Page 6 of The Big Bad Duke (The Shadows #9)

He was certain this was improper, but he didn’t care for proprieties at the moment. This room was the only one where a fire still burned low in the grate. The rest of the house was cold and uninviting. Unless she wanted to freeze to death, this was the only place for her to warm up.

Gideon quickly lowered himself to his haunches before the hearth and stirred the embers with the poker. Then he rose and stepped aside, gesturing for her to come closer to the fire.

She did just that and extended her hands toward the flames, her features relaxing with an exhale.

Gideon glanced around, suddenly self-conscious. It had been a while since he’d entertained guests in his home.

“Would you like whisky?” He walked toward a side table lined with liquor. “It might warm you up from the inside.”

Leila shook her head. “I’d rather have some tea, if possible. I don’t drink spirits.”

He nodded and immediately called for a maid to bring tea.

When he turned back, he couldn’t help but stare at his unexpected guest.

Now standing in the glow of the fire, he could see how her wet gown clung to her curves like a second skin, revealing the graceful lines of her figure. Droplets of rain slid down her throat and disappeared beneath the neckline of her dress.

She stood tall and poised, straight as a spear, yet her outstretched hands moved with graceful, wave-like motions as she warmed them by the fire.

He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as he fought to keep his gaze respectfully on her face, though the effort cost him considerable willpower.

The way the soaked silk molded to her body was utterly mesmerizing.

He found himself wondering what it would feel like to follow the trail of those raindrops… with his tongue.

“You’re completely soaked,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ll catch your death in those clothes.”

She glanced down at herself, as if just now realizing the extent of her drenched state.

A blush colored her cheeks as she folded her arms across her chest in a self-conscious gesture. “I’m afraid I don’t have any dry clothes with me.”

She seemed so vulnerable and completely helpless. And here he was, watching her, his thoughts less than honorable. What a cad.

“We need to get you warm,” he murmured, already crossing the room toward his dressing chamber, as if he had any clothing suitable for her there. “I’ll look for things that might… suffice, temporarily.”

He scanned the dressing room, and his gaze fell on the ornate trunk in the bottom right corner. He did, indeed, have female clothing there that might fit her… but he was not about to open that trunk and clothe a stranger in his wife’s gowns.

He shook his head and quickly shut the door. “I’ll ask Mrs. Hill to find you something once your room is prepared.”

“Thank you,” Leila said, still shivering. She continued wringing the water from her soaked clothing, pulling at the fabric that clung to her body.

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring again.

She was vulnerable, undoubtedly scared, all alone in a stranger’s house—wet and

cold, with her husband nowhere close to protect her.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I should send word to your husband immediately. He’ll be worried—”

“No,” she said sharply, pausing in her ministrations.

She quickly masked her reaction with a chuckle and a wave of her hand.

“I mean, there’s no need. He wouldn’t notice I was gone until morning anyway.

And since he is ill, I’d rather not worry him in the middle of the night.

” She paused. “Besides, I’d rather not send anyone out in the rain. ”

“Right.” Gideon cleared his throat. “Of course. It must be hard to navigate London alone, Lady Leila, while your husband is ill.”

“It’s just Leila,” she said softly.

“Apologies. It’s a habit.”

She smiled. “I understand. In this part of the world, you are quite fond of your titles and last names, aren’t you? But isn’t it much simpler to call someone by just one name?”

“Well, I, uh…” He paused—usually quick with a polite answer—now caught off guard by a question he’d never truly considered.

Yes, they did like their titles, didn’t they?

Titles helped to determine a person’s level of importance, to mark status, to sort people into those who matter and those who don’t.

And really, that was the entire point.

If you were lucky enough to be so very important, chances were you didn’t need your Christian name at all.

Nobody had ever called him Gideon in his entire life. He’d been the Earl of Pembroke for as long as he could remember. His father had died when Gideon was very young, and the title had passed to him before he even understood what it meant. From then on, that was who he was.

Even his mother had called him Pembroke. His wife, too.

His Sarah…

He’d called her by her first name, though. She was Lady Sarah when he’d met her, and she remained thus. Although he liked to hear others call her Lady Pembroke. It marked her as his.

Those other people called Gideon My Lord, His Lordship.

And then, suddenly, he became Wolverstone.

His former name became irrelevant, and now he was the duke. His Grace.

His name didn’t matter.

Someone might as well know…

“Gideon,” he said.

She blinked up at him. “Pardon me?”

“My Christian name is Gideon.”

“It’s a beautiful name.” She smiled slightly. “Now that I know your name, does that mean we are friends?”

Gideon shrugged. “Acquaintances, perhaps.”

“That’s a hard word to pronounce,” she said, her smile widening. “And after you saved me from drowning in that broken carriage, and now that I know your given name—don’t you think I can consider you a friend?”

Her face brightened despite her bedraggled state, and he found himself unexpectedly charmed by her enthusiasm.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I don’t have very many friends.”

She let out a low laugh. “What a coincidence. Me neither.”

Before he could stop himself, Gideon chuckled—the first genuine sound of amusement he’d made in longer than he cared to remember.

She sneezed into a handkerchief, her whole body shuddering from the cold.

Without thinking, Gideon took the bedspread from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, hoping to warm her.

“You’re going to ruin this beautiful coverlet with rainwater,” she said, her tone dry.

He shrugged. “It’ll wash.”

He stared at her, his hands still resting on her shoulders, trying to rub some warmth back into her chilled frame. Her face tilted subtly toward his touch, as if drawn to the heat of his palm, as if craving it.

And God help him, he wanted to touch her too. To feel her skin. To press his lips against the curve of her throat. To—

Gideon yanked his hands back. Too sharply. The sudden motion made her jolt, and she scrambled to catch the coverlet before it slid off her shoulders and puddled on the floor.

He took two steps back, curling his fingers into fists as if that would tame them.

He cleared his throat. “So… do you remember what happened tonight? Before the carriage overturned?”

Her brows furrowed, the abrupt change in topic jarring enough to make her blink. She took a moment to gather her thoughts.

“No. I heard a noise outside… I looked through the window, but I couldn’t see anything—just darkness. And then… the carriage started to roll.”

“Do you know if anyone—”

Rap. Rap.

Mrs. Hill appeared on the threshold. “The room is ready for Lady Leila, Your Grace.”

“Oh, thank you.” Leila breathed a sigh of relief, no doubt looking forward to taking off her wet clothes and curling up in a dry bed.

Sarah’s bed…

Gideon pushed the thought aside. “Mrs. Hill, would you bring some dry clothes for the lady? And see that her current garments are washed and pressed for the morning?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied and hurried off, presumably to gather what was needed.

Gideon turned and led Leila to the adjoining door. He opened it, gesturing for her to enter.

She hesitated, blinking in surprised stupor. Then slowly, understanding dawned on her.

Perhaps not full understanding—but enough to realize why he hadn’t wanted that particular chamber given to her.

It wasn’t just any guest room; it was the room allocated for the lady of the house. His wife.

She approached the room with a tentative, unsure step.

Gideon opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Go ahead. It’s your room for the night.”

She nodded once and slipped past him, and he followed, his gaze drifting across the space.

The four-poster bed stood in the center, draped in heavy curtains. A writing desk sat beneath the window, and across from it was a vanity table with a looking glass.

It should have felt warm and familiar, but it didn’t.

The room was cold. Empty. Soulless.

It was just as he remembered it to be, and nothing like it at the same time.

It would be, wouldn’t it? It had been shut for the last fifteen years.

Leila glanced between the bed and his face, her all-too-perceptive gaze no doubt seeing the pain in his eyes. Or perhaps she was simply waiting for him to leave.

And it was about time he did.

“Good night,” he said abruptly, already backing toward the door.

“Thank you, Your—”

He didn’t hear if she said anything beyond that. The door had closed behind him.