Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole

Chapter 2

At about the same timethat Tristan and Jack were pulling up to the steps of Lyondale, another scene was unfolding not far away.

Rutherford Grange had been the home of the barons of Rutherford for centuries, so entwined with the family that locals often skipped the full name of the place and referred to it simply as “the Grange.” The land behind the great house was forested, and the green trees were just beginning to blush with color as the summer closed and autumn entered. Beyond the trees, a range of hills rose, bare stone peeking out in patches. Birds sang in the high branches and a soft breeze rustled the dry leaves and grasses. It was as fine a day as anyone could ask for.

Daisy Merriot didn’t get to see any of this glory, for she was working in the kitchens alongside the house’s servants.

Daisy plunged her hands into a washtub of scalding water and scrubbed the next dish vigorously. Soap bubbles flew out, but she paid no mind. This task needed to be finished quickly, or the servants would fall behind schedule, and that made the lady of house quite cross. No one wanted this, least of all Daisy, who faced her wrath more often than anyone else.

“Here, Elaine,” she said, pulling the clean dish out of the water and handing it to the other servant to dry. “We’re almost done.”

“We’re never done,” Elaine grumbled, taking the dish.

“Well, then be happy it’s so, for we have stable work to keep us occupied,” Daisy said, trying to look on the bright side.

“It’s not right, my lady,” Elaine insisted, slamming the dry plate down a little too hard. “You ought to be up in the great hall, instead of that…woman.”

Daisy sighed, for this was an old, old conversation among the servants of Rutherford Grange. “You mean to say Lady Rutherford.”

“Aye, Lady Rutherford up there, while you toil as a scullion in your own home.”

It was true that, at the age of twenty, Daisy never expected for her life to look this way. But then, she never expected her father to remarry when Daisy was twelve, or for him to die so soon after, or the news that the last will and testament of the Baron Rutherford turned out to be quite different than expected. Rather than Daisy inheriting the title and estate, it seemed that the baron’s surviving spouse would receive them instead, as well as the guardianship of Daisy until her twenty-first year.

A few days after her father’s funeral, Daisy learned that she was not to be addressed as the Honorable Margaret Merriot anymore, but rather as plain Miss Margaret, or (by more and more folks) simply as Daisy. And she would not return to school at Wildwood, but would instead remain at Rutherford Grange to help the family through this difficult time. Somehow, that meant Daisy taking on the management of the house and the lands, while performing ever more daily tasks that kept her among the servants and the tenants instead of with her stepmother and stepsister, Lady Rutherford’s own daughter, the Honorable Bella Merriot by courtesy. How quickly things changed.

The young, grieving Daisy was bewildered and confused by all the sudden upheavals following her father’s death. Those first few weeks were a blur of despair, and the next few months not much better. Her great love for the estate of Rutherford Grange was all that kept her going—she knew this land better than anyone else, and she knew how to manage the house and the grounds to keep the income relatively steady, and to keep the tenants working and fed.

All that was six years ago, and it now seemed like another person’s life. Daisy once dreamed of marrying and having a family and growing old at Rutherford Grange. Now, only one of those things would likely happen, and not in the manner she first imagined.

Still, she thought, it’s home. And it’s better to be here than in some strange and cold building far away, where no one knows me and no one cares about me.

“Miss Daisy,” a man said. “Her ladyship wants to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Jacob.” She smiled at him. Jacob was married to Elaine, and they’d been at Rutherford Grange since Daisy was born. She couldn’t imagine doing all this work without them to help her. Yes, there were other servants in such a great house, but not as many as there used to be, and none so dear to her heart.

As Daisy climbed the servants’ stairs from the kitchen to the first floor, and then moved to the grand staircase that led to the parlor, she passed several portraits of her family. At the top of the stairs, she paused in front of the large oil painting of her father.

“Good day, Papa,” she said quietly. She always greeted him when she passed by, fancying that he still watched over her.

Her schoolfriend Poppy had expressed (in very colorful terms no young lady should know) that the late baron must have been mad when he placed Daisy under the care of her stepmother.

Daisy had dutifully replied, “I am certain Papa thought he was acting in my best interests. After all, I have a home and I am fed and clothed.”

“You would have had those things as Lady Margaret,” Poppy had said. “Now you have a pallet by the embers.”

“That’s an exaggeration—I have a bedroom, just as before. And as a young baroness with no guardian, I should have been a target for fortune hunters,” Daisy pointed out.

“That sounds much more fun,’” Poppy had noted with a sly smile.

Now, as Daisy gazed upon the portrait of her father, she wished she could speak with him just once more, even for an hour. She had so many questions, and no way to find answers. The image looked out at her, almost as real as the man himself. The baron was not a tall man, nor could he have been termed a Corinthian in any way. But he possessed an amiable smile and kind eyes, and the painter had captured these qualities in oil. In the painting, he sat in a dark leather chair, wearing a black jacket over a snowy-white shirt. His cravat had been tied simply, as he’d done in life. Her father had not been a fussy man, nor overly concerned with details. Perhaps that was to Daisy’s detriment.

Sighing, she continued on to the parlor. The main part of the house was of course much grander than the kitchens and servants’ quarters. The floors were marbled and the walls hung with expensive silk. However, the last several years had been difficult, and Daisy noticed some troubling signs of neglect. The corners should be dusted more often, the runners taken out and cleaned. She saw wax splotches on the floor beneath a candle sconce and sighed. If only Lady Rutherford would agree to hire a few more housemaids! The Grange deserved to look its best. But Lady Rutherford said that it was quite impossible, explaining, “The late baron, bless his sweet heart, did not invest as well as he ought. We must make do, and hope that Bella makes a splendid match.”

Bella Merriot was the product of Lady Rutherford’s first marriage (she’d been Bella Dunley until her mother married the baron, taking his family name instead). Based upon her beauty alone, it seemed likely that she could marry a prince. Next to her, Daisy felt like a little fieldmouse, dull and dingy and utterly invisible.

Now, upon reaching the parlor door, Daisy paused, hearing her stepmother talking.

“—his arrival is nothing less than a sign, Bella. Long-delayed but inevitable, and we must seize the opportunity at hand. During the London Season, all is chaos and competition, with gossips everywhere to thwart your efforts. Here in the country, you will command every room. Who is more beautiful than you, sweeting? And you must school yourself to never reveal what you may think of his own appearance.”

“Yes, Mama,” a softer voice answered.

Daisy knocked on the door, idly wondering who they were discussing. Lady Rutherford always seemed to know who among the local gentry was coming or going.

“Enter!” Lady Rutherford called in her resonant alto voice, before dropping back to the conversational tone she was using before. “Remember, darling, this is what you want.”

Lady Rutherford sniffed when Daisy came in and approached where she was sitting, as though she smelled something unpleasant. “Oh, there you are, Daisy. I asked for you some time ago.” The implication that Daisy had somehow failed her lingered in the air.

“I came as soon as I heard. What do you require, my lady?” Daisy asked politely.

“Tomorrow, Bella and I will go into Lyonton, for she is in need of some essentials and we must not delay in ordering them. I trust the carriage will be ready at nine.”

“Yes, my lady.” Daisy knew that a wheel needed to be replaced, but Jacob could do that early, if Daisy took over the feeding of the animals and fetching water.

“Just eggs and toast for our breakfasts tomorrow,” Lady Rutherford went on. “Bella is so delicate, you know, and she must not eat too much before a ride. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Yes, Mama.” The agreement came from the young lady sitting in a chair near the window. She was embroidering while the light was strong. Bella Merriot looked like a porcelain doll, with perfect blond ringlets and wide sea-green eyes that at least one suitor had declared to be “the perfect calm turquoise of the Mediterranean,” though he himself had never been there.

Perfectand calm described Bella very well. She was the model of a young lady of the aristocracy: beautiful, accomplished, well-mannered, and well-spoken. Daisy had never once heard Bella express an opinion of her own.

Lady Rutherford went on, “The vicar is joining us for supper tonight, and he does so like mushrooms. See to it that they are in at least three of the dishes.”

Alarmed, Daisy said, “Oh, no! We haven’t got any in the kitchen. I could go get some in the village if you would give me next week’s marketing money early…”

“Daisy!” Lady Rutherford said, in a shocked tone. “This is why we must all be grateful that you do not have charge of the finances here at the Grange. Buying mushrooms when they can be had for free in our very own woods? Nonsense. You must go and harvest them. You always seem to know where they are growing among the dirt.”

“Yes, my lady.” The added task would mean not doing something else today. Could she put off the mending? Or the repairs to the chicken coop?

“What would we do without you, Daisy?” Lady Rutherford said then, smiling in satisfaction. “To think you wanted to run back to that school. This house would not be the same if she were not here, would it, Bella darling?”

“Indeed not, Mama,” Bella agreed, snipping a thread with a pair of delicate brass scissors.

“That will be all, Daisy,” Lady Rutherford said, dismissing her from the parlor and her mind. Daisy dipped into a little curtsey and left.

“Mr. Hornthwaite here for dinner again!” Elaine cried out when Daisy returned to the kitchens and gave her the news. “That man can eat enough for ten, and you’d think he doesn’t have a perfectly good cook of his own at the vicarage. Why that woman enjoys his presence is beyond me.”

“I am going to the woods to find some mushrooms,” Daisy said. “With luck I’ll be back in time, but I think the closest patches are bare. I may have to walk quite a ways.”

Daisy put on her old straw topper to cover her hair, and grabbed the wide basket she liked to use for gathering mushrooms. Perhaps if she was fortunate, she’d find some late berries as well. Anything that could stretch the larder would be welcome.

At this time of year, the most likely place for mushrooms was along a stream in the woods that more or less defined the border of Rutherford Grange and the even grander estate of Lyondale, the seat of the Dukes of Lyon. However grand it might be though, the place usually had an air of desertion. As far as Daisy knew, no one had lived in the great house for years. The last duke chose to spend most of his time in London or abroad, until he died a year ago. Daisy assumed the new duke had the same preferences, for she’d never even heard that he came to view his holdings here.

Abandoning propriety, Daisy picked up the hem of her skirt several inches and ambled along the narrow track leading to the stream. As a child, she spent many hours there in the summer, watching fish and gathering flowers to weave into delicate crowns. The sun kissed the tops of the distant western hills, and the air was cool. She sang as she walked. Daisy’s voice filtered through the trees, but nothing answered her besides the birds. She was totally alone.

That thought brought her sadness as well as relief.

Though she appreciated these few brief moments to herself, when no one could ask her to perform yet another task or tell her one more piece of bad news, she was lately conscious of a loneliness that had never bothered her before.

Now twenty, Daisy was long past the age most daughters of the gentry would have had their debut and entered the marriage mart. She often dreamed of what that path would have been like. The beautiful gowns, the parties, the young men seeking her attention, perhaps a forbidden kiss in a moonlit garden, and perhaps a little more than that…

But what was the use of dreaming now? Daisy had none of the assets so essential for a good marriage among the gentry. She had no title, no dowry, no expectations. True, her lineage was impeccable. Her father had been a baron and her mother’s family traced its origins to the Norman Conquest. But who married for a bloodline when it didn’t come with an estate to match?

Her stepsister, Bella, fielded so many suitors during her first two Seasons that she often forgot their names. Daisy (who never officially had a coming-out) had no suitors at all. The servants and tenants and villagers near Rutherford Grange considered Daisy to be some strange creature—not one of them, but also not one of the society they all served.

She recalled a recent letter from her old schoolmistress, Mrs. Bloomfield. Among the news from Wildwood Hall, the lady had also extended an offer. If Daisy wanted a change, she could teach at Wildwood. Your French is excellent and you have always had a quick mind for figures and calculations, she’d noted. Daisy understood that Mrs. Bloomfield was also offering her escape, for there were almost no options for a woman in Daisy’s position.

Teaching at Mrs. Bloomfield’s school held a certain appeal. Daisy had always been happy there as a student, and she might have a chance to meet a man of the emerging middle class who would appreciate Daisy’s accomplishments and not be so concerned about her lack of dowry.

“Lack of mushrooms is all that I should worry about today,” she reminded herself out loud. And dreams of a different future were just dreams. Daisy belonged at Rutherford Grange, and nothing would change that. Ever.

She sang for a little while, a cheerful, lilting tune to restore her spirits. Then she continued to hum as she zigzagged through the patch of woodland, arrowing in on likely places for mushrooms. She took a few here, a few there, careful to always leave a little so that they’d continue to produce. She sang as she went, switching between French and English as the tunes came to her.

Daisy climbed into a little hollow to gather a few more mushrooms, and she was still in it when she heard hoofbeats from beyond. She thought little of it as she emerged. People were always coming and going, and locals knew the best shortcuts through the trees to shave a little time off their errands.

The hoofbeats slowed.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

Daisy turned around at the question, and then she was lost, because she saw who asked it.

Before her, mounted on a gorgeous black stallion, was possibly the most intriguing man she’d ever seen. He sat easily in the saddle, looking as if he was born to do so. Daisy noticed that while his hair was rich brown, his eyes were a startlingly pale blue, like that of someone who stared out at too many horizons.

He wore a loose white shirt of fine linen. Perhaps due to the heat of the afternoon, or the exertion of his ride, his shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing an expanse of chest. Daisy had never seen that much male skin before in her life, and rather than modestly avert her eyes, she instead stared like a dolt.

Finally, she dragged her gaze lower, only to realize that the man’s riding pants were fitted to a degree that seemed unattainable for a mere mortal tailor to accomplish, and that the man’s thighs, though covered, were still far too interesting for an unmarried woman to view safely. His riding boots thus became a focal point of last resort, reassuringly workaday and spattered with mud.

Daisy glanced down at her plain wool gown, which was muddy at the hem, and blushed. Her jacket had been reasonably fashionable three years ago, but was no longer. And her hat was nothing more than a straw topper with only a ribbon to secure it. Hardly an outfit to make an impression on a man.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, bringing his horse up a little closer. “But I noticed that you’re out alone, and you’re zigzagging as if you’re not sure of your direction.”

“I’m going to where the mushrooms are,” she explained, holding out the basket.

He leapt down from the horse, taking the leads loosely in one hand. He was at home with the horse, so he must be a groom on one of the nearby estates. He asked, “Was it you singing before?”

“Did I bother you?”

“Not at all. I was just surprised at how…populated these woods are. First the old lady at the cottage, and now you…”

“You met Tabitha! How lucky. Her house is certainly off the track. I can’t tell you how many people around here can’t seem to find it, even when they have perfect directions. Anyone delivering to her usually just brings it out to Rutherford Grange instead. Rutherford Grange is easy to find.”

Just then, the horse stepped forward and stuck its muzzle into the basket.

“Don’t you dare!” Daisy cried, pulling the basket away. “I spent a long time picking those. They’re not for you, handsome as you are.” She lifted one hand to stroke the horse’s powerful, glossy neck.

“His name is Stormer,” the groom said. “Would you like to give him a treat?”

“May I?” she asked, even as she accepted the carrot the groom produced from the leather satchel. She held a hand to the horse’s muzzle and fed him the piece of carrot. The horse ate it happily, and she fancied she could see appreciation in the deep brown eye regarding her.

“Such a magnificent creature,” she breathed.

“One worthy of a duke, so I am told.”

“Oh, it’s the duke’s horse,” Daisy said, enlightened. “You’re so lucky to be able to exercise him!” Now the man’s mix of garb and his casual, confident manner made more sense. If he was in charge of the stables, and had access to the finest animals, it accounted for why he was so comfortable in the saddle.

The man was giving her an odd look, but then he smiled. “Yes, I am lucky, Miss…”

“Forgive me. I suppose there’s no one to introduce you to me!” Daisy laughed, thinking of the formal education that instructed how a lady must never meet a man without the buffer of a formal introduction, preferably given by a dragon of a grande dame who approved the potential acquaintance. “Mrs. Bloomfield would say that in the light of unexpected circumstances, I must make do. I am Miss Daisy Merriot.”

“Tristan Brooks, at your service.” He offered a little bow from the waist, and a smile that might have been sarcastic. It was hard to tell. The right side of his face was marked by a scar that pulled at his mouth. Nevertheless, his lips seemed designed for smiling, being full and mobile and expressive. She wondered if she could make him laugh, and then she realized that she was staring at him quite shamelessly. Again.

Then he asked, “Who is Mrs. Bloomfield?”

“The headmistress of the school I attended when I was young,” she explained, glad of the distraction. It was rare for her to be so flummoxed by a man. Then again, it was rare for her to be near a man…

By habit, she started walking toward Rutherford Grange, and the man kept pace with her, holding the horse’s lead in one hand.

“To be honest,” he said, “I’m not sure exactly where we are—”

“Oh, we’re at the border between Rutherford Grange and Lyon—” Just then, Daisy stepped into a grass-covered hole, and she stumbled. Before she could fall, the man moved and took her by the arm, pulling her to his side to steady her.

“Careful,” he murmured.

She was too aware of his closeness to reply. Something hot shot through her—a feeling of aliveness that she’d never felt before. His gaze locked with hers, and Daisy leaned nearer, entranced by his crooked, now faintly sad smile.

Then he said, “I am sorry to tell you that your mushrooms are escaping.”

She blinked in utter confusion. “What?”

“Your harvest.” He gestured to the ground.

Daisy looked down to find that she’d been so flummoxed that she’d managed to tilt the basket and spill half her collection out on the ground. He released her, and she crouched immediately to gather them up.

“Oh, no. Stupid goose,” she muttered to herself, echoing her stepmother’s common complaint.

He knelt down to help her, grabbing several that had rolled toward Stormer.

“The mushrooms are for dinner,” Daisy said, brushing the stray hair out of her face as she stood again. Leaning into him like that! What was she thinking? She’d been about to make a fool of herself.

“You must know the area well, to find these whenever you want.”

“Well, I’ve lived here nearly all my life! I could tell you about everything growing at the Grange…except that wouldn’t be very interesting to hear about.” She felt flushed and flustered.

“Why should it not be interesting? I find that most topics are more fascinating when they are explained by someone who truly cares about the subject.”

“Oh, that’s so true,” Daisy agreed, having experienced the same thing herself. “But it’s getting later and I really must get back home, or it will be too late to make use of the mushrooms.”

“How far is home?”

“Less than two miles. I should hurry.”

“Then you must accept a ride. Stormer would barely notice your weight.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. He’s the duke’s horse.”

The man laughed softly. “The duke would insist. I know his mind. Come. I’ll help you up.”

In a blur, Daisy found herself astride the great black horse. The man offered the refilled basket to her, and then swung himself up.

Even with the weight of them both, the horse pranced as if he were totally unburdened. Daisy adjusted to seeing the world from this slightly higher vantage point. It had been quite a long time since she’d been riding. And she’d never ridden with a man seated so close that she could feel his heartbeat.

Then his arm slipped around her waist, and Daisy gasped.

“Just to hold you steady, miss. I certainly don’t want you to fall. Again.”

There was amusement in his tone, but it was warm and gentle. His breath tickled her ear. She inhaled the smells of hay and horse and leather, and couldn’t decide if this situation was merely improper or completely scandalous. Riding pressed against a total stranger…gallant as he might be.

Daisy couldn’t have told anyone what she saw on that journey, because her whole mind was consumed with what she was feeling. First the pleasure of being astride such a fine animal, and the relief of not walking. But more than that was the sensation of having this man so very close to her, his legs grazing her hips, his chest so near her back, and his arms encircling her as he loosely held the reins.

Stormer barely needed reins, for he proceeded down the road at a steady but sedate pace. Clearly, Brooks was in no hurry himself.

“You lived in London?” she asked, questing for a safe topic.

“And abroad,” he noted. “The war.”

That must have been when he got hurt, she supposed, and thus discharged.

“Are you happy to be back home?” she asked.

“If this is home. Didn’t think I’d like it here,” he said at last, his tone musing. “But the outlook is improving.”

The last line was unmistakably flirtatious, and Daisy replied, with uncharacteristic punch, “Don’t expect that every ride will include a local resident.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I hope not. Now that I’ve got you, I don’t need any others to distract me.”

Daisy turned her head, surprised at the words. “Got me?”

His gaze met hers. “Just for two miles. I’m not going to kidnap you.”

“Good, for you’d get no ransom.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “You have a quick tongue.”

As his gaze dropped to her lips, Daisy was conscious of a desire to dart her quick tongue along her lips, moistening them in anticipation of a kiss.

He lowered his head a fraction, and her breath caught. He could kiss me, she realized with equal parts delight and panic.

Just then, Stormer whinnied and sidestepped. Brooks twitched the reins and focused on the road ahead. The moment was broken. And of course, he’d not been about to kiss her. How absurd, to think it.

Daisy allowed Mr. Brooks to take her all the way home. She told herself that it was the polite thing to do—and deeper down, she knew that she was delighting in Mr. Brooks’s nearness, in the novelty of having a man pay attention to her, plain old Daisy, even for a short while.

Brooks asked questions about the countryside and village and the people living hereabouts. Daisy told him as much as she could fit in during the journey.

“You’re a treasure trove, Miss Merriot. You said you lived here your whole life?”

“Other than the years I went to school, yes. This little corner of the world is my home, though. I could never leave it. I think you’ll come to appreciate it, Mr. Brooks, though it is vastly different than London.”

Outside the gates of Rutherford Grange, she half turned and said, “I think, sir, that it would be best if I returned on my own two feet. To avoid…any misunderstandings.”

“Very wise.” He dismounted and helped her down, both hands lingering at her waist.

Daisy felt her cheeks burning. “Thank you.”

“Don’t forget your mushrooms.”

She had in fact completely forgotten the mushrooms, but managed to rescue the basket before Stormer could raid it.

Mr. Brooks walked with her down the drive, saying that he could not escort her halfway. “That’s nearly the same as not doing it at all. I’ll let you go when the house is in view.”

Just then, they came into view of Rutherford Grange itself. Daisy glanced at the main house, conscious of how dismal it looked, how much it needed repair and attention. She was normally able to ignore the flaws, her view colored by love and nostalgia.

But in the late afternoon sun, the peeling plaster, sagging roof, and dank, overgrown patches in the yard were difficult to ignore.

Mr. Brooks brought Stormer up short and gazed at the scene. “So this is Rutherford Grange. It looks like it’s been here since the Normans. That central tower where the main door is could be an old keep. Remarkable.”

“You’re right!” she said, surprised. “Most people never see that…too much has been added on over the centuries. And it doesn’t look as it should. There’s not enough money to keep it up.”

“Is that your concern? My offer is still open. Say the word and I’ll kidnap you.”

She shook her head at his teasing. “Never, sir. Rutherford Grange is my home. If I am not here to care for it, who will?”

“A lot of house to care for,” he mused, looking at the building again. “I’ve been learning more about big old houses than I ever expected,” he said, “and I hope—”

“Daisy!” a voice interrupted, and her stepmother appeared through the main doors in question. She was resplendent in a burgundy-colored silk gown, but her expression was stormy as she approached. “Where have you been, girl? The vicar will be here in less than an hour, and Elaine cannot conjure dinner out of thin— Your grace!”

Suddenly, Lady Rutherford dropped into a curtsey in front of Mr. Brooks, leaving Daisy to stare at her open-mouthed.

“M-my lady,” she stammered at last, “there’s a mistake. This is Mr. Brooks…”

“No, she’s right,” he said, his voice low.

Daisy spun to look at him, feeling her world turn upside down. “What?”

“I’m the duke,” he admitted. His expression was strange, almost regretful.

“It is his grace, Tristan Brooks, Duke of Lyon!” Lady Rutherford declared, her expression now suitably awed and delighted. “What an unexpected honor, your grace, for you to come to Rutherford Grange. So thoughtful for you to call upon neighbors so soon after your arrival here in the county. If I had but known, I would have made arrangements suitable for a gentleman of your stature. But won’t you come inside and take some refreshment, your grace? The Honorable Bella Merriot, my daughter, would be most happy to make your acquaintance. Daisy will mind the horse…”

She waved impatiently at Daisy to do just that, but Mr. Brooks—no, the duke—stopped her.

“Very kind of you, my lady, but I am merely passing by. Having met Miss Merriot by chance on the road, I thought she should not have to return home unescorted.”

Lady Rutherford blinked in apparent confusion. “Darling Daisy, unescorted? Oh my.” As if she herself had not sent Daisy alone on the errand to fetch mushrooms.

“No harm done,” the duke said easily.

“And I have the mushrooms,” Daisy added. “I shall just take them to the kitchen, shall I?” She wanted more than anything to disappear and never be looked at again. Mr. Brooks was the Duke of Lyon? And to think she’d mistaken him for a groom! And she rode in his arms, and chatted and flirted with him…oh, Daisy wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Mushrooms!” Lady Rutherford said, startled back onto her original concern. “The vicar! Supper!” She looked torn about all her potential options. “Your grace, permit me to extend an invitation for dinner this evening…”

“Alas, I must return home,” he said, firmly closing the door on her importuning, with a directness Daisy admired. “But I would be honored if you and Miss Merriot would come to Lyondale soon.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Lady Rutherford breathed.

“And Miss Daisy as well, of course,” he added.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” the baroness said, flustered into accepting the addendum.

“I shall have a formal invitation sent over. Good evening, ladies.” He mounted up on Stormer and prepared to escape. He looked directly at Daisy when he said, with a tiny smile, “By the way, no ransom would have been asked.”

And then he rode out, leaving Daisy standing there with a basket of mushrooms, a furious stepmother, and the knowledge that she’d unknowingly fallen into the embrace of a duke.