Anna Campbell - What a Duke Dares

On that sour reflection, she sat up and reached for her thick blue robe. It was a bitterly cold night. Even in this room with its fire and blankets, she shivered. Cam might want her, but she trusted his self-control. It was churlish to leave him freezing while she kept the bed.

She wrapped herself in a paisley shawl, as much for modesty as warmth. She hoped to encounter an obliging maid before she braved the taproom. Carefully she opened the door and checked the lamplit hallway.

Time reversed, leaving her giddy. It was like the morning when he’d caught her trying to escape.

“What’s wrong, Pen?”

She scowled at where he huddled against the opposite wall, using his greatcoat as an inadequate blanket. “Are you afraid I mean to run?”

“No.” With one hand, he rubbed his eyes.

Even in the dim light, she noted his weariness. Did endless craving play on his nerves? Or was that wishful thinking? “Then what are you doing here?”

One eyebrow tilted. “I’m not welcome inside.”

Guilt stabbed her. The corridor was considerably colder than the bedroom. “I thought you’d go downstairs where there’s a fire.”

“And about a thousand people, most of whom have fleas and only passing acquaintance with soap and water.” With a wince, he stretched against the wall, then stood without his usual lithe smoothness. Her guilt strengthened. He hadn’t said so, but she guessed that he stayed close to protect her.

“I don’t have fleas,” she said softly, hitching the shawl around her shoulders. Despite the velvet robe and the grandmotherly flannel nightdress, she felt naked when she looked into his eyes. She couldn’t help recalling his gaze on her body. Dear Lord, if this awkwardness persisted until they reached England, she’d go stark, staring mad.

“Not yet,” he said drily. “It’s miles to Genoa, with lavish accommodations every night.”

She’d have to speak plainly. Which was strange. With Cam, she rarely needed to spell things out. Squaring her shoulders, she told herself to forget that he’d seen her in the bath. “You can come in.”

To her surprise, he didn’t leap at her invitation. “I’m safer out here.”

She sighed and stood back, leaving him space to enter the firelit room. “I haven’t got another soap dish.”

His lips twitched, although the tension across his broad shoulders hinted that he too felt the swirling undercurrents. “Instead you’ve got armor.”

How she wished his eyes didn’t crinkle when he smiled. How she wished his face didn’t brighten to brilliance. How she wished her heart wasn’t so susceptible. “Armor?”

“The head to toe covering.” He didn’t approach. “What changed your mind about inviting me in? Earlier you looked ready to flay me.”

The heat in her cheeks could warm the inn. “I’d rather ignore that incident.”

The smile lines around his eyes deepened. “I can imagine.”

“So are you coming in? I’m getting cold.”

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned with elegant nonchalance against the wall. “In that get-up? No chance.”

She growled deep in her throat and started to shut him out. Let the rogue freeze.

“Wait,” he said softly. He caught the door.

For a blazing interval, they were close enough to touch. Looking deep into his eyes, she couldn’t mistake his desire. He wanted her, all right. A question sizzled in the air. A question that made her skin tighten with yearning.

Fleetingly she considered yielding to what they both wanted. Then she recalled her misery after leaving England, her futile attempts to forget him, the emptiness she carried with her constantly. If Cam used her body, she’d never escape this agonized longing.

Worse, if he besmirched his honor in his childhood playmate’s bed, he’d never forgive himself. Then she’d never forgive herself. He had enough burdens without despising himself as yet another Rothermere scoundrel.

What a damnable mess.

She nearly left him shivering, this time from cowardice rather than exasperation, until she told herself that she was better than that. Not entirely convinced that she was, she gestured him inside. This time he cooperated.

“You can sleep on the right,” she said irritably, slipping the shawl from her shoulders and dropping it over a chair. “I hope you don’t snore.”

He looked troubled. “You’d share the bed?”

She glowered. “Purely a humanitarian gesture. It’s as cold as charity.”

“Do you trust me that much?”

Oh, God save her. She’d always trusted him. She’d trusted him before she loved him. Nothing since had shaken either trust or love. Even his recent arrogance. Even tonight’s revelation that he wanted her. “I promise not to demand my wicked way. Would you rather sleep on the floor? I’m not giving up any of my blankets.”

Grimness thinned his mouth. “We need to talk.”

She stopped straightening a bed chaotic with her restlessness. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He stood as straight as a soldier on parade. “I must say this now.”

A bleak premonition knotting her belly, she sat on the bed. Nobody said “we need to talk” before good news. “How very ominous, Your Grace.”

His expression didn’t lighten at her mockery. “Listen to me, Pen.”

Fear made her rush into speech. “What happened tonight was an accident. Better to forget it.”

He shook his head and stepped forward. “I can’t forget it.” He paused. “And forgive me if I’m presumptuous, but I doubt you can either.”

“You’ve seen a naked woman before, Cam.”

“We’ve traveled in close confines—”

“And very annoying it’s been too,” she said quickly.

One commanding hand rose to silence her. “Something unexpected has happened. When I saw you again, I—”

Cam was never lost for words. With another man in other circumstances, she might believe he meant to declare his love. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

Or forever?

Stubbornness firmed his jaw. “No.” He stared hard at her, green eyes opaque. “Pen, God forgive me, but I never expected to want you.”

Like a seedling reaching for the sun, joy unfurled. Until native cynicism made her hesitate. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

His lips flattened. “I’m not.”

Her laugh was acid. “So this isn’t the prelude to another proposal?”

He flinched. “You had good reason to refuse me.”

Yes, she did. She still did. “A lucky escape for you.”

“I wouldn’t be so ungallant.”

Her lips twisted and she stared into her lap, covered in thick white flannel. Strangely, this was the closest they’d ventured to a frank conversation in a week. “Never you, Your Grace.”

“Stop sniping. I’m struggling to do what’s best.”

She regarded him with dislike. “You always do.”

Her ironic tone nettled him. “Our circumstances are trying, but not impossible.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He plowed on. “I’ve always tried to be honorable.”

Of course he had, she thought wearily. Another snide remark rose, but his expression stifled it. “That’s good.”

“Pen, I have to keep my hands off you.”

Pain crunched her heart. “Because I’m an unsuitable bride?”

Waiting for agreement felt like the pause before someone punched a bruise.

He shook his head. “Because I’m courting another lady.” He stared over her head as if the crucifix on the wall provided enormous interest. “When I return to England, I’m marrying Lady Marianne Seaton, the daughter of the Marquess of Baildon.”

Hyde Park, London, February 1828

After that miraculous encounter in Lord Chetwell’s cupboard, Harry was too restless to sleep. Too restless and too happy. Sophie mightn’t love him yet, but she was interested. To the point of defying her powerful brother.

Harry had wandered home from the ball in a daze. The memory of Sophie’s kisses fizzed in his blood. The sound of her voice filled his ears like music. Her scent haunted him.

He was head over heels, madly in love. And he didn’t give a tinker’s curse.

Anticipation had him saddling his horse—he wasn’t selfish enough to wake a groom so early—and riding to the park before dawn. He settled his mount under a tree with a view of Rotten Row. There was a special luxury in being here on a misty February morning, knowing that his beloved might appear any moment. The sun just peeped above the horizon, shooting long golden rays through the bare trees.

Into this magical glade trotted his Sophie, controlling a fine gray mare with a light touch. She wore a neat dark blue riding habit, and the jaunty angle of her hat made him want to kiss her.

Harry straightened from his slouch, an uncontrollable smile spreading across his face. His heart performed a jig.

She smiled back. “Mr. Thorne, what a surprise,” she said in an unnaturally lilting voice for the benefit of the groom plodding behind.

Stifling a laugh, Harry doffed his hat and bowed. What a hopeless conspirator she was. “Lady Sophie, a delightful chance.”

“The park is quiet this morning.” She glanced at Harry under her long lashes. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Perhaps we could ride a little way.”

“Your ladyship, I’m not sure—” the groom began before Sophie cut him off with a laugh. A very unconvincing laugh.

“Mr. Thorne and I are old chums, Jones. Why, we danced together only last night.”

“Very well, my lady.” The man settled into the saddle, his stare unwavering. Leath had chosen a diligent guardian.

Harry had hoped for more kisses. What man wouldn’t? But he saw that a brief and decorous conversation was all he could expect. “It was quite a party, wasn’t it?”