Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Ian Furchess, eleventh Duke of Wolffhampton, was feeding pigs. The irony of the situation did not escape him, but in truth, it wasn’t a bad way to spend an unseasonably warm February afternoon. The weather chaps were all atwitter with record highs and warm air masses and the like. Ian chose not to analyze his good fortune. It was enough just to feel the hot sun on the back of his neck and to think about something other than his problems.

      An importunate sow brushed up against his leg, smearing mud across the thigh of an ancient pair of pants. Ian chuckled, mostly at himself. Here he was, seventy-third in line for the throne of England, communing with livestock.

      He took a certain pride in it, actually. It was his own personal rebellion. Ian had never wanted to be Duke. But when his parents and older brother were killed in a sailing accident the year Ian turned twenty-one, his life had changed forever.

      He should have been with them on that boat. Instead, he’d been charging with testosterone-fueled determination across the polo field, leading his university team to a championship. A natural horseman, Ian’s dream had been to take the fortune he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather and establish a world-class stud farm.

      Instead, he now bore the sole responsibility for an aging pile of rock, a stubborn and imperious grandmother, and the future of the entire Wolffhampton progeny.

      To use an American phrase that would never cross the lips of a proper duke, life sucked.

      “Hellooooo…”

      Ian’s head snapped up. A trio of soon-to-be-bacon animals scattered.

      The woman in the distance drew nearer, her smile sunny. “Can you help me, sir? I’m trying to find the Duke of Wolffhampton. This is his house, right?” She shielded her blue eyes with one hand, brushing away tendrils of blond hair that danced around her face, and glanced up at the imposing lump of granite that Ian called home. Wolffhampton Castle was impressive rather than attractive, but it had served his family well for centuries.

      Ian sighed inwardly. “The duke is not available. May I help you?” He’d pegged the young lady right off. Ever since William and Kate married, the countryside had swarmed with single female tourists hoping to snag their own fairy-tale prince. He wondered if they expected to find royalty hiding behind potting sheds.

      Her face fell. She hitched her enormous tote higher on her shoulder. “I’m Daisy Wexler. I really need to speak with the duke. It’s a matter of some importance.” Her accent placed her from somewhere in the American South.

      Ian’s stomach clenched. “Concerning what?”

      The woman was lovely, dressed much like Gatsby’s Daisy, all in white—a flowing linen jumper and a simple cotton shirt beneath. But she had added splashes of color in a strawberry belt and a jaunty daffodil scarf that fluttered in the breeze.

      She wrinkled her nose, a small frown appearing between perfectly arched brows. “Perhaps an illegitimate child. But without speaking to the duke I can’t be certain.”

      Bloody hell. Ian’s internal radar blared a warning. At the rate his bank account was dwindling, he certainly couldn’t afford to battle an inheritance claim in the courts, even though he already knew what the outcome would be. He and his grandmother, the elderly duchess, were the only surviving members of the once-prolific Wolffhamptons. That was a fact.

      As delicious as the adorable Daisy was, Ian was not about to let himself become embroiled in a fabricated claim to the lineage. “The duke is a very busy man. Perhaps if you called for an appointment…”

      Daisy’s small chin lifted, adding a hint of stubbornness to her heart-shaped face. “But I have called…repeatedly. No one answers.”

      Precisely. Ian had disconnected the answering machine for a reason. “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing he’d met this delectable creature in other circumstances. “You’ve wasted your time.”

       Chapter Two

      Daisy was tired, hungry and cranky. The flight from Charlottesville to Atlanta to Gatwick to Manchester had been interminable. And the subsequent bus ride even more so. The prospect of her first hop across the pond had excited her, but now that she was here, she barely had the energy to be civil. Perhaps she should have built a day into her schedule to recover from the jet lag.

      The subject of her current displeasure was well over six feet tall and had the hard, muscular frame of a man in his prime. He was wickedly handsome, with tousled chestnut hair and long-lashed hazel eyes. She couldn’t, however, afford to be distracted, even if his blatant masculinity and clipped speech made her knees wobble.

      She almost never made snap decisions about people, but this boorish farm laborer set her teeth on edge. He was being either deliberately obtuse or obstructive—or both.

      Drawing on her last ounce of determination, she smiled at him with the cajoling humor that usually stood her in good stead. “Surely you could escort me to the castle…introduce me to His Grace?”

      The man narrowed his eyes, suspicion in his gaze. “Common laborers don’t, as a rule, walk up to the front door and let themselves in.”

      “Then perhaps we could access the house unobtrusively somewhere else. All I need to see, at least at first, is the library. And I won’t say you helped me. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know your name, do I? Plausible deniability will work in our favor.”

      “You Americans are so pushy.”

      She felt her cheeks flush. The man spoke in educated accents. But he was dressed in threadbare tobacco-colored trousers and a weathered leather bomber jacket that looked as if it might have actually been worn during a world war.

      Perhaps his family hadn’t had the means to send him to university. It was a shame, because he had a natural air of command that would have carried