Chapter 1

Madeline watched in helpless despair as her friend Lady Charity Manners was led away on the capable arm of Viscount Wilton so Charity's twisted ankle could be attended by a doctor. Across a gently rolling Yorkshire field they went, the sky a brilliant blue overhead, dotted with fat, puffy clouds. The perfect, bucolic scenery was distinctly different from the massive buildings and bustling streets of Manhattan. At any other moment, Madeline might have admired the beautiful pastoral landscape of Sherborne Manor, so unlike her home in New York City.

But this moment was not an ordinary moment. Because now, Madeline was alone with the towering man at her side.

"Ye dinnae care for my presence much, do ye, lass?" he asked, his Scottish burr seemingly more pronounced than ever.

And despite her intention to remain impervious, his low, deep voice slid over her like silk velvet.

Vexed, Madeline turned her attention back to Mr. Lachlan Macfie. He was not just impossibly tall, but broad of chest and shoulder too, a massive mountain of a man who was brash and disturbingly attractive, with eyes bluer than the sky and red-gold hair worn in waves that curled over his tweed coat beneath a dashing hat. He made her stomach tighten with a familiar, tingling feeling she knew to ward off whenever it arrived.

"Why do you call me lass?" she asked sharply.

He grinned, and the dreaded feeling returned, because that carefree sinner's smile had a most unwanted effect on her. "What else am I tae call ye?"

"Miss Chartrand." She kept her tone icy, for she recognized his sort.

Mr. Lachlan Macfie was a fortune hunter if ever she had spied one. And Miss Madeline Chartrand, daughter of one of the wealthiest men in New York City, had most certainly seen more than her fair share of fortune hunters.

Oh, he dressed the part of a gentleman quite well, aside from his brilliant hair, which was far too long to be fashionable. But all scoundrels in search of an heiress for a wife made certain to look the part. Otherwise, their schemes wouldn't be successful. They were like foxes slipping into the henhouse, greedy and dangerous.

"Miss Chartrand," he repeated, still staring at her in a way that made heat rise to her cheeks.

It was his blasted accent that affected her most, she decided. That and his height. He was a veritable giant. As a woman who was on the taller side herself, Madeline found it refreshing to converse with a man whose height surpassed hers by such a significant amount. To say nothing of the power hidden beneath his fine garments. He looked as if he were strong enough to tear a tree from the ground, roots and all, and then carry it over his shoulder like a twig.

Or to swing Madeline into his arms and whisk her away. But she didn't want that. Of course she didn't. Mr. Macfie was a fortune-hunting scoundrel.

"You should have carried Lady Charity back to the house," Madeline told Mr. Macfie, her voice curt. "You're larger and stronger than the viscount."

Rather than being duly chastened, however, Mr. Macfie's grin deepened. "I'm gratified ye noticed how strong I am, Miss Chartrand. However, I tried my best. Truth be told, I dinnae think Wilton wanted me tae carry his lady."

"His lady?" Madeline frowned, looking away.

He made her want to smile back at him.

Made her want to do more than that, in truth. Many things. Wicked things. Reckless things. Things that were foolish and stupid and would land her in a host of trouble. Which was why she couldn't afford to be alone with the man. Her own instincts weren't to be trusted. Her past attested to that; she'd nearly been duped by a silver-tongued confidence man with a beautiful smile and a penchant for saying everything she wanted to hear. She'd learned, almost too late, his true motive—not love for her as he had claimed, but an avaricious desire for her family's money.

"Aye, did ye no' notice the way he looks at her?" Mr. Macfie was saying, the words rolling from his tongue as if each syllable was a lover he caressed. "When I offered tae take her back tae the house myself, I feared Wilton would bite me like a mongrel fighting over a bone."

"That analogy is hardly complimentary to either Lord Wilton or Lady Charity." She watched the viscount and her friend disappearing into a copse of trees, wondering if she ought to chase them.

Anything to keep from being alone with the man at her side.

"'Twas a saying of my dear sainted mother's. Forgive me. I didnae intend tae pay insult."

Madeline slanted another glance in his direction to find him watching her, his good humor fading. His legs were so long, his shoulders impossibly broad. She suspected he could carry three Lady Charitys across the field without even perspiring. The muscles beneath his tweed coat were pronounced and distinctive. She found herself wondering what they would feel like, so much barely leashed strength beneath her hands.

And then she promptly banished the curiosity, for it would only lead her down a perilous road. Handsome fortune seekers were not for her. She reminded herself of their initial meeting, when Mr. Macfie had stepped on her train and spilled champagne on her silk dress. He had known who she was. He'd crowded her with his big, brawny body, heat radiating from him beneath the blazing chandeliers and making her feel quivery and faint from his proximity. He had told her she was the bonniest lass in attendance with a familiarity that had made her pulse leap.

All reasons to dislike him.

"You are forgiven the slight," she allowed reluctantly, then sighed. "Perhaps we should follow them. There's no need for a picnic now that Lady Charity has injured herself, and there's likely far too much food in the picnic hamper for two."

It didn't escape her notice that she now found herself in the sort of indecorous predicament a confidence man would take advantage of. Just herself and Mr. Macfie.

Alone.

A frisson of something wholly unwanted trilled down her spine.

And then her stupid, traitorous stomach grumbled loudly and rudely.

She pressed a hand to her middle, mortified by the noise. Mr. Macfie laughed, the sound pleasing and low.

"It seems as if yer stomach disagrees, Miss Chartrand." He offered her his arm. "Come. We're almost tae the picnic spot I had in mind. Ye'll ken why I chose it when ye see it."

Madeline glared at his elbow, not wanting to take his arm, not wanting to accompany him a step farther. But she was hungry, her stomach reminded her with another protesting grumble. And besides, she was impervious to the devilish charm of fortune hunters. She had learned her lesson. She could endure one picnic with Mr. Lachlan Macfie unscathed.

With great reluctance, she settled her hand on his tweed coat. "Very well, Mr. Macfie. I suppose we may as well eat before we return."

What could be the harm?

Mr. Macfie smiled down at her. "Ye'll no' regret it, Miss Chartrand. That I promise ye."

As they continued up the hillside, a breeze carrying his masculine scent to her, Madeline couldn't shake the ominous feeling that she would.

If Lachlan Macfie knew anything,it was that persuasion was always rendered easiest on a sated stomach. And that a man should never go swimming in a loch that was known for leeches. Aye, the latter was a lesson he'd learned the painful way. But it was best not to think about those wee bastards clinging to his cock, which he'd discovered in horror after finishing that ill-fated swim. His puir prick wanted to wilt and hide at the mere thought.

Which, given the state of his rampant cock whenever Miss Madeline Chartrand was in the vicinity, was probably not a bad thing at all. Because while he had a proposition for the bonny American heiress, he was decidedly keeping his prick out of it.

She was comelier than he would have preferred for his future wife. That was a temptation he surely didn't need, as he fully intended to upkeep the vow of celibacy he'd made to himself years ago. But when was he going to find another American heiress whose papa was richer than Croesus? He was running out of time, and Miss Madeline Chartrand's appearance at this house party he was attending with his friend and employer Elijah Decker had been the boon he'd been praying for ever since the cursed dukedom had fallen onto his head.

He stretched the counterpane he'd commandeered for the purpose of this blasted picnic over the ground.

Her soft voice interrupted his musings. "The wind is going to carry it away."

Lachlan was tall. Och, fair enough, he was a bloody mountain. But at the moment, he was hunched over, attempting to straighten out the blanket across the grass so that Miss Chartrand wouldn't sully her silk skirts. Which meant he had to glance up at her, craning his neck.

The sun silhouetted her form, blotted out by her dashing, flower-bedecked hat, emphasizing her lithe height and wasp waist. Her eyes were on him.

"It isnae windy," he told her, somewhat nettled that she was overseeing his progress like a mistress peering closely at her domestics as they labored beneath her lofty nose.

And then, as if to make a mockery of him, a gust of wind promptly blew the counterpane up so that it folded itself in half, ruining his efforts thus far.

"Hmm," she hummed, a noncommittal sound that bore a hint of suppressed amusement.

He scowled at the recalcitrant coverlet and then flicked a glance back in Miss Chartrand's direction. "Have ye something tae say, lass?"

"I do, in fact," she said coolly.

The airs of a queen, this one. The Americans were a peculiar lot.

"Aye?" he prompted when she didn't finish.

Miss Chartrand cocked her head, regarding him with the aloof, unaffected gaze of a lady who knew her worth—and he liked that about her, her singular, boundless confidence.

"You're calling me lass again."

Well, then, she'd rather caught him on that front. Miss Madeline Chartrand didn't like his familiarity. He'd been hoping she might soften toward him, rather like cold butter in the sun. Most of the lasses in his acquaintance found his unapologetic personality charming. This one was different. And mayhap that was what had drawn him to her, before he'd realized she was a hideously wealthy heiress and the answer to the most unexpected, unwanted, terrifying problem he'd faced in his life thus far. Aside from Rose, that was.

"An old habit of mine," he said lightly as he flipped the other half of the counterpane back down, moving the picnic hamper to pin it in place. "I beg yer forgiveness."

"You don't sound particularly apologetic."

Her astute observation had him hiding his smile as he smoothed the wrinkles from the coverlet. "I'm a Scot."

"Your geographical affiliation renders you incapable of contrition?" she asked tartly.

She challenged him, Miss Madeline Chartrand. And Lachlan admired her for it.

"Aye," he lied brightly. "It does."

"Hmm," she said again.

"An American word?" he teased, straightening to his full height.

He towered over her again, but Miss Madeline was tall in her own right. He liked that about her, too. And he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't thought about those long legs of hers wrapped around him more than once.

But he couldn't afford to think with any head other than the one squarely settled upon his shoulders.

"An American sound that means I don't believe you."

"Ah." He winked. "I'll have tae remember it, Miss Chartrand. All the better for our future conversations."

Her brows snapped together, and by the rood, even when she frowned at him with icy disapproval, she was lovely.

"I can't imagine we'll be having many conversations, Mr. Macfie. This house party is soon at an end."

All the more reason for him to make haste and persuade her to see the wisdom of his bargain.

He gestured toward the counterpane instead of commenting on her assertion. "Would ye care tae sit so we can fill that angry stomach of yers?"

Her blistering glare suggested her stomach wasn't the only part of her that was feeling fractious. "You do have a way with words, sir."

The manner in which she stated the observation made it clear she wasn't offering him a compliment. But never mind that. Lachlan offered her his hand to assist her in seating herself with grace—no easy feat, given the cumbersome bustle of her promenade dress. Her toilette was more suited to a ballroom than a walk through the rolling countryside of Yorkshire, but that was likely the aegis of her title-seeking mother and not the lady herself.

"I'm a Scot," he said again, as if it were an explanation for everything.

And in Lachlan's opinion, it may as well have been.

"I wouldn't have known," Miss Chartrand said dryly, taking his hand and lowering herself with unparalleled elegance to the waiting counterpane.

He caught a hint of her perfume. Roses, he thought, and something else. Lachlan inhaled discreetly, savoring that feminine scent as a fresh burst of wind carried it to him on the air. He immediately thought better of the action. Och, he was scenting her like a hound. If he intended to charm her into accepting his bargain, he was going to have to be a gentleman.

A predicament, that.

Despite the unfortunate inheritance that had recently been foisted upon him against his will, Lachlan Macfie had never been a gentleman. Now, he was a damned duke. But that remained his secret aside from his inner circle. Guarded. Kept close, like an enemy that might stab him in the back at any moment.

When Miss Chartrand had herself settled, she released his hand as if it were a snake threatening to strike. Lachlan tried not to take too much offense at her reaction to him. He would earn her trust and make amends for the champagne incident. He'd simply have to charm the drawers off her.

Well, not literally. She could keep her drawers. Lachlan didn't even want to think about them, let alone touch them.

Clearing his throat, he took himself to the opposite end of the coverlet, a respectable distance away from her, and settled on it. By the time he was comfortable, however, it was more than apparent that his size meant he was monopolizing nearly half the blanket. If Lady Charity and Viscount Wilton had remained, there likely wouldn't have been sufficient room for both of them to sit.

It would seem that the lady's inauspicious fall had been a boon. Lord Wilton could press his suit as he escorted Lady Charity back to the manor house, and Lachlan wouldn't look a fool for bringing a coverlet that was too damned small to a picnic. With any luck, Miss Chartrand wouldn't take note of it.

"This counterpane is scarcely large enough for a picnic for four," she observed grimly, dashing all such hope.

He smiled at her. "Fortunately, it's just the right size for a picnic for two."

Her eyes narrowed, and he couldn't help but take note of the color of them—dark gray. Cool and lovely, just like the rest of her. Only, he suspected that just beneath that frosty veneer hid a great deal of fire. He'd never learn whether there was, of course. That was how he preferred it. How he needed it to be.

"I'm not certain if this is the result of poor planning on your part or if you somehow orchestrated this entire affair," Miss Chartrand said.

"I'm wounded." He pressed a hand to his heart, still smiling even though he suspected his levity would nettle her. "Do ye truly believe I would wish for anything ill tae befall Lady Charity? Besides, I was leading the way, if ye'll recall. How can I be responsible for the lady's fall when I wasnae anywhere near? Do ye think me a wizard, lass?"

He had called her lass again. Damn it, he hadn't intended to, but it rolled off his tongue so easily. He didn't ordinarily mix with polite society. Since he'd left Scotland, he had taken care to keep himself in simple circles, amongst men who worked to earn their living. Men like him. Like Elijah Decker. He didn't attend house parties and darken ballrooms with his overly large, red-headed presence. He'd never had a need. Not after Rose.

Miss Chartrand's eyes narrowed even more, attracting his attention. "I can't fathom a wizard as tall and broad as you."

"I'll consider that a compliment."

Trying not to chuckle lest he further inflame Miss Chartrand's delicate sensibilities, Lachlan bit his inner cheek and turned his attention to the picnic hamper. He unpacked plates, utensils, tumblers, a bottle each of ginger beer and lemonade, and serviettes. Next came the simple fare. A joint of cold roast beef, sliced Bayonne ham, freshly baked bread, butter and cheese, stewed fruit, strawberries, pastry biscuits, and a salad.

"It looks as if you meant to feed an army, Mr. Macfie," she observed.

"Little wonder the blessed thing was so heavy," he agreed, thinking the chef must have packed enough food for twice as many guests as he'd originally intended for this picnic. And now, their numbers had halved. "I hope ye're hungry, Miss Chartrand."

There, he hadn't called her lass that time. She gave no indication of whether she was pleased by the omission.

"Eager to begin our repast," she allowed, her tone suggesting even that concession had been grudging.

Lachlan retrieved the bottles of lemonade and ginger beer. "Which would ye prefer?"

"Ginger beer, please," she said primly.

"An excellent choice," Lachlan agreed easily. "Far more tae my own taste than the lemonade."

He opened the bottle and poured a generous measure into her tumbler before handing it to her. Miss Chartrand accepted it warily, her fingers brushing his. She'd removed her gloves in preparation for the picnic, and they lay neatly at her side on the counterpane. A strange sense of awareness slid through him at the contact, brief though it was. She snatched the ginger beer away with such haste that she nearly sent it sloshing over the rim of her tumbler.

Miss Chartrand had felt it too.

And she didn't like it any more than he did.

Och, well. Touching each other wasn't part of the bargain, so he needn't worry over it. Lachlan busied himself with pouring another ginger beer before settling it on a flat spot so that it wouldn't overturn and soak the blanket.

"Tell me something about yerself, Miss Chartrand," he invited as he further unpacked the provisions and took up a plate.

"Tell you something?"

"Aye. About yerself."

She eyed him as if he'd asked her to speak in an as-yet-to-be-invented language.

"Doesnae anyone ever ask ye tae do so?" he asked, frowning.

"Not gentlemen," she said, her tone thoughtful.

"There ye have it, lassie. I'm no' a gentleman." He speared a hunk of ham with a delicate fork and plopped it on the plate.

"I believe that's the salad fork." Miss Chartrand eyed his actions skeptically.

"Aye, mayhap it is. I thought it was verra small, but then when ye have paws as large as mine, everything is small."

He'd long since grown accustomed to the feeling that he was too large and too brutish for his surroundings. He'd simply accepted himself, such as he was: a red-haired, brawny Scot who'd never learned to hold his tongue and had more muscle than wits.

Lachlan carried on using the stupidly small fork, skewering a slice of roast beef and adding it to the plate. Next, he procured some cheese and a pastry biscuit, which he slathered with stewed fruit using a spoon that was probably also incorrect. He didn't care—ceremony wasn't for him. And the sooner Miss Chartrand learned that about him, and accepted it, the better off they'd both be.

"You've worked up an appetite," she said while he piled some fresh strawberries on the plate.

He was making a mess of it, but the sooner he had her stomach full, the sweeter she'd be. And the more amenable to his proposal.

He smiled, offering her the overflowing plate. "This isnae for me. It's for ye, Miss Chartrand."

Her eyebrows rose. "Oh dear. All that is for me? You might have asked me what I prefer."

She certainly did like taking him to task. Lachlan didn't particularly care for that. But perhaps it was an American character flaw, one which could be rectified with time and patience.

"Aye, or I could have given ye some of everything, which I've done. Except for the salad. I didnae have room for that. But the cook has given us this wee bottle of dressing, and I confess I'm partial tae lettuce. I'll just make up a second plate."

His own stomach grumbled at the prospect. The Duke and Duchess of Bradford's cook certainly knew how to craft delicious food. And Lachlan had just tramped halfway across the estate in his effort to reach the perfect spot for a picnic.

"A second plate?"

"Aye, ye ken, the one that comes after the first?" He found an angry-looking fork that was larger than the rest and used it to stab some neatly trimmed pieces of lettuce. Teasing Miss Chartrand was an excellent source of entertainment, but he mustn't grow to like her too much. That was dangerous.

"I'm well aware what the word second means, Mr. Macfie." Her tone was sharp again.

He took up the bottle of dressing, gave it a shake, and liberally doused her lettuce with the concoction, his mouth watering. "Merely thought tae enlighten ye, lest it was a word unfamiliar tae Americans."

"I'm reasonably certain we speak the same language." She was frowning at him again, watching him with those unusual eyes that were fringed with long, sooty lashes.

Too comely by half.

He'd best think about salad instead.

Lachlan offered her the plate of dressed lettuces. "Here ye are, Miss Chartrand."

She accepted it, settled the plate beside the first, and watched him. "Thank you."

"Now, then." He took up another plate and filled it with salad for himself. "Ye never did answer my question. Tell me something about yerself. What brought ye tae England?"

"My mother." Miss Chartrand raised her tumbler of ginger beer to her lips and took a sip. "This is quite delightful."

Lachlan knew that Mrs. William Chartrand was the reason behind her two daughters' entrance into polite society. He also knew the ginger beer was excellent; he'd been sneaking into the kitchens to beg for an extra bottle here or there whenever he could.

"Ye didnae wish tae leave America, then?" Lachlan asked before taking a long draught of his own ginger beer.

He hadn't pondered that possibility when he had settled upon his plan. The thought that Madeline Chartrand might not be amenable to remaining abroad gave him cause for alarm. He was reasonably certain he could charm the lass into his bargain, even if she was a prickly thing. But if her heart remained in New York City, the challenge would be greater than he'd anticipated.

"I didn't say that," she murmured, settling her tumbler back on the counterpane. "But my mother is the reason my sister and I are here in England. It's her most fervent wish to make aristocratic matches for us."

Lachlan took up his salad plate, unable to resist the potent lure of leafy greens and herbs drenched in the cook's decadent dressing. "It seems yer sister has made a match that will please yer mother mightily."

Miss Chartrand smiled wistfully. "Mother is quite happy for Lucy to be engaged to Lord Rexingham, even if he is a mere earl. She was hoping for a duke, you see. My mother, that is, not my sister."

The mouthful of salad he'd just taken was a thing to be savored. Crisp and bright, refreshing and summery, tinged with the acidic tang of vinegar and a hint of sweetness. Bliss. Lachlan could have consumed the entire bowl of salad himself.

But he had more important matters to attend to.

He swallowed. "Is yer mother still hoping for a duke for ye?"

Miss Chartrand shook her head, taking a ripe red strawberry from her plate. "I should hardly think so. I've told her I have no intention of marrying."

"And why no'?" Lachlan took another bite of salad, awaiting her answer.

She nipped the very tip of her berry.

Unwanted lust reared its head inside Lachlan. There was something blatantly erotic about Miss Madeline Chartrand taking a ripe strawberry between her lips. She chewed thoughtfully, gathering her answer. He shoveled another bite of salad into his mouth to distract himself.

"Because I enjoy my independence," she announced. "Who would wish for a man to rule over them? Certainly not any woman with half her wits about her."

Her view of marriage was alarmingly grim.

"Not all men seek tae rule over their wives, as ye say," he pointed out gently. "Some men wish for equal partners."

"Ha!" She gave a bitter laugh. "Women can never be men's equals when we're denied the same rights that are bestowed upon them at birth."

She wasn't wrong, Miss Madeline Chartrand. Respect for her filled his chest with a strange tightness. He'd only known one other lass with such a strong opinion and a bold manner of speaking. But Rose didn't belong in his thoughts. She hadn't for years now. That part of his life was long gone, even if it was the reason he wanted a marriage in name only.

"A man cannae help the laws of the land, though he can try tae change them, but he can help the way he treats his wife," Lachlan offered.

Miss Chartrand had slipped the rest of her berry in her mouth. She finished chewing carefully. "That is quite egalitarian of you, Mr. Macfie. But also, I think, fanciful. A man can say anything he wishes before he marries. Afterward, he can change his mind, and a woman is powerless to stop him from doing whatever he likes."

"I'm a businessman, Miss Chartrand. When in doubt, always have a contract in place." Aye, he'd learned that from his years working for Decker. Along with many other lessons.

Unfortunately, none of them had involved how to be a duke. And he hadn't an inkling.

"A marriage contract, you mean?" she asked, reaching for another strawberry.

Lachlan had finished his salad, but there remained a generous portion left over, and Miss Chartrand had yet to touch hers. "Would ye care for more salad?"

Her lips twitched, as if she suppressed a smile. "No, thank you. You may finish it."

He was already using that wicked-looking fork to haul the remainder of the lettuce and herbs to his plate. "Aye, a marriage contract. No different from a business agreement, if ye think on it."

She considered him, chewing on her strawberry. "You sound like my father."

He didn't want any romantic notions between them, but neither did Lachlan want Miss Chartrand to equate him with her sire.

"Och, I'm not so auld as that," he protested after swallowing his salad and chasing it with a refreshing sip of ginger beer.

"How old are you, Mr. Macfie?" she asked.

It was the first question she'd asked him about himself, and he was ridiculously pleased by it.

"Thirty-two," he answered. "And ye, Miss Chartrand?"

"Twenty-seven."

They were only five years apart in age. He hadn't been certain, and not that it mattered overly much, but he did prefer a lass who wasn't too terribly young. The mere thought of an eighteen-year-old debutante made him want to jump into the nearest loch, leeches or no.

"I suppose it's time I apologized again about the damage I did tae yer train," he offered.

She studied him for a moment, her gaze unnerving. "You're forgiven, Mr. Macfie. My maid was able to clean the silk."

Bless her clever maid.

He finished the last bite of his salad, savoring it on his tongue before swallowing. "Thank ye for pardoning me. I'd hate tae swing from the gibbets on account of trying tae protect ye from a sneeze."

She'd taken up her plate now, apparently deciding that her pride would allow her to fully partake in the repast. "Protecting me from a sneeze, you say?"

"Aye." He leaned nearer as if he were imparting a secret. "My sneezes are as large as the rest of me. Ye'd no' have wanted tae be standing near when one came upon me. I was moving hastily tae try tae spare ye, and I spilled my champagne."

"I didn't hear a sneeze."

He grinned easily. "Aye, ye didnae. I was so horrified by ruining yer train that the sneeze disappeared."

She chuckled before compressing her lips as if she were aggrieved with herself for surrendering to levity. "I do believe you're the most interesting man I've ever met, Mr. Macfie."

Her tone suggested that wasn't a compliment.

He didn't care.

Lachlan retrieved his ginger beer and raised the tumbler to her in a toast. "Then mayhap ye'll do me the honor of becoming my wife."

Miss Madeline Chartrand's fork clattered to her plate.