Chapter One
Hampstead Heath, England, June 1813
When Christopher “Kit” James Alexander Woodard, the eleventh Duke of Fairborough, first saw the lady he’d been told was his betrothed, another man was peering up her skirt.
Standing on the threshold of the Langley House library with his mouth agape at this appalling sight, Kit could only assume that was his prospective bride perched high on a ladder against the bookcase opposite the door, because the man who stood directly beneath her called her by her first name.
Could that young buck be the reason Miss Serena Langley refused to even meet Kit, let alone marry him?
She tightly clutched the topmost rung as she swayed precariously on the ladder. “Stop it, Warren, before I drop the whole Domesday Book on you!”
“Then you shouldn’t climb ladders so I can see up your skirt, Serena.”
She shot him an outraged expression. “Are you foxed? I scaled this ladder to search for a book.”
With a loud grunt she jabbed her heel into her tormentor’s face, then shrieked as the ladder tilted backwards a few inches, only to slam against the bookcase again. Undeterred, he howled a curse and grabbed her ankles.
As Kit lunged across the library to bring a halt to the ridiculous antics, the inevitable finally happened.
The ladder pitched back again--this time too far back--and she slipped off the rungs.
Kit tried to catch her, but instead he merely broke her fall as she threw him off balance, and together they tumbled to the floor. He landed on his side while she sprawled on top of him, knocking the wind out of him.
Feminine shrieks and masculine grunts abruptly gave way to stunned silence. Memories of his last visit to Langley House assailed him. He waited for her mother to storm in and scream bloody murder over their compromising position--just as she had nine years ago, only now he was with the woman’s own daughter instead of her sister. Not that it mattered, since according to his father’s will, Kit would have to marry Serena anyway. At least this time he wouldn’t be banished to India.
As the air seeped back into his lungs, he became acutely aware of the tantalizing warmth that covered him, with lilac-scented curls tickling his face, soft breasts pressed against his thundering heart, and a silk-clad leg lodged too intimately against his suddenly throbbing groin. He brushed her silky ringlets from his face, listening to her ragged breath as it ebbed to a normal, steady rhythm.
He was about to ask if she was all right when she bolted upright and slapped him hard across the face.
Kit grunted. He had his answer.
“You miserable cur--you could have broken both our necks!” She scrambled to her feet, shaking golden-brown curls from her face as she stared down at him with wide, silvery-blue eyes. “Oh dear heavens! Who are you?”
He slowly sat up, rubbing his sore cheek. So dazed was he that he started to say, “I’m Fai--” No, you fool, he berated himself. If he told her the truth, she’d probably hit him again. No, he had to stick with his plan--for now. He heaved himself to his feet and with a bow said, “Alfred Gibson, at your service. I’m here to see about the coachman’s position.”
Copyright 2003 by Karen Lingefelt
TRUE PRETENSES