To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield

Published By:

Bronwen Evans

Copyright © 2012 Bronwen Evans

Discover other works by Bronwen Evans

At

www.bronwenevans.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 
ISBN ePub: 978-0-473-20679-9

ISBN Mobi/Kindle: 978-0-473-20679-6

To my twin sister Leigh Kaye.

Thanks for telling it like it is, and for taking an interest in my work.
 

Chapter One

Shropshire, England, May 1821

“If you’re going to point that delectable rump at a man you’re asking for trouble.”

Caitlin cursed under her breath and ignored the cultured baritone voice goading her from behind. She remained bent, focused on her task, and determined to clear the stone from her horse’s hoof. Still, irritation dribbled down her back. If she were a cat her hackles would have risen.

She knew who the voice belonged to. She’d heard the melodically ducal tones in church and the village store often enough. Harlow Telford, the Duke of Dangerfield, consummate rake and the most powerful man in the Kingdom next to the Prince Regent.

The man determined to see her father ruined.

Of all the damnable luck. Why did she have to run into the likes of Dangerfield on her very first gallop upon
Ace of Spades
?
 

She rarely rode her horses off the estate, and certainly not dressed in men’s clothing. Why did he spot her today of all days? She’d needed to put the stallion through rigorous race-condition tests and had ridden farther than she’d envisaged.

“A woman with a
derriere
as luscious as yours should not wear trousers. It is most distracting.”

He’d moved closer.

She inwardly sneered at Dangerfield’s banal approach. She expected nothing less of him. The tall, arrogant Duke lived for pleasure and frivolous pursuits. He was a typical rakehell who cared for nothing but himself.

She held in her sigh and would not let him distract, or unnerve her.

With the stone removed from her horse’s hoof, she straightened and turned to face him. Too fast. She gripped her horse’s mane for support, the sudden rush of blood from her head making her dizzy. It certainly wasn’t his captivating, sensuous smile. She, of all women, was immune to the fancy ways of rakes.

Yet her breath hitched as her traitorous eyes appreciated his beauty. She looked up, and then up further. Goodness she’d forgotten how tall he was. Not too tall though. Any shorter and his massive build would have made him look decidedly out of proportion. His glossy, black curls were tousled from his ride, and her immediate reaction was to tug them straight and watch them curl around her finger. They were wasted on a man.
 

His eyes sparkled with amusement, the deep grey as beguiling as the man. A sensual mouth, creased in a knowing smile, had her licking her lips wondering what his would feel like against her own.

She took a step back.
 

It would be so much easier to hate the man if he didn’t look like every woman’s wicked fantasy.
 

And didn’t he just know it.

It was definitely time to leave. “If I’m distracting, then the solution would appear simple. Don’t look.” And she made to move around him.

He blocked her path. “But where would be the fun in that?”

Caitlin gritted her teeth, wishing for the millionth time she’d been born a man. Then she could punch him on his too-perfect nose. A little dent might make him look more human.

“I’m not here for your amusement, sir.”

He moved to stand directly in front of her with the languid grace of a large panther. Dark and dangerous.

“More’s the pity.”

“If you’ll step back, I’d like to mount my horse.”

“I know what I’d like to mount,” she heard him say under his breath. A scandalous utterance that she wisely chose to ignore.

He gave a smile that she suspected melted the resistance of the majority of women and, if she were honest, had too much impact even on her. He rubbed
Ace of Spades
nose. It appeared her finely bred stallion wasn’t impervious to the wretched man’s charms either. Her horse snorted and pressed his head towards the enemy as if longing for Dangerfield’s touch.

Caitlin longed for no man’s touch, especially not the tempting touch of the Duke of Dangerfield.

“This is quite a piece of horseflesh for a woman to be riding. Who does he belong to?”

Ace of Spades was to be
her
ace in the fight to hold onto her home. Her father might try to gamble away everything they owned, but she would not lose Mansfield Manor. It had been her mother’s. As the eldest and, as it turned out, only daughter, Caitlin would inherit the Manor upon either her marriage or her twenty-fifth birthday.

That birthday was still two years away and, with no suitor in sight, Caitlin intended to make sure there was still a house left to inherit. She refused to allow her father, trustee or not, to run it into the ground.

The three-year-old stallion would win the Two-Thousand Guineas race at Newmarket even if she had to use her father’s name to enter. Once she won, the stud fees she’d earn from her champion stallion would be worth a small fortune. That’s if she could keep her operation a secret from her money-hungry father.

Dangerfield gave her another superior smile before looking her over in a thoroughly indecent perusal. His eyes lingered over certain parts of her anatomy, which in her groomsman’s clothes, were shown off more than she would have liked. Men’s trousers were the only outfit in which she could ride comfortably to test the stallion’s speed.

“
Ace of Spades
belongs to me, Your Grace.”

“Is that so?” His mouth tipped up at the corners as if he’d thought of a private joke. She sucked in a breath. A man should not be allowed to own a smile such as that.
 

“Are you sure you can handle such a magnificent beast? You look as if a strong wind could blow you over.”

He stood so close her body found it difficult to remain upright. Her legs certainly felt as if they were wobbling and wouldn’t hold her weight.
 

Damn the man.

A gloveless finger stroked her face. “Who is your protector? He must value you very highly to have ‘given’ you such a horse.” His eyes drank her in once more. “Given your attire, and the way it deliciously displays your abundant bounty, I can clearly see why.”

“I don’t have a protector.” She pulled her riding crop from its slot in her saddle, feeling more in control as soon as she fisted it in her hand.
 

“I’m in luck then.” He drew her other hand off Ace’s mane and raised it to his lips. His kiss on her bare knuckles was like a brand—hot and sizzling.
 

She quickly pulled her hand away. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I don’t need a protector and I certainly don’t desire one.” She turned her back on him and swung herself up into the saddle. “And you, Lord Dangerfield, would be the last man on earth I’d ever let in my bed.”

“Ah, but you do let men into your bed?”

Her face flooded with heat at his jibe, while he simply chuckled.

He showed no surprise that she knew his identity. The arrogance of the man. He reached out and stayed Ace, gripping his bridle close to the bit.

“You do realize men love a challenge and you, my lovely, are a challenge incarnate. I would have your name.”

It was her turn to smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me.”

His brows drew together in a frown, making him look much younger than his thirty years. She knew his age. They shared the same birthday—April third—but he was seven years older than her.

He let the bridle go and stepped back to study her. “We have never met. I’d remember. A local beauty like you would not have escaped my interest.”

She wanted to laugh. The last time he’d talked with her was eight years ago, and she’d been covered in mud from head to toe. Hardly surprising he did not recognize her.
 

She’d been fifteen. It was early on a spring morning. Fog covered the ground. She’d got stuck in the bog while trying to free a deer, and he’d stopped to help. He was still half foxed, probably from a night of drinking and whoring. He certainly stank of drink and women.

“You must be getting old,” she said, sweet as honey. “Your memory is going.”

Annoyance flickered over his face, sharpening his handsome features. “Well, pretty wench, don’t keep me in suspense. Who are you?”

She lifted her nose in the air and whirled her stallion around so his rear was in Dangerfield’s face. He took a hurried step back.

“I’m Lady Caitlin Southall,” she called over her shoulder and, filled with satisfaction at seeing his mouth drop open, she kicked
Ace of Spades
and tore off at a gallop—spraying His Grace with clods of earth.

The string of curses behind her made her laugh out loud. Bumping into the duke or, rather, leaving Dangerfield in a shower of dirt, made her day.

Bloody hell. God damn the little hellion. He’d realized the plump bounty pointing to the sky—enticing enough to tempt a saint—was female from a dozen paces away. He’d studied, worshiped, and played with too many bottoms not to recognize one ripe for plucking. Besides, the long, black tresses cascading down her back like rivers of ink from a spilt inkpot left little doubt. But he’d had no idea it was the brat from the neighboring property.

Perhaps
brat
was no longer the appropriate word to describe her. His body hummed with lust.

The last time he’d interacted with Caitlin Southall he’d also ended up covered in mud. Seeing her stuck in the bog he’d gallantly gone to her rescue. Unfortunately, having rescued the damsel in distress, he couldn’t rescue himself. The memory of his fall, face-down, into the very mud he’d rescued her from still mortified him. As did the look on the little wretch’s face as she’d stood there laughing at him.

He shifted in discomfort, and glanced around to see if anyone had overheard their latest exchange.
 

Back then, he had been a tad overbearing. Grumpy. Angry at being laughed at by a slip of a girl. Especially since he was suffering from one of the worst self-inflicted headaches he could remember.
 

Then, when she’d told him her name and he’d learned she was the daughter of his sworn enemy, the Earl of Bridgenorth, he’d been furious, accusing her of deliberately getting stuck in the mud to taunt him. Rubbish of course, but he had not been at his best. Frankly, he’d been less than gracious, mocking her, and frightening her off.

His last image of Cate-The-Waif was of her poking her tongue out at him as she ran off. Crying.

He ran a hand over his face. At least today he hadn’t made her cry. He also wasn’t hung-over. However, while his temper wanted to see him ride after her and put her over his knee for a thorough spanking, he was shocked to realize he wanted to chase her for another reason altogether.
 

Desire.

Little Cate, as he remembered her, had grown up or, rather, filled out. In all the right places. She was still a waif. Thin and willowy. “Delicate” described her, outwardly at any rate. Her inner core looked to be of iron. She appeared self-assured and confident. Mocking a duke, especially “Lord Danger” as he was often called, was daring and risky, considering her inappropriate attire.