Dukes By the Dozen полностью

Something had to change in his new-found life, or he would go mad. He had to do something…work, build, put his mark on the world beyond adding his name to a long list of dead Monmouth dukes. Which was why he was championing the canal project through Little London. Beyond the undeniable good it would do for the surrounding area, the additional jobs and income it would bring to workers and their families, it would give him the sense of purpose he craved.

If the frustrating woman at the mill would simply get out of his way.

Miss Cora Bradley. The woman was beautiful, no doubt about that, with eyes that could see right through a man and a smile so brilliant that it could cut glass. She was an undiscovered jewel in an otherwise ordinary village who could have given any fine lady in London a run for her money when it came to raw allure. Even when she’d stormed into his house that morning to confront him about his latest offer regarding her father’s mill, dressed in a brown worsted wool dress and dirty apron, her toffee-colored hair piled loosely on top her head, she possessed a spirit that was breathtaking.

But with that beauty also came the obstinacy of a mule.

In aggravation, he snatched up a stone from the lane and hurled it into the woods to set the dogs on chase.

A more stubborn, outspoken woman he’d never met, one unafraid to face down a duke and raise all kinds of trouble for him in Parliament with the local MP. One so committed beyond reason to keeping that little mill in operation that she’d refused to listen to logic about how the village would benefit by the dozens of new jobs that would be created by the factories further upstream. She’d flat-out refused his offer to buy the mill and the little freehold parcel of land on which it sat, at a price so far above what it was worth that any other reasonable business owner would have jumped gleefully at it.

But oh no. Not her. She stormed past his butler and right up to his desk, jabbed her finger in the air, and boldly declared, “We will not surrender!”

When she spun on her heel and marched out, he stared at her, stunned speechless. He knew then that this fight was a long way from finished.

A movement by the trees caught his attention, and he halted in his steps.

A bright whiteness, small and fluttering. Surely nothing more than a leaf stirring in the afternoon breeze. But as he walked closer, he saw the note pinned to the tree trunk, along with a tiny metal hoop—

No, not a hoop.

A ring.

He lifted it from the pin and examined it, and nostalgia twisted at his lips. Then his smile blossomed into a full grin when he read the note. After his encounter with Miss Bradley that morning, it gave him a needed lift in spirits.

So did the ring. He turned it over in his hand, and a distant memory emerged from the far back of his mind. His grandmother’s ring. She’d had one just like it, fashioned by his blacksmith grandfather, who’d been unable to afford anything more expensive. But that ring was more precious to her than all the jewels that his new-found dukedom could have bought, because it was made specifically for her. A ring as unique as their love.

Lost so long ago that the engraving was illegible, with the black tarnish most likely permanent, the ring’s true owner would be impossible to find. Certainly not through an unsigned note pinned to a tree. But whoever had left it here was optimistic enough to believe it could be reunited with the woman who had worn it and completely forgiving to whomever had lost it.

“If only Miss Bradley could be that forgiving,” he muttered before continuing his walk and whistling to the dogs to follow.

He couldn’t have said why three hours later he returned to the tree with a thank you note that he pinned to the trunk, or why he slipped the ring into his pocket to take it back to the house with him. But he knew exactly why he left his note unsigned. Because he wanted to be someone other than Monmouth. Because he wanted to be nothing more than a man whose grandmother wore the same simple ring.

CHAPTER 2

AND SO BEGAN a back and forth of pinned notes…

My grandmother had a ring like the one you left on the tree. My grandfather made it in his own blacksmith shop, and I remember playing with it as a child in front of the hearth fire in their little cottage while she told me stories about ghosts and fairies. My grandfather died young, but my grandmother lived until an elderly age and never tired of telling me how much I reminded her of him, just as strong and determined, just as hard-working…