Free The Duke's Last Hunt by Rosanne E. Lortz Page A

him, so be it. And if that meant braving a service in Reverend Ansel’s church—
    He took a deep breath.

7
    M uch to Lady Malcolm’s relief, the carriages came round the drive a full half hour before services were to start. The occupants of the house were a different story, however, and the Malcolms waited in the entrance hall with Stephen Blount for at least a quarter of an hour before the Rowland family descended.
    Rufus and Walter Turold came down together, the duke’s close-cropped red hair contrasting with his friend’s light brown, shoulder-length locks. “Good morning,” said Rufus, placing a neat kiss on Eliza’s hand. His eyes had a hungry quality to them, and she blushed furiously. He had a gray suit on, the coat fitting perfectly over his strong shoulders and a light blue waistcoat that nearly matched the shade of her own dress.
    “What a pair you make!” cooed Adele, coming down the stairs on the heels of her silent mother. “Eliza,” she said, taking her new bosom friend’s hands in her own, “you must let me lend you a bonnet to go with your dress. I have just the thing.”
    A footman was sent upstairs, and a few minutes later, Eliza found herself going out the front door on Rufus’ arm in a straw poke bonnet festooned with white feathers and blue ribbons.
    “It’s such a beautiful morning,” said Rufus, looking up at the sky, “I really ought to drive the phaeton. Miss Malcolm, will you accompany me?”
    “Oh, I….” Eliza looked at her mother. She could not remember ever having ridden alone in a vehicle with a man. But then, it would just be up the road along the edge of the forest, with her mother and father in a carriage right beside them.
    “Of course, of course!” said Sir Arthur waving the couple off with a smile. His wife set her lips into a firm line as he helped the duchess and her into the first carriage. Adele, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Blount, and Mr. Turold climbed into the second carriage, and Eliza saw that Adele contrived it so that she was sharing a seat with Mr. Blount, his leg pressed up against the delicate sprigged muslin of her Sunday gown.
    She looked up at Rufus, her heart beating a little faster. In a moment she would be sharing a seat with him. The groom brought the phaeton around. Rufus escorted her down the front steps, and she expected him to hand her into the carriage. But instead, he put his hands around her waist quite unnecessarily and lifted her up into the seat. “I hope you don’t mind,” he murmured, sliding his hands away from her, stepping up into the seat, and taking the reins from the groom.
    Eliza was speechless. She looked around to see if anyone else had glimpsed this impropriety, but the other carriages had already pulled forward around the circular drive. There was still the groom, however, and however many footmen were standing at attention by the door. She slid over as far to the edge of the phaeton seat as she could, putting more space between herself and her suitor. Rufus did not seem to notice. He whipped up the horses to catch up with the others, and Eliza soon found herself holding on to her ornate bonnet with one hand and the side of the phaeton with the other.
    “How do you like Harrowhaven?” the duke asked, raising his voice above the pounding of the horses’ hooves.
    “Very grand,” said Eliza. It was an intimate question she felt—the duke inquiring how she liked his most important asset.
    “It’s a little run down of late.” The duke’s brow furrowed as he turned onto the drive that led towards the church. “My mother has been…unable to manage it as she once used to. The housekeeper does her best, but it needs a mistress to take charge of it.”
    Eliza’s chest tightened. Were these the opening lines to a declaration?
    He sent her a sideways look. She kept her eyes fixed on the tops of the horses’ ears. The church was in sight, its steeple cutting through the tree-lined horizon like a knife. Eliza could see that the