It didn't make good company either. Stephen Anthony had thought, when he'd become the duke of Langford after his uncle, that he was ready for the duties that came with the title.

But then there was the matter of an heir.

He urged Solomon, his horse, into a gallop. The spring breeze whipped his hair and face as he bent low. Trees flashed past on his right, bright with new leaves. On his left, fields stretched across the fertile Evendale river valley, shaded on all sides by the towering fells. The air was ripe with the scent of freshly turned loam, flowing sap, and budding wildflowers.

Ah, to ride, to run, to be free. From the base of the fells, he could climb until he reached the sky. But he couldn't escape his destiny. He'd spent half of his thirty years on this estate, learning to be the next duke. Unless the ancient family historian knew otherwise, Stephen was the last of the Anthonys. It was all up to him.

Everyone in the dale understood that, from his estate steward, who was asking how to factor in the line of succession, to the Reverend Mr. Swithy, who just last Sunday had called for prayers on His Grace's behalf to choose a noble bride. As if any bride would meet the approval of this close-knit community.

A word in Solomon's ear sent him flying down the lane from the village. The cadence of the horse's hooves fired Stephen's blood. The thunder drummed as he and Solomon shot past one of the tenant farms, where just last fall he'd worked to save a harvest from an early autumn chill.

"May you be blessed with strong sons!" the farm wife shouted after him.

That made it nearly unanimous. He only needed to hear from the faeries who were said to inhabit his wood.

He shook his head. Once he might have gone in search of them, but time had showed him the folly of believing in things he couldn't see. Still, he could see his forest, one of the largest tracks of oak woodland left in England, draping like a green cloak across the hillside. Would it hurt to take a little detour?

He slowed the roan stallion and guided him off the lane for the trees. Soon the trunks loomed up around him like the pillars of a cathedral. Sunlight filtered down to highlight fern and mushroom. The path stretched obligingly before him, inviting him deeper, encouraging him to forget duty and linger a while in the shade. Solomon's steps were muffled among the moss and fallen leaves. The weight of ages whispered around them.

The back of his neck prickled, as if he were being watched. The feeling was not unwelcome. He had nothing to fear from the four-legged creatures, he was a match for most of the two-legged, and legend had it that the faeries here protected his family.

Solomon had no such assurances. He tossed his head, rattling the silver on his tack. Nostrils flared, he danced around a circle of flattened grass.

A faery circle.

"Easy," Stephen told him, patting his neck with a smile. "There are only friends here."

He took a deep breath, letting the shaded air cool him. This was what he'd missed all those months in London. This was the heart of the Anthony holdings, the heart of the dale. This was home.

Solomon snorted as if in derision.

Stephen felt his smile fading. Much as he felt at home here, he could not stay. Duty, much of it in London, required his presence. Even the faeries must wonder why he was so often gone. Or did they too conspire to change his future? Did they too want him to marry quickly and ensure an heir? Well, he was about to grant their wish. Lady Vivian was expected any day, and when she arrived he'd propose. A noble bride, the line of succession secured, his duty accomplished. Why wasn't he more pleased?

At a bend in the path, he turned Solomon. It took little to urge the horse out of the woods, though Stephen felt as if he left something of himself behind. They rode out across the fields to where the country house sprawled between wood and village.

The original house had been built to shield the farmers from the dangers among the trees. His grandfather had razed it to build a three-story Italianate block, with extensive gardens behind and a sweeping lawn in front. It was just the sort of house the gracious Lady Vivian would love. He had to keep telling himself that he was a very fortunate man.

Solomon snorted again as they drew near the columns of the front portico. The horse protested coming in so soon from their morning ride, but Stephen's day was already full. Besides his usual duties, he wanted to make sure all was progressing for the upcoming house party.

He drew in the reins, slowing the horse but not his thoughts. As he dismounted, a groomsman hurried out. Through the fluted columns, he could see a footman throwing open the wide front door. He climbed the stairs and strode into the house, boot heels slapping against the white marble of the rotunda. Reams, his butler, stood waiting beside the drum table in the center of the domed space.

"Welcome back, Your Grace," he said, voice echoing. Stephen could have sworn even the statues in the alcoves around him winced. Though Reams was neither tall nor imposing, his sharp efficiency brooked no nonsense. His gray hair was pomaded in place; his black coat and breeches were always spotless.

"Mr. Michaelson is waiting in your study with estate business," he reported, stubby nose high. "And the Reverend Mr. Swithy requested an audience later today, if possible."

Stephen shook his head, more in frustration at yet another appointment than in disagreement. He could hardly refuse the vicar of the estate's largest church-duty again.

But as he shook his head, his gaze traveled down the gallery to his right, where the family portraits were hung. Someone stood there, watching him.

He felt an odd shiver run up his spine and frowned. Despite the fact that it was a balmy day, the figure was covered in a floor-length green cloak with a deep hood. He could see neither face nor figure, but the short stature made him guess it to be a woman.

"Who's that?" he asked.

Reams followed his gaze and stiffened. "I apologize, Your Grace. We allow visitors to view the house when you are not in residence. I'll send her away."

He knew he should let Reams do just that. But neither his waiting steward nor the vicar, or any of the other tasks he had to accomplish that day, particularly intrigued him, and he found himself wanting to indulge his curiosity. As his butler started past him, Stephen caught his arm. "No need to be uncivil, Mr. Reams. I'll speak to her."

Reams raised a brow. "Please don't trouble yourself, Your Grace. I'm certain you'd like to change out of your riding clothes."

Stephen spared a quick glance at his red coat and black breeches. They didn't seem particularly soiled, and if they were he found he didn't much care.

"Oh, it's no trouble," he assured his butler. "Besides, if she came for a look at the last of the Anthonys, we shouldn't disappoint her."

He thought Reams might argue further, but such was the word of the duke of Langford that the butler merely inclined his head and stepped aside. Stephen ventured into the gallery.

She must have seen him coming, yet she turned and glided farther down the hall. The cloak twitched about her body, suggesting interesting contours that beckoned to him. Surely he shouldn't be noticing, not when he was about to become engaged. Both his body and his mind seemed to have other ideas. He followed her.

By the time he reached her side, she was facing the large portrait of his family. He still couldn't see her face, but the hood was titled at such an angle that she seemed to be studying the picture of father, mother, and young son.

"You were so cute at that age," she said.

Stephen paused. The voice was soft, lilting, and definitely amused. He was certain he'd never heard it before. "Have we met?"

Gloved hands reached up and folded back the hood. She had long mahogany tresses that swept away from an oval face and a mischievous grin. She looked all of twenty.

"Not formally," she replied. "I am the Lady of the Wood. The Anthonys hold this land on my sufferance."

Stephen peered closer. Those large, deep-brown eyes held a twinkle that could not be madness. Her clear, creamy skin was flushed by neither fever nor drink. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Aren't you a bit young for a nine-hundred-year-old faery queen?"

Her grin widened, showing dimples on either side of her generous mouth. "Since when does a gentleman ask a lady her age?"

She had cheek; he'd give her that. He dropped his arms and swept her a bow. "My apologies, milady, but I believe it is rare to find you outside your fabled forest."

"True," she replied archly. "My duties keep me all too busy. That's why I'm here. I must speak with you."

While he understood duty all too well, he could not believe that it had led her to his portrait gallery. If she wasn't mad, she had another reason to play the role of legend. He decided to play along, for now.

"Certainly," he replied. "What honor may I do the Lady of the Wood? Slay a dragon perhaps? Host a bonfire on the solstice?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Dragons, sir, left these demesnes hundreds of years ago, and if I wished a bonfire, I could manage one myself."

"With your faery magic, I suppose."

She grinned. "Precisely."

He felt himself grinning back. "I see. Then may I offer you a tour of the house?"

"Fah! I've seen the house more times than I like, in all its incarnations. Though I do appreciate what your grandfather did with it."

Stephen inclined his head. "So glad you approve."

"He did not require my approval. We've had an understanding, your family and mine, these many years. You protect the land, and we protect you."

She turned to stroll along the portraits, and he caught the briefest glimpse of a well-formed body in a light green frock. However, coming only to his shoulder, she hardly looked big enough to protect herself, much less entire generations of Anthonys.

As he walked beside her, she waved up at a portrait high on the wall. "Your great-great-grandfather Herbert, for example, instituted the practice of planting three trees for each one cut." She cast him a glance, pretty face intent. "I expect you will continue that tradition?"

"Certainly." Wood, plants, and animals from the forest supported the villagers, sometimes more than the farms around them. He could not see disturbing that balance.

She nodded toward another portrait. "Your five times great-grandfather saw the folly of allowing sheep into the dale." She sighed. "Now, there was a fine figure of a man."

He glanced up at the aged portrait and felt that odd shiver again. The fellow closely resembled him-dark brown hair that hadn't stayed in place even for the portrait artist, stormy gray eyes, a tall frame, and a powerful build. He even had that look of resignation Stephen had seen gazing back at him in the mirror lately.

"I have no intention of pasturing sheep," he told her. "And I will uphold the other traditions of the dale as well, Miss...?"

"I told you, I am the Lady of the Wood. If you must have a name, it is Tess."

Stephen raised a brow. "Tess?"

She lowered her gaze to his. "Do you find fault?"

"Not at all. I simply wonder at such a plain name for so mighty a personage. I would have thought Ariadne or Isolde more fitting."

She sniffed. "For a French faery, perhaps. For an English faery, a good English name should suffice."

Stephen bit back a smile. "Forgive my impertinence."

"Quite understandable," she said, nose still in the air. "You can't have much experience dealing with my kind."

That he could well believe, though he still wasn't certain about the definition of her kind. Though he'd been searching London for a bride these last months since being confirmed in his title, he had yet to meet a lady like this one, with both beauty and spirit, and the will to use them.

"Your uncle also promised to uphold tradition," she continued, lowering her chin with a sigh. "Yet, he failed in his promise to marry. We simply cannot have the Anthonys wasting away like that."

So the faeries did have an opinion on the matter. "A shame to be sure," Stephen drawled, certain she must hear the quelling chill in his voice.

If she heard it, she ignored it. "A great shame, which is why I knew I must act." She drew herself up, and Stephen realized that for all her slight stature and slender build, she was well endowed up front. Unfortunately, she was clearly not posturing for his admiration. Her dark eyes flashed a warning fire.

"In exchange for the right to rule this land," she intoned, head tilted back so that her gaze fixed on his, "the Anthonys swore themselves to my service. I come to claim the ancient right of bonding. Stephen Anthony, Duke of Langford, as the last of the Anthonys, you must marry me.