manservant jumped out of the chair in which he was sleeping. “What’s amiss?” Coates shouted.
James cursed. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”
“Waiting up for you.”
The candle Coates held burned low, and the room was dim. James stalked forward and promptly walked into an end table.
“Damn!” James cursed again and rubbed his bruised thigh.
Coates rushed to light a lamp.
“I need a drink.” James hobbled to the chair Coates had previously occupied and sat.
Coates hurried to pour a whiskey and handed the glass to James. “What happened tonight, Your Grace?”
“Don’t call me that! You’ve called me Devlin for the past ten years.”
An amused gleam lit Coates’s eyes. Indeed, Coates had been James Devlin’s manservant since James had completed his pupilage at Lincoln’s Inn and had become a barrister. Coates had found James’s new title as a duke quite humorous and loved to tease his master about the strange turn of events over the past two weeks.
“You were supposed to go to Wyndmoor Manor,” Coates said.
“I did.”
“And that’s why you’re in such a foul mood?”
“No. My mood is due to a female.”
Coates nodded. “That makes sense. Is a disgruntled husband or lover responsible?”
James scowled. He knew he had a reputation when it came to women. Simply put, James loved them. Famed courtesans, bored married ladies, lonely widows, eager female clients ... society had names for men such as he—rakes, rogues, and womanizers. His free-loving mindset had gotten him into trouble in the past, but he had successfully fought more than one duel with a disgruntled husband. James avoided the marriage-minded ladies of the ton like the plague, and he always found delight when uptight matrons ushered their virginal daughters from the room upon seeing him at certain society functions.
But that wasn’t what had occurred tonight.
“It’s not what you think, Coates. I entered Wyndmoor Manor only to find it occupied.”
“Occupied? By whom?”
“An infuriating female who claims she owns the place.”
James handed Coates his empty glass. Coates promptly refilled it and handed it back to James who took another swallow.
“But how is it possible that she owns the manor? It took you days to track down the gentleman in Hertfordshire whom the old duke had sold Wyndmoor Manor to, and I was beside you when Sir Redmond Reeves finally signed the deed over to you,” Coates pointed out.
It was true. After James had learned that Sir Reeves had been the purchaser, he’d had to search for the man throughout Hertfordshire before finally catching up with him.
“It’s not possible. The lovely lady is an imposter.”
“She’s lovely? I’m beginning to understand why you didn’t throw her out,” Coates said.
“She claims to be Mrs. Sinclair, yet I saw no sign of a husband, only an elderly, female servant. If Mrs. Sinclair was married, I would have expected her husband to have come charging down the stairs after me.”
“She could be a widow.”
“A widow or an accomplished actress or both.”
“You think she lied about owning Wyndmoor Manor?” Coates asked.
“I do. And if by chance she presents me with a deed, I’ll be able to tell if it is a forgery.”
“What will you do either way?”
An image of Bella Sinclair crystallized in James’s mind. Large green eyes, delicately carved facial bones, full lips, and a mass of dark auburn hair that shimmered in the candlelight. She had been wearing her nightgown and although the white cotton had covered every inch of her body from her neck to her wrists to the tips of her bare toes, he’d have to be a monk not to notice she was voluptuously curved. Her full breasts had burned through his shirt when he had pressed against her.
But she was no dainty damsel eager for his affection or attention. If he hadn’t seen her shadow flicker through the window, she would have happily cracked his skull open with the fireplace poker she had wielded.
Of one thing he was certain—Bella Sinclair was full of spirit and challenge.
And James Devlin loved a challenge even more than he loved women. The combination of the two was irresistible.
The truth was he would have insisted she leave, but then the old woman had descended the stairs and a flash of fear had shone in Bella Sinclair’s jade eyes. She had pleaded with him not to harm the servant, and James’s firm resolve to fight with the bewitching woman before him had thawed. He wasn’t a monster to take advantage of a female’s fear.
But neither was he willing to walk away from the manor he had gone to such lengths to obtain.
“Well? What will you do?” Coates asked.
“First thing tomorrow morning ready the carriage. I’m returning to Wyndmoor Manor.”
Chapter 3
The following morning, Bella pushed aside the black mourning gown in her wardrobe and chose a walking dress with a muslin overskirt of emerald green. She refused to wear black in her own home when she felt no grief, only a great sense of relief to be rid of a pitiless tyrant. She had no plans to venture into St. Albans and act the grieving widow, and the walking dress was her favorite—not only because the deep color matched her eyes, but because it was one of the few dresses that she had owned before her marriage.
Roger had been obsessed with his wife’s clothing and had chosen each of her gowns. She had not been permitted to select accessories, not even a pair of gloves, without his permission.
After Harriet brushed her hair and arranged it in a knot at her nape, Bella made her way to the breakfast room. She finished her toast and was sipping a cup of tea when she heard the sound of a coach traveling up the graveled drive. Bella rose and rushed to the window overlooking the front of the house.
An impressive black-lacquered coach and team of six came to a stop before the fountain. It was a resplendent conveyance, emblazoned with the crest of the Duke of Blackwood. The matching team of horseflesh stood obediently, their sleek muscles gleaming beneath the morning sun. A liveried footman hopped down and opened the door. The handsome, dark-haired devil of last night alighted and strode confidently up the front steps.
Seconds later the door knocker sounded.
Sweet Lord! He really is a duke!
She felt momentary panic as her mind jumped to the startling truth—he hadn’t lied last evening.
Harriet’s footfalls echoed off
