Chapter One
Rosalind Weaver arrived at the home of the Duke of Fallon with nothing but the clothing on her back and a confident smile on her face. She’d practiced the expression during the two-mile walk from the public coach and had even rehearsed what she’d say to the duke, but nothing could have prepared her for Fallon Hall. Four stories tall and fully as large as three fine houses in London, it grew truly intimidating as she trudged the long gravel drive to the circular area at the end. Even here, her journey hadn’t ended. She had a whole flight of stairs to climb to the front door.
As she ascended, the door in question opened, and a servant in livery climbed down to meet her halfway.
“What are you thinking, miss?” he said. “A new maid goes around to the back.”
She lifted her chin in the best imitation of hauteur she could manage. “I’m not a maid. I’m here to see His Grace.”
“You are?” the man said. “You came on foot, did you?”
“I’ll discuss that with your employer. Now, if you don’t mind, would you please tell him Miss Rosalind Weaver is here.”
The man appeared torn. He couldn’t risk effrontery with the duke’s guest, but people of that station never arrived with no carriage and hems covered with dust from the road.
“Stay here,” he said finally and went back up the stairs and into the house.
She did as he’d ordered, counting out the minutes in her head. She couldn’t go away again. Even if she could find the energy to walk back to the coach road, she hadn’t any money for the fare. She would get in the house and through the front door, and she would see the duke.
When she’d waited more than she could bear, she started upward again. This time, a butler appeared on the threshold. His gaze took her in, showing no more approval than the servant had. Then, his features settled into a neutral expression. “This way, please.”
Sighing in relief, she followed him into a cavernous entry hall. She kept her gaze focused forward, as if she passed through such splendor every day. She couldn’t show the staff—or the duke, himself—any self-doubt.
The butler led her into a dining room.
“Miss Weaver, Your Grace,” he said softly and then left.
For a moment, she couldn’t help but stare—at the huge hearth, the heavy candelabras around the room, the table and, most of all, the man at the other end.
The Duke of Fallon, Richard March by name, stood, setting his napkin to the side of his plate. “Who sent you here, Miss Weaver?”
She dropped a curtsy and then straightened to her full height. “I came on my own.”
“Why?”
“To negotiate.”
“I don’t believe that you and I have an arrangement in the works,” he said.
“You do with my father,” she answered. “An agreement for me to become your wife. I’ve come to close the deal.”
“Do tell. Have a seat.” He pointed toward the chair at the opposite of the table from him. So far away they wouldn’t be able to see each other clearly. “Tom, set a place for Miss Weaver.”
A footman who’d been standing in the shadows came forward to pull out her chair. From the sideboard, he produced china and silver and then platters, first of roast beef and then potatoes. The odors wafted into her nostrils, making her stomach cramp with hunger. Still, she forced herself to cut dainty pieces and not shove the food into her mouth.
“How did you get here?” he asked after a moment.
She glanced up at him. That far away and with the shimmering of the candlelight, his facial features were mostly planes and shadows. She’d seen him often enough at home, though, when he’d visited to oversee some of his property. Always tall on his huge chestnut gelding, his skin kissed by the sun, his black hair and eyebrows shaggy. One time, he’d looked at her directly, and the blue of his eyes had made her breath catch. A striking if not a handsome man.
“Miss Weaver…” he prompted.
“I’m sorry.” She
Rosalind Weaver arrived at the home of the Duke of Fallon with nothing but the clothing on her back and a confident smile on her face. She’d practiced the expression during the two-mile walk from the public coach and had even rehearsed what she’d say to the duke, but nothing could have prepared her for Fallon Hall. Four stories tall and fully as large as three fine houses in London, it grew truly intimidating as she trudged the long gravel drive to the circular area at the end. Even here, her journey hadn’t ended. She had a whole flight of stairs to climb to the front door.
As she ascended, the door in question opened, and a servant in livery climbed down to meet her halfway.
“What are you thinking, miss?” he said. “A new maid goes around to the back.”
She lifted her chin in the best imitation of hauteur she could manage. “I’m not a maid. I’m here to see His Grace.”
“You are?” the man said. “You came on foot, did you?”
“I’ll discuss that with your employer. Now, if you don’t mind, would you please tell him Miss Rosalind Weaver is here.”
The man appeared torn. He couldn’t risk effrontery with the duke’s guest, but people of that station never arrived with no carriage and hems covered with dust from the road.
“Stay here,” he said finally and went back up the stairs and into the house.
She did as he’d ordered, counting out the minutes in her head. She couldn’t go away again. Even if she could find the energy to walk back to the coach road, she hadn’t any money for the fare. She would get in the house and through the front door, and she would see the duke.
When she’d waited more than she could bear, she started upward again. This time, a butler appeared on the threshold. His gaze took her in, showing no more approval than the servant had. Then, his features settled into a neutral expression. “This way, please.”
Sighing in relief, she followed him into a cavernous entry hall. She kept her gaze focused forward, as if she passed through such splendor every day. She couldn’t show the staff—or the duke, himself—any self-doubt.
The butler led her into a dining room.
“Miss Weaver, Your Grace,” he said softly and then left.
For a moment, she couldn’t help but stare—at the huge hearth, the heavy candelabras around the room, the table and, most of all, the man at the other end.
The Duke of Fallon, Richard March by name, stood, setting his napkin to the side of his plate. “Who sent you here, Miss Weaver?”
She dropped a curtsy and then straightened to her full height. “I came on my own.”
“Why?”
“To negotiate.”
“I don’t believe that you and I have an arrangement in the works,” he said.
“You do with my father,” she answered. “An agreement for me to become your wife. I’ve come to close the deal.”
“Do tell. Have a seat.” He pointed toward the chair at the opposite of the table from him. So far away they wouldn’t be able to see each other clearly. “Tom, set a place for Miss Weaver.”
A footman who’d been standing in the shadows came forward to pull out her chair. From the sideboard, he produced china and silver and then platters, first of roast beef and then potatoes. The odors wafted into her nostrils, making her stomach cramp with hunger. Still, she forced herself to cut dainty pieces and not shove the food into her mouth.
“How did you get here?” he asked after a moment.
She glanced up at him. That far away and with the shimmering of the candlelight, his facial features were mostly planes and shadows. She’d seen him often enough at home, though, when he’d visited to oversee some of his property. Always tall on his huge chestnut gelding, his skin kissed by the sun, his black hair and eyebrows shaggy. One time, he’d looked at her directly, and the blue of his eyes had made her breath catch. A striking if not a handsome man.
“Miss Weaver…” he prompted.
“I’m sorry.” She
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