Page 14 of Sweet Duke of Mine

A GLIMPSE

A lastair hovered over her, his palms braced against the soft earth, his arms straining to keep his weight from crushing her—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not while she was beneath him, her hands clinging to his shoulders, her lips parted, waiting for his.

Honeysuckle and sweet lemonade. The scent of her skin, the taste of summer on her tongue.

His Daisy. His best friend. His everything.

Alastair’s fingers tangled in her unruly curls, the silk of them slipping between his knuckles as he imagined all the tomorrows they would share. He could see it—her in white, laughing as he carried her across the threshold of their home. He could feel the weight of their future children in his arms, hear their laughter as they played beneath the very trees that shaded them now.

Daisy made up the other half of his soul.

He would live for her.

He would die for her.

Alastair leaned down to claim her lips, his heart pounding with devotion, desire, certainty ? —

And suddenly, she was gone.

He gasped and shot upright, his chest heaving, fingers clutching at empty air.

Darkness surrounded him, save for the faint sliver of light seeping beneath the door.

His pulse roared in his ears, the dream clinging to him like mist. But was it only a dream? Or something else?

Something real?

His hands fisted in the blanket around his waist as he struggled to slow his breathing.

It had felt real. More than a dream, more than mere fantasy—it was as though he had been there, in that meadow, holding her, knowing her, loving her.

His mind had not conjured that from nothing.

Had it?

His Daisy.

But no. The woman from his dreams was Daisy, but not.

She was younger, untouched by the weight of the world, by hardship, by the sorrow he sometimes glimpsed in her eyes now.

Yet in his dream, she had been his.

Beloved.

A shuddering breath escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, his temples pounding as fragments of the past taunted him, just out of reach.

Sucking in air, he inhaled hints of cedar and rose—Daisy’s soap. The scent grounded him, bringing him back to the present, to the warmth of the blanket, to the quiet of the pantry.

To the memory of gentle fingertips on his face the night before, as she shaved away the last traces of the man he’d become in his captivity.

Alastair ran a hand over his jaw, where Daisy’s palms had smoothed fragrant oil into his skin the night before. She had touched him so carefully, deliberately—her hands gliding over his face as she worked, steady and sure.

The woman was damn near irresistible.

More than once, he’d been tempted to take the razor from her hands, to capture her mouth and kiss her senseless. But she had kissed him first.

And he’d done nothing to stop it.

Dear Lord in heaven, if he never recovered his memories, if he never found the life he’d lost, he could almost—almost—be content living out his days with Daisy Montgomery by his side. In her home. In her bed.

Almost.

But that wasn’t who he was.

He was a man of purpose. A man with a past. And until he reclaimed it—his history, his legacy—he couldn’t afford to dream of a future with her.

Why it mattered so much, he couldn’t say. But it did.

With a quiet groan, Alastair pushed himself upright. He rolled his shoulders, testing the sore muscles, and stepped to the doorway, peering into the kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through the window, bright and accusing. Gilbert would already be off to school, and Daisy had likely left for her deliveries.

God, he was a pitiful excuse for a man. His head ached from the strain of trying to summon something useful— anything at all —and every bruise on his body made itself known as he moved. Still, he refused to sit idle. He had no name, no past, and nothing to offer—but he could at least make himself useful.

She had mentioned wanting to move him into the dining room, and ignoring the sharp pull of sore muscles, he grabbed the mattress and began hauling it through the kitchen.

But he could not dismiss what had happened the night before.

She had kissed him .

He’d stepped away. Just barely.

And immediately regretted it.

And then—she had fled. As though the hounds of hell were at her heels, actually.

And after she’d slammed the door to her bedchamber, she had locked it so loudly he had heard the bolt slide into place from downstairs.

Alastair had been too stunned to go after her.

That kiss had left him paralyzed, a chaotic storm of emotions churning inside him. Arousal. Affection. The sense that he had discovered something he had lost long ago.

But also… confusion.

If he’d had a few more minutes alone with her, he might have taken her right there, on the kitchen table—with her brother under the same roof.

By God, he’d nearly made love to her.

Love?

He hardly knew her.

Except… he did, didn’t he?

Alastair exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He dragged his makeshift bed into the dining room, setting it down in the far corner where it fit snugly without disturbing the table or chairs.

The night before, after Daisy had locked herself away, he had paced the length of her shop, trying to quiet his racing thoughts. When exhaustion put an end to that, he had returned to the pantry, where he lay awake staring at the ceiling for hours.

The few times he had drifted off, he had dreamed—dreams that felt like memories—but they always slipped from his grasp the moment he opened his eyes.

Something important was buried in his mind. But for the life of him, he couldn’t reach it .

Now, restless and unwilling to dwell on the unknown, he ran a hand along the dining table.

It wobbled. And although he didn’t remember his own damn name, this was something he could, in fact, fix.

Grateful for the distraction, Alastair located some tools, measured the legs, and began shaving down the wood until the table was perfectly level. Once that was done, he tested the chairs, adjusting each one as needed.

Having completed her early morning deliveries, Daisy unlocked her shop door and tentatively stepped inside. She wasn’t sure how she felt about facing Alastair again—for two reasons.

Firstly, because she’d kissed him the night before and… he had ended it. That fact alone sent hot embarrassment flooding through into her cheeks.

But she was also nervous because of the newspaper article that she had come across this morning. She had to show it to him. She had to tell him the truth.

With both the sales room and kitchen quiet, she imagined he might be sleeping. A peek into her pantry revealed otherwise, however.

It was empty! Even the mattress was gone!

A sick feeling landed in her stomach. Had she scared him away with her clumsy… advance? Had he left because he’d finally remembered who he was?

Maybe—just maybe—his memory had returned, and the first thing he’d done was leave her little shop behind to return to his grand townhouse in Mayfair.

Where his uncle no doubt waited for him—his father’s younger brother, Lord Calvin.

Daisy was all too aware that if anything happened to Alastair, Lord Calvin was next in line to inherit the Lovington title…

A chill crept down her spine.

She swallowed hard, but before her thoughts could spiral further, a scraping sound from the back of the house shattered the silence.

Shaking off her sudden onslaught of concerns, Daisy forced herself to follow the sounds of movement.

At the threshold of her dining room, she stopped.

Alastair—dressed once more in her father’s clothing—was bent over one of her mismatched chairs, measuring and adjusting the legs with an air of quiet determination.

She should have announced herself. Should have spoken right away.

But instead, she watched.

Watched the way his muscles flexed beneath the thin linen, how his strong hands worked the chair with steady precision, how easily—naturally—he moved about her home, as though he belonged here.

She clenched her fingers at her sides.

“What are you doing?” she finally asked, no longer reluctant to face him.

He glanced over his shoulder, and though a shadow of his beard had returned, there was no mistaking him now.

“Fixing your table and chairs,” he said simply.

Squatting, he nudged a chair in and tested its balance. For as long as she could remember, those chairs had wobbled precariously. Yet now, under his hands, they were steady.

He moved around the room, checking the other three, then gave the table one final push, as though ensuring it would hold.

“You didn’t have to?—”

“It’s the least I could do.”

He straightened and turned to face her, gripping the edge of the table with his hands before resting his weight against it .

He stared at her, his green eyes searching. Trusting. “How are you?”

Such a simple question. And yet, she had no idea how to answer it.

The truth, she supposed, was as good as anything.

“When I saw the pantry empty, I was afraid you had left.”

His expression remained unreadable. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, without… thanking you.”

His voice was calm, even. But his eyes never left hers.

Oh, dear. He was going to make her say it out loud, wasn’t he?

“But… I kissed you.”

Realizing she’d been gripping the doorframe, she let go, clasping her hands at her waist instead.

“I don’t know what… I mean, I—I apologize.” She stumbled over her words. “I don’t know why. I’m not like that.” She shook her head. “It’s just that—” She drew in a breath, readying herself to tell him everything. He deserved to know the truth.

But before she could form the words, he tilted his head and said, “You have nothing to apologize for. If you hadn’t, I would have.”

The words on her lips vanished. “You would have…?”

“Kissed you.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

He didn’t look pleased with himself. Not in the least.

“And I shouldn’t take advantage… After all you’ve done for me…”

Pushing away from the table, he took a step toward her, his frustration palpable. “But you, Daisy Margaret Montgomery, are not an easy woman to resist.”

Her breath caught. Good heavens!

To say she was stunned would be an understatement .

Scowling, he ran a hand through his hair, sending some of those too-long silky brown waves into disarray.

“You are a beautiful, compassionate woman. Not to mention intelligent, brave, and,” he gestured toward her soaps, “talented.”

Daisy swallowed, her heart drumming an erratic beat against her ribs. Had any man—had his younger self—ever spoken about her like that? Had she ever been seen like this before? As something more than a daughter, a shopkeeper, a caretaker, a sister?

With no hesitation whatsoever, she reached out.

Skimming her fingers along the crisp linen of his borrowed shirt, she traced the sleeves down to where the material had been folded back, revealing sinewy, capable forearms, their olive skin warm beneath her touch.

She shouldn't do this. And yet, she couldn’t help herself.

Circling her fingertips over the fine black hairs, she felt the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch, the slight intake of his breath.

A shudder ran through him. But he didn’t push her hand away.

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick and pressing in around them. The pull between them—like the sun and the earth—remained undeniable.

What does it mean?

Noticing the raised gooseflesh, she lifted her gaze, and there it was—confirmation. Desire flickered in his green eyes, mirroring the reckless longing swirling in her own chest. You are irresistible, too. You always have been…

“But you barely know me,” she said instead.

He exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Then, he shrugged—but not dismissively. Thoughtfully. As if he, too, couldn’t rationalize any of… this .

And then, he turned his hand and clasped hers, his grip firm.

“It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, sending ripples of heat shooting through her. “But…” Another shrug. A small, almost helpless smile. “You feel it too?”

She nodded.

God help her, she did.

And yet… Nothing had changed. Not really.