Free Ridiculous by D.L. Carter

room. Millicent rose to her knees to see over the couch she had chosen as her protection, blankets still wrapped around her torso. Wearing only his smallclothes, the duke tossed his blanket aside and strode across the room to where the boy had placed the shaving water.
    “Be damned to that,” swore Shoffer as goose pimples spread over his bare skin. “Be a good lad and tell my groom to saddle my horse. I will view the property with Mr. North.”
    “Language,” said Millicent mildly, settling her blankets tent-like about her body and climbing from the floor to collapse into a sagging armchair.
    Shoffer snorted as he bathed his face in the steaming water and began working up lather in his shaving cup. Millicent watched the efficient movements, a slow heat climbing in her belly. While he applied a brush load of foam to his face, Shoffer shot a glance toward Millicent.
    Millicent flinched and ducked back down to her hiding place. It took a few minutes of struggling to tighten her breast bands without drawing attention to her activities or removing her nightshirt. Finally, she was able to pull on her clothing and wrap her cravat loosely around her neck before rising to her feet.
    “You are a lucky fellow,” said Shoffer, as he scraped lather from his face. “Your hair is so pale your night's growth barely shows. Or are you younger than I have guessed?”
    Millicent halted in her tracks, confused for a moment, then she raised her hand to her hairless cheeks. Fortunately, aside from the candle next to Shoffer's shaving mirror and the glow from the banked fireplace, there was little enough light in the room for her to be seen.
    “Well, sir?” said Shoffer. “Are you twenty at least?”
    “Really, such a thought,” said Millicent, as her heart began to beat again. “I am four and twenty and have been shaving for a decade. I shall tend to my whiskers once you have cleared the field.”
    Shoffer blinked at her, then down at the jug of hot water.
    “Oh. I do apologize. This was sent for you.”
    “Rank hath its privileges, Your Grace,” she said with a wave and hurried from the room.
    By the time Millicent returned from the privy, Shoffer was gone. Even though she did not shave, she kept a kit in her travel bag. Using the left over water from Shoffer’s shave, she ran the shaving brush over her soap and left enough foam in the cup to create the illusion of having shaved. After a quick breakfast in the kitchen, Millicent found herself in the forecourt shivering in her greatcoat as the sun struggled to make itself visible through a thick mist.
    “Wet Wales,” muttered Shoffer, as he wound a scarf over his face and pulled his hat down securely against the wind. He glanced toward the sky. “It will rain again within the hour.”
    “Not today,” said Mr. Prichart. “The wind is picking up. The clouds will stay, but there will be nothing more than water in the air.”
    “In other counties we call that ‘rain,’ Mr. Prichart,” quipped Shoffer, settling himself on a magnificent grey mare.
    Millicent, offered her choice of one of Shoffer's outriders’ mounts or one of Mr. Prichart's farm horses, requested the most placid mount available. The gathered men smirked at each other when an aged pony was brought out.
    “Will this do?” inquired Mr. Prichart innocently.
    Millicent examined the creature closely. “Have you nothing smaller?”
    “Oh, do get up, Mr. North,” said Shoffer, as the farmer and his workers chuckled. “The sooner we have viewed the property the sooner we can return to the fireside.”
    “Truly, I am not skilled with riding,” said Millicent, as she hauled herself into the masculine saddle. “I hope we do not have far to go.”
    “Unfortunately, no,” said Mr. Prichart.
    And so it proved. It was not necessary to ride more than a mile to find the reason Mr. Prichart had written to his landlord. Winter snow and rain, worse than any in living memory, had caused a nearby stream to break its