The rider stroked the horse’s neck, and the beast calmed and hung its head, sides heaving. A treat was offered and another pat, before one of Althea’s grooms bestirred himself to take the horse. Rothhaven—for that could only be the dread duke himself—paused on the front steps long enough to remove his spurs, whip off his hat, and run a black-gloved hand through hair as dark as hell’s tarpit.

“The rumors are true,” Althea murmured. Rothhaven was built on the proportions of the Vikings of old, but their fair coloring had been denied him. He glanced up, as if he knew Althea would be spying, and she drew back.

His gaze was colder than a Yorkshire night in January, which fit exactly with what Althea had heard of him.

She moved from the window and took the nearest wing chair, opening a book chosen for this singular occasion. She had dressed carefully—elegantly but without too much fuss—and styled her hair with similar consideration. Rothhaven gave very few people the chance to make even a first impression on him, a feat Althea admired.

Voices drifted up from the foyer, then the tread of boots sounded on the stair. Rothhaven moved lightly for such a grand specimen, and his voice rumbled like distant cannon. A soft tap on the door preceded Strensall announcing Nathaniel, His Grace of Rothhaven. The duke did not have to duck his head to come through the doorway, but it was a near thing.

Althea set aside her book, rose, and curtseyed to a precisely deferential depth and not one inch lower. “Welcome to Lynley Vale, Your Grace. A pleasure to meet you. Strensall, the tea, and don’t spare the trimmings.”

Strensall bolted for the door.

“I do not break bread with mine enemy.” Rothhaven stalked over to Althea and swept her with a glower. “No damned tea.”

His eyes were a startling green, set against swooping dark brows and features as angular as the crags and tors of Yorkshire’s moors. He brought with him the scents of heather and horse, a lovely combination. His cravat remained neatly pinned with a single bar of gleaming gold, despite his mad dash across the countryside.

He was precisely as his reputation had foretold, from the fierce dignity of his bearing, to the perfect details of his appearance, to a disregard for decorum that made him all the more imposing.

Althea could barely contain her glee, for he was all she’d hoped for and more. “I will attribute Your Grace’s lack of manners to the peckishness that can follow exertion. A tray, Strensall.”

The duke leaned nearer. “Shall I threaten to curse poor Strensall with nightmares, should he bring a tray?”