flicker through the window, she would have happily cracked his skull open with the fireplace poker she had wielded.
Of one thing he was certain—Bella Sinclair was full of spirit and challenge.
And James Devlin loved a challenge even more than he loved women. The combination of the two was irresistible.
The truth was he would have insisted she leave, but then the old woman had descended the stairs and a flash of fear had shone in Bella Sinclair’s jade eyes. She had pleaded with him not to harm the servant, and James’s firm resolve to fight with the bewitching woman before him had thawed. He wasn’t a monster to take advantage of a female’s fear.
But neither was he willing to walk away from the manor he had gone to such lengths to obtain.
“Well? What will you do?” Coates asked.
“First thing tomorrow morning ready the carriage. I’m returning to Wyndmoor Manor.”
Chapter 3
The following morning, Bella pushed aside the black mourning gown in her wardrobe and chose a walking dress with a muslin overskirt of emerald green. She refused to wear black in her own home when she felt no grief, only a great sense of relief to be rid of a pitiless tyrant. She had no plans to venture into St. Albans and act the grieving widow, and the walking dress was her favorite—not only because the deep color matched her eyes, but because it was one of the few dresses that she had owned before her marriage.
Roger had been obsessed with his wife’s clothing and had chosen each of her gowns. She had not been permitted to select accessories, not even a pair of gloves, without his permission.
After Harriet brushed her hair and arranged it in a knot at her nape, Bella made her way to the breakfast room. She finished her toast and was sipping a cup of tea when she heard the sound of a coach traveling up the graveled drive. Bella rose and rushed to the window overlooking the front of the house.
An impressive black-lacquered coach and team of six came to a stop before the fountain. It was a resplendent conveyance, emblazoned with the crest of the Duke of Blackwood. The matching team of horseflesh stood obediently, their sleek muscles gleaming beneath the morning sun. A liveried footman hopped down and opened the door. The handsome, dark-haired devil of last night alighted and strode confidently up the front steps.
Seconds later the door knocker sounded.
Sweet Lord! He really is a duke!
She felt momentary panic as her mind jumped to the startling truth—he hadn’t lied last evening.
Harriet’s footfalls echoed off the marble vestibule. Composing her features, Bella turned.
“He’s here,” Harriet said, holding out a card. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Bella reached out and took the gold embossed card of the Duke of Blackwood. Her stomach churned with anxiety.
“Please put him in the drawing room,” Bella said.
Harriet’s brow furrowed. “You’d best be careful, Bella. My instincts tell me he’s not a man to be trifled with. Do you want me to stay outside the door?”
Bella touched her sleeve. Harriet was willing to stand outside the door to protect her. Just like she had with Roger, only nothing could have saved her from her spouse. “That won’t be necessary, Harriet. I have the documents. I can handle him.”
Minutes later, Bella made her way to the drawing room. Straightening her spine, she opened the door.
Blackwood was standing at a large window beside a potted palm, looking out at the gardens below, as she entered the room. Hearing the door, he turned.
Unlike their first encounter, today he was immaculately dressed in a well-tailored coat of navy superfine with buff-colored trousers and highly polished black Hessians. In the light of the day, he appeared even taller, and the cut of his coat emphasized his broad shoulders. A lock of black hair fell a little forward onto his forehead, giving him a rakish appearance. But the intense indigo eyes that studied her spoke of a firm inner strength that told her this was no dandy or town fop. He had an air of authority and the appearance of one who demanded instant obedience.
In short, he looked every inch a formidable duke.
He bowed. “Mrs. Sinclair. Shall I properly introduce myself this morning?”
She curtsied. “At least you were gracious enough to knock.”
His full lips curved in a smile. “I decided against using my key. I was afraid of being attacked with another sharp fireplace implement.”
“Tempting, Your Grace.”
To her surprise, his mouth quirked with humor. “I’m shocked to hear you address me by my title, Mrs. Sinclair. Shall we dismiss with the formalities then?”
She nodded curtly. “Let us speak plainly.”
“Very well. Wyndmoor Manor belongs to me. I have the documents to prove it.” He reached for a black leather bag on a nearby settee.
The drawing room, along with most of the house, had come furnished when she purchased it from Sir Reeves. It had been an added incentive since—along with his fortune—Roger had bequeathed all their furniture to the church. Bella had left her marital home with only the pieces that had been in her bedchamber and those that she and Harriet had had the foresight to hide.
Blackwood opened the bag and withdrew a piece of paper, which he offered to her. “This is the deed to the manor, which is officially in my name.”
She took it with a surprisingly steady hand and gazed at the official-looking document. The letters blurred before her. A solitary thought crossed her mind—fate was cruel indeed to bring another man to her doorstep intent on wielding power and authority over her, this time to force her from her home.
She thrust the paper back at him. “This document means nothing to me.”
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Sinclair?”
The question took her off guard. “He’s unavailable.”
“You’re a widow then? Have you nowhere else to go?”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t need anywhere else to go. This is my home.”
“Show me your deed.”
She went to a rosewood sofa table, opened a slim drawer, and withdrew a piece of paper. “I truly did not believe you would show today, but nonetheless, I am prepared.” She handed the document to him.
He studied the deed carefully, and then held it up to the light from the window.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking to see if it is a forgery.”
“A forgery!”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
“My deed is true. Yours is the forgery,” she insisted.
“Sir Redmond Reeves made no mention of you,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“If your deed is true, and I’m not admitting that it is, then it seems we were both played as fools. You purchased the property from Sir Redmond Reeves three days prior to me,” Blackwood said.
“Are you saying Sir Reeves sold Wyndmoor Manor to both of us?” she asked incredulously.
“I am.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He could be a swindler. A thief. He may not even be a knight. Perhaps there are others out there with deeds as well,” he said.
Others? Her heart beat rapidly.
Rancor sharpened her voice. “But you said yourself, I purchased it three days before you from