Page 53 of Never Beguile a Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #30)
WINIFRED
“L et’s not tempt the Fates,” the Duke of Beaufort replied, a grimace replacing his easy grin. “Swear you won’t move from this location until I return.”
“Please be cautious,” Winifred said, and nodded her consent to his request. “Mr. Curtis is a dangerous and desperate man.”
“As I am.” The Duke of Beaufort lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed her fingers, and rose. “I will only be a moment.”
Unless Mr. Curtis isn’t really dead…
The Duke of Beaufort descended the staircase, his dark blond head slowly disappearing as he moved to the lower steps. A moment later, a low curse word floated up the stairs, followed by silence.
“Your Grace?” Her throat closed around the words, her heart pumping terror through her veins.
The Duke of Beaufort didn’t respond.
Swallowing, she tried again, increasing the volume of her question, “Your Grace, has something occurred?”
Again, she received no answer.
The bottom riser of the main staircase groaned, expressing its displeasure at having an unknown weight placed upon it.
Her eyes rounding, Winifred scrambled backward, scooting away from the staircase as echoing footsteps ploddingly ascended the steps. Eyes locking on the second-floor landing, her muscles tensed as she waited for the top of Mr. Curtis’ black hair to materialize.
When the Duke of Beaufort reappeared, she exhaled a deep sigh. Then, her gaze drifting lower to his blood-stained muslin shirt, she screamed and scrabbled to her feet. Unsteady, she raced toward him and fell into his arms.
“It’s not my blood,” he said, crushing her against his chest and drawing his hand across her hair. “While searching Mr. Curtis’ body, some of his blood transferred to my clothing. There’s quite a lot.”
“Then, Mr. Curtis is definitely dead?” Winifred asked, lifting her eyes to the Duke of Beaufort’s.
“No man could survive injuries of that extent.” Silas held up the sack of coins. “Warwick will be grateful that I returned the payment in full.”
Winfred glanced at the bag. “Is he the one to thank for collecting the funds so quickly?”
“You should express your gratitude to all of us.” Grinning, Silas jingled the contents. “This is the winner’s purse from our wager.”
“Then I should give my sentiments to you, the Duke of Warwick, and the Duke of Mansfield, as only the three of you are still involved in the bet.”
“In truth,” the Duke of Beaufort said, leading her down the stairs, “you should only thank Warwick and Mansfield for their generosity.”
“Are you no longer participating in the wager?” Winifred averted her eyes as they reached the first floor and Mr. Curtis’ battered body.
“I lost.”
“You have?” Winifred frowned and tried to pull free of his embrace. “To whom are you engaged?”
“You.” The Duke of Beaufort dropped to his knees. “However, I’d like to make that request official.”
“Please,” Winifred whispered, her gaze sliding to the grisly scene in the drawing room. “Don’t ask me here. This house holds nothing but horrible memories, and I’d loath to attach such a happy occasion to the residence.”
“May I ask you at the house next door to this one?” The Duke of Beaufort opened the front door.
“Miss Braddock’s residence?”
He nodded. “I’m certain we can enter through the library window as she did.”
“Why not wait until we return to your house?” Winifred asked, a tiny line carving its way across her forehead. “Miss Juliette—and Nora—will want to witness your proposal.”
“I’m a selfish man,” the Duke of Beaufort replied as he stepped onto the doorstep, “and when I deliver you safely to my residence, your sister, your mother, and every other visitor in attendance will monopolize your time. I don’t want to share you yet.”
Winifred shivered, her toes curling under. “How do you propose we get to Miss Braddock’s home? I have no shoes, stockings, or proper dress to defend against the cold.”
“I’ll carry you,” the Duke of Beaufort said, then he slogged around the side of the house, leaving Winifred hovering inside the doorway.
Crunching snow announced his return, and a moment later, he reappeared, his greatcoat and jacket hanging from his arm.
“I didn’t fit through the window until I removed them,” he said, his cheeks flushing light pink.
After shaking the snow from the greatcoat, the Duke of Beaufort wrapped the article around Winifred’s shoulders and fastened the coat closed, enveloping her into a warm embrace of cinnamon, carnation, and wool. Then, he shoved his arms through his jacket sleeves and, with great flourish, bowed low.
“Would you care to join me for a bit of burglary?”
Winifred giggled.
Turning around, the Duke of Beaufort moved off the doorstep, then indicated that Winifred should climb onto his back. She darted forward, sucking in a sharp breath as snow coated her bare feet, and leaped, hooking her arms around his neck.
The Duke of Beaufort grabbed her legs, winding his arms around them, shifted her position on his back, and chuckled. “Do you think your mother would disapprove of your current location?”
“Considering you rescued both of us from Mr. Curtis, I expect she’ll grant you some leniency.” Winifred rested her chin on the Duke of Beaufort’s shoulder as he trudged through the garden. “However, the remaining members of the ton will have several scathing statements regarding my behavior.”
“We shall make Mr. Curtis’ crimes known,” the Duke of Beaufort said as he passed through the iron fence separating the residence from the street. “No one will question your reputation.”
“No more than they currently do,” she murmured, causing him to stop and twist his head around.
“We’ve discussed this. Your past doesn’t concern me.” He offered her a jaunty grin. “And if those rumors prevent us from receiving an invitation to any future social function, I will happily spend those evenings distracting you with seduction instead of feigning interest in another tedious ball.”
“What of your friends’ opinions?” Winifred chewed her lip.
The Duke of Beaufort winked. “They possess worse reputations than you.”
She laughed.
Despite his playful attitude, relief flowed through her veins when he rounded the corner and slogged across Miss Braddock’s property line without them meeting any person on the street.
“I hope Miss Braddock didn’t repair the window,” she said as the Duke of Beaufort plodded around the side of the house.
“If that window is no longer an option,” he said, adjusting his grip, “I’m certain we can find another with a weak lock that can be broken.”
He stepped forward, his leg plunged into deep snow, and he wobbled, nearly dropping Winifred. As he struggled to regain his balance, he overcorrected and fell backward, landing in a puff of white ice, which rained down on them.
Laughing, he reached up and picked chunks of ice from her hair.
“That was not my intention,” he said, scooting her down to his legs and sitting up. “However, unfortunately, unlike Roxburghe, I can’t lift you and stand at the same time. Therefore…”
He yanked his jacket from his shoulders and spread the material out beside him. “The cloth will protect your feet until I can pick you up again.”
Winifred climbed onto the jacket, grateful for the barrier against the snow’s biting cold, and held out her hand, leaning back as she pulled the Duke of Beaufort to his feet.
He spun around and crouched, gesturing for her to mount his back again. Once she was in place, he retrieved his jacket, then cautiously resumed his trek toward the rear of the house.
When they reached the library, he turned sideways and leaned toward the house. Without instruction, Winifred reached out and grasped the bottom of the window frame. With a grunt, she shoved, releasing a tiny celebratory shout as the glass slid upward.
With the Duke of Roxburghe’s assistance, she scrambled through the small space, tumbled into the library, and crashed to the floor in a graceless pile.
“I’m uninjured,” she said, her voice muffled by the greatcoat.
Popping up, she shoved the heavy material from her face and gestured for the Duke of Beaufort to return to the front of the house. Then, she rose, and, tucking his coat tightly around her waist, padded across the floor and opened the library door.
She hurried into the dim corridor and raced down the hallway. Veering too close to the wall, she smacked her hip into a linen-covered rectangular table and cried out.
“Miss Fernsby-Webb?” The Duke of Beaufort’s worry slipped under the door. “Is something wrong?”
“I bumped into a table,” she yelled back, limping across the foyer.
After unfastening the lock, she pulled the door open and curtsied, gesturing for him to enter.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said, closing the door behind him. “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”
As she spun around, the Duke of Beaufort wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her against his body.
“I can assure you, the pleasure is mine,” he rumbled, bending his neck and touching his mouth to hers.
His tongue darted out, teasing the seam of her lips. Her mouth parted, his tongue slipping into her warmth and sending shivers rippling down her spine. He drew her closer, molding her body to his as he deepened the kiss.
She clung to him, simultaneously craving his touch and fearing that he’d vanish, and she’d awaken tied to the chair in her mother’s attic.
“Stop.” Panting, the Duke of Beaufort broke their kiss and took a step backward, his green eyes glowing with desire. “I must ask you something before I become wholly distracted.”
Before she could speak, he put a finger to her lips and shook his head.
“No arguments,” he said, dropping his hand. “Either you wish to spend the remainder of your years with me, or you don’t. No other factor need be considered.”
“Miss Juliette?—”
“Has requested that I stop being a fool and ask you to marry me.” Kneeling, the Duke of Beaufort took Winifred’s hand in his. “Miss Fernsby-Webb, would you bestow upon me the greatest happiness imaginable and agree to become my wife?”