Page 9 of A Duke to Steal Her

“You’re despicable,” she spat.

“You’re more than free to air your opinions of me. It does not change the situation.” He gestured toward the bed. “Sleep, my lady, and the night will pass quicker. For both of us.”

As he turned his back, Emily clenched her fists harder.

She paced the narrow strip of floor between window and wall, her heart hammering against her stays.

To share a bed with a strange man—a kidnapper, no less—was beyond scandalous. There was no way she would ever recover from this.

Quid faciam?Her thoughts ran desperate riots.

What should I do?

She glanced toward him, noting his closed eyes and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Was he truly asleep already? Or merely pretending?

Emily approached the bed with caution. She perched on the very edge of the mattress, testing it, ready to flee at the slightest movement from him. When none came, she lowered herself, still fully clothed despite her uncomfortable stays and rumpled traveling dress.

“Most women change into nightclothes before bed,” came his cool voice from behind her, which made Emily stiffen further

She refused to dignify that with a response.

Instead, she lay down rigidly and stared resolutely at the wall, determined to remain awake and maintain her guard. Yet despite her best intentions, exhaustion finally took over.

Emily drifted toward consciousness, cocooned in unfamiliar contentment. Her head rested on a surface that rose and fell in a hypnotic cadence. Something firm curved around her waist, holding her secure.

Emily snuggled deeper.

One moment.

This was not a pillow.

It could only be…

Horror crashed through her drowsy haze, and her eyes flew open. She found herself draped across her kidnapper’s body with her head tucked beneath his chin, one leg scandalously entangled with his.

“Dio mio!” With a strangled gasp, Emily lurched away from his side.

The abrupt movement sent her tumbling over the edge of the mattress. She landed in an undignified heap on the rough wooden floor with her skirts twisted hopelessly around her legs.

Above her, the stranger jerked upright.

“Lavinia!” The name tore from his throat, raw and desperate.

Emily froze. His face, which she was used to seeing him school into an expression of amusement or cool control, had transformed. Terror widened his eyes, and vulnerability etched lines beside his mouth.

For one unguarded moment, he looked haunted. And human.

They stared at each other across the small space for a long moment.

“Who is Lavinia?” Emily asked quietly.

Like a curtain dropping, he blinked, and his mask of arrogant indifference instantly slammed back into place. His lips curved into a deliberate smirk.

“Did you enjoy using me as your pillow, my lady? I must say, for someone so determined to maintain her distance, you’re quite the enthusiastic cuddler.”

Heat flooded her face. “I did no such thing! I would never?—”

A sharp knock interrupted her denial, and her back straightened.