Page 8 of His Grace, the Duke (Second Sons #2)

Burke

Burke and Rosalie waited another quarter of an hour in the library, expecting Tom to arrive.

When he didn’t, Rosalie asked if she could call a coach to go to her aunt’s house.

“Would you like to come with me?” she asked, her voice quietly hopeful as she kept her attention on her cup of coffee.

Something inside Burke’s chest clenched tight. “You want... me to meet your aunt?”

“Of course,” she replied, taking a sip.

“Not... not James or Tom? You want it to be me?”

She set her cup aside with a huff. “Did you expect to stay in the shadows?” Crossing her arms, she leaned forward, dark eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of my life you claim. If you’re in my life, you are in my life, Horatio Burke.”

God, he loved this woman. Heaven help him, he was mad for her. He smirked. “Agreed. And I heartily look forward to claiming all parts of you... day and night.”

She ignored him, which made his smile broaden.

“It’s unlikely my aunt will even be home at this hour,” she explained. “But I think she would like to meet the people with whom I now share a house and a life.”

“And a bed,” he added with a grin. He couldn’t help himself. He loved making her blush. His effort was rewarded with a flash of pink in her cheeks that faded into the dark curls framing her face.

“We shall not be shocking her with scandalous falsehoods,” she replied, rising to her feet. “I have never shared a bed with any member of this household—family or staff or even canine... though, during my first week at Alcott, one of the hunting dogs slipped into my room and hid under the bed. He made a valiant effort to join me, but was rebuffed.”

“I consider myself rather cleverer than a hound and harder to bully,” he replied. “Let your maid try and drag me out by my scruff, and we’ll see who has the stronger mettle.”

“Two things, sir,” she said, collecting his cup with hers and placing it on the tray. “First, I have no maid, so I will be doing my own dragging.”

He chuckled, reaching for her, but she stepped away, her brows still lowered in mock seriousness.

“Second, if the moment ever arises when you are in my bed with my hands on your scruff, you will beg me to bully you. Now, are you coming with me or not, because you can’t wear that.”

He barked a laugh, glancing down at his evening ensemble. He’d long since loosened the knot of his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. She was right: He didn’t want his first impression with her only living relative to be marred by the fact that he was wearing day-old dress clothes.

“Give me ten minutes to change,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll meet you in the entry hall.”