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

other carriages were already disembarking at the church door.
    The duke’s eyes left her face, and within seconds he was whipping up his horses so that the phaeton could pull into the churchyard with panache. “A pleasure to have you ride with me, Miss Malcolm,” he said, handing her down with more decorum than he had displayed earlier. Eliza could still imagine the feel of his strong hands around her waist—and was still unsure whether it had filled her with excitement or unease.
    He offered her his arm and they joined her parents, the duchess, and the others to make their way into the church.
    * * *
    Henry slowed his horse to a walk before quietly turning into the churchyard. A dozen or more villagers were crowding around the entrance, and he could see the back of Miss Malcolm’s figure going through the door on the arm of his brother. Henry set his jaw. If he had his way, she would not be walking into a church on Rufus’ arm ever again.
    The simple pale blue of Miss Malcolm’s dress contrasted oddly with the feathery concoction on her head—he would not have suspected her to have such outré taste in hats. But still, the strange bonnet did not diminish her graceful carriage or elegant figure. She disappeared into the building.
    Henry dismounted, tied his horse, and slipped in through the side door. No one noticed him enter—the villagers were too busy gawking at the full row in the Rowland pew up front. Henry nearly snorted. Apparently, Rufus’ presence was creating quite the sensation. When exactly was the last time his brother had come to church?
    Reverend Ansel had ascended the pulpit and was beginning the service. Henry slipped into a seat in the back corner. A gnarled old man looked up at him. “Master Henry!” he said in quiet shock. Henry put a finger to his lips. “But you should be up front, sir!” The old man’s hands began to shake, and Henry put his own hand over them to steady them.
    “I’m well enough where I am, Mr. Hornsby.” He smiled. “Unless you don’t care to share your seat with me?”
    “Not at all, not at all, your lordship,” said Ned’s father hurriedly. He looked around to see if anyone else was noticing the signal honor the duke’s brother was paying him. But the focus was all elsewhere. Henry could see half a dozen women whispering, no doubt trying to ascertain the identity of the young lady sitting near the Duke of Brockenhurst.
    “Lord of all power and might, who art the author and giver of all good things…”
    The collect had begun. Henry looked up at the pulpit. Reverend Ansel was tall and well-built, and his black cassock made him even more formidable. His big, bluff face resembled nothing so much as a Viking chieftain’s, and Henry had no doubt that if he had lived in a different era, he would have happily preached God to the heathens with the blade of a two-handed axe.
    “…graft in our hearts the love of thy name, increase in us true religion, nourish us with all goodness…”
    Henry’s eyes traveled uneasily from the pulpit to the first pew on the left, the one directly opposite from the Rowland pew. Empty. He choked down a sigh of relief.
    “…and of thy great mercy keep us in the same, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
    Reverend Ansel’s wife had died many years ago, and there was only one other person who had a right to sit in that pew. If the pew was empty, then where was she? Dead too? He had heard no word of such a thing. She had been alive three years ago, when Rufus had turned him out. Married? Impossible.
    The homily had begun, and Henry was fidgeting like a dog with fleas. He saw Mr. Hornsby peer at him with questions in his old eyes, and he made a concerted effort to still his bouncing knee.
    He took his eyes off the pew on the left and returned them to the pew on the right. Rufus was leaning over, whispering something in Miss Malcolm’s ear. The intimacy was infuriating.
    Just as he had known it would be, coming to this service was