Free Just One Touch by Debra Mullins

ingratiating weasel. “Not to worry, Mr. Hunt. Your future father-in-law settled the account yesterday. May I offer you congratulations on your upcoming marriage?”
    “My future—” Rogan bit back an expletive and forced a polite smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wiggins.”
    “Always liked Lady Caroline,” Wiggins commented.
    “I am the luckiest of men.” Folding his money, he shoved the wad of bills into his pocket. “Good day to you, Mr. Wiggins.”
    “Good day, Mr. Hunt.”
    Rogan made his way through the village, visiting every tradesman to whom he owed money. The story was the same everywhere. The duke had taken it upon himself to pay all of Rogan’s debts.
    And when he reached the tailor, he discovered that not only had Belvingham settled his account, but he’d purchased a new set of clothes for Rogan to wear at the wedding.
    “I have your measurements, of course,” jolly Mr. Fitzhugh said. “The suit will be ready in time for your marriage to Lady Caroline.”
    “Thanks,” Rogan muttered and left the shop.
    He strode down the street, nodding as people called out congratulations to him. Blast it all, had Belvingham hired a town crier to announce the news?
    It was bad enough that he had been forced into marriage through obligation, irritating enough that Belvingham had insisted on arranging and paying for everything to do with the wedding without so much as consulting Rogan. But for Caroline’s father to take it upon himself to handle Rogan’s personal financial matters—that was outside of enough.
    A man had pride, and Rogan’s was rapidly being worn away by the force of the duke’s arrogant interference.
    “I say there, Hunt!”
    Rogan stopped just outside the Hound and Horn as a foppishly dressed gentleman descended from a carriage in front of the bustling inn. Bloody hell, but this day just got better and better. “Beardsley,” he acknowledged through gritted teeth.
    Lord Beardsley brushed some road dust from the sleeve of his coat and sent Rogan a coolly arrogant look. “I heard you’re marrying Belvingham’s daughter.”
    “I am.”
    “Congratulations. Lady Caroline is far above the touch of a man of your social station.”
    Rogan bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s a love match.”
    “Indeed? No wonder the duke arranged for a special license then.”
    Rogan stiffened. “Her father is ill, Beardsley.”
    “Ah.” Beardsley gave a superior smile. “That certainly explains the haste. You wouldn’t want the gossips to believe it was for some other reason.”
    Rogan leaned closer. “No. I wouldn’t.”
    Beardsley didn’t flinch, merely stood there with that patronizing smile on his face. “Would you care to join me for a drink, Hunt? I’d like to discuss that hunter of mine with you.”
    Surprised, Rogan backed down. “I thought you sent that horse to Hadley.”
    “I did. Now I want to send him to you. Let’s discuss it inside.”
    “All right.” Curious despite himself, Rogan followed him into the taproom.
     
    It was amazing, Rogan thought later, how much a man’s consequence could change when he was marrying the right woman.
    Sitting by himself at the table Beardsley had vacated an hour ago, Rogan stared into his latest tankard of ale and contemplated the unusual turn of events.
    Beardsley wanted him to train the spiritedhunter he’d purchased at Tattersalls some months ago, a horse he’d sent to William Hadley, another local breeder who, unlike Rogan, had no unpleasant family history to detract from his reputation as a fine horse trainer. The horse Beardsley had sworn Rogan would never work with—ever.
    All that had changed, but not because Rogan had proven himself the better horseman. No, it had changed simply because in three days’ time, he would be related by marriage to the Duke of Belvingham.
    He swallowed some ale, hoping to wash away the bitterness that suddenly lingered. He should be a happy man. Not only was he marrying an heiress, but her family connections