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“I have never provoked anything. Not the geese. Not the sheep,” she insisted, even as she began walking alongside him. It was becoming a force of habit between them. “Not even you.”

“Ah. Are you finally admitting that you have been invading Ashbourne Hall because you want to provoke me, and have not yet, so far, succeeded?”

“No. Of course, not,” she grumbled.

Yet when it was time to go home, the two of them walked silently in the direction of Rosewood Cottage. It was becoming a distraction and a challenge, but Peregrine would not have it any other way. At least, this way, he knew she would be safe.

Three days later, the rain that Rosamund had been expecting had finally gone down. The surrounding fields were no longer green wonderlands but muddy terrains. But nobody could stop her. She wore a large coat and thick-soled boots, prepared for the worst. She planned to venture into the western boundary to check on some tenants.

“I will be headed to Mrs. Gidley’s to bring her a jar of blackcurrant preserve,” she told Alice.

Her friend raised an eyebrow and shook her head in disbelief. She had gotten used to Rosamund’s adventures and all she could say was, “Do take care.”

As she was walking through the muddy terrain, she wondered if she had completely lost her mind. It was a possibility she could no longer ignore. However, a few more minutes later, the sun began shining brightly.

“Insane weather,” she muttered to herself.

As she neared the blacksmith’s forge, she was startled by the sound of loud hammering. It sounded like timber had cracked, as well.

Rosamund walked in the direction of the hammering. A ladder leaned against a mossy thatch. It seemed like two carpenters were occupied with the task of framing a new gable. That was not much of a surprise, given the work that often happened in the village. However, something did surprise her. Standing in the middle of the muddy yard was a familiar, large and imposing figure. His coat had been discarded. He had his line shirt sleeves rolled up.

It was none other than Peregrine Blackwood.

Rosamund stared at him, as if she had never seen him before in her life. The man’s arms were corded with muscle she would expect from laborers like the two carpenters working with him. The Duke of Westbourne was expected to command vast estates, but he was there, working in an elderly tenant’s house. He was holding a heavy beam in place, as he hammered it in. Sweat made his dark hair cling to his forehead. Soot covered his high cheekbones, but there would be no mistaking him. She would know that man anywhere.

Was he already there when the rain was pelting down on the houses earlier?

“Hold steady, Your Grace,” old Howard Fitzroy grunted. “That will keep the rain out of the dear loft for another twenty years.”

“Ah, well,” Peregrine responded, “it had better do that, Howard. If I must do this again before Michaelmas, I may have to charge you.”

The words might sound harsh, but the banter was light. The old man chuckled in response.

“Aye, Your Grace. I will pay ye in elderberry wine. Same as last time. So, more likely the same as the next.”

Peregrine pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his hands with it. His shoulders flexed beneath his thin, sweat-drenched shirt. As he turned around to inspect his surroundings, his eyes caught Rosamund’s. She stood by the gate post and should have fled, but the scene had compelled her to stay.

The Duke did not look flustered at all. Instead of trying to look formal and… well, ducal, he simply walked toward where his coat was hanging. The movement was slow, deliberate, and casual, as if he was always in the habit of helping fix gables like a common villager. He pulled his coat and swung it over one shoulder.

“Lady Rosamund,” he called. “Have you lost your way or did you follow me in the rain earlier? I must say this is getting out of hand.”

The carpenters and the old man turned toward her and gave her quick, polite bows. She felt silly giving a curtsy, but did so, anyway. She gripped her basket of preserves, as if reminding herself why she was in the village in the first place.

“I am about to deliver jam to Mrs. Gidley,” she explained. “I did not follow you. In fact, I am surprised that you have quite a different profession here in the village.”

Peregrine gave her a smirk as he leaned against the stone wall. She could not help but trace the trickle of sweat down his temples with her eyes. He had also grown a stubble as of late, and strangely, she was not repelled by it.

“Are you disappointed, Lady Rosamund?” he asked. “Would you rather I remain in Ashbourne Hall or Westbourne Abbey, spending my mornings counting stolen fortunes by candlelight.”

“There is still plenty of time for that, Your Grace,” Rosamund said. “I believe you can still do much villainy before dinner.”

Peregrine laughed out loud. It was an unrestrained laugh that had the carpenters turn toward them in surprise. Even Rosamund was taken aback. The Duke was not well known for such jolly laughter. With that sound, his face was again transformed, and it was exactly what she was afraid of. He looked breathtaking.

“You are certainly relentless,” he murmured, but the way he was smiling and shaking his head was almost in admiration. “Most ladies would be scandalized to find a peer performing hard labor, especially when covered in sweat and sawdust.”

“Oh, but they are either enamored or terrified of you,” Rosamund retorted, “that they would hardly say anything.”

“You are right,” he said, “and, of course, you will say what is in your mind, anyway. Therefore, I am guessing you are not afraid of me. Not one bit.”