Page 13 of Dukes for Dessert

“Oh, dear.” A spark of interest slid through Sophie’s unhappiness. “Is that true? Or are you trying to make me feel better by being more heartbroken than I am?”

“No, it is perfectly true. She’d tell you herself, and she’d tell you exactly why she threw me over. I’d have driven her mad if I’d married her, and she knows it. Her husband is my closest friend, so it makes things a bit awkward. For me, I mean—the two of them pity me but are not bothered in the slightest that they are deeply in love and happier than most people ever dream of being. To them we are all comrades, chums for life.”

“Poor Mr. Fleming. I had no idea you were a tragic hero.”

“Ugh.” He grimaced. “Never say so. I prefer to think of myself as a strong rock, solid in the stream of life, unbothered by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

Sophie couldn’t help her smile. “Tragic hero explains things much better.”

“I am devastated, dear lady. Now, I believe we are supposed to be looking for a Roman villa. Your uncle will march back here and demand to know why we haven’t yet uncovered a fabulous wall painting.”

Sophie held her trowel out to him. “Go to, Mr. Fleming.”

Mr. Fleming eyed the muddy ground with distaste. “He must wield highly magical powers, your uncle. He has forced two perfectly respectable people into grubbing about in the loam, and we still like him.”

Sophie’s laughter bubbled up and spilled over. She hadn’t laughed in true mirth in some time, and it felt fine, like being washed clean.

Mr. Fleming’s absurd expression drained away until he looked at her without his mask in place. His face had lost color, making the faint freckles stand out across his cheeks.

Naked emotion filled his eyes, a self-deprecation that approached self-loathing. This was a lonely man, rejected by the woman he loved, forced to watch her love another. He’d fled here—Uncle said because he’d been arrested, of all things—needing peace. Like Sophie.

Mr. Fleming touched her cheek.

She flinched, but only because she hadn’t been touched in such a way in so long a while. Not with this tender inquiry.

Mr. Fleming immediately lifted his hand away, but when Sophie held his gaze and did not move, he touched her again.

His fingers were gentle, gloves smooth, warm with the man beneath them. He brushed her cheek then drew one finger down and across her lips.

Sophie swallowed. After her husband’s accusations, gentlemen had tried to corner her, believing they’d be welcome. But their awkward attempts at groping were worlds away from Mr. Fleming’s touch.

He traced her lips, floating his thumb across the lower one, pressing its cushion. He followed what he did with his eyes, lashes flicking as he studied her mouth.

The cold wind pushed at her, but Sophie paid it no heed. Mr. Fleming’s fingertips stroked heat deep inside her, a burning in her veins she’d never felt in her life, no matter that she’d shared a marriage bed with her husband. She’d never felt this heat, never knew the join of her legs could grow so hot and damp.

Their point of contact was the merest touch, but at the moment, the only thing in Sophie’s world.

Glide, brush, caress. He moved to her lips, her cheek, lips again. He’d shaved today—his skin was smooth, plus she’d heard curses from the top of the house when he’d nicked himself. She smelled his shaving soap, the leather of his gloves, the mint-infused water he used to sweeten his breath.

So careful of his appearance today, when the first morning at her uncle’s table he’d looked and smelled like something from the gutter.

Wind tugged at Mr. Fleming’s clothes, as it tugged at Sophie’s. Tiny cuts marred the skin beneath his chin, attesting to the fact that he was unused to shaving his own face.

He pulled his gaze from her lips and met her eyes squarely. “You,” he whispered, “have exquisite beauty.”

Sophie could barely breathe. She was incandescent, light as a balloon. The merest breath of wind would take her away.

Mr. Fleming lowered his hand, removing his beautiful touch. He studied her another moment, then his brows came together, his expression darkening.

“Damnation,” he snarled. “Damn everything to hell.”

He turned on his heel and marched away, sinking his polished boots into mud as he went.

4

Four days. David shook his head as Pierson goaded him out into the field yet again.

Four days he’d endured life with Pierson, rising at a hideously early hour in the morning to tramp with the man to dig in the pasture. Returning in the late afternoon to a hearty meal prepared by Mrs. Corcoran, lively conversation, games in the evening, then a snifter and cigar with Pierson before turning in.

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