Lucien stepped onto the terrace and lifted his face to the pale winter rays. For December, the air was tinged with a surprising hint of warmth. And that was a good thing, considering his chilly reception in Rosemont since Robert had invited him to become an official guest of the house. Between Aunt Emma’s open hostility and Arabella’s frigid demeanor, it was a wonder he hadn’t frozen to death. Thank God for Robert and Aunt Jane.

The scent of warm bread drifted from the kitchen as Lucien headed for the stables. He would take a quick ride to the Red Rooster, just to get a feel for the place, and then return and get to work. He lifted his arm and moved it in slow circles. Aunt Jane had meticulously plucked the stitches from his shoulder just this morning and he felt as if he were back to full strength, ready to attack the most difficult repair project Rosemont had to offer. Just today, he’d straightened the hinges on several doors, fixed the stuck damper in the kitchen, and replaced three loose steps on the main stairway.

Lucien rounded the corner of the house, whistling silently to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the ungainly shed that sat beside the stable. Last night, after Arabella had retired, pleading a headache, Lucien had slipped outside and found enough of Aunt Emma’s prime cognac resting in the back of the shed to furnish eighteen houses the size of Rosemont. The barrels, missing the requisite excise stamp and still damp from being hauled indoors, had been stacked neatly, a tarp hiding them from sight. Someone at Rosemont was purchasing goods from a free trader. But who?

The only one with enough business sense was Arabella. Without her expert guidance and commonsense management, Rosemont would be in a far greater state of ruin. Yet he could not see Miss Outraged Virtue involved with such an under-the-table effort. Perhaps one of the servants was responsible.

Lost in thought, he opened the gate—and froze. Across the small yard, Arabella strode toward the stables. Reaching the wide wooden door, she glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one followed, then slipped inside.

Lucien blinked once, twice. It wasn’t just that she was slinking about like a sneak thief intent on mischief. It was more than that: Arabella Hadley was wearing breeches.

Soft, woolen breeches and black leather boots that clung to her rounded legs and calves in the most damnably alluring fashion. Lucien tugged at his cravat and wondered how defined her derriere would be, encased in what must be her brother’s cast-off clothing. A pity she’d worn such a long coat. Fortunately, he could easily verify his fevered imagination.

With a careful glance around, Lucien continued toward the stables. He’d never met such an infuriatingly independent woman. Someone should take Rosemont’s mistress in hand—from what he could see, Arabella was long overdue.

But what was she doing dressed in men’s clothing? Lucien scowled and increased his pace. Bloody hell. Perhaps she was indeed a link to the smugglers.

The thought clenched his jaw. It was implausible. Still, as soon as the barn door was opened enough to let him slip through, he dropped low and crept into the shadowed interior until he could just see over the stall door. Arabella stood before a pile of hay, sunlight trickling through the slats in the walls and dappling her hair with red-gold beams.

Behind her, an old worn farm horse stretched his neck over his stall door as far as he possibly could, his yellow teeth bared as he tried to reach her pocket. Arabella laughed, her voice rich with delight as she turned to pat the horse’s nose.

Lucien closed his eyes at the sound of her laughter. He remembered another time when she’d laughed like that, her mouth still swollen from his kisses, her luxurious hair tangled beneath them both. She had been an amazingly sensual lover, giving herself in every aspect of their passion with an unbridled eagerness that had amazed and delighted him.

He had been the experienced one, having sampled the bountiful avenues of pleasure available to a young London blade. But Arabella, although an innocent, had drowned his senses with her unrestrained reactions.

He opened his eyes and banished the flood of memories. He was not used to chasing insufferably independent women into the stables, regardless of how appealing they looked dressed in their brother’s cast-off clothing.

Lucien slumped against the stall door, suddenly realizing the ridiculousness of his situation. What was he doing, spying on her like a lovesick twelve-year-old? Arabella murmured to the horse and Lucien lifted his head again. She patted the animal for a moment, crooning to him in a low, soft voice. Then, with a heavy sigh, she turned and picked up a shovel.

A shovel? Lucien frowned as she set to work. She wasn’t just shoveling—she was mucking out the stables, lifting steaming piles of soiled straw into a small handcart. He straightened, forgetting to conceal himself. How had things gotten to such a pass that a gently bred woman had to muck out her own stables? A twinge of guilt struck him. Without his thoughtless interference in her life all those years ago, she might have wed someone in her own station—someone who would have taken care of her and kept her from such labors.

The thought pained him. He clenched his hands into fists and took a hasty step forward, instantly regretting it when the old farm horse swung his large, bony head in his direction. The horse snorted loudly and pawed the floor, whinnying a distinct challenge that caused Hastings’s gentle bay to retreat to the back of his stall in alarm.

Cursing silently, Lucien stooped back behind the door, but not before Satan’s large black head appeared over the stall door beside him, roused from a doze by his companion’s complaints. His ears flicked forward when he saw Lucien, and he whinnied a loud welcome.

“What you complaining about?” Arabella said over her shoulder to the horse. “You have the easy part.”

Where was Wilson? Or Ned? Patting Satan’s nose to keep him quiet, Lucien peered back over the stall door.

Arabella leaned on the shovel, shoving a wisp of hair from her forehead with a gloved hand. Her face was flushed from her exertion, her brow damp, a tendril of hair curled about her cheek.

Dissatisfied at being so summarily ignored, Satan tossed his head and knocked Lucien’s hat to the floor. The horse snorted with laughter when Lucien scrambled to catch it.

“What are you doing here?”

Lucien froze. It would be a long time before he brought Satan another lump of sugar. He flicked a hot glare at the horse before straightening and meeting Arabella’s accusing gaze. “Ah! There you are! I saw you slip in here, and for an instant I thought…” He stopped. Somehow he didn’t think she would be amused that for one horrible minute he’d assumed she was involved in smuggling cognac for her hazy Aunt Emma.

Arabella’s gaze narrowed. “Well?”

It was infuriating, the way she could look at him as if she could hear what he wasn’t saying just as plainly as what he was. He barely managed to keep his smile intact. “I was looking for…” His desperate gaze found the hat clutched in his hand and he held it aloft. “This.”

She arched a brow, her dark eyes shadowed. “And how did that get into the stables?”

“I lost it when I came to visit the horses last night.” He patted Satan’s velvet nose, then reached a hand toward the farm horse. The horse jerked his head away, then bared his teeth and lunged.

Lucien snatched his hand back just in time. “Vicious, conniving bag of bones,” he growled. “I ought to—”

“Sebastian doesn’t recognize you,” Arabella said bluntly. “And I did not notice your hat when I came in.”

“No? Perhaps it was hidden in all this hay.” He made a great show of cleaning the beaver brim. “Damnable thing. Can’t keep my hands on it.”

Her lips quivered for an instant before she severely repressed them into a straight line. “Now that you have found your errant hat, you may leave.” Then she glowered. “I don’t know how you tricked Robert into giving you an invitation, but it doesn’t give you leave to sneak up on me when I am alone.”

“I will leave when I finish.”

“When you finish what?”

“Helping you.” He shrugged out of his coat, untied his neckcloth, and tossed them both over the railing, then closed the distance between them. He boldly placed his hands over hers on the shovel. Her chin jutted out and her eyes sparkled, the color deepened by her long lashes.

She tried to pull the shovel free. “I do not need your help.”

“Yes, you do.” And she was going to get it, whether she wanted it or not.

Arabella stopped yanking on the shovel to glare up at him. “Why are you here, Lucien? What do you hope to gain?”

She was the most ungracious, most stubborn woman he’d ever known. And she knew him far too well. “Perhaps I am being chivalrous.”

She raised her brows in disbelief. He couldn’t even plead common decency without facing her incredulity. It was galling. Galling and just the tiniest bit reassuring.

He sighed. “Very well, then; maybe I am bored. Your aunts won’t even let me step outside without making Hastings wrap me from head to foot in wool.”

Arabella stared at him an interminable length of time. Finally some of the tension left her body. Her gaze flickered to his shoulder where his shirt opened at the neck, revealing the edge of his bandage. “Perhaps if you had acted less like an invalid, my aunts would not have coddled you so.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” He enjoyed the spark of irritation that shone in her eyes. “Fortunately for us both, this little chore will afford me some much-needed amusement.” His gaze drifted over her, dwelling longer than necessary on the gentle flare of her hips. “Unless you have a better idea of how we could amuse ourselves. Here. Alone. In the stables.”

Her jaw firmed. “No. Now let go.”

She was not going to give an inch. Though he had managed to assuage some of her suspicion, it would take something stronger to get her to relax her hold on the shovel. He glanced at her hand, her slender fingers so tightly wrapped around the thick handle that he couldn’t help but wish she had her hands wrapped around him, her strong fingers stroking, tightening. The idea lifted his manhood to painful readiness.

Damn it, if he didn’t get away from her soon, he would lose what little control he had over his traitorous body. Fortunately, he knew exactly how to make Miss Arabella Hadley release the shovel. Without giving her time to say another word, Lucien leaned over and brushed his cheek across hers, igniting a jolt of raw passion. Heat spiraled to his stomach and he had to grit his teeth to keep from tossing the shovel aside and yanking her to him.

But his abrupt move accomplished its purpose—with a muffled curse, Arabella spun away and stumbled backward. In her haste to get away from him, she left the shovel in his hands.

She stood, a hand on her cheek as if he’d struck her. “That was uncalled for.”

“So is your resistance to a polite offer of help.” He hefted the shovel in his hand to begin, but Arabella stepped between him and the pile of soiled hay.

“I cannot let you do this,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because you will mar your clothing.”

He should not have allowed her words to goad him further, but they did; she seemed to think him the most frivolous, empty-headed, selfish man to walk the earth. Perversely, he decided to prove her right. Smiling faintly, he leaned the shovel in the crook of his arm and began to undo the remaining buttons of his shirt.

Her eyes widened.

“What are you doing?”

“As you said, I can hardly clean out the stables while wearing white linen. Hastings would have an apoplexy.”

“You don’t have to remove your shirt.” Her voice had an edge of desperation that urged him on.

“Oh, but I do.” He pulled his shirt over his head, the cold air sending a welcome chill across his skin, cooling his ardor and allowing him to think clearly for the first time since he’d seen her in those damnable breeches.

“There.” He gestured with the shovel. “Now move.”

Arabella stared at his chest as if fascinated and horrified at the same time. With apparent difficulty, she raised her gaze to his. “But you’ve never mucked out the stables in your life!”

“Then I am due, wouldn’t you say?”

She glanced from him to the muck, a reluctant smile tugging the corner of her mouth. Lucien would have given his entire fortune to taste that smile, to plunder those soft lips and join the heat inside her mouth. The thought swirled straight to his loins and engulfed him in a wave of hot lust. To keep his thoughts away from his errant manhood, he stepped around her and went to work.

Arabella watched him, clearly struggling with herself before bursting out, “I am quite capable of doing this myself.”

No one took their responsibilities as seriously as Arabella Hadley. Lucien supposed some sober and virtuous men would find that an attractive trait in a woman, but he found it damnably irritating. She possessed more pride than any ten women he knew.

Lucien rested the shovel on the floor and leaned over it until his mouth was inches from hers. “Arabella, I am going to muck out the stables. I am here, I am willing, and I can get it done in half the time it would take you.”

“I doubt it,” she snapped, not backing off an inch.

“Dukes are notoriously poor at mucking out stables.”

He grinned. Apparently she had regained her wits along with her temper. “Watch me,” he said, and went back to work.

She raised her brows and looked away, her nails curled into her palms.

He shoveled steadily, flicking a glance her way now and again. Her back was rigid, her face a sea of conflicting emotions. In her brother’s clothing, her hair a mass of wild curls across her shoulders, she looked all of eighteen and furious enough to slit his throat. It was not a propitious beginning. If she fought him every step of the way, he’d never get anything done. Hell, he’d almost had to undress to keep her from wrangling the shovel from him.

The thought unexpectedly amused him. Here he was, bare-chested and almost blue with cold, all from fighting for the right to muck out the stables. He chuckled.

“Put your shirt back on; it is freezing.”

“Nonsense. It is warmer in here than it is in most of Rosemont.”

Arabella forced herself to look away from that broad, muscular expanse of chest. Though it galled her to admit it, the old house did have the tendency to soak in the first chill of the season and hold it long into summer.

Arabella deliberately kept her gaze from Lucien. Had it been anyone else, she would have gladly accepted the offer of assistance. But she didn’t trust him. Lucien Devereaux was a pleasure-seeking rake whose promises meant less than the soiled straw under her feet.

But try as she might, she could not dismiss the memory of Robert’s face when he asked her if she did not believe him to be the master of Rosemont. Had Robert demanded that she leave off running the estate, she would have done so with a light heart. But since his return from the war, he had shown no interest in anything. Arabella could not refuse him the one and only request he’d made since his return—to allow Lucien to stay as his guest.

Unaware of her regard, Lucien bent to thrust the shovel deeper into the soiled hay. She scowled. Damn it. How was she supposed to argue with him when he stood before her half naked, the sunlight dappling his broad shoulders with gold, his muscles rippling beneath smooth skin she knew would be deliciously warm to the touch? Despite her vow otherwise, she found herself watching him.

He worked surely and smoothly. There was an innate grace to him that was as masculine as it was primal. It made her want to watch him whether he was on horseback, dancing in a crowded ballroom, or working like a common laborer.

He slanted a green gaze her way. “Do you always muck out the stables yourself?”

Arabella could only hope her voice sounded normal. “Ned usually does it, but he’s helping one of his sisters today. He has three of them and they all seem to believe he is theirs to command.”

“And Wilson?”

Sebastian stole this opportune moment to nudge her. Arabella patted the horse, glad for the distraction. “He should be back this afternoon. He is helping one of the tenants patch a hole in their roof.”

Lucien shoveled a mass of matted straw into the wagon. “How many tenants do you have?”

“Five families; they raise the sheep for us. We get twenty percent of their lambs and fleece.”

“Only twenty?”

“I don’t want them to starve,” she replied defensively. It was an argument she and Mr. Francot had had many times.

Lucien quirked a brow. “You don’t raise any sheep yourself?”

“Wilson, Ned, and I are much too busy. We supply the land and the cottages, and the tenants do the work.”

“And Aunt Jane supplies the sheep tonic.”

She nodded, then, unable to help herself, she blurted, “Lucien…just why are you here?”

“I am too wounded to travel.”

“You couldn’t shovel if your shoulder was still mending.”

He regarded her a moment, his lashes casting shadows until his eyes appeared black. “Perhaps I found that I like the moors. They are quite beautiful.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that.”

His gaze narrowed and he set the tip of the shovel on the ground and rested his arm across the handle. “What would you believe? That I am staying for my own amusement? That the only reason I am here is to see if I can win my way back into your bed?” He reached out and brushed her lips with the rough edge of his thumb, his expression intense. “Would you believe that, Bella mia?”

Arabella was unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was stare at him, fighting the longing his touch evoked. His hand lowered, skimming her throat and hovering where her coat parted to reveal her shirt. Her heart skipped a beat, and she waited…waited to see if it was leaping with joy or thudding to a tragic halt.

Pulling herself together, she took an unsteady step backward. “You shouldn’t be here. You belong in London.”

His hand dropped to his side as his face shuttered. Without a word, he returned to his work.

Arabella swallowed, feeling as if she’d hurt him in some way. Strangely, the idea left her feeling bereft. “If I were you, I would return to London as soon as possible. There is nothing for you here.”

“No?” His gaze raked across her, making her prickle in places she’d rather not think about. “Are you certain?” His voice, soft and low, sent a trill of excitement through her.

Arabella had to fight the impulse to stamp her foot. It was frustrating, the way he could imply without words that she was the reason he was staying. To look at her so intently that she could feel the touch of his gaze like the brush of a feather on bared skin.

Suddenly the stable felt remarkably close and intimate, and she wanted to look anywhere other than at him, at his muscled chest and finely wrought thighs, outlined so well in his snug breeches. Arabella spun on her heel and clomped across the ground, glad for the solid thump of her worn boots. Muttering about the work she had to do, she set about harnessing Sebastian to the cart.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Lucien dropped the last shovelful into the handcart and then tugged his shirt over his head. The linen stretched smoothly over his shoulders and fell in soft creases to his waist. With his hair raked back from his forehead, his shirt undone and hanging free, he looked wild and untamed and as delectable as warm sugar cookies.

Trying to steady her breathing, Arabella gathered an armful of the short fence rails Wilson had prepared that morning. What was she doing, staring at Lucien like a moonstruck calf? She began to load the rails into the wagon, keeping her back to him so he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks. “I’ll be back soon,” she announced. “These need to go out to the south field. The fence must be mended before it rains.”

“Then we’d best hurry.” His voice sounded just behind her, husky with implied meaning, his breath caressing her ear.

Arabella squenched her eyes closed, a tremor of awareness making it difficult to think. If she didn’t get some space between them soon, her traitorous longings would become obvious to the one man who should have no effect on her. Keeping her face averted, she said, “Thank you very much, but I don’t need your assistance. I will see you when I return.”

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, he reached over and took the remaining rails from her arms and carried them to the wagon. He stacked them on top of the others, oblivious to the damage done to his fine shirt.

It was, she decided with a dismal sigh, yet another example of the differences between them. The Duke of Wexford would never consider the cost of one simple shirt, even one that cost more than any two dresses she owned. “Hastings will not be pleased if you ruin your shirt.”

Lucien ignored her and continued to load the wood alongside her, stepping out of her way whenever she neared the wagon. After the last piece was placed inside, he slanted a hot glance her way. “Is that all of it?”

“Yes.” She gathered her coat closer. “If you don’t mind, please inform Mrs. Guinver that I will return in time for dinner.” Without waiting for him to answer, she climbed into the wagon, sitting squarely in the center of the seat so that there was no room for anyone else.

She gathered the reins, aware of Lucien’s warm gaze. Her breasts tingled as if he had stroked her through her heavy wool coat. Castigating herself for a fool, she had just reached over to release the brake when Lucien climbed onto the seat beside her, his coat slung over one shoulder. He unceremoniously nudged her aside with one hip, his large body pressed intimately against hers, his broad shoulder enticingly near.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, scooting away until the seat edge pressed into her thigh. Her entire right side burned from his touch.

“I’m helping you,” he said.

“Please get down.”

He shrugged into his coat and settled back, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his face set in immovable lines.

“Lucien, I will not have you—”

He bent and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers with a suddenness that gave her no time to prepare. His lips sent every last vestige of her control toppling, burning through her defenses until she moaned and clung to him as if she feared she’d fall.

Seconds later, Lucien broke the kiss with a muffled curse, his breathing loud in the stillness of the barn.

Arabella pressed her fingers over her lips. “What was that for?”

A smile softened the harsh lines of his face. “I just wondered if you tasted as good as I remembered.” He picked up the reins from where she had let them drop and hawed Sebastian into motion. “And you do—just the way I remember. Like honey, all sweet and spicy. As if the bees had gotten into an herb garden.”

It was nonsense, pure and simple. Practiced gibberish he used to trap innocent women into hopeless passion so he could abandon them when he desired. But she could not still the rapid pounding of her heart. “I did not wish to be kissed.”

“Didn’t you? I rather thought you did. Why else would you make such a fuss about my simple offer of assistance unless…” He slanted a long, slow glance her way.

She gathered her coat at her throat. “Unless what?”

“Unless you are worried my presence will awaken feelings you wish to deny.”

“Oh! Of all the vain, useless, ridiculous things I have ever heard—”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

Arabella balled her hands into fists and rammed them into her coat pockets. The braggart! The arrogant, conceited fool! She would love to box his ears until he begged for mercy. She shot a hot glare up at him and met his amused gaze. “I am not attracted to you, Lucien. Not anymore.”

“Then you won’t mind if I idle away my spare time by assisting you in your chores. I find them far more amusing than playing whist with your Aunt Jane.”

Arabella set her jaw. Damn the man. What sins had she committed to deserve such a fate? She ground her teeth and stared at the passing fields. If she were fair, she would admit that it wasn’t Lucien’s fault that she became a mass of quivering jelly at the feel of his muscled thigh resting beside hers. After all, she had no illusions about him and he was being very honest about his reasons for staying—he saw her as a challenge, a passing game of fancy.

It was a good thing she had tight control over her passions, or she’d be lost for certain. At least she knew that whatever his dark purpose was in staying at Rosemont, it would soon come to an end. So long as she kept that firmly in mind, she was safe.

To make sure he didn’t get the idea that she welcomed his presence, she leaned as far away from him as possible and said in an ungracious tone as they neared the far gates, “Turn right.”

Soon the cart was bouncing down a narrow dirt road at a smart pace. They slammed into one particularly deep rut and Lucien swayed, his broad shoulder pressing against her breast.

Arabella tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t. Frowning, she said, “The south field borders Lord Harlbrook’s land and he is most insistent we keep our sheep away from his prize swine.” She sniffled, her nose numb in the cold. “He is an experimental farmer, you know. He had three hogs brought over from Germany. Unfortunately, Wilson ran over one on the way to town a few weeks ago.”

“Ah. That explains why His Lordship is so distraught to see the Hadley crest.”

“He never knew it was us, though he suspects it. We buried the creature out in the moor.”

“I suppose you volunteered this information when Lord Harlbrook came searching for his prize pig?”

“Of course not.”

“How unneighborly of you.”

“Wilson and I joined the search party,” she said defensively. “We even invited Lord Harlbrook to dinner afterwards.”

“And served ham, no doubt,” he said, grinning as he pulled the cart up to the broken fence. He immediately hopped down and reached up to help her alight.

She hesitated, aware that her blood was already pounding from sitting by him.

His eyes lit with amusement. “Afraid, Bella?”

She stepped into his arms without another thought. As soon as his hands closed about her waist, she knew her mistake. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to hold her through her coat. Instead, he had slipped his hands inside the heavy wool so that nothing but the thin linen of Robert’s cast-off shirt and her own chemise separated Lucien’s warm hands from her naked skin.

To make matters worse, he didn’t release her as soon as her feet rested securely on the ground, as a true gentleman would. He stood holding her, his hands splayed across her sides, his fingers following the curve of her ribs, his thumbs nestled beneath her breasts.

The cold air disappeared, replaced by a thick, warm mist that seemed to draw her toward the wide plane of his chest. She remembered it well, knew the feel of those crisp hairs between her fingers, knew the curve of his hard muscles. At one time, she had reveled in the broad planes of his shoulders and the strength of his arms, nipping and tasting every bit of him.

Her cheeks hot, Arabella yanked away. “We have work to do,” she said in what she hoped was a brisk, businesslike tone. She turned and began pulling the planks from the bed of the wagon.

After a moment, Lucien joined her and silently began to unload the remaining boards. For several minutes, they worked side by side. Despite the unnatural tension, Arabella grudgingly admitted that the extra assistance was a welcome relief, and for a few brief moments it was as if they were equals.

But no, she reminded herself bitterly, a pang flickering in her heart. Lucien would never consider himself her equal. He was a duke and well aware of his position. She tried to think of all the reasons he might be avoiding London. Gaming debts. Family obligations. An angry mistress, perhaps. Probably all three, she thought glumly. Regardless the reasons, once he’d completed whatever idle task had sent him to the wilds of Yorkshire, he would leave in the middle of the night and never return. It was his way.

Only this time, her brother would be hurt, as well. Having another man about had buoyed Robert’s spirits. He was more vigorous, more alive than he had been since he’d returned from the war. What would happen after Lucien left?

But even her fears for her brother’s welfare didn’t help Arabella fight the flood of emotions that were being stirred to life by Lucien’s presence, by the hot touch of his gaze, the lingering caress of his hands.

Pushing aside her untoward thoughts, she watched him slide the last slat into place. Hurrying, she climbed into the wagon before he could offer to help her up. The wind had risen during their labors, and heavy black clouds now loomed on the horizon. Lucien climbed into the wagon and took his place beside her, picked up the reins and then set Sebastian to a brisk trot.

He glanced down at her, his gaze hooded. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to thank me? I deserve that much, at least.”

“Pish-posh. I’m sure it was all very healthy for you.” She made a vague gesture. “The exercise. The fresh air. I daresay it is the most useful labor you have ever done.”

She’d thought to insult him, but he merely grinned and said affably, “Most likely. But you are wrong on one account; the air was not fresh when I was shoveling out the stables.”

She had to bite her lip to keep a chuckle from escaping. Somehow, her memories of him had not included his sense of humor. She wondered what else she had chosen to forget.

Lucien turned the wagon into the drive at Rosemont and pulled Sebastian to a halt in front of the house. “Here we are. Off with you, now.”

“But I need to unhitch Sebastian and—”

“You don’t need to do anything but get into the house. It will rain at any moment and at this temperature, you would be frozen solid in about two minutes.”

It was cold and her shoulders ached from all of the shoveling and lifting. “Well. If you are sure you know how to—”

“Don’t even say it.” He glowered, a crease between his brow. “Just get down and let me take care of the horse.”

“But you’ve never—”

“Damn it! Must you argue with everything I say?”

“Yes,” she bit out, her pent-up emotions pouring forth.

“I am a capable woman, Lucien, able to take care of myself and my family without your interference.”

He stared at her a moment before saying in a quiet voice that nearly undid her, “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were anything else. I just wished to help, that is all.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to…” What? Handsome dukes who stripped to the waist and made her feel hot and restless?

Lucien’s mouth quirked into a smile. “You are a stubborn woman, Arabella Hadley. Fortunately for you, I like stubborn women.” He moved until his mouth was a scant inch from hers. “I like them best of all when they’re within kissing distance.”

She stared at his mouth, so sensuous and inviting. Pride, she decided, was a costly thing. Too costly when faced with temptation of such magnitude.

Gathering her wavering virtue, she scrambled down from the wagon and stiffly marched into the house. She barely stepped into the foyer when a huge rustle of wind signaled the beginning of a heavy rain. Perhaps that will cool his ardor on the way to the barn.

Muttering to herself about the difficulties of dealing with self-satisfied, conceited dukes, she tromped upstairs to change for dinner.