The Duke's Hound Hated Every Woman He Courted — Until a Young Lady Walked Through the Gate
Chapter 2
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Three years ago, her father, Baron Marlowe, had been struck from every guest list in England overnight, and no one on that drive would have recognized the name. She had walked the last four miles because the carter refused to go farther. She had come to deliver one letter and nothing more; that was what she had told herself the entire way. But beneath that letter, wrapped in a scrap of faded wool, lay something she had shown to no living soul."Who let a beggar through the gate?" Lady Mary announced, loudly enough for everyone to hear.A ripple of cruel amusement passed along the carriages. Isolde's cheeks colored, but she did not lower her eyes. She knew nothing of the hound. She knew only that the iron gate stood open, that the rain was coming, and that she had nowhere else to go.She took one step onto the drive.The Duke's arms tightened. "Do not move," he ordered, and for a moment no one knew whether he meant the woman or the dog.Sovereign went rigid. The growl died in his throat. Then, with a strength the Duke had never been able to match, he tore free.The Duke fell back into the mud. Women shrieked. A man shouted for a pistol. The great gray shape crossed the drive in four strides, and Isolde, who had every reason to run, simply closed her eyes.The blow never came.Instead, the hound lowered his massive head and pressed it against her, trembling from nose to tail. From his scarred throat came a sound the Duke had never heard in three years: a low, broken whine, like grief that had finally found its owner.The Duke rose slowly, mud streaking his coat, his composure shattered where half the county could see it. He did not look at the stranger's face. His eyes had dropped to the bundle in her arms, where the dog's nose was pushing insistently at the faded wool."Miss," he asked very quietly, "what are you carrying?"Isolde's fingers tightened around the cloth. She knew that the moment she unwrapped it, everything she had hidden for three years would end. And she had not yet decided whether this proud, silent man deserved the truth."A letter, Your Grace," she replied at last, in a voice pitched for his ears alone. "It was written for you, and it will be read by you alone.""Absurd!" snapped Lady Vance. "The girl is plainly a vagrant. Someone fetch the gamekeeper.""Allow me, Julian."A tall, fair gentleman had stepped out from among the carriages, drawing off one glove with easy, unhurried fingers. Lord Percival Ravenhurst, the Duke's first cousin and heir presumptive, was a man whom everyone liked on sight, which is the most useful quality a person can possess and the most dangerous.It was Percival who had brought Lady Mary's party down from London. It was Percival who had presented every one of the 12 candidates, handing each lady from her carriage with a smile. For three years, he had also sat between the Duke and the world: opening his letters, answering his callers, sparing him every unpleasantness. He extended his hand for the bundle with the reflex of long habit.