Page 2 of Down Bad with the Iron Duke

Something flashed over the elderly man’s face. A nearly imperceptible rupture in the stoic facade required of a butler. And Rafe recognized it for what it was.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Haverford said quietly.

Rafe started toward the hall again, but Haverford’s throat clearing had him pausing.

“Apologies, Your Grace…”

Rafe slowly glanced over his shoulder.

“Her Grace and Lord Sebastian take dinner at six. Does that suit?”

Rafe’s lungs iced over. No. It didn’t bloody suit.

He’d been so preoccupied with facing his demons he’d forgotten there were still some alive and breathing. The dowager duchess. His father’s second wife. Rafe’s fingers slowly curled into a fist, fingernails biting into his palm through the thin leather of his gloves. The woman who replaced Rafe’s mother once she provided no further use for his father.

And Sebastian. The one who was meant to replace Rafe for the very same reason.

“Send a tray to my rooms.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Rafe turned and blindly made his way down the service wing toward his steward’s office. He still knew the way, still knew his way around the castle like it was a map inked onto his skin. Knew the secret passageways that led to a quick escape.

God, how he wanted to escape right now.

The quicker he got this over with, the quicker he could be on his way back to London. Meet with his steward. Determine the extent of the damage. Determine how to mitigate said damages.

And get the bloody fuck out of here.

Rafe tugged on his cravat, his sweat-slicked fingers sliding uncomfortably inside his gloves. His gaze latched on the open doorway to the chamber that held the steward’s office. A quick meeting, then he’d get some air. And perhaps he could find a way to have the rest of the meetings somewhere other than inside the castle.

He needed to find something to get him through this visit. A distraction.

He ensured his face was set in its usual impassive expression, then strode into the chamber. “Mr. Dawson…” Rafe’s words trailed off, and his jaw went slack.

Dark brown eyes locked on his, and the person who was presumably his steward—because they were sitting behind his steward’s desk—rose to their feet.

But this was no Mr. Dawson.

Loose, wild tendrils of light brown hair escaped a simple plait, falling around a pair of high cheekbones. His gaze dropped to a set of rosy lips that looked like they’d be incredibly full if they weren’t defiantly pressed together.

The hint of an elegant neck peeked out beneath a simply tied cravat. Shoulders rolled back, chest and chin thrust out like a general awaiting battle.

The person before him might be garbed in menswear, but there was no mistaking that the wearer was all woman.

Rafe’s fingers flexed.

Beautiful woman.

All feminine and full of fire.

Perhaps he’d just found his distraction.

2

Theo

The man standing in the doorway to Theo’s office was obviously going to murder her. Well. He was going to try. But she couldn’t have that. She’d just have to murder him first. She wouldn’t let that imposing scar or hard jaw intimidate her. Lord help her, he was large.