Chapter 2

"What kind of a man would turn away a woman in need? A woman throwing herself on his mercy with no protection?"

The Duke of Rottdwell leaned forward, his sharp ears picking up the commotion. Then, he heard the creak of the opening door, followed by the low murmur of Ben's scratchy old voice. Someone with a much softer, higher voice which made Andrew freeze in surprise as he strained to hear it more clearly.

A woman.

And judging by the two sets of footsteps that now moved back down the hall below him, Ben had allowed her to come in.

The Duke of Rottdwell was doing nothing in particular when he had heard the first knock — or the bang, more like — on his front door. Andrew was used to sitting in solitude of an evening, nursing the single glass of brandy he allowed himself each night for fear he might fall victim to the demon drink like his father had before him. He was not, however, used to hearing a knock on his door.

Other than the Marquess, who would drop by from time to time when he wasn't in town for the Season, Andrew had welcomed precisely no visitors since his self-imposed exile began, and he had come to believe things would continue this way indefinitely. Quite possibly forever, in fact. So, when the pounding on the door started up again, he wondered at first if he might be imagining it.

No, it had indeed been there: a frantic knocking as if someone outside was in need of help – a woman in need of help.

Andrew ran a hand through his dark hair in confusion.

What does it mean? What lady would come to this door after dark? Or at all, for that matter? And who is she?

The last question, however, seemed destined to go unanswered. Andrew braced himself for the knock on his own door which, he assumed, would be Ben bringing the visitor to speak with him, but the voices remained below stairs, the female one rising steadily in what sounded suspiciously like an argument.

Enough is enough. I must know what this is.

With a last look at the roaring fire, which he had thought to be his only companion tonight, Andrew set his glass down on a side table and left the room, his shoulders squared and his head held high.

I may be a pariah, but I am still the Duke of Rottdwell and the owner of this manor. And I will have answers to the meaning behind this intrusion.

The voices were coming from the drawing room, the fire of which Ben insisted on keeping lit, even though there was no one to withdraw to the room in question anymore. The door was slightly ajar, and as Andrew paused outside it, he saw the stooped figure of his butler, far too old to still be in service but determined to carry on regardless, standing by the fire while a voice from some unseen corner of the room continued to rail at him.

"It's dark outside! And cold. You have a fire here and a roof. An ill-repaired and decrepit one, to be sure, but beggars cannot be choosers, and I beg of you, please fetch your master, and ask him to relent and allow me to stay. Please."

Andrew's dark eyebrows raised in surprise.

My roof is ‘ill-repaired' and ‘decrepit', is it? Well, I suppose it is. But what kind of lady would dare make such an observation while asking for shelter beneath the very roof she holds in such disdain?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, there was a sudden movement behind the door, and the speaker stepped into view. Her back was to the door, so he could not see her face, but Andrew took in the shapely figure and narrow waist, the pale blue dress that was damp from the rain, and the shiny brown curls which had escaped her hairpins and tumbled riotously down her back.

Without seeing her face, it was hard to judge her age, but Andrew estimated her to be no more than five-and-twenty. And angry. Very, very angry.

"As I told you, Miss Sullivan, His Grace does not allow visitors of any kind. His instructions are most clear on this. You may warm yourself by the fire, but then I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

Ben's words were spoken kindly enough, but the young woman with the tumbling brown curls was having none of it.

"No visitors? What tosh. I've never heard anything so ridiculous. In any case, I'm not a visitor. Well, not exactly. This isn't a social call. I don't wish to speak with His Grace, whoever he may be. I just need a place to shelter for the night. For me and for my horse."

Miss Sullivan? Do I know her? Why is she here?

Andrew frowned, racking his brain to find a connection and finding none. He did not know any Sullivans, he was sure of it.

"I'm sorry, Madam, but…"

Ben started to speak, but his words were cut off immediately by the firebrand in the blue dress.

"What kind of a man must he be to turn away a lady in need of help?" she said, her voice continuing to rise. "What kind of a beast turns anyone away?"

Andrew had heard enough.

"The kind of beast who doesn't appreciate having his peace disturbed by shrieking women who invade his home at nightfall and then refuse to leave," he growled, pushing open the door and stepping forward at last. "Now what's the meaning of this ruckus? Who are you and what's your business here?"

She whirled around to face him, her large blue eyes wide under long, dark lashes. She had delicate features framed by high cheekbones and finished off with a small, rosebud mouth which was currently pouting in annoyance. Her cheeks were rosy with anger, her complexion pale and flawless, like a portrait.

She was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing Andrew had ever seen.

And she was furious.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," she said, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing him with an icy glare, "but I hardly ‘invaded' your home. I simply knocked on the door and asked your butler here for shelter. Which he tells me you will doubtless refuse."

"And you are?"

Andrew had already heard Ben speak her name, but her voice, even when raised in anger, was low and musical, and he wanted to hear more of it.

"I am Miss Marian Sullivan, daughter of Baron Sullivan," she said haughtily. "I set out for a ride earlier today, and I became lost in the forest. I saw a light in your window, and as this appeared to be the only place around for miles, I saw no option but to ask for shelter."

She tossed her hair back behind her shoulder and looked him firmly in the eye. Andrew suppressed a smile. He couldn't help but admire her spirit. He had never met a woman quite like her, and back in his London days, he had met more than his fair share.

It's just unfortunate that that spirit of hers is about to be broken.

He looked at her with suspicion.

"I don't believe you," he said at last. "No lady of my acquaintance would ride out alone, especially at this hour. Why are you really here? Is it to spy on me? Is that it?"

"Good Lord," exclaimed Marian hotly. "Such suspicion. For your information, Sir, I did not plan to be out at this hour. I've been riding all afternoon as it happens. As for spying, I've never heard anything so preposterous in my life."

She just managed to stop short of stamping her foot in disgust, and Andrew once again found himself admiring her courage in standing up to him. Few women of her class — and although her clothes were old and worn, he could see she was a woman of high blood — would have dared to even speak to him, let alone try to put him in his place.

That's just because she has no idea who I am, though.

"And why were you alone?"

Marian hesitated, and something like shame crossed her eyes. Andrew could not regret the question because he wanted to know the answer, but he did regret the embarrassment it seemed to cause her.

"There is no one to chaperone me," she said stiffly, recovering herself. "Or not unless you count Mrs. Grant, who I'm sure would squeal with terror if a horse so much as looked at her. So, I ride out alone, and I've never had to regret that decision until now, when faced with such hostility and suspicion."

"I'm sure you will regret it even more," Andrew said softly, "when you realize whose house this is. Who I am."

Marian's gaze faltered — just for a moment, but he still saw it.

Time for me to regain the upper hand.

"Leave us, please," he told the butler, nodding towards the door. "You might bring some clothes for the lady to change into. Her gown looks damp."

The old man obeyed, hesitating briefly on the threshold as if struggling with his conscience before obeying his master's order and closing the door firmly behind him.

"Now we're alone," said the Duke pleasantly. "I think it's time you and I became better acquainted, don't you?"

The fire in the grate made the room warm, but Marian shivered as the butler disappeared, leaving her alone with a man she did not know for the first time in her young life.

It was not right that he had left them unchaperoned; she knew that.

Then again, it's not exactly ‘right' that I arrived at his door in the dark, wearing just a thin day dress with no cloak and without a female companion.

She shivered again, her damp gown clinging to her uncomfortably. The man standing in front of her, blocking the only door in the room, was tall and dark, his hair a little too long to be fashionable, and his blue eyes set in a face which, under other circumstances, she might have viewed as handsome.

It was the scar that drew her attention, though.

Running from his left ear to his eyebrow, which it cut cleanly across, and running dangerously close to the eye, it was clearly not a new wound, but nevertheless, the thought of how it might have come to be there made her anger fade to fear.

How I wish I hadn't knocked on this door. I'd rather have slept in a stable than be alone in this room with a man who appears to be no stranger to violence.

"Well?"

Her voice rang out in the quiet room, surprising her.

"You were about to tell me who you are?" she prompted, speaking with a confidence she didn't feel.

"I'm surprised you haven't guessed," came the reply. "I'm led to believe I'm somewhat notorious around these parts."

He spoke softly, but there was an underlying sadness to his words that piqued Marian's curiosity.

What can he have done to have left such sadness in his eyes?

She looked at him from under her lashes as he stood, arms crossed, in front of the door. His height and general bulk made him threatening, yes, but something about him intrigued her in spite of herself. Then there was the question of his looks. His hair was too long, and his clothing carelessly unkempt, but there was no denying his rough beauty. The few suitors she'd had thus far had been mere boys: soft and somehow unformed in comparison to this man with his finely chiseled face and his muscular frame.

Marian's heart fluttered treacherously. She told herself it was probably from fear.

"I can assure you, Sir, your reputation, whatever it may be, is of no interest to me," she said quickly. "I only wish to find shelter for the night, and then, I'll be on my way as soon as it's light."

Or sooner, if I can possibly manage it.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he replied, sounding almost sad. "I'm afraid that as soon as you hear my name, you'll wish you were anywhere but here."

Marian was already wishing that, but her curiosity was piqued in spite of herself. She held her breath as she waited for him to continue.

"Andrew Rueford, Duke of Rottdwell," he introduced, giving her a small, formal bow. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."