Page 39 of The Duke is Wicked
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How long is he going to stand there staring.Delaney sent an arrow from her bow that was wrecked from the start. It sliced the air, fletchings quivering, to embed in the scarlet ring’s outer edge. Flustered, she glanced toward the rose thicket to find the duke gone.No. A gentle breeze carried his harassing scent past her nose.
Stifling an unladylike oath, she looked over her shoulder, and there he stood. Looking regal and indifferent —and so dashed handsome, it made her teeth ache. His long body clothed in more formal attire for some godawful reason, except for his shirt and cravat, cool, crisp black from head to toe.
“Temple,” he said, and nodded to the bow. “Archery is today’s effort to humiliate someone, I see.”
She smiled tightly, taking the jab without flinching. “Tremont.” She hadn’t grown up with a twin who harassed her at every turn without getting good at accepting blows. “The first recorded archery event took place in England in 1583. In Finsbury, wherever that is.” Plucking an arrow from the quiver on her back, she worked it into place with an audible click that meant she’d found the precise alignment. “Imagine, over 3000 participants.”
“Those are tidbits from the attic, I assume,” Sebastian murmured for just the two of them, a playful slice of intimacy the dreary morning didn’t need.
“Southeastern part of Islington, just outside London proper.”
Startled, she turned to Sir Kinkaid, who, with the arrival of her dashing duke, she’d forgotten was there. “Excuse me?”
“Finsbury, Miss Temple. The site of the first archery event.”
“Interesting,” Ashcroft murmured, as if it were anything but.
Sir Kinkaid took a step back, the air between the men swelling to a choking degree for no good reason. The way it did when one dog took sight of another dog and decided, this is someone I’d like to bite. Or piss on.
Delaney sighed.Men.She tapped Sir Reginald’s shoulder with her arrow, then Sebastian’s, knighting them. Which she found amusing, so she laughed, with absolutely no one joining in. “Sir Reginald Kinkaid, Sebastian Fitzgerald Tremont, the Duke of Ashcroft. Fourth, isn’t it, Tremont?”
“Fifth, going back to the first duke, who was born around the time of your archery event. Although he wouldn’t have attended, as he was a drunkard and a lothario,” Sebastian said, and took a bow from the rack. “All glorious details of my family history noted in your edition ofDebrett’s.” Leaning close, too close, he slipped an arrow from her quiver with a grin she wanted to forcibly remove. He trailed the pointed tip up her forearm before lifting it free and fitting it to his bow. Goosebumps prickled the skin he’d touched, hidden beneath layers, thank goodness. But her knees trembled, which he’d likely noticed when she’d swayed.Damn him.
The men took each other’s measure with reluctant nods of recognition, disdain a swift current racing between them. After a moment, Sir Kinkaid doffed his hat and gestured to the house. “I’m scheduled to meet with Mister Alexander, so I’d best leave you to your competition.” He’d evidently decided they were going to have one. “Miss Temple.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. “Until we meet again. I would love to hear more about the colonies. Tea? Later this week?”
Behind her back, Delaney whacked Sebastian in the leg with her bow when he grunted. “I’d be delighted, Sir Kinkaid.” If only he had amber eyes and a wicked smile, was so tall she had to lean her head back to look into his face. If only he could start fires with the twitch of his fingers and make her laugh when she wanted to cry. If only he looked at her like he understood her better than anyone. Or wanted to.
When she was tempted to let him.
As they stood there in silent negotiation, the knight crossed the lawn, circled the house and disappeared into the mist.
“He’s expected to bow to a duke. A nod is not a bow. The poor chap’s social education is lacking.”
Delaney turned on him, the force of her fury catching her by surprise. “You arrogant toad. We were having a civilized conversation when you burst in. I rather liked him. He was almostnormal. While you, you’re a rude, flame-throwing brute!” Sensing her excitement, her puppy began to race around her legs in bouncy, barking circles. Squatting to pick him up, she cradled him against her chest and cooed soft words in his floppy ear.
Sebastian tapped the arrow on the pup’s head. “Would a flame-throwing brute give you such a wonderful present? And who the bloody hell wantsnormalover tea and crumpets while discussing the colonies? Sounds abhorrent.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Maybe youdon’t.”
“Hephaestus. I named him Hephaestus,” she dared, and looked him dead in the eye, her heart taking a hard, skittering thump while her face remained, thankfully, impassive. The duke’s valet had missed a spot on his jaw while shaving him, a teasing triangle she wanted to run her tongue over, sink her teeth into.
A smile started in Sebastian’s eyes and moved to his lips. “The god of fire.”
The significance of the name wasn’t lost on either of them. Nor was her acceptance of the gift or his intent in giving it.
They were, whether they liked it or not, getting closer. Playing a dangerous game, becoming this lost in each other after having shared only one kiss. A kiss that should’ve been meaningless, a forthright answer to a challenge. But instead, was much, much more.
He reached, his thumb dusting the bruise on her jaw. “You scared the life from me, Temple.” The words were hushed, the admission reluctant. “I don’t know what to do about that.”
Delaney closed her eyes to the sensation of his touch, the feeling of opening the door to her world and inviting Sebastian Tremont in.
“Uncle Bastian!”
Bastian. Her toes curled in her slippers as the name hissed through her mind. Bastian.