Page 9 of Dukes for Dessert

“I begin to understand why your husband suggested you take a holiday from him,” he said as he rammed the spade into the soil. “You do have pointed ways of putting things.”

Sophie jerked her head up. David regretted the words instantly, and even more when Sophie gave him a fleeting look of naked pain.

Before he could utter an apology, she swiftly turned her attention to the earth and began digging hard, her silence deafening.

3

David gazed down at Sophie, his heart banging, realizing he’d just ruined the camaraderie he’d begun with her.

Pierson had moved off and was no help. David knew damn well he’d put his foot into it, but it was hardly his fault. Pierson really ought to send out bulletins on his family members, required reading before visits.

“My apologies, dear lady,” David said in his gentlest voice. “I did not mean to give offense. My tongue gets away from me sometimes.”

Sophie threw him a glance over her shoulder that was too neutral to be true. “Please dig just there.” She continued to jab at the ground, doing no good David could see.

Feeling the invigorating concoction rapidly wearing off, David began to dig, her obedient servant.

Sophie’s breath came fast, her hurt too sharp. She shouldn’t mind—it didn’t matter—everyone was saying such things. But she hadn’t wanted Mr. Fleming to think the worst of her.

She didn’t know why his opinion mattered so much—she barely knew the man—but perhaps she wanted her uncle’s friends to take her side.

Mr. Fleming began to dig in earnest after his apology, which was abject, she had to concede. Her tongue sometimes ran away with her too.

And why, when she thought about his tongue, did she grow warm inside?

Sophie was finished with men. Once her marriage finally ended, she’d retreat here or to her father’s house and live out her life in solitude, perhaps raising sheep or digging up artifacts. Or she’d move to France and join a convent—she hadn’t quite decided.

Mr. Fleming’s shovel halted. Leather creaked as he sank next to her, the gaiters he’d donned to protect his trousers folding around powerful calves.

“I truly do sincerely and humbly apologize.” His voice was deep, full, and his warm breath touched her cold cheek. “I have no business dabbling in other people’s marriages. I’ve come to grief that way before—you’d think I’d have learned.”

Against her wishes, faint amusement cut through her misery. Mr. Fleming could drawl an insult one moment and entirely undercut its sting the next by throwing the insult back on himself.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Fleming.” Sophie resumed turning over rich loam.

“I’m an unmitigated ass.” David put his hand on her wrist, stilling its movement. “I will be in agony until you forgive me.”

Sophie raised her head. Her hat caused him to lean out of her way, which he did in a comical fashion.

But what was in his eyes stunned her. She saw anger, intense and heartbreaking, not at Sophie, but at himself. He hated that he’d hurt her, unhappy that he’d given offense to the niece of his friend.

His eyes were that intriguing blue-gray she’d noted before, even more fascinating now that the bloodshot tinge had gone from them. They were eyes that saw much and processed knowledge quickly. A dangerous man … and a captivating one.

Mr. Fleming was also very handsome. He didn’t have the conventional looks her female friends prized—no golden hair or Adonis profile. He was dark-haired with the red highlight she’d noticed before, his pale skin brushed with freckles.

He also had a presence she couldn’t grow used to. She had the feeling Mr. Fleming would command her attention whether they were in a ballroom, on a public road, or digging in the mud. That presence sent tingles across her skin and made breathing difficult.

“I said it was nothing,” she managed. “I assumed everyone knew of my … situation.”

Mr. Fleming’s gaze intensified. “Why? Who is your husband?”

Sophie let out a little sigh. Ah, well, he’d find out sooner or later. “The Earl of Devonport.” The name lay thickly on her tongue.

Mr. Fleming blinked once, twice. “Good Lord, you married Lackwit Laurie? That damnable little tick?”

Sophie’s face grew unbearably hot. “Unfortunately.”

“I knew him at school. Unfortunately. Hang on, that means you’re the Countess of Devonport. The wife he’s divorcing.”