Compromising The Duke's Daughter

Joan bit her lip to subdue a smile. It was the sort of blunt opinion she would expect from her best friend, yet she doubted Louise had intended her hostess to overhear it.

‘I shall be glad to have her back, anyway,’ Joan said, patting Vincent’s arm in a consoling manner. She gave him a smile and his indignation disintegrated. Vincent was a man of adequate height and build with coppery brown hair and pleasant looks. As they strolled around the perimeter of the lake Joan noticed that they were under observation.

‘Your association with me attracts attention, you know,’ Vincent said wryly, his thoughts mirroring Joan’s. He nodded discreetly at some people craning their necks at them as their barouche passed by.

‘No doubt they are recalling how abominably I embarrassed you when I was younger,’ Joan teased, making Vincent cough and blush. ‘Oh, the gossips should be used to us being friends by now.’ She wrinkled her petite nose in a display of insouciance. ‘It is more likely those young ladies are staring because they think you handsome and eligible,’ she added with a twinkling smile.

‘I doubt they would think my bank balance very attractive,’ Vincent countered wryly. ‘Even the clergy need to pay their bills.’ Vincent paused. ‘They appear to be returning for a second look,’ he said as the barouche again approached.

‘Oh, let them look.’ Joan sighed. ‘That is Miss Greenvale and her cousin. They are heiresses and could spare a few pounds from their trust funds to put towards your new church roof.’

‘I fear I’ll have no luck there and will carry on collecting rainwater in buckets for the foreseeable future.’

‘I’ll speak to Papa about releasing some of my money—’

‘You must not!’ Vincent interrupted sharply. ‘I’ll not let you do that.’ His features softened into a grateful smile. ‘You are a very generous and good-natured young woman.’ Vincent slanted a glance at the pearly contours of Joan’s profile, framed by chestnut curls. ‘I hate that you suffered for your goodness. Will you tell me more about this dreadful attack by those beggars?’

‘There isn’t much to tell...it was over very quickly after we received help...’ Joan said carefully. She’d sooner not make much of the incident with Rockleigh.

‘Gracious! Over there by the trees is a fellow I know.’ Vincent discreetly waggled a hand indicating to his left. ‘He is the Ratcliffe Highway’s most successful pugilist. Of course, I rarely attend those contests lest I encourage the men in their barbarism.’

Joan came to an abrupt standstill as her eyes widened on the person who rarely quit her thoughts. He was standing many yards away on a patch of grass fringed by a copse and appeared to be deep in conversation with another fellow. From their position close to shady branches, and their unsmiling expressions, Joan guessed that the meeting was not a social one.

‘Is he known to you?’ Vincent had heard Joan’s quiet intake of breath. ‘He wasn’t one of the beasts who beset your coach, was he? The fellow is known locally as the Squire. One only needs to be in his company for a short while to know he is well bred. He must be badly down on his luck, but I’d be surprised if he stooped to bullying women or begging.’

‘No...he would never do that...’ Joan murmured with a throb of conviction in her voice. ‘He was our rescuer—I told you that we received help. He drove the carriage out of the slum.’

‘I’m not surprised he was your Good Samaritan. He’s courteous, if brutal, and that’s a rarity in the parish. The Squire’s got no need to beg as the victor’s purses can be considerable.’ Vincent looked enquiringly at Joan. ‘Shall we speak to him? I’m keen to persuade some of the families to attend the Sunday services more often than they do. The ne’er-do-wells congregate in the Cock and Hen on the Sabbath when they might better spend their time seeking the Lord’s forgiveness, or their own salvation.’ Vincent clucked his tongue. ‘A few of their wives are regular church goers though...’

‘Is he married?’ Joan blurted out, unsure why the thought of Drew Rockleigh having a wife appalled her.

‘The Squire married? Not to my knowledge. He’s popular with the ladies though...’ Vincent cleared his throat to cover his slip. ‘Forgive me, Lady Joan...that was most crass...’

But Joan was no longer listening; her eyes had become entangled with a steady tawny stare. Drew stepped away from his soberly dressed companion and the man scuttled into the copse out of sight.

Joan’s heart began pounding beneath her ribs as she watched Rockleigh plunge his hands into his pockets on his casual stroll over the grass towards them. Alert to her aunt’s presence, Joan shot a look over her shoulder. ‘Lady Dorothea is occupied with Lady Regan, so we can briefly say hello to Mr Rockleigh,’ she rattled off.

‘Rockleigh? Is that his name?’

Joan gave a brief nod, already on her way to meet him and so rapidly that Vincent had to trot to keep up with her.

‘My lady... Reverend Walters...’ Drew dipped his head, then glanced thoughtfully from one to the other of them.

‘You are a distance from home today, sir,’ Vincent burst out when his companions stared at one another rather than exchanging a greeting.

‘I had an appointment to keep,’ Drew informed, sliding his attention back to Joan.

‘I must thank you very much for the service you did Lady Joan. I’ve heard how you helped her and her aunt out of a very unpleasant situation.’ Vincent thrust out a hand.

‘She wouldn’t have been in that unpleasant situation but for you encouraging her into the neighbourhood,’ Drew returned coolly, giving the Reverend’s fingers a single firm shake.

‘I need no encouragement to be benevolent,’ Joan interjected sharply, conscious of the vicar fidgeting on being reprimanded. ‘I made up my own mind to go to the vicarage school.’

‘Against your father’s wishes.’

‘You are not privy to my father’s wishes,’ Joan retorted, becoming aware of Vincent’s alarmed expression as she bickered with his disreputable parishioner.

‘I know your father’s wishes, Lady Joan,’ Drew said quietly. ‘Furthermore I endorse them and advise you to heed them.’

Joan furiously pressed her lips together. So her father had gone ahead and made contact with Rockleigh to reward him for rescuing her. Joan realised such a good deed deserved an acknowledgement; nevertheless, she felt piqued that he’d been venal enough to accept a payment.

‘I...um... Lady Dorothea is about to join us, I think. Shall we move on?’ Vincent burbled.

‘Please go and keep her company,’ Joan said, without breaking eye contact with Rockleigh. ‘I will be but a moment longer speaking to...my brother-in-law’s friend.’

The news that the Squire was an acquaintance of Joan’s family caused Vincent’s jaw to drop. ‘You know Mr Wolfson?’

‘I do...very well...’ Drew’s smile acknowledged the vicar’s astonishment on learning he had lofty connections.

Vincent composed himself and with a crisp nod, hurried away over the grass towards Dorothea.

‘How much did he pay you?’ Joan demanded the moment Vincent was out of earshot. ‘Ten pounds?’ she guessed. ‘Twenty?’

‘Your father offered fifty.’

Joan’s astonishment caused her full pink lips to part. She moistened them with a tongue flick that drew a pair of lupine eyes.

‘So...you were a moment ago conversing with your banker, were you?’ Joan asked mellifluously, nodding at the wooded area into which the fellow had disappeared. ‘Is he to invest the cash, or pay off your duns with it, Mr Rockleigh?’ When Drew remained infuriatingly silent and unperturbed by her barb, Joan prodded, ‘Is that sufficient a sum to get you back on your feet or would you like me to play the damsel in distress one more time so you might again test my father’s generosity?’

‘You know nothing about me,’ Drew said quietly. ‘And I’m not about to satisfy your curiosity. Go back to your vicar friend and enjoy your promenade, but stay away from Ratcliffe Highway and me. Don’t test my generosity, my lady, or my patience, because you’ll find both lacking next time.’

Joan gasped in astonishment and outrage as he made to walk away from her. Nobody, apart from her papa, spoke to her in that tone of voice. Imperiously she retorted, ‘You may halt this instant. I have not finished speaking to you, sir.’

‘But I have finished with you...’ was sent casually over a shoulder as he strolled away.

‘Come here this instant, you impertinent lout.’

He pivoted about and returned so swiftly that Joan skittered back some steps, her heart pulsing in her throat.

‘Well? What do you want?’ Drew enquired with silky softness.

Joan could think of nothing to say and neither could she raise her eyes to meet those that were singeing the top of her head. His muscled thighs were in her lowered line of vision, encased today in black breeches that seemed as closely moulded to his powerful physique as the charcoal-grey tailcoat he wore. Had she not known what Drew Rockleigh did for a living she might have mistaken him for a businessman rather than a barbarian. Only the faint healing marks on his face and knuckles gave the game away that he was a street fighter.

‘You’re finding it hard to apologise for your rudeness, are you?’ Drew suggested, mockery in his tone, as she continued to glower at the small space of grass that separated them.

‘I have done nothing that requires an apology.’ To her shame Joan knew that was far from the truth. She’d just been horribly pompous and arrogant and her bewilderment at having allowed him to taunt her to act out of character simply added to her inner turmoil.

‘You need not apologise?’ he paraphrased silkily. ‘I seem to recall having heard that from you before. It was no truer then than now.’