Page 22 of Five Ways to Bed a Duke

“I am glad I could help.” He nodded. “Now imagine how much more successful you’ll be in that dress.”

“Please don’t talk about it again.”

“Why not?” he asked innocently. “It is a beautiful dress, and I’ve been known to have good taste.”

“In women and not dresses.”

“And how do you know that?”

She didn’t answer.

Smart girl.

“It wasn’t appropriate for a garden party, but I’ll put it to good use at the next ball.”

She gave him a wink that went straight to his groin and strolled away.

Damn. What was she doing to him?

Chapter Seven

Over the last week, to say that he had restless nights would be a gross understatement. His mind had been consumed with thoughts of a certain brown-eyed witch who had no right to put him under her thrall.

In the last week, he had developed the habit of going to his club to engage in energetic boxing and fencing in the hope of physically exerting himself and possibly burning away whatever sorcery she had wrought on his mind. Instead, he got injuries and restless nights for his troubles.

The moment his exhausted eyes closed in slumber, she haunted him in his dreams. It was a common occurrence for him to wake up at night, his bedsheets twisted and wet from erotic dreams in which she was the main character.

He was sure that if she were to become aware of the contents of those dreams, she would run away from the perverted world that was his mind.

She had successfully turned him into an absentminded, sleep-deprived, irritable man who was addicted to cold baths and horse riding.

Richard heaved himself to the edge of his bed, getting up to his full height. He performed his morning ablutions and then rang the bell for his valet.

In a few minutes, the man arrived in a bloody cheerful mood that set Richard’s teeth on edge. He wondered what had the younger man in such a disgustingly happy mood.

Since his former valet died, he had been replaced by his son, who he must admit was quite good at his job, if not for his tendency to chatter.

Usually, Richard welcomed his chatter because it made quite a bright opening for his day, but he was not feeling quite bright this morning—and all the mornings this week, if he was being honest. He was actively fighting the urge to yell at the younger man to shut up.

Stan was a good lad who did his job amazingly well. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him simply because of his recent black moods.

In half an hour, Stan had managed to transform him into a proper gentleman, which was a welcome upgrade from the untamed pagan he must have resembled earlier this morning. But even Stan’s best efforts could not erase the black bags under his eyes and the excess energy that simmered beneath his skin.

It seemed another early morning ride was in order. That way, he could burn off the excess energy and also avoid the presence of… Catherine.

Catherine, who had quickly become the bane of his existence. He was supposed to be her instructor, but what he felt towards her did not feel instructor-like at all.

When he stepped onto the landing, he saw Emmy handing a letter to the footman and saying something about sending it to Bath.

Richard furrowed his brow in curiosity. Who was in Bath, he wondered.

“Who is in Bath?” he asked as he came up behind her.

Emmy jumped, snatching the letter from the footman and hiding it behind her skirts. Her eyes darted around in guilt.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion at her reaction. He had known Emmy since she was an infant, and now she was definitely hiding something. Something she knew was going to get her in trouble with him.

He straightened to his full height, lifting his chin. “Give me the letter, Emmy,” he said firmly, his hand outstretched.

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