Page 1 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Chapter One

Chilham, Kent, May 1819

Daniel Millstone, the Duke of Warwick, tossed his quill on the desk in his study and pushed back his chair. He’d been trying to concentrate on his work, the mechanical drawings of a steam engine, but he’d been unable to focus.

What on earth is that terrible noise?

He went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The shards of pain reverberating from the wound on his forearm that hadn’t entirely healed only added to his agitation as he glared down the country road. He couldn’t see his neighbor, but he could hear the cacophony coming from the cottage.

Barking, then howling.

A hound, or more aptly, hounds, were creating a racket. It had been three full days of it. The constant penetrating noise was enough to make him cover his ears and grind his teeth.

A muscle by Warwick’s eye twitched. He’d chosen the small country house because it met all his requirements. Quaint, quiet village. A stream that powered a small waterwheel. A place where he could work without unwanted interruption.

Or so he’d thought.

Christ. He had a bevy of ducal estates from which to choose—massive piles of stone in Gloucestershire, Shropshire, and Hertfordshire. Not to mention a London mansion in Mayfair.

Instead, he’d settled on a country house in the small village of Chilham in Kent. Other than his trusted staff, no one in Chilham knew he was a duke of the realm, and he could tinker with his inventions in peace. He was also far from his matchmaking godmother in London who kept reminding him of his duty to produce an heir and spare for the dukedom and far from the bevy of scheming mammas of the ton who sought the prized title of duchess for their debutant daughters.

He’d turned the country house’s study into his workshop. A high-pressure engine stood in the middle of the hardwood floor. Mechanical parts and tools were scattered across a worktable. The only other pieces of furniture were a sideboard with liquor and his desk—its surface currently covered with mechanical drawings.

Really, the country location and the house should have been perfect.

The incessant barking increased in pitch and fervor.

Making a quick decision, Warwick strode from his study, down the hall, then headed straight out the front door. His butler was busy elsewhere, another advantage of bringing along a sparse staff. His valet would have a fit if he saw him in trousers and no coat or cravat. Even his Hessians needed a good polish. No matter. He preferred to work informally.

He passed a fountain and well-maintained lawns, then progressed down a dirt lane. His steps quickened as he left his property, and a small cottage came into view.

His first impression of his closest neighbor was not a favorable one. A shutter on the house hung askew, and the hedgerows were overgrown. The door needed a good coat of paint and was missing its knocker. A cart loaded with baggage rested on the small patch of grass. A makeshift pen beside the cottage contained numerous animals—goats, sheep, and a cow. An old bay was hitched to a post and eating a bucket of grain. Two hunting hounds—the source of the disruption—were in a fenced kennel. Both resumed barking as soon as they saw him.

He glowered at the dogs. “What will it take to get you to stop that infernal barking?”

What is going on here? Where in God’s name is the owner?

He quickened his pace until he was at the front door. Without a door knocker, he was forced to pound on the wood with his fist.

No answer. If the hounds hadn’t alerted the occupant that someone was on his property, what would?

“Hello!” he called out. When still no one answered, he pounded harder on the door. “Whoever is home, you must get your hounds to cease this racket!”

A laugh sounded from the side of the cottage.

His lips thinned with irritation. Is someone laughing? At me? Fists clenched at his sides, he marched full steam toward the noise and collided with a body.

A very soft one.

“Oh!” a feminine voice cried out.

Instinctively he reached out to grasp the woman’s arm before she tumbled to the ground. “My apologies, I—”

“My goodness! You gave me a fright, sir.”

She lifted her face to look into his eyes. His heart pounded as he took in her features one at a time. A curly mass of long dark hair and an oval face with an aquiline nose and full, pink lips. Her complexion was a dusky shade, not as fair as the ladies of the beau monde. But it was her blue eyes that captivated him. The irises were lined with a darker blue and framed by thick, dark lashes.

“I was in the garden.” She held a basket of newly pulled carrots balanced precariously on one hip.