Must Be Magic by Patricia Rice Page A

let it be. He’d spent a long day resisting temptation, and he was sorely tried. Two damned women, and he wanted them both. May the heavens preserve him.
    â€œSomeone always pays,” he retorted and strode off, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to find a good cave and become a hermit.

Eight
    â€œHullooo, Mr. Ives,” a cheerful feminine voice caroled as he stepped outside the cottage the next morning.
    Dunstan blinked in astonishment at the array of colorful silks and golden curls bouncing up his walk. Fashionable females generally avoided him.
    Catching his breath at the knifing pain of that reminder, he scowled at the intruders, recognizing Malcolms when he saw them. They must have been the guests the lady had entertained last night.
    â€œWe’ve brought you a housewarming gift,” the elder cooed, batting her pretty lashes at him and handing him a beribboned basket.
    He held the frivolous thing on the tip of one finger, wondering what to do with it. Did unmarried females usually carry gifts to widowers? Or to accused murderers?
    â€œAnd we brought an invitation,” the bespectacled younger female said shyly, handing him a card. “All the local ladies are curious to meet you, and we have promised that you will be there.”
    He scanned the neat penmanship requesting his presence at dinner at the manor house that evening. The widow had a whole company to keep her entertained. What could she want with him, other than the amusement of watching her guests laugh and whisper behind his back?
    He handed the card back to them. “I have other obligations. Give my regrets to—” He couldn’t remember if these were sisters or cousins. There were too damned many of them, and they all looked alike. “—to Lady Leila.”
    They refused to take the proffered card. Two pairs of bright blue eyes stared soulfully at him from beneath bounteous blond curls. “Oh, you really cannot refuse,” they said in chorus. The younger continued, “We have promised, and you would make liars of us. Ninian said you would be nice.” The plea ended on a hiccuping lament.
    They were but children, scarcely older than his son. Grimacing at the thought of the fourteen-year-old he’d left behind, Dunstan dug a hand into his hair. Ninian was an annoying pest, but she’d promised to keep an eye on Griffith for him. He owed her, and her family, however much he despised being obligated to anyone.
    â€œI can’t stay long,” he warned.
    â€œOh, you will not regret it,” the younger one exclaimed. “We will have so much fun! Leila has promised us dancing,” she whispered in excitement, as if the idea were too delicious to say aloud.
    Dunstan bit back a vivid curse. He felt old and jaded in the presence of such youth and innocence. With nothing better to say, he nodded curtly. The girls waved their farewells and wandered off, leaving him holding the gaily wrapped basket.
    Carefully, he pulled back the gingham cover. The fragrance of new-mown grass under warm sunshine wafted upward. Frowning, he poked at the neatly wrapped packages within and finally peeled off the paper to uncover perfumed soap.
    Snorting, he flung the basket into a chair and proceeded to the stable. Unlike the gentlemen of London, he preferred a good strong lye soap and a daily bath rather than covering odors with perfumes and lotions. Hell would freeze before he’d appear in public smelling of anything but himself.
    ***
    After spending a filthy day overseeing the drainage of the fens and avoiding the garden, where he might run into the too tempting Lady Leila, Dunstan dragged himself back to the cottage, hoping his housekeeper had left one of her savory stews on the stove for him.
    To his disappointment, he smelled nothing cooking as he opened the kitchen door and discarded his muddy boots with the help of a boot hook. He was late today, but Martha usually left something