Untamed by Anna Cowan

proper home, Miss Sutherland. I am not going to burden you with my retinue. My valet will cry himself to sleep, poor man, but even he shall not accompany me.’
    ‘You don’t understand, Your Grace. I cannot – cannot expect a duke to live where I live.’
    ‘Then you may rest easy. I will not travel as the Duke of Darlington – even he will be left behind.’
    She drew in a deep breath and looked directly at him, the way only she did. ‘This is what you ask?’ Her words were slow, distinct.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you not need to stay in town, now that there’s a second claim to your title?’
    He was entirely lost for a moment, before he realised what she must mean. ‘That boy, that accountant from Leeds? I am the acknowledged son of my father. He has no claim.’
    She dropped her hands then, and they hung still by her sides. There was something unnatural and eerie about them that put him in mind of dead things.
    ‘Whose skin will you wear this time,’ she said, ‘if you are not coming with me as the Duke?’
    He didn’t say anything; he was curious about what she might betray to fill the silence.
    ‘Do not bring the man in black,’ she said. ‘Do not bring him.’
    Then before he could respond she said, ‘Will we take your carriage, Your Grace? I have none.’
    He swept her a bow. ‘I see. Of course.’
    ‘You will see,’ she muttered. ‘More than you should.’
    He walked back to the Row a pace behind her and watched the dust rise in a fine cloud around her shoes and hem. Jewellyn was having trouble holding Darlington’s horse still, and when Miss Sutherland approached the beast butted his large head against her outstretched hand. The quality of her movement changed in a way Darlington couldn’t define as she stroked the horse’s nose. Even ten minutes in her company had braced him. Already the world was beginning to matter again.
    ‘Lovely man,’ she murmured to his horse.
    Run, his instincts told him. Run until your boots are worn through. And then keep running.
    ‘Do you like him?’ he said, forcing himself a step closer. ‘I won him from Mr Ballantine in a card game last week. I have named him BenRuin, after another great golden beast we both know.’
    She turned to hide her surprised laugh and stroked the horse’s muscular neck under his mane, where she would feel the hot pound of blood.
    She pulled herself up into the carriage before the footman could reach her. What a wrinkle she was in the fine fabric of society, this Miss Sutherland who was as tall as he and wore the current confectionery of fashion so badly. She was right, though for the wrong reasons: he could ill afford to disappear from London now, with the Marmotte game afoot. But he felt, and didn’t look too closely at the feeling, that he hadn’t many chances left.
    Kit held the letter that had arrived half an hour after they returned from the park, and knocked at the door of BenRuin’s study.
    ‘Enter.’
    She paused at the sound, that deep, Scottish reminder of the man she was about to face. He was bigger and more intimidating than the Duke of Darlington. But somehow, now that she’d faced the Duke, easy in comparison.
    She didn’t think she imagined that his face fell by a fraction when he saw it was only Miss Sutherland. He should have known Lydia would never have knocked.
    He was as different from the Duke as could be. Nothing hid him. His golden hair was clipped back against his head, exposing a strong face. His nose was bent, like hers, and his neck and shoulders suggested great strength. What had the Duke said? That Lydia had married a man who was too much for her, and she spent her days trying to keep him at bay.
    ‘I’ve had a letter from Ma,’ she said. ‘Her asthma’s grown worse – she asks for me.’ The letter was from the Duke, a list of details.
    ‘You want to go back to the Manor?’
    ‘I do,’ she said. ‘Er, my lord.’
    BenRuin moved to his desk, and she couldn’t help thinking how aptly the