Malia Martin by The Duke's Return

feeling.
    He had penned a note, quite a feat, that. He usually used a scribe since he found writing his own letters abhorrent. In his mind’s eye, Trevor pictured the cramped letters he had formedwith the quill provided by Stu’s housekeeper. They resembled those made by a boy still in the schoolroom. Trevor cringed just at the thought.
    But his missive to Stu had been short, for Trevor felt sure the man would never get it.
    He had a terrible feeling that he would never see Stu again. Trevor slouched against the back of his chair and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. No, with the man’s sudden disappearance came a clear realization that Stu had been acting nervous and strange ever since Trevor had shown up in London.
    He had himself a crazy duchess, a cheating solicitor, and an estate . . . the state of which had him panicking in regular intervals as he made the journey toward Rawlston. Just the thought of the paperwork and responsibilities awaiting him made Trevor want to turn his horse’s head around and flee to the far reaches of the earth.
    A crash from the kitchen brought Trevor out of his musings, and then a man’s threatening voice raised in ire had him pushing up quickly from his chair. A scream, high and feminine, rang out before more words from the man and then the sound of flesh slapping flesh.
    Trevor knew the sound well. He was through the door of the kitchen before it had even registered in his brain what he was doing.
    The serving wench cowered on the ground, a puddle of strong-smelling ale swirled about her feet. A large, beefy man stood over her, his eyes dark and beady.
    “What goes on here?” Trevor asked.
    “Nothing that would concern you, sir.” The man dismissed Trevor with a wave of his hand. “Get up, girl, and clean up that mess. If it happens agin’, you’ll be lookin’ for work somewhere else, you will.”
    The girl whimpered and sloshed at the spilled ale with a soggy rag.
    Trevor pulled a deep breath into his tight lungs. He gave the inn owner his best glare. “You should not hit her,” he said.
    The man looked at Trevor as if he were daft. “And that would be none of your bisness, I’d say.”
    The girl stood quickly. “I’ll be right out with yer ale, sir,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast. “Please, sir,” she urged, when he did not move.
    Trevor clenched his teeth. The whole scene was just too close to the truth of his memories. His father, large and angry; his mother, flitting about and shooing him away.
    She had always made him leave. And he had always done as she’d wanted. When he had tried to put himself between the fists of his father and the pale, thin skin of his mother, it had just caused her more upset.
    Trevor looked from the pleading face of the girl before him to the bullying stance of the man.
    “We don’ allow patrons back here, guv,” the man said.
    Trevor stared at him, then said slowly, “I am the Duke of Rawlston, sir. You may refer to me as such from this moment on.”
    The man blinked.
    The girl gasped.
    Trevor looked at her. “What is your name?”
    She swallowed so hard he heard the sound of it, and stood. “I am Trudy, sir . . . your grace.”
    “And how much do you make working for this man, Trudy?”
    Trudy looked as if she wanted to sink through the floor. She wrapped her fingers in her apron and glanced at the man behind her.
    “Never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Trevor said. “Come with me. I will double your wage—no, triple it. And you shall not be abused working in the kitchens of Rawlston.”
    The man started to protest, but Trevor cut him off. “And you, sir—if I hear that you abuse whoever takes Trudy’s place, I shall return and let you know how it feels to be hit by someone twice as strong as you.”
    The man swallowed his protest and stared at Trevor bug-eyed.
    “Come, Trudy.” Trevor turned on his heel and quit the small kitchen, for the first time feeling very happy to be the Duke of Rawlston.
    He walked