A Duke Never Yields by Juliana Gray Page B

smooth back.
    He liked the way Lucifer’s coat quivered and shone, as he brushed it afterward.
    He liked the quiet of the stable, the slow drone of passing flies, the scent of hay as he refilled the net in Lucifer’s stall. He liked leading the horse outside and setting him free again in the paddock, to enjoy the sunshine and the clean, new-washed air, the soft early grass underfoot, the scent of growing things.
    “Rather a nice holiday for you, isn’t it, old chap?” he said, latching the gate and setting his elbows atop the edge. Lucifer tossed his head and took off, giving his hind legs a little kick, frolicsome as a colt in the limpid spring morning. His hooves thumped the turf in a reassuring beat. Wallingford felt his lips stretch slowly into a . . . what was it?
    A smile .
    “Signore Duca,” came a petulant voice behind him.
    Wallingford heaved a resigned sigh. So much for peace and solitude.
    “What is it now, Giacomo?” he asked, without turning. Lucifer had settled himself in the shade of a tree and began to snatch at the tender new grass.
    “Is the women, signore.”
    “It’s always the women with you, Giacomo. What have you got against the poor creatures?”
    Giacomo’s voice slid into an abject whine. “They are trouble, signore. They are always making the trouble. The signorina, the young one, she . . .”
    “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”
    “She is spreading the stories, signore. She is saying we are . . . I am not knowing the word . . . the castle, she is saying, has the spirits . . .”
    That chill again, tickling the base of Wallingford’s neck. He set his booted foot squarely on the lowest bar of the gate and ignored it.
    “Of course there are no spirits,” he said. “We poured out everything in the library, directly we arrived. Except the sherry, of course.”
    “Not the spirits for the drinking , signore! The spirits, the souls . . . you are not understanding?”
    “Oh, as to that, I’ve been told many times I have no soul at all, on good authority.”
    “Signore!” Giacomo’s voice was reproachful. “You are making the joke.”
    Wallingford sighed and turned at last. “I never joke, Giacomo. I am much too dignified for something so vulgar as humor. I suppose you mean the castle is haunted?”
    Giacomo nodded his head vigorously. “ Haunted . Is the word.”
    The damned chill again.
    Wallingford folded his arms. The sunshine struck Giacomo’s gnarled body like a bolt of clear gold, illuminating the very fibers of his clothing with eye-watering detail. He stood with his legs planted far apart, as if withstanding a flood, his hands attached to his hips. He was wearing a queer old-fashioned jacket, made of some sort of rough wool, and the same flat cap he always had on his head, obscuring his hair and most of his forehead, leaving only a pair of broad ears that looked as if they meant to lift him off into flight at any moment. He seemed quite solid, quite corporeal. Quite un-ghostly.
    “Well, is it?” Wallingford inquired dryly. “Haunted?”
    Giacomo swallowed heavily. “Of course the castle is not being haunted! Is a story, an evil story spread by the devil-woman . . .”
    “Devil-woman! Look here, Giacomo, Miss Harewood may be a mischievous little sprite, but she’s hardly the spawn of . . .”
    “Not the girl! The . . . the kitchen, the house . . . she keeps the house . . .” Giacomo snapped his fingers impatiently.
    “The housekeeper? Who the devil’s that?”
    “Signorina Morini. You do not see her. She is staying in the kitchen. She tells the stories to the girl, and the girl, she . . . she . . .”
    “She what?”
    “She tells them to everyone!”
    “She hasn’t told me .” Wallingford felt a hard nudge at his back: Lucifer, prodding him with his muzzle. Wallingford was surprised he’d left his grazing to come over again. “At least, not since the first night.”
    Giacomo frowned. “What is she saying,