Page 5 of Dukes for Dessert

“Tea might be a wee bit better in your condition,” a light voice said. “I’ve read books on the matter.”

The speaker was not Dr. Pierson, David’s longtime friend and sometime mentor, a burly man with a beard and a rumbling voice. This voice held a clarity that slid through David’s stupor and touched something deep inside him.

He raised his head—carefully.

And beheld the most beautiful woman in the world. She sat across the table from him, surrounded by a halo of light, and gazed at him with unblinking green eyes.

2

Is he quite all right?” Sophie asked her uncle.

Lucas Pierson, the vicar of this parish, shook his head and raised a cup of tea to his bearded lips. “Not really.”

Sophie studied the lump of humanity who’d landed at Uncle Lucas’s breakfast table. He’d managed to get one arm into Uncle’s best dressing gown but no more. The other arm lay on the table in a soiled shirt sleeve, the cuff open to reveal a sinewy hand and part of a well-muscled forearm.

A tangled mess of dark brown hair covered the head partly raised, as did dirt and bits of grass. His face was brushed with a shadow that said he’d missed a shave for two or three days. The rest of the face was interesting—square shape, nose not too long but not small, skin rather pale, the lightness of the far north, Scotland perhaps.

His eyes, though. Sophie’s teacup hesitated on the way to her lips. She was not certain of the color just now—blue, she thought, or gray, or some shade in between. A lake on a cloudy day.

Those eyes were intense and, even though now bloodshot, held strength of will that kept Sophie from glancing away from him.

“Does he speak at all?” Sophie asked.

Uncle Lucas chuckled. “Sometimes far too much. My dear, this sorry specimen is my old friend, Mr. David Fleming. I look upon him as a reprobate son or younger brother, as my mood takes me.” He raised his voice and directed his next words to the motionless, staring form. “David, if you can understand me, this is my niece, Sophie … er, Tierney.”

Sophie tried not to flinch at Uncle’s hesitation, and held her breath, waiting for Mr. Fleming’s reaction. Uncle Lucas hadn’t used Sophie’s married name, but as everything about her had been dragged through the newspapers sideways, Mr. Fleming must certainly have read her history.

The gray-blue eyes blinked a few times, no recognition in them. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tierney.” The deep voice grated somewhat, as though he’d not drunk water in a fortnight. “Forgive my present, deplorable state. I …” He slumped to the tabletop. “It is a long story.”

Sophie let out her breath in relief. Mr. Fleming hadn’t heard of her, or at least did not remember in his wretched condition. Odd, but she’d be grateful for it. She’d sought sanctuary here, in Uncle Lucas’s out-of-the-way parish in a corner of Shropshire. Here she could be merely Dr. Pierson’s niece, not the notorious Lady Devonport, the Whore of Babylon.

She studied the man across from her with more interest. Sophie had heard of her uncle’s friend, Mr. Fleming, but she’d never met him. He was a colleague of the Duke of Kilmorgan, a scandalous Scotsman who dressed in kilts and vowed to make Scotland an independent nation.

Sophie’s husband, Laurie Whitfield, the Earl of Devonport, was in a decidedly anti-Scots faction, and she’d never been invited into the Duchess of Kilmorgan’s circle.

Mr. Fleming had a breathtaking presence, even in this stage between inebriation and illness. His half-dressed state fascinated her—Sophie’s husband remained completely clothed at all times, except when he became babe-naked for his half hour attempt to beget an heir on her.

Mr. Fleming would be a handsome gentleman if he cleaned up a bit, not that Sophie was interested in handsome gentlemen. They could stay far, far away, thank you very much.

She lifted her teacup, managing to take a sip this time. “Did you have a wrestling match with a lawn?” she asked him.

“Very amusing.” Mr. Fleming’s slurring voice was touched with Scots, but only a touch. “It was a close-run thing, but the lawn finally let me go.”

Sophie chuckled. He was so self-deprecating that she couldn’t help it. She’d had her fill of arrogant men who could do no wrong.

A fleeting smile touched his mouth, increasing his handsomeness. A dangerous man, Sophie concluded. No lady would be safe with him. She sipped tea and felt momentary envy for those ladies.

“I had no idea you had company, Pierson.” Mr. Fleming attempted to lift his teacup, but his fingers shook so much, the tea slopped over. “I beg your pardon. I can take myself off.” He sucked tea from his fingertips, mouth puckering in inadvertent sensuality.

“You’re in no condition to take yourself anywhere,” Uncle Lucas said sternly. “I imagine you were running from the law or an angry husband or furious MPs. Or all three. Stay until you’re in fighting form again. I imagine that’s why you sought me out.”

Mr. Fleming winced at his blunt speech. “Delicate ears, Pierson.”

“I keep no secrets from my niece. If I allow a man to stay under the same roof as she, she deserves to know the truth about him.”

“I have no wish to cause a scandal.” Mr. Fleming sat up straight in an attempt to draw his dignity around him. A lock of hair fell over one eye. When he tried to brush it back, the loose sleeve of the dressing gown caught on his saucer and sent it to the floor with a crash. “Damnation.” He started to reach for the saucer, then grabbed his head and righted himself, falling back into the chair. “Bloody hell … Sorry, Miss Tierney. I am a lout this morning.”

Sophie was laughing again. “Drink the tea, sir. All of it. It’s oolong. It will do you good.”

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