to show themselves, she would be mortified.

  But if that did happen it would rid her of him in record time. Which is what she wanted, was it not?

  His smile turned positively lethal as she continued to look at him. Unsure what it implied, she hastily lowered her gaze, only for it to collide with strong thighs encased in tight-fitting inexpressibles. Heat invaded her cheeks as a firestorm of alien emotions filled her senses and a tremor of awareness rocked her entire body. Perdition, things were going from bad to worse! Nia made a monumental effort to control herself. Glancing lower, she took comfort from the fact that his hessians, which she was sure must usually be polished to a glossy shine, were now caked in mud, also thanks to the part he had played in rescuing her troublesome nephews.

  “Art’s right, you know, it really wasn’t their fault.” Lord Vincent’s deep, arresting voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Well, not entirely. Boys are simply made to behave in such a fashion. I know my mother despaired of the four of us. I am surprised we didn’t manage to turn her hair grey.”

  Now that the conversation had returned to safer ground, Nia risked chancing a glance at his face. “You got up to the same sort of things?”

  Lord Vincent shrugged. “Worse, I would imagine. Boyish pursuits don’t recognise social boundaries.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She bent to scoop up Ruff, who had been dogging her footsteps. “And you have a lot of explaining to do,” she told him severely. “I asked you to remain in the grounds for a reason. It’s not as though there are not enough rabbits and squirrels here for you to chase without the need to turn thief. Those boys don’t need an excuse to find mischief.”

  Ruff sat in her arms, cocked his head to one side and adopted an appealingly innocent expression that made it impossible for Nia to remain angry with him.

  “He’s incorrigible,” Lord Vincent said, tugging one of the dog’s ears, which sent him into a state of near delirium.

  Nia rolled her eyes. “On a good day.”

  She returned the dog to the ground and he shot off somewhere, presumably in search of his partners in crime.

  “Am I to assume you are related to Patrick Trafford?” Lord Vincent asked after a moment’s silence. “Lady St. John mentioned he might be taking this house.”

  “I am his granddaughter. The boys are my brother’s children. He is away on business at the present.”

  “And their mother?”

  “Is dead.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  Lord Vincent smiled at her, and she heartily wished he had not done so. All the time they were making polite conversation she could play her part, but that smile of his was her undoing. She looked away, again trying not to see the dilapidated house and grounds through his eyes. She felt the need to explain, but stubbornness held her back. It really was none of his business. She was grateful to him for rescuing the twins, but she didn’t owe him explanations of any sort.

  “They appear to look upon you as their mother,” he remarked.

  Nia mentally shook herself. She had drifted off into a daydream again—one that featured arresting eyes, a charming disposition and flowing masculine power—and had not even thanked him for his condolences.

  “They have, through necessity, spent more time in my care than their father’s recently.”

  Lord Vincent sent her a curious glance. Dear God, she had been indiscreet. She had not meant to let her true feelings show. There was just something about this handsome stranger that loosened her tongue.

  “You love them very much,” he suggested softly.

  “How could I not?” She flashed a genuine smile. “But they need their father. They need proper schooling—”

  “Excuse me, they do not go to school?”

  “Not since we arrived here. At the moment I teach them myself, but that is hardly a satisfactory arrangement.”

  “Presumably you could you engage a tutor if your plans are not settled and you don’t wish to send them off to school.”

  Tutors cost money. “It’s one possibility, but without my brother’s approbation, I cannot make any long-term decisions.”

  “That must be very frustrating for you.”

  “Hmm.”

  His mouth. It fascinated Nia, constantly making her lose the thread of their conversation. Her artistic eye was drawn to the shadows between his nose and the tantalising shape of his lush lips. She noticed that deep vertical clefts appeared on either side of his mouth whenever he laughed. She imagined those same lines would become tight with irritation if he was annoyed and thought how challenging it would be to paint such a mouth. Almost impossible to get it exactly right. It was too expressive. A dangerous weapon he undoubtedly employed with considerable success, even if he was not conscious of doing so. She wondered how it would feel to be kissed by those full lips. Lord Vincent would know how to kiss with conviction, she suspected, just as he most likely did everything he set his mind to with skill and precision.

  “I take it your grandfather decided to come to the district for peace and quiet. He undoubtedly has commissions to finish.”

  “Yes, that is why we are not receiving guests,” she said emphatically, crossing her fingers behind her back. “Grandpapa can only do his best work if he is not interrupted.”

  The blast of a hunting horn from an upstairs window made her start violently, and stumble. Lord Vincent’s strong arm caught her before she fell. His horse whinnied and tugged at his reins which Lord Vincent had tied to one of the stouter pillars skirting the terrace. It did not crumble which, she supposed, was something.

  “Good lord, what the devil is that?” Lord Vincent asked, glancing at the window in question.

  Nia closed her eyes for an expressive moment, not needing to follow the direction of his gaze to know precisely what it was. Oh, Grandpapa!

  “What-ho, Nia my dear,” her grandfather cried cheerfully, before sounding the horn again. “Are we to have some sport today?”

  Unable to avoid looking up for fear of what her grandfather might do if she did not, at least it gave Nia an excuse not to look at Lord Vincent and be subjected to his derision.

  “It’s not the hunting
season yet, Grandpapa,” she said softly, sighing inwardly when she noticed he was still wearing his nightcap, wisps of white hair sticking out at angles from beneath its frayed hem. He had on his favourite, stained satin jacket but since she couldn’t see the rest of his body she was spared knowing what other garments had caught his eye that morning. “Go back inside and I shall be there directly.”

  “I say, is that another travelling artist there with you, Nia? Do bring him inside. There’s always room for another beneath this roof.”

  “Where is Sophia, Grandpapa?”

  Tears pricked at Nia’s eyes when, even from a distance, she noticed her grandfather’s blank expression. “Who?” he asked, sounding as bewildered as Leo or Art did when they had nightmares.

  “I’m here,” Sophia said from behind her grandfather. “Sorry about that, I only left him for a moment. Come along, Patrick,” she added gently. “Let’s get you settled.”

  Nia was unsure if she was grateful or sorry when Sophia coaxed her grandfather inside and closed the window. She was now alone with Lord Vincent again and she supposed he would expect an explanation for the embarrassing incident. If she did not offer one, he would draw his own conclusions and tell the world what she had been desperately trying to keep confidential. Her beloved grandfather had lost his mind and barely knew his own name. But if she asked him to keep her confidence, would he agree?

  She chanced a sideways glance at him, still trying to decide how much or little to tell him about her circumstances. If she saw pity in his expression then he could go to the devil. She could cope with anything but that. To her intense surprise, she merely observed understanding and compassion in the set to his features.

  “You cope remarkably well, all things considered,” he said softly.

  Before she could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps caused her to glance up and inwardly groan. Mr. Drake had, as always, chosen a most inconvenient time to impose himself upon her. She suspected the irritating young man had observed her in conversation with his lordship from within the house and had come to impose himself upon her, just as he always seemed to at the most inconvenient times. His ill-fitting black coat billowed behind him, giving him the appearance of a scrawny crow, but his ever-present air of superiority fit him like a second skin.