Quicker than her stunned brain could process, he’d taken his cup of tea and stood by the window again, an enigma of a nobleman looking out into the boundless night.

Leah left the room, trying like hell to keep her head and to memorize every word he’d said. This was going to turn into an excellent play one day, she just knew it. Or maybe an action-RPG adventure. Or a romantic comedy.

Shakespeare had nothing on the star-crossedness of Leah and her duke.

Twelve

Avery descended the stairs in a fog. Picking up the sack of scraps Cook had left by the door, he slipped out into the now-chilly evening.

He didn’t bother glancing upward toward the stars as he trudged toward the hounds’ enclosure inside the stables. Even though he’d spent a long time praying for his freedom, he was convinced it would never come.

And, if he were honest with himself, what man who’d killed his mother deserved a better lot?

The heavy stable door swung closed behind him. A whinny of greeting sounded from the left side of the room, where the horses were kept, but he didn’t pause there. He continued through the building until he reached a largish pen, filled with about a score of hounds. They jumped up on the fencing, tails wagging in greeting.

He reached over the gate to pet one of the hounds.

“Evening, Russell.”

The sarcastic greeting, slurred from what was likely a bottle of cheap brandy, came from inside the tack room. Avery ignored it and doled out the scraps from the bag to the ravenous greyhounds. The excited yips and barks quieted as the dogs enjoyed their treats.

Tucking the empty sack into his pocket, Avery turned to leave. With any luck, he’d escape to his training room without further delay. The stable master was hardly one of his allies in the house, and he had no wish to be burdened by a discussion that could have no good effect.

“Off to the Houndstooth Tourney, I hear.” Lachlan Mackenzie sauntered toward Avery, stumbling ever so slightly.

With a deep, steadying breath, Avery replied, “As His Grace wishes.”

Mackenzie spat into the straw at Avery’s feet. Lifting one grizzled eyebrow, the older man smiled mockingly and closed the gap between them. Avery stood his ground, knowing that to back away would be to invite conflict.

“Well, our lord varlet, how about a demonstration of your talents?”

The fist flew at Avery’s face without warning. Relying on his years of fighting instincts, Avery ducked, spinning below the drunk man’s blow and throwing his fist upward. His knuckles connected with Mackenzie’s chin with a sharp crack, spittle flying at the force as the stable master stumbled backward and landed on his ass in the straw.

“You ruddy fool, you’ll pay for that,” Mackenzie slurred. Leaning on the hound pen’s wall, he tried to gain his feet. His legs failed him, buckling beneath him and dumping him at Avery’s feet.

Avery stared down at the drunken man, keeping his face pointedly blank. “Feel free to try again when you’re not too foxed to walk.” He shook out his hand and turned to walk away.

“Got your eye on that new maid, don’t you, Russell?”

Avery whirled at the pointed slur. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Mackenzie drew a hand across his mouth, leaving a bright red smear from his split lip. “Saw you walking with her. A pretty piece she is, all golden hair and smiles. She’ll make a good toss. I’ve a mind to show her how ta’ treat a man.” His vulgar laugh echoed against the ceiling beams.

Avery wasn’t sure how it had happened, but suddenly he had Mackenzie pinned up against the tack room door by the throat. The man’s pale brown eyes bugged out and he gagged, looking for all the world like a desperate toad. Which, Avery reasoned, was not far from the truth.

“Mark my words, Lachlan Mackenzie: that maid is none of your concern, nor mine. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head about her, or I’ll give you a sound thrashing that you won’t forget for many a fortnight to come. Understand?”

Mackenzie nodded, feet drumming against the stable door uselessly.

“Good.”

Avery let the stable master drop to the ground. Without another word, he left the horses, dogs, and drunkard behind for the relative privacy of his training room.

He tried like hell to empty his mind of all thoughts of Miss Ramsey as he removed his shirt for his exercise. With the soft light of the lantern, and the thin slivers of moonlight that shone through the high window, he could make out the pile of sand that his attackers had made of his last bag. Removing the mostly-empty sack, he replaced it with another and began the tedious job of scooping the sand into the fabric chute.

The repetitive motions did nothing to keep thoughts of Miss Ramsey at bay. He must think of something else, anything else.

His Aunt. Millie. She’d looked especially poor today.

Avery tightened his jaw as he watched the sand fall into the bag. Half full now.

The disease had been progressing faster these last few months. Surely the squalid conditions of her surroundings were of no assistance, but what could he do? With his wages from service and his winnings from the tourneys, it was all he could manage to keep her fed and in medicine.

The medicine.

He winced as he dropped the scoop back into its pail. The medicine that helped her also made her ill when she took it. But Leah had tried to help, and failing that, Leah had reached for his hand.

Damn and blast!

He swung at the bag and smiled inwardly at the stinging satisfaction of his knuckles. Miss Ramsey, not Leah. And she was none of his affair. None at all.

The bag creaked against the ropes as he pummeled it again.

His work this night would be most satisfying. He’d exorcise the demons in his head by punishing his body.

And wasn’t that just what he’d been doing his whole life?

* * *

The next day dawned bright and sunny, the perfect weather for a proper British party, Leah thought.

Well, maybe not the typical British weather, but beautiful anyway.

Leah tried to keep from yawning as she helped Cook load a basket full of her best scones. Apparently Mrs. Dearborn, the Granville House cook, was better at scone making than the Tunstall Place’s own kitchen mistress. And the dowager demanded the best for her events, as Leah had been reminded, oh, about a billion times since she’d descended the stairs in the pre-dawn hour.

“Ramsey, tuck that cloth around the scones, and then the footmen can take this basket. Do be careful, girl.”

Leah wasn’t exactly sure how she could screw this up, but she tucked the cloth carefully anyway. The kitchen around her was a maddening mix of rushing maids and steaming pots, the noise and mayhem almost like opening night of a musical. It was like everyone expected the queen herself to show up at this rout.

Leah frowned as she shut the basket. She knew there was a prince regent about now, but was there a queen? She wasn’t sure. Renaissance history she was much clearer on, but nineteenth century? Not so much. She couldn’t remember one being mentioned in any of her favorite books placed during this time. She’d have to ask Avery later.

“Don’t dawdle, Ramsey, you must hurry. The carriages are leaving in a moment. Take that hamper.” Mrs. Harper’s hands fluttered like deranged hummingbirds as she shooed Leah toward the door.

Toting the basket, Leah hummed under her breath as she reached the fresh air and sunlight outside. The chaos she’d just left seemed far away, and she took a grateful, cleansing breath. Man, she’d needed that.

“Good morning, Ramsey.”

A deep voice behind her made her jump. She turned to find out who’d spoken.

“Hello,” she said, smiling politely to the stranger. “Do I know you?”

“No’ yet,” he said in the lightest trace of a brogue. “But I’d like to remedy that. I’m Lachlan Mackenzie, the stable master. May I take your hamper to the carriage?”

Leah smiled. What a gentleman. Her head tilted in the beginning of a grateful nod when the basket was lifted from her hands.

“I’ll take it. Get into the carriage.”

Leah wheeled on Avery, who now held the basket. Around the handle, his scarred knuckles were white with tension.

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. Is there a problem?” She glared at him, digging her toe into the gravel.

He leaned close to her as the Scotsman gave a mocking smile. Avery hissed the words into her ear. “Get into the carriage, and do not argue with me.”

Mrs. Harper opened the door to the area, stifling Leah’s retort. Ooooh, Avery was so going to freaking get it later. Glowering at him, Leah turned on her heel and half stomped to the plain black carriage that stood waiting outside the area.

What was Avery’s deal, anyway? The stable master had been nice to her. He definitely hadn’t been as macho-chest-beaty as Avery had. Avery was almost acting possessive of her.

That thought nearly made her trip on a cobblestone. Avery didn’t feel that way about her, did he? In a fog, she climbed into the carriage and reluctantly took the empty seat beside Henrietta. A knot started in her stomach, tension and nausea combined. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given any indication he was interested in pursuing her. And on that somewhat awkward subject, what was she feeling for him?

She looked down at her gloved hands. She was here for the duke, wasn’t she?

“Sara,” Henrietta said loudly. Leah tossed a hard glance sideways at the little devil maid, her bullshit-alarm throwing off some huge signals.