Rufus Drake: Duke of Wickedness. Carole Mortimer
course it could have been either of his two cousins, or perhaps their father, his paternal uncle, before them.
As the only child of the second son born to the previous, previous, previous Duke of Northampton, Rufus had not expected to ever hold the title himself. Except that Rufus’s own father had died shortly after he had been born, and unfortunately his uncle along with both his cousins had also perished in the past three years. The former to a seizure of the heart, his elder cousin to influenza, and the younger when he succumbed two days later to the injuries he had received at the battle of Waterloo.
Nor had either of his two cousins ever married and produced an heir. The elder because his inclinations ran in quite another direction, and he had refused to even contemplate the taking of a wife. The younger cousin, David, should have been married but had died before the wedding could take place.
Which had left Rufus, as the only Drake still alive, to inherit the Northamptonshire title and estates.
And damned irritating it was too, after all his years spent about Town as the infamous and rakish Mr Rufus Drake, the unashamedly vastly wealthy business entrepreneur. As the untitled third grandson of a duke, it had been required that Rufus provide his own fortune. Which, if he did say so himself, he had succeeded in doing exceedingly well, helped along by a small inheritance left to him by his maternal grandmother. He was now one of the wealthiest gentlemen in England.
His maternal cousin Zachary Black, the Duke of Hawksmere, had laughed uncontrollably when informed that Rufus was now the Duke of Northamptonshire. Mainly because Rufus had teased his cousin unmercifully over the years at Zachary’s certainty of inheriting their grandfather Black’s title, while Rufus could continue merrily on, free of such responsibilities.
Admittedly, Hawksmere, once that humour had passed, had then invited Rufus to be an honorary member of the Dangerous Dukes, an exclusive group of gentlemen consisting of Zachary and his four closest friends. As an aside to that honorary membership, Rufus had further been invited to join them as an agent for the Crown. Which was Rufus’s main reason for being in Northamptonshire at all.
Rufus had received a letter just days ago from Matthew Turner, the estate manager Rufus had personally hired the previous month to oversee the Banbury Hall estate, after receiving word that the previous estate manager, Jacob Harker, had absconded into the night. Turner had since discovered that Harker had also taken that month’s rents from Rufus’s tenants with him when he left, and suggested in his letter that perhaps Rufus might himself wish to look into the matter more fully himself.
Rufus had no interest in the pittance that had been stolen, but the previous estate manager’s sudden disappearance was now of deep interest to him after what he had learnt from his cousin Zachary a week or so ago.
It transpired that just weeks before the battle of Waterloo there had been a plot afoot to assassinate the Prince Regent, and so throw the country into chaos. It had been discovered that several government secretaries along with servants in prominent households in England had been involved in that plot.
Rufus had decided it was now incumbent upon him to look more closely into why his previous estate manager had absconded so suddenly and, if possible, ascertain as to whether or not he had been part of the ring of spies working against the Crown.
That being so, Rufus had risen very early yesterday morning, instructed his valet to pack up enough of his clothes for months, just in case, and to then travel to Northamptonshire by coach. Then Rufus had set off alone on horseback for his ducal estate.
He had travelled a long way yesterday, and the inn he had stayed at the previous night had been passable at best. After another overly warm morning of travel he had been tempted, upon arrival at his estate, to take a dip in the pool he remembered so affectionately from his visits there as a child.
This delay was partly because of the need to refresh himself, but also, he admitted, to a reluctance on his part to actually make his presence known at Banbury Hall for a while longer.
Was it possible the enticing nymph in the tree was the daughter of his new estate manager? He vaguely recalled that Turner had told him that he was widowed but had a daughter. Although what the age of that daughter might be, Rufus had not enquired; a month ago he had merely been relieved to pass on the onerous task of running Banbury Hall to someone other than himself.
The young lady perched so prettily above him certainly looked as if she might be that worthy gentleman’s daughter; whilst her gown was not of the finest quality, it was nevertheless modish in style, as was the set of her golden curls, and the cream leather boots were surely too fine to belong to a daughter of one of his tenants.
“May I enquire as to your name, miss?” he prompted huskily.
She looked slightly taken aback. “Are you not going to dress yourself first?”
Rufus held back a grin at her persistence in wishing to avoid looking at the nakedness of his chest. “Your name, miss?”
“I— It is— You may call me Juliet,” she announced grandly.
Rufus knew instinctively that there was something not quite right with that statement. Admittedly, the name was fitting, considering her place above him in the tree. But he was certainly not her, nor any woman’s, doting Romeo! “And is that actually your name?” he drawled sceptically.
“Well, not exactly,” she conceded. “But it is my middle name, and comes from—”
“I am well aware of where it comes from,” Rufus assured dryly. He was not a complete ignoramus; as the grandson of two dukes he had suffered through the requisite years at Eton and Oxford. The fact that this young lady also appeared to have received some education would seem to confirm Rufus’s earlier assumption that she might very well be the daughter of his new estate manager. “I would simply prefer to address you by your given name.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “It is nowhere near as pretty as Juliet.”
Rufus held back a smile, finding himself exceedingly—and surprisingly—diverted by this young woman. The long years he had spent in London, and just a month of holding the title of duke, had rendered him more than a little jaded where the female sex was concerned. “Nevertheless...”
“It is Anna.” She grimaced. “Plain, uninteresting Anna.”
There was nothing in the least plain or uninteresting about this woman. The opposite, in fact. She was beautiful, diverting, and her state of dishabille was having the most delicious effect upon Rufus’s libido.
“And might I also know your name, sir?”
Rufus had been grandly named after his two ducal grandfathers, his father and his mother’s brother, as Harold Algernon Edward Rufus Drake, but from birth had been known to the family and friends alike by the last of his illustrious names.
“Rufus.” He saw no sign of recognition of his name in her candid blue eyes. “Would you care to explain, Anna, why is it you are currently sitting up in that tree sans your stockings and boots if you were just strolling through the woods?”
* * *
Anna frowned her dismay, sensing, despite his politely enquiring expression, that he was somehow mocking her. And possibly with good reason, when she was indeed so scantily clad. He was also, Anna conceded, a gentleman more disturbing and handsome than she had ever encountered before.
Disturbing, because as an unmarried lady she had never before engaged in a conversation with a gentleman whilst he was dressed only his drawers. Indeed, she had never before seen a gentleman wearing only his drawers.
The skin of his bared torso was a warm olive-brown. His shoulders were broad, his chest and arms muscled. She observed with fascination the silky down of dark ebony that tapered down over his chest and stomach to disappear into the waistband of his drawers. She noted that his waist was lean and narrow above muscled thighs and legs.
From her position above him, Anna was also able to recognise that he was at least ten years older than her own twenty years, as well as exceedingly