Page 8 of The Duke is Wicked
“You have to pull every loose thread, Del, make things fall apart in your hands?”
If only there were another way to save us.
If only.
Chapter 4
Sebastian woke with a start, chased his hand down his chest to find the knife he usually kept in his waistcoat pocket missing.
Hell, the waistcoat was missing.
A burst of air carrying the scent of peony and coal wafted through the open window of a bedchamber unfamiliar to him. With a groan, he rose to his elbow, sending the room spinning and the Soul Catcher tumbling from his fingers to the faded carpet.
“It’s not there...your knife. The little bandit, Simon, took it. The pistol, too. Although your guards are armed, so it’s a moot point,” the sultry voice that had delightfully occupied his dreams called from the darkness. “Don’t start a fire to see me, though it is quite the parlor trick. Wait a moment. I’ll adjust the gasolier.” Soft footfalls sounded as Delaney Temple crossed the room. “I don’t need more torched furnishings. You got a curtain last time. This bedroom is starting to look like the inside of a hearth, blackened at the edges.”
“I don’t give two shits about your furnishings,” Sebastian whispered weakly and sank to the mattress, throwing his arm over his eyes. “And it’s bedchamber, on this side of the ocean.”
“Semantics.” Seconds later, a flood of golden light struck his sealed lids.
Fucking bees, he groused but didn’t utter the crude sentiment. “How long have I been down?” It felt like centuries, his throat parched, his body aching. The side of his neck where he’d been stung swollen and tender to the touch. Defenseless as a babe. Before a stranger, someone outside the League, outside his purview. His doctor had said the next incident would kill him, but somehow, due to this peculiar woman, it had not.
“Three days.” She crossed to the sideboard, poured liquid in a glass. The clink of a spoon against crystal as she mixed something in. “Every time we tried to move you, your breathing stuttered, making your rather eccentric assortment of friends frantic. So here you remain, in my home, if you hadn’t gathered.”
“Plain, if you please. The water. A rather desperate request, however, as my throat feels like the Sahara.” He wrestled to a sit, reclining awkwardly against the headboard to gaze across the dimly-lit chamber at the woman who’d saved his life. Without her, he’d have died in the mud alongside Rotten Row, the track’s dust washing over him as he drew his last. When someone saved your life, you owed a debt, a realization that brought the Duke of Ashcroft no pleasure. But the noble side of him, the soldier, couldn’t forget. “No more of whatever draught you’ve been giving me. As my physician would tell you, although I know I didn’t allow you to contact him, I’m not the best candidate for medicinal interventions.”
Delaney peered at the glass in her hand, then over her shoulder. And he almost—almost—smiled. Her smoke-gray eyes were round as halfpennies.
“I appreciate your incredulity. An opium-addicted dukeisn’tthe norm. But the drug was, at times, beneficial to surviving the process. Of living, that is. Until it started being the reasontolive.”
After pouring a new drink, she returned to his bedside. She was strikingly lovely, but unlike most women in his set, one who enchanted without effort. Plain clothing, modest jewelry. An unflinching gaze, weighty confidence for a young woman; he wasn’t sure how to measure her.
“I’m speechless, Your Grace.”
With a grunt, he drained the glass in two long pulls. “I should feel fortunate for that, I imagine.”
“Careful,” she advised and settled into the armchair beside the bed. Tucked a rebellious strand of hair the color of a midnight sky into the cavalier knot on her head. “Not too fast, or it will come back up.”
“A charming pronouncement from a charming woman.” Nevertheless, he refrained from asking for more water because she was probably right. God knows what he’d done to debase himself.
“That’s my intent, Your Grace, to becharming. The aim of every woman in England, so I’ll fit in.”
“As if, but it’s a solid ploy. You know, ‘Your Grace’ said in that flat American intonation doesn’t sound as reverent as it should.” He placed the glass on the bedside table and sank back, his strength drained from even this modest effort. “Or maybe it’s the little twist you give my honorific that makes it sound like a question. Dubious, the title and all that goes with it, I agree.”
“What should I call you then?”
He shrugged. “Surprise me.”
“In my country, you’d be plain, old Mister Tremont, as we don’t believe in titles. So, Tremont, answer me this.” She gave her lip a tap, staring at a point above his shoulder before pulling her ashen gaze to his. “Why did the fire in the hearth go out when Finn Alexander and his wife stepped in the room? It’s Victoria, I think. Every time she gets near you, whatever sparks you’re creating fizzle like I’ve doused them with water. I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out.”
He paused, surprised whennothingsurprised him. As he’d told Julian and Finn—big brain, bad habits. “And you long to know.”
Delaney couldn’t hide her smile. “Isolong to know.”
“That’s a relentless gaze you’re pinning me to the bed with, Miss Temple. I’m fairly sure it’s meant to coerce. When I like being pinned.”
A gasp—laughter?—slipped out, but the sound was pruned like a hedge she wanted to trim back. “Apologies. Women on my side of the ocean, as you put it, aren’t taught to look down.”
Irritated and regrettably aroused, Sebastian scratched at the dense stubble on his jaw and studied her, this intriguing creature. Here he was, making outrageously lewd comments, ones he’d never make to a woman of his station, and Delaney wasn’t running from the room. Or blushing.