But it was not the duke.
It was another man entirely. This man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a long, weathered face. His jeans were faded, his navy-blue pullover stained in places, his workboots scuffed and comfortably broken in. The leather tool belt slung around his hips held a hammer, some chisels, and several pairs of oddly shaped pliers. An unruly mop of salt-and-pepper curls tumbled over his high forehead, and his eyes were the color of sapphires.
“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was looking for Grayson.”
“Grayson?” Emma said faintly.
“The duke,” the man replied.
“The duke?” Emma echoed.
“I was told he’d be out here,” the man elaborated. “Have you seen him?”
Emma tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. “Yes,” she managed, “but he’s not here now.”
“Ah.” The man nodded. A few moments passed before he asked, “Will he be coming back?”
“I think so,” Emma replied, adding helpfully, “In a while.”
“I’ll wait for him, then.” The man walked with unhurried ease down the uneven stone steps and over to Em-ma’s side, where he pulled the chapel door shut, then stood, looking at the decay that surrounded him. “A restful place,” he commented.
Emma mumbled something, then wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, which had suddenly become damp.
“Pardon me,” said the man. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to Emma. “You’ve ... um ...” He gestured toward his own forehead. “... left some dirt behind.”
“Have I?” Mortified, Emma took the handkerchief and scrubbed at her forehead. “Is it gone?” she asked anxiously.
“Not quite. Please, allow me.” The man eased the cloth from her hand and with gentle fingers tilted her head back until she was looking straight up into those eyes. “There’s just a tiny smudge—”
“What have we here?” asked a voice. “Frolics in the garden?”
The man swung around, flushing crimson when he saw Susannah Ashley-Woods observing them from the top of the stone stairs. Fashionably shod in three-inch stiletto heels, the duke’s cousin carefully negotiated the uneven steps and came to stand beside the tall man.
“Imagine my chagrin,” Susannah drawled. “I’ve been after Derek all week to show me his beastly window and now I’ve teetered out here all on my own, risking life and a pair of heavily insured limbs, only to find another woman in his arms.”
“There was dirt on my face,” Emma tried to explain.
“A bit further down as well,” Susannah noted, gazing pointedly at Emma’s skirt.
With a sinking feeling, Emma looked down to see two large stains on her beige skirt, where her knees had met the damp grass.
“I’m sure there’s no permanent harm done,” Susannah cooed. “Corduroy is such a durable fabric.” Running a long-fingered hand through her silky hair, she looked from the man’s face to Emma’s. “What? Cats have your tongues? Don’t tell me—my cousin has been remiss in his introductions. Allow me. Emma Porter, meet Derek Harris.”
Derek offered his hand and Emma reached out to take it, saw that her own was smeared with mud, and snatched it back.
“Glad to meet you,” she muttered, her eyes on Derek’s tool belt.
“Uh, yes,” said Derek, his hand stranded in midair. He smiled slightly, then raised his hand to rub his chin. “Pleasure’s mine.”
“Derek’s here to work on the window,” Susannah went on. “What about you, Emma?” She leaned forward and asked, with a mischievous smile, “Come for a peek at Penford Hall’s claim to fame?”
Emma stared at Susannah blankly.
“Lex Rex?” Susannah prompted. “The pop star? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”
“Of course I have,” Emma mumbled defensively. To prove it, she added the first song title that popped into her head. “ ‘Kiss My Tongue.’ ”
Emma blushed to her roots while Derek stared stolidly into the middle distance and Susannah smirked.
“Yes,” Susannah confirmed, “that was one of Lex’s more memorable videos. If you climb up those comer ledges you can see where he sank Grayson’s lovely yacht. Surely, that’s why you’re—” She broke off as the garden door opened again and the front end of a wheelbarrow rolled slowly into view. “Ah,” said Susannah, “Bantry has arrived.”
The barrow was wielded by a short, stocky man with a wrinkled, nut-brown face and a tussock of white hair blown helter-skelter on the top of his head. Even on this fine day, he wore heavy wool trousers, a tattered argyle sweatervest, an oiled green cotton jacket, and a mud-stained pair of black wellington boots.