Page 88 of Never Beguile a Duke

Shivering, she curled her bare toes beneath her and scraped the delicate skin across a rough wooden surface. Faint memories flashed through her mind... She’d been struck from behind when she entered the Duke of Beaufort’s stables.

Was she still there?

Winifred cocked her head, listening for any indication of horses, but the only sound to reach her ears was that of the creaking structure currently imprisoning her.

“Not in the stables,” she said, then groaned as the pulsating ache at the base of her neck flared, sending pain radiating through her body.

When the flames searing her brain subsided, Winifred unclenched her jaw and exhaled a slow breath.

Where else could she be?

No passing coaches, no voices, no chirping birds; it seemed improbable that she’d been transported that far away from society in such a short period of time. Except, she didn’t know the time. She didn’t even know what day it was.

Twisting her wrists, Winifred worked the rope to the base of her palms, but the knots refused to give one millimeter.

“Ballocks!” The word echoed through the room.

A soft chuckle responded.

“Hello?” Winifred twisted her head toward the laugh. “Who’s there?”

Silence answered her question.

“I wager I can guess your name,” she said, hoping to draw the person into a conversation. “Name your terms.”

The seconds dragged out, but no reply came.

“If you’re unwilling to speak, it must be because you fear my claim is correct. However,”—she tilted her head, pretending as though she could see the person—“I will determine your name without your assistance.”

The legs of a chair scratched across the floor and stopped roughly two feet in front of her. The chair creaked as a heavy weight sank upon the seat, and an overpowering earthy scent assaulted her nose, causing her stomach to flip over.

“I’ll start with the easiest deduction… you are a male.” She nodded once. “No woman could have removed me from the stables and carried me to this location.”

She received no confirmation that her logic was correct. However, the chair groaned, indicating that the person shifted, and she took that movement as an affirmation.

“You’ve quite an unusual scent?—”

The chair scraped across the floor, crashed into the far wall, and shattered, the smell vanishing.

Winifred jumped, then forced herself to finish the sentence. “—and as I don’t recognize the odor, you cannot be someone I’ve spent a significant amount of time with.”

The toe of a shoe tapped on the floor.

“However, you knew I was visiting the Duke of Beaufort’s residence this week, and you knew which bedchamber was mine.” Winifred chewed her lip. “Which means, either someone told you my location or you’d been inside the house yourself.”

The earthy smell increased.

“Are you Mr. Hollingsworth?” She squished backward, leaning away from the nauseating scent.

“No.” The whispered word brushed over her mouth.

Winifred shuddered. “There’s only one other man I can think of with a grievance against my family… Mr. Curtis.”

Agony exploded in Winifred’s jaw, and she fell backward, her head striking the hard floor. A hand clenched her throat, squeezing the oxygen from her body.

“It makes no difference that you’ve guessed my name,” Mr. Curtis growled, his lips grazing her ear. “If you live long enough to share it, I’ll have already left the country with funds provided by your fiancé.”

Winifred jerked her head away from his rancid breath. “My fiancé?”