Romancing the Duke

She touched his hand with a hunk of bread. He took it, resentfully, and tore off a bite with his teeth.



He was beginning to think he’d have to go back to his first strategy—tossing her over his shoulder and toting her away. The problem was, considering how much he enjoyed tossing her over his shoulder, he wasn’t sure they’d get very far.



“But before I can think of anything else”—her head turned, and that mass of unbound curls became a fiery whirlwind—“I must find my hairpins. Do you know where you placed them yesterday?” She reached and prodded the cushions to his side. “Maybe they’re in the sofa.”



He tried—and failed—to ignore the scent of rosemary.



“Aha.” She jumped with discovery, and her arm brushed his. “Here’s one of them. And another.”



Damn her hairpins. He pushed to his feet. “You’re not staying here.”



“Your Grace, you’ve made a valiant effort at scaring me off, but you’ve thrown your worst at me, and it didn’t work. Don’t you think it’s time to give up?”



“No.” He jabbed a finger in his chest. “I don’t give up. On anything.”



“You don’t give up?” She laughed a little. “Forgive me, but from what I can gather, you were injured many months ago, and you haven’t left this castle since. People in London think you’re dead. Your post has gone unanswered, your servants aren’t allowed to serve you, and you haven’t done a thing to improve your living conditions in a moldering, decrepit castle. I don’t know what definition of ‘giving up’ you’re using, Your Grace, but this looks rather like mine.”



Ransom fumed at her. How dare she? She had no idea what he’d been through. She had no notion of how hard he’d had to work in those first few months to regain the simplest of capabilities. The ability to walk without stumbling. To count higher than thirty. Damn, it had taken him ages just to relearn how to whistle for his dog. And he hadn’t needed any cosseting, nor any managing female to cheer and goad him on. He’d done it on his own, step by excruciating step. Because the alternative was to sit down and die.



He ground out his words. “I . . . don’t . . . give up.”



“Then prove it.”



Easy, Izzy told her galloping heart. Go easy now.



The next few minutes called for extreme caution.



In truth, she needed to watch her every step, move, word, and breath with this man . . . but this was different.



Rothbury stood over her. He was shirtless, wet, wild-haired. Handsome as sin and angry as Lucifer. A duke accustomed to having his way. Now she’d not only defied him, she’d directly challenged him.



His words were low and even, but they smoldered like a fuse burning toward gunpowder. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”



He propped his hands on his hips. One of his pectoral muscles twitched angrily. As if registering an indignant harrumph. A little rivulet of water slalomed through the golden brown hairs on his chest.



Izzy clutched her hairpins so hard, they bit into the soft flesh of her palm.



She rose to her feet. Because that’s what one did when moved to genuine awe.



“Of course not, Your Grace,” she replied, speaking as calmly she could to his incensed left nipple. “But there are things that need proving. Such as the validity of the property transfer and the . . . and the . . .”



Oh, heavens. Now her own nipples decided to have their say in this conversation. Standing this close to him brought back all the memories of their embrace last night. Distracting sensations coursed through her body. Not to mention all those pent-up emotions she’d poured into their kiss.



She crossed her arms over her chest.



“I have a strong hand, literacy in several languages, only two of which are dead—and an abundance of discretion. I will help you sort through all your affairs, and we’ll solve the mystery of just how this castle was sold.”



“It wasn’t sold.”



“But I won’t be pushed about.” Izzy opened her eyes. Good heavens, the man was stubborn.



It must have been the nerves raised by proximity, but she had the uncanny sense that he was looking at her. Or through her. And she suddenly felt very embarrassed for staring at his chest.



She tried gentling her voice. “I know you’re apprehensive.”



“I’m not apprehensive.” He pushed a hand through his hair. His arm muscles bunched and flexed in distracting ways. “Good grief, Goodnight. You are the most vexing woman.”



Despite everything, Izzy smiled to herself.



She couldn’t help it. He’d called her a woman.



“The two of us residing in this castle . . . it’s not possible. If you meant to set up house here, you’d need more than brave words. You’d need furnishings, servants. Most importantly, a companion.”



“Why a companion? There’s Duncan. And there’s you.”



He snorted. “I’m no chaperone.”



“Is it still that silly kiss that’s concerning you? I thought we’d reached an understanding.”



“Oh, that kiss gave me plenty of understanding.” He moved close and lowered his voice to a growl. The air heated between them, and she could have sworn the beads of water on his chest sizzled and became steam. “I understand how your body feels against mine. I understand how sweet you taste. And I understand—precisely—how good we could be together. In bed. Or atop a table. Or against a wall. The problem with understanding seems to be yours.”



The air left Izzy’s lungs in a breathy, “Oh.”



She stared up him. The poor, confused man. He seemed to believe this sort of growly, lewd declaration would send her running and screaming into the countryside. Instead, his words had the opposite effect. With every carnal suggestion he made, her confidence soared to a new, dizzying pinnacle.



He wanted her. He wanted her.



And she wanted to do a little dance.



“Your Grace?” A bright, feminine voice trilled up from the courtyard, like birdsong. “Do be calm. I’m on my way. Whatever it is you need, I’m here.”



Ransom jerked into motion. Whirling away, he reached for a shirt thrown over the sofa’s back. It took him a few seconds of fumbling to lay his hand on it.



“Who is it?” Izzy asked, gathering his coat in advance.



Whoever the visitor was, he wanted to look presentable for her.



“It’s Miss Pelham.” He jerked the shirt over his head, punching in different directions to work his arms through the sleeves, then accepted the coat she offered. “The vicar’s daughter. Another interfering woman I can’t seem to be rid of.”



Good heavens. Even vicar’s daughters were throwing themselves at him? Izzy didn’t find it hard to believe, but she found it a bit disappointing.



Oh, listen to her. It wasn’t as though she had some claim on the man. One kiss in the dark, and she’d become a jealous harpy. She pushed the envy aside.



Then a young woman entered the great hall, and the envy pushed right back.



Izzy had been to Court, many parties, and even a London ball or two. She could honestly say this was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Golden hair, with little ringlets placed artfully about her face. Ribbons streaming from her blue muslin frock. Pleasing figure. Practiced smile. Immaculate lace gloves.



“Your Grace?” The young woman breathed the words as a sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her chest. “You’re well. Thank the Lord. I expected to find you prostrate and delirious from fever, after the tale I heard from Mr. Duncan. It simply can’t be true. Surely you haven’t recently received a visitor by the name of—” Then her eyes landed on Izzy, and she halted abruptly. “Oh it is true. She is here.”



The basket Miss Pelham carried dropped to the floor, and she clapped both hands to her cheeks. “You’re Izzy Goodnight?”



Izzy dropped a slight curtsy.



“The Izzy Goodnight?”



“Yes. That’s me.”



The young woman gave a small cry of excitement. “Forgive me. I just can’t believe you’re here. Really here, so close to my own home. Oh, please say you’ll call at the vicarage.”



“I . . . I’m sure I’d like that very much, Miss Pelham.”



“What an honor, truly. But I can’t imagine what brings you to Northumberland.”



“It’s this.” Izzy gestured about them. “Gostley Castle. I have inherited the property from the late Earl of Lynforth.”



“Inherited? This?” The young woman’s eyes flew wide. “I can’t believe it.”



Izzy smiled. “It was a shock to us all, I believe. His Grace and I have been negotiating our landlady-tenant relationship.”



Miss Pelham bounced in place, and her heels clicked on the stone floor. “I’m going to be neighbors with Izzy Goodnight.”



“Miss Pelham . . .” the duke interrupted.



“I’ve read all the Tales, you know. So many times. When I was younger, I cut each installment from the magazine and pasted the pages into a book. I brought it with me just in case the rumor was true.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a large, loosely bound volume. “I’d be ever so honored if you’d sign your name to it.”



“Miss Pelham.”



“Oh, I can’t help but ask,” she blurted out. “Can I have a lock of your hair, Miss Goodnight? For the book.”



“Miss Pelham,” he interrupted, jarring them both. “Miss Goodnight is under the mistaken impression that it would be safe for her to reside here at the castle until our property dispute is settled. Kindly help me persuade her that this is not the case.”



“Oh,” Miss Pelham said, drawing out the sound. “Oh, no.”



The young woman laid the folio aside. As she drew near, her scent was overpoweringly sweet. Izzy recognized vanilla and . . . gardenias?



Her white lace glove closed protectively on Izzy’s wrist. She whispered, “Miss Goodnight, you can’t live here alone with him. I’ve been visiting for months with no inroads. The man is the worst sort of rogue.”



Izzy stared at her with amusement. Did she think the duke couldn’t hear her whispers?



Rothbury went on, “Now tell her that most of the castle is barely habitable.”



“He’s right, Miss Goodnight. I’ve lived down the hill all my life, and it’s a shambles in places. Rotted timber, vermin. Most unsafe.”



“Good and good,” he said. “Now kindly explain that this is not London or York. This is the country, and people hold to traditional values. An unmarried woman cannot take up residence with an unmarried man.”



“It’s all true,” Miss Pelham confirmed. “There would be vicious gossip. The villagers wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”



Rothbury crossed his arms. “Well, then. It’s settled, Miss Goodnight. You cannot remain here, living alone with me. It simply can’t happen. I’m sure Miss Pelham will be glad to—”



“Stay with me?” Izzy interrupted.



“What?” His chin jerked in surprise.



Oh, this was good. She had all the advantage now.



“Miss Pelham could stay with me,” she explained. “As my companion, just for a few weeks. If she’d be so kind.”



“Stay? As companion to the Izzy Goodnight?” Miss Pelham squeezed Izzy’s arm to the point of inducing pain. “But I’d love nothing more than to help you with whatever you need.”



It was becoming evident that Miss Pelham was a very helpful sort of young lady. Even when her help wasn’t strictly needed or desired.



“I’d be most grateful, Miss Pelham,” Izzy said.



“I’m sure Father can spare me. What an excellent solution for all concerned.”