Page 4 of The Untamed Duke
“By nature, invasions are a bloody business,” she replied, a little shakily. “I’ve no intention of allowing one against my person. Since the Vikings failed me, I shall call uponBarbarians of the Roman Empireand Subversive Tacticsfor my next offensive.” When he gave her a blank look, Grace smiled. “It’s a much thicker book, you see.”
“If Longleigh had any sense, he would be terrified.” Full lips quirked for the briefest second, but he did not truly smile back. “Your next spree of mayhem will probably require an alibi. Although I risk finding myself at the pointy end of a spear, or in your case, the flat side of a treatise on ancient warfare, introductions are necessary in such dire circumstances. Nicholas August Harris March, at your pleasure, my lady.”
Grace’s knees wobbled. Good lord, it was him. The Winter Wolf. Nicholas March...Duke of Richeforte, Earl of Landon, along with a multitude of other titles. Cold. Heartless. Ruthless. At twenty-seven years of age, the new duke was the youngest, most powerful man in all of England. He was Celia’s latest obsession and good friends with Tristan. He’d also once been close friends with her own cousin, the Earl of Ravenswood.
Once. Long ago.
“Well,” she blew out an exasperated sigh, “that explains it.”
“Of course it does,” Richeforte drawled. “Now, explain it to me. I fear I’ve missed something vitally important.”
“Why you didn’t stop Tristan. The two of you share some manner of awful code, adhered to most reverently by equally awful rakes. One must never interrupt the undertaking of a misdeed by a fellow rake. Or something of that nature.”
“Indeed.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Your Grace,” was his soft reply.
“Of course, I’m Grace. And Tristan may steal a thousand kisses. I’ll still not marry him!” Grace vowed heatedly. “I won’t do it—”
“My title.” Glittering, green eyes bored through her. “Your Grace.Don’t tell me you are unaware of the proper way to address a duke. One might think you purposefully fail at it. And I’ve no interest who Longleigh weds. Nor who you wed, for that matter.”
“Oh.” Deflating in chagrined embarrassment, Grace recognized the boredom in his tone. Teeth tugging at her lower lip, she meekly admitted, “There is a proper way to things, and my reluctance in learning them will no doubt be my undoing. Lady Darby says her greatest despair is my unruly nature. She fears it will never be mastered. But if I may be honest, my lord, I pray I never find myself so tamed.”
The duke’s eyes darkened on her last word, her entire body subjected to a thorough assessment in the space of time it took him to blink. Heat flushed Grace while she self-consciously brushed her skirts free of dust. Every inch of her—her toes, the tips of her fingers, her stomach—felt as if on fire. Even her lips, for God’s sake. With a shaky hand, she discreetly traced their outline, abruptly aware she was babbling like a crazy person.
“Ah, you’re the Earl of Darby’s ward. What is it they call you?” Richeforte’s voice was low, husky, a soft feather brushing her senses. “I recall now. The Cornwall Storm.”
Grace swayed a little. Had the earth shifted beneath them? Was the gazebo suddenly unsteady upon its foundation? She felt so odd. Perhaps she struck her head during that stage-worthy faint.
“I prefer to be known as the Earl of Willsdown’s daughter,” she corrected him, ignoring his last observation.
Where might he have heard that nickname? The moniker was slapped on her during those first few weeks in London but died away as she found her bearings amidst the social whirl of the elite. And once the Countess of Ravenswood and the new Countess of Bentley took her under their wings.
“Nothing against Lord Darby, he and his family are very kind, but I was a daughter before I became a ward. In six months, I shall reach my majority at age twenty-one and I’ll not be anyone’s responsibility.”
Richeforte’s gaze was tinged with amusement. “Longleigh’s frustration is understandable. What a honeybee you are, all sweetness and stingers.”
Grace sucked in a breath. She couldn’t comprehend why his words left her wanting to preen and cry at the same time.
“I doubt you understand anything at all, my lord. Particularly matters between myself and the viscount.”
Chapter 2
Where my heart should reside
in this cage of a soul
rests a block of ice
black
cold
wicked
~Nicholas August Harris March
