Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(20)

The wind picked up, nearly knocking his beaver hat to the ground. A chill unlike that of cold weather plagued him. Just as winter was enchanting the lands around him—and reminders of cold death lay in front of him, Stefan was again reminded of the seriousness of the situation. If he didn’t marry Rosalind, and marry her soon—their families—both of them, would be doomed. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t convinced it was some sort of gypsy spell. What mattered was that he was given one way to fix everything. It was his fault that things had occurred as they had in the first place. Rosalind needed to marry him and if love was what she required, then his persuasion needed to be better than barking orders that they should marry in haste.

And it was for that reason alone—desperation and necessity that he went in search of Alfred. If he was to truly behave a gentleman, he needed some reminding in the art, for the girl was correct. His romancing was at a standstill, and it seemed that his only option at this point was to seek help—preferably from a human, not his horse.

Hanging his head in the only smidge of humility he possessed, Stefan went to his room. A knock soon came on the door. Fully expecting to see Alfred on the other side, Stefan blurted, “I need help!”

“I see you’ve swallowed that roguish pride of yours since the horse incident, hmm?” Rosalind winked.

May God have mercy.

“I was...talking to, er...myself.” Stefan cleared his throat.

Red hair glistened as Rosalind wrapped it around her finger in thought. “First your horse and now yourself. Are you sure you’re well, Your Grace? Shall I call for Mary to nurse you back to health until you’re feeling more like yourself?”

“By all means, call your godmother. Perhaps she can beat the last of my pride out of me. Sounds lovely, I’ll just be sitting over here waiting for the caning. I do hope she doesn’t break it on my back when she lunges for my head.”

“Oh posh. You’re no fun whatsoever!”

Stefan’s head perked up. Was she jesting? So, she did care. She—

“What woman beats a man who just sits there and mopes?”

Right. Stefan's mouth gaped open to speak or snap—really to respond in any manner, whether it be a grunt or some sort of beastly noise. Nothing came, and with that he did indeed find out that his pride was nearly gone. In its place was desperation for the redhead standing ever so provocatively against his bedpost. A few measly inches and he could have her on her back with that glorious red hair splayed across the satin sheets. His body hovering over hers, promises of pleasure and passion and…

“Your Grace? Did you hear me?”

He shook his head. Had Rosalind truly been talking that whole time?

“Course I did.” Stefan cleared his throat. Saints have mercy on him if she asked any sort of repetition to what she just said. Curse his lust-filled thoughts!

“So would that be agreeable?”

Stefan nodded; it was really the only option he had at the moment. Well, that or lifting her skirts, and he figured one of those two options would probably result in him being on the other side of that blasted cane.

“Good! I’m so very relieved that it is settled! I do worry about this estate when I’m not here, and it would be so kind of you to help out.”

“Help out?” he repeated. What in the blazes was she talking about?

“Yes.” Rosalind winked. “I’ll just let the estate manager know you’ll be making the final preparations with him before we leave.”

Devil take it, her smile sent tremors through his already hard body. “Yes, well, I would do anything for you, my Rose.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I can very well see that. Now, off you go. I’m sure you have much planning to do before we leave. I’ll just leave you to your talking, perhaps looking in the mirror would help next time?”

“I was not—yes, perhaps.” Stefan clenched his teeth and gave a curt bow as Rosalind’s laughter echoed in the room.

“Until dinner, Your Grace. Remember. Eight o’clock sharp.”

The door shut behind her, leaving Stefan with the aching suspicion that he had just agreed to do something horribly disagreeable. Well, he was a duke! As long as he wasn’t mucking out stables and farming with the tenants, he would be fine.



****



“Son of a—”

“Oh, Your Grace! So glad to see you! We have been waiting in expectation for your grand tutelage!”

Oh, how he wished for his own cane, or possibly to wrap his hands around Rosalind’s beautiful slender neck. Yes, he would cheerfully punish that woman for putting him in this predicament. Outside, in the snow, mucking stables. Dukes did not muck stables. Dukes rarely stepped foot inside stables unless it was to buy some greys or perhaps ride or…

“When you’re ready, Your Grace.” Higgins, the estate manager, was a short plump man with an all too cheerful demeanor and an aggravating voice that sounded quite like an animal in heat, though to be fair, worse comparisons were out there.

Stefan muttered a few more curses for good measure and plastered a ducal smile on his face while he reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Higgins, it seems I’m a bit in the dark. Tell me how I can be of service.”

“Right away, Your Grace! And may I just say, to work next to such a man! Well, I don’t think my Betsy will believe me when I tell her!”