A Tempting Maid for the Beastly Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The door to Rose Browning’s home suddenly burst open, and a boy who was a friend of her brother’s appeared with a bloody gash on the back of his neck, his hand pressing on it. It happened so swiftly that Rose thought she had dreamt it all a long time ago and was now only remembering that dream. 

“Please,” he said with apprehension, his lower lip trembling as he spoke. That was enough to pull her back into the present moment and remind her of what she needed to do. “I need some help.” 

“Goodness me!” She got up from her seat, dropping the clothes she was just holding in her hands that had been brought for mending. She had broken out of the frozen state she found himself at the moment he burst in through the door. “What on earth happened?” 

“Sit down, lad,” Cora Roberts, Rose’s aunt, addressed the boy, pointing at a nearby chair. She took control of the situation, as always. “I’ll fetch the basin of water and some clean cloths. Take a look at the wound, Rose.” 

Rose did as she was told, expecting something far more severe, so she was relieved to see that it was just a surface scratch. Working together, Rose and her aunt proceeded to clean the wound, murmuring reassuring words to keep the boy calm. 

“Take deep breaths,” Rose said soothingly, as her aunt was preparing a poultice with herbs known for their healing properties. That was always the most unpleasant part, putting the poultice on, although that was also the most helpful part. “It’s going to be all right. It is just a minor scratch.” 

“I barely feel it at all,” the boy said, although Rose could see him flinching and blinking during the process. Of course, a boy his age would never admit that he was in pain, even if his life depended on it. That was at least how Rose’s own brother was. Protective and loyal, he would rather cut off one of his own fingers than have Rose miss a single hair off her head. Being the older one, she considered herself the protector, but as he grew older, he was slowly starting to take on that role without even asking her what she thought of it. 

Rose smiled. “I know you are a brave young man. My brother has always told me so when he spoke of you.” She made sure not to use the word boy. Her brother didn’t like it, so she was certain that his friends didn’t like it either. 

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?” 

“Indeed,” Rose assured him. “He’d always say that Timothy is one of my bravest friends.” 

The boy seemed to ponder those words for a few moments, then he smiled. “I am the fastest one. I’m not sure about being the bravest, though.” 

At that moment, Rose’s aunt approached with the poultice, which they placed gently on the wound, bandaging it securely. 

“There we go,” Rose smiled. “All done.” 

“Too bad our work has only begun,” Cora frowned, returning the remainder of the poultice to the shelf in the corner of the room. Without any further words, she returned to the clothes that had been brought for mending and started to separate them into piles. 

Rose decided to stay with Timothy for the time being and see what happened that resulted in such a nasty gash in such an unfortunate place. 

“So, do you want to tell me what happened?” Rose wondered, as she went to the stove and poured some hot milk for the boy, without even asking him if he wanted any. 

Her younger brother, Henry, loved warm milk. When he was upset over something, she would make it for him and watch his nervousness dissipate. She could only hope that it would have the same effect on Timothy. With her back turned to him while she poured the warm liquid, she didn’t hear him say anything. A part of her knew it would be so. Usually, getting hurt meant that the boys were doing something they weren’t supposed to have been doing. In other words, causing mischief. And she didn’t want her brother causing mischief. They already had enough troubles as it was. 

She turned to him with a reassuring smile, offering him the cup. His eyes glanced at the cup, then at her. A moment later, he grabbed it, bringing it to his lips and taking several small, satisfying sips. Rose listened to him click his lips with pleasure, then she asked again. 

“Where were you when you got hurt?” she wondered softly. She didn’t want to frighten him or to make I’m think that he was in any sort of trouble. That would only make him clam up on her, and she would never find out what happened and whether Henry was involved. 

“In the village,” Timothy replied, hiding most of his face from her gaze behind the cup, but his eyes stared at her with that same apprehension. He knew that the truth would get him in trouble. 

“Where in the village?” she inquired. 

“Around,” he replied evasively. 

She sighed, looking at him. “You know, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.” She paused for a moment, then she continued. “When your mother asks me what happened, and you know she will, I will have to tell her that I don’t know, that you refused to tell me the truth and that will only make things even worse. But if you tell me the truth, then I can reassure her. I am on your side here, Timothy, just like I’m on Henry’s. Because he was with you when this happened, wasn’t he?” 

Timothy swallowed heavily, placing the cup on the table before him. 

“Yes,” he acquiesced. 

“And you weren’t in the village, were you?” she asked again. 

“No,” he admitted. 

“Where were you then?” 

He hesitated, but then realized that she was right. Withholding the truth would only make things worse, as she had been trying to teach Henry, but without much success. She reminded herself that he was just a boy still, only fourteen years of age, even though he liked to think himself a man already. While it was true that the tragic death of their parents five years prior had made them both grow up prematurely, she still felt as if he were just a little boy who didn’t know anything of the world yet, and she had to protect him. Now, at one and twenty, she felt as if she were at least twice as old as that, but only her mind showed that maturity. 

“We were at… Montford Manor.” 

Rose shuddered at the name as she locked gazes with her aunt. Neither of them said anything, so the boy continued. 

“There were a few of us there, Henry, too,” he spoke slowly, reminiscing. “We were just playing around, having a look at the grounds, since there’s almost never anyone around,” he explained. 

Rose could understand the fascination. After all, the stories that circulated about that place were three quarters of legend and only one quarter of the truth. For boys Henry’s age, such forbidden places were like magnet. 

“Then suddenly, that scary duke appeared in one of the windows, shouting at us, yelling for us to get away,” he divulged. “He… he threw rocks at us,” he added, gently patting the back of his neck where the aftermath of their encounter with the duke lay. “And one of them hit me.” 

“The duke threw rocks at you?” Rose gasped incredulously. 

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could a grown man try to harm children over mere curiosity? It was unheard of. 

“Well, they do say he’s a monster,” Timothy reminded her. 

“There are no such things as monsters,” she corrected him. 

However, Timothy was right. Everyone in the village had used that term at least once to describe that man, and the children had simply accepted the literal meaning of the word. She did not know the man nor seen him since his return from the war. The villagers who had the opportunity said that he was horribly disfigured, that the entire right side of his face was terribly scarred. So that, in combination with the fact that he had fired more than half of the staff in his mansion upon his return, had earned him the nickname monster. 

Still, this was ridiculous. Throwing rocks at boys? Someone needed to go over there and speak to him before someone got badly hurt. 

“Timothy, listen to me now,” she said tenderly, but with complete determination in her voice. “You and the boys are not to return there; do you hear me? It is not safe. Until someone from the village goes over there and talks to that man, you shouldn’t even go near his property.” 

Cora suddenly added. “Not that I am making excuses for the man, but I also wouldn’t want a bunch of lads trampling my grounds whenever they feel like it. That gate is there for a reason.” 

Rose turned to her aunt. While her aunt was right, it still didn’t give the man an excuse to throw rocks. “That is a good point, Aunt,” Rose acknowledged. “But you know how boys are.” 

“I know,” her aunt frowned. “They need more discipline.” 

Rose turned to Timothy. “Run along now. And tell Henry I expect him home on time today.” 

“I will… and thank you,” Timothy nodded, getting up from his chair. He hesitated before asking. “You won’t tell my mother I was there?” 

Rose inhaled deeply, as if that brought her actual physical pain. “A promise is a promise. But I won’t be on your side anymore if I find out that you boys went there again.” 

“We won’t,” he hastily shook his head. “Promise.” 

“All right then,” Rose said, gesturing at him to go. 

“Goodbye,” he waved, closing the door behind him.

Rose walked over to her aunt, joining her in sorting out the clothes. She was thinking with some exasperation that she had to speak to her brother about following his even sillier friends into dangerous situations. 

“Can you imagine that?” Rose asked, still incredulous at what she had just heard. “Throwing stones, as if the boys were a pack of wild dogs.” 

“Some boys are wild dogs, Rose,” her aunt said, “especially at that age. And even older.” She stopped sorting, tilting her head a little. “Speaking of which, when are you going to acknowledge that nice young man from Willow’s Peak who has been bringing his clothes all the way here, to a different village, when I’m sure there are perfectly decent seamstresses over there?” 

Rose chuckled. “I’m sure I don’t know who you mean, Aunt.” 

“Oh, you most certainly do,” her aunt chuckled. “Because he is certainly not coming here for me.” 

“Why not?” Rose teased. “Just look at you, still as lovely as ever.” 

“Hardly!” her aunt exclaimed playfully, although it made both women chuckle. 

The truth was that her aunt, despite the passage of time, still exuded a certain grace and beauty that only seemed to enhance with age. Her silver-streaked hair, once a radiant chestnut, cascaded in gentle waves around her face, framing features softened by years of wisdom and the right to say exactly what was on her mind. Sometimes, she would sprinkle some kindness in there, but when one was truthful, kindness had to suffer at the hands of the truth. Deep laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes, a testament to a life that might not have been filled with only joy and laughter, but she still chose them over crying. In her presence, Rose always felt an air of tranquility and wisdom, and there was always a spark of vitality and curiosity that belied her aunt’s age, a reminder that the spirit did not age. Only the body did. 

“No, Aunt,” Rose smiled. “I have no interest in such matters, at least not until Henry is all grown up and doesn’t need me as much.” 

“But Henry is already fourteen, my dear,” her aunt reminded her. “Besides, he has me to take care of him.” 

“I know, and we are both so grateful for everything you did for us,” Rose said lovingly. “I honestly don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t taken us in after Mother and Father died.” 

“We are family, Rose,” her aunt beamed. “Family looks out for each other, always. And that is why I am telling you that I will be there for Henry. You, on the other hand, need to think more about yourself. You are a beautiful young woman who has hidden herself away from the world.” 

“And that is exactly how I like it, Aunt,” Rose replied with a smile, continuing to sort out the clothes. “Now, how about we finish this pile and start with the sewing? Today is going to be a long day, it would seem.” 

 

Chapter Two

William Ashforth, the Duke of Montford, found himself inspecting the grounds where the boys had done their mischief the previous evening. It was a solitary endeavor. He was the only one in his family alive. Something he never thought possible. He had walked through those paths many times with his older brother, and then they were gone. His brother and his father, both gone as a result of a robbery gone wrong. 

“Darn children,” he mumbled angrily, looking up at the broken window of his study.

He tried reminding himself that it was not really the children’s fault. It was the fault of their parents. Their mothers and fathers taught them that it was all right to trespass onto someone else’s property, and even worse, destroy it. He didn’t understand why they would do that. He stayed away from the village, not having stepped foot there since his return from the war. He never bothered anyone. He just wanted to be left alone, and yet, that was obviously too much to ask. He had no idea why. 

He sighed heavily as he continued pacing around the house. A bit further away from it, he found the stone he had thrown. He bent down to pick it up, examining the little droplets of blood on it. He sighed heavily, raking his fingers through his hair. The truth was, he never meant to harm that boy. He hit him accidentally. He only picked it up and threw it back at them after they had broken his study window. He couldn’t understand the need for such senseless violence. Wasn’t there already enough of that in the world? Why did children need to be spurred into causing it? It was nothing but a vicious cycle that had a tendency to trap everyone inside of it. 

As he was checking over the stables, suddenly he heard a scream from the nearby woods that bordered with his property. Without thinking, he dashed in the direction where he heard the scream, the urgency echoing in his ears. He couldn’t even begin to guess who that might be, but that didn’t stop him from running as fast as he could. 

Finally, he arrived at the scene to find a young woman lying on the ground, her form still and unmoving. His heart raced with concern as he dropped down to his knees beside her. Her copper blonde hair was covering most of her face, and he dared not touch her, as her willowy frame rested on the ground, as if she were a wood nymph just taking a respite. 

“Miss, can you hear me?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern, but she didn’t appear to hear him. 

Instead, the sound of a breaking twig was heard from somewhere behind him. His senses immediately sharpened, as he quickly turned around, aware of the fact that he could be moments away from disaster. That was when he saw a wild boar staring at him. Adrenaline surged through him as he realized the danger that the animal posed, especially with the unconscious woman on the ground. 

William knew that he had to act swiftly. Without thinking, he began shouting and making as much noise as possible, hoping to startle the boar and drive it away. His voice echoed through the woods, filled with a mixture of fear and determination, as he waved his arms and stomped his feet in a desperate attempt to intimidate the beast. 

The boar, startled by the sudden commotion, hesitated for a moment before turning tail and retreating deeper back into the woods. With a sigh of relief, William watched its departure, thankful that the conformation ended without any harm. 

Well… almost. He turned his attention to the woman, still lying on the ground. He slowly knelt next to her once again. He gently brushed her hair back to reveal her face. The touch of her skin sent a bolt of thunder through his body. She was mesmerizingly beautiful. He was immediately struck by her serene beauty, even in her unconscious state. Her features were delicate, her lips full, a blushing pink hue on them. Her skin felt soft and ethereal in the dappled light filtering through the verdant canopy above. He couldn’t help but admire the gentle, slim curve of her cheek, the occasional flutter of her dark eyelashes against her pale complexion framed by her curls.

At that moment, he noticed a wound on her head. The blood had already thickened, but that feeling of urgency washed over him. Without hesitation, he carefully lifted her into his arms, cradling her close as he began the journey back to the safety of his manor house. Each step was deliberate, his focus solely on ensuring the mystery woman’s safety and well-being as he navigated through the dense underbrush of the woods. The weight of her in his arms was both a reminder of the fragility of life and a testament to his sudden and unexpected determination to help a stranger. 

With each passing second, the manor drew closer, and he could feel the tension in his muscles ease slightly as he approached the familiar surroundings that have provided him with safety as well as seclusion. Relief flooded through him as he carried her inside. 

“Your Grace! What happened?” Peter Hancock, William’s loyal and trustworthy steward, gasped upon finding him in the main hallway. However, even without any words being spoken, Mr. Hancock quickly grasped the gravity of the situation and rushed forward to assist. 

“I found her unconscious in the woods,” William explained. “She’s hurt. We need to lay her down somewhere soft.” 

“The chaise lounge in the drawing room,” Mr. Hancock remembered immediately. “That is the closest place.” 

“Open the door, Mr. Hancock,” William asked as he headed in that direction. 

His steward didn’t need to be told twice. He rushed ahead to do as he was told, allowing William into the drawing room. William had to admit that Mr. Hancock’s steady presence provided a sense of reassurance in the midst of all this uncertainty. The man’s calm demeanor was a balm to William’s frayed nerves. As they settled the woman in the quiet room, Mr. Hancock offered a supportive nod, silently conveying his willingness to help in any way he could. 

“We need something to clean her wound, Mr. Hancock,” William whispered, and the man immediately nodded, swiftly turning to fulfill the task. With a brisk yet purposeful stride, Mr. Hancock departed the room, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors of the manor. 

Left alone with the mystery woman, he wrestled with his conflicting emotions, a knot tightening in his stomach. He was torn between his desire to shield the woman from his scars and his determination to provide her with the care she needed. He knew that closing the curtains would dim the room, making it difficult to properly clean her wound, yet the fear of her reaction to his appearance gnawed at him. At the same time, he was certain that she fell unconscious due to her shock at having stumbled across that boar. He didn’t want to cause any further shock or distress. 

Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself of the urgency of the situation, pushing aside his own insecurities in favor of helping her. With trembling hands, he resisted the urge to draw the curtains closed, at least for the time being. He glanced at the door, waiting for Mr. Hancock, who appeared moments later. 

Relief flooded William as he accepted the basin of warm water, some clean cloths and antiseptic solution from the tray Mr. Hancock had brought, his hands steady with resolve as he prepared everything. With gentle precision, he began to clean the wound, his movements careful and deliberate as he removed any dirt with the utmost tenderness. That was one good thing he had brought back from the war: knowledge to tend to minor injuries. 

Despite the nervous flutter in his chest, his touch remained steady, his focus unwavering. He expected her to wake up at any moment, her eyes widening in shock at him, but no such thing happened. William couldn’t remember the last time he had been so close to a woman without her staring at him in sheer horror. Women, children. Even men refused to look at him for too long, almost as if his scar was contagious somehow and they might catch it if they looked at him too long. 

Finally, he was done. He offered used supplies to Mr. Hancock. 

“Please, dispose of these,” he asked softly, his voice down to a whisper. “And bring us some tea for two, if you will.” 

Mr. Hancock nodded immediately, doing as he was told, closing the door behind him. Suddenly, the woman stirred gently. Her eyes were still closed, but William knew it was just a matter of time before she would wake up. Without hesitation, he moved swiftly to close the curtains, his actions driven by a desire to shield her from the harsh light as well as potential discomfort upon waking. 

He stood by the window, slightly away from her, not really sure what to do. His pulse quickened at every sound she made, at every flutter of her eyelashes. Her delicate features seemed even more softened by sleep, and a twinge of self-consciousness gnawed at him, a silent reminder of the scars that marred his own image. Taking a deep breath, he approached her bedside, his movements gentle and cautious as he prepared to offer her reassurance and comfort in her moment of awakening. 

As she blinked at him, her gaze filled with confusion and vulnerability, he reminded himself that he had the power to ease her fears. It was then that she spoke in the voice of an angel. 

“Where am I?” 

---

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