Page 41 of The Duke
Lady Anstruther didn’t stop until she’d reached the water, plunging her hands beneath the satyr’s cold stream and splashing her face with it. Then she pressed damp fingers to her flushed neck. Her breath was elevated, her manner agitated as she paced the wide stone base of the fountain, visibly attempting to compose herself.
She fidgeted while she walked, her hands smoothing the intricate coils of her hair, pressing against where her corset bound her lungs, then lifting to her forehead. She tilted her face to the sky and sought the moon. Once she found it, she stilled and breathed easier, as though the soft light it bathed her in had conveyed some mystical secret.
For a moment, it was as though the moonlight had become sunlight. Her hair shone more brilliantly than it ought. A large flower ornament glittering with center gems winked from the coiffure as though held there by magic and a prayer. In the ballroom he’d thought her gown too garish, a silly ocherous flower among precious jewel tones.
But here in the garden she belonged. She… bloomed.
Cole hadn’t realized that his mouth had dropped open until his pipe clattered to the stones, spilling ashes and cinders at his feet.
She started at the sound, turning to peer into the darkness. “W-who’s there?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “Jeremy, is that you?”
Something vicious twisted inside him.Jeremy?Why did that name sound familiar? Who was he to the sainted Lady Anstruther? A lover, perhaps? It surprised him how little he liked that possible development.
Instead of answering, he bent to retrieve his pipe, stamping out the smoldering coal beneath his boot heel.
And instead of fleeing, like many a frightened damsel would, she ventured closer to him, her voluminous skirts swishing softly against the stones and overgrown plants.
“Oh,” she said finally when she’d drawn close enough. “It’s you.”
Cole could decipher little to no affect in her tone, so he remained silent, finding that his heart answered each step she took with alarming acceleration. Damn her, he’d barely calmed the excitable organ down. Though, apparently, it wasn’t the only organ that seemed to react to her nearness. Adjusting his position to alleviate a disturbing tightness in his trousers, he slid deeper into the darkness toward the far side of the bench.
The daft woman mistook it as an invitation to sit next to him.
“Worry not, I didn’t plan to linger.” He lifted his pipe. “This seemed like the place to seek refuge from the insufferable crowd and indulge in a smoke before taking my leave.”
“It seems we had similar instincts, Your Grace.” She glanced around, and Cole wondered if she used the colorful flora as an excuse not to look at him. “I’m exceedingly fond of this garden. It makes an excellent refuge.”
He chose not to reveal that he knew just exactly how often she made use of this sanctuary. That he could spy upon her from his study window and he’d seen more of her than she’d ever intended.
“Though I confess, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She seemed nervous. In the moonlight, he could make out the intensity with which she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“Obviously.” He should have been chagrined to be discovered lingering on her property. “Expecting someone else, were we?” He set his pipe next to him to itch at the straps of his prosthetic. “Some clandestine rendezvous? Tell me, as a merry widow, do your tastes lean toward the gallant lord, or do you keep to the groundskeeper for a more familiar territory?”
“The groundskeeper? Hercules?” She let out a faintly amused sound, leaving the merry-widow comment alone. “Not likely, he’s a rather hairy Greek man who’s sixty if he’s a day.”
“He’s younger than your first husband,” he challenged.
He expected her to slap him, or at least demand an apology for his ghastly behavior. But to his utter astonishment, she tossed her head and laughed, the sound full of moonlight and merriment.
“Touché,” she acquiesced, a light glinting in her eyes like she’d absorbed some of the shine from the stars. “Not only does my groundskeeper speak very little English, but the dear man eats nothing but garlic. Also, I’m quite certain he bathes in olive oil, which I’ll admit does stir my appetite upon a warm day when he is particularly fragrant, but only for Mediterranean fare. Nothing else, I assure you.”
Struck dumb, Cole could only stare at her with agitated bemusement. Why the devil was she being so civil? He’d been a rote bastard to her, shamed and insulted her in front of her guests. And here she was dallying with him in her garden managing to be entertaining.
Christ preserve him, it was both unsettling and alluring. Too intriguing. And bloody hell, were these straps on his prosthetic made of glass shards and wool? He couldn’t take his eyes off her brilliant smile as he grappled at it with his one good hand. He wanted to be rid of not only the offending object, but his clothing had begun to likewise chafe. He wished to cast it all off, and hers as well, to be clad in nothing but the night air and moonlight.
“Your Grace.” She regarded him with the most absorbed expression, part assessment, and part concern. As though she truly saw him. As though sheknewhim. “Is there anything amiss? Are you… all right?”
The breathy quality to her unceasingly feminine voice scratched at a door in his mind that remained stubbornly closed. He’d come across a few of those doors since returning from Constantinople, and knew it best that they remained locked. Most especially when he was like this. Raw, agitated…
Aroused.
He held up the base of his prosthetic, strategically placing it between them as a reminder of his damage. “It’s this fucking prosthesis. I’ve outgrown it somehow. The damned buckles are impossible and I can’t get them adjusted for another week. One of the bloody straps is stuck.”
She didn’t so much as twitch at his profanity, startling him again by reaching for him. “Allow me to try,” she offered.
He pulled it behind him, belatedly realizing the movement made him appear childish. “Don’t bother,” he clipped. “It’s not for a lady to—”
“You’ve made it abundantly clear how certain you are that I am not a lady,” she wryly reminded him. “Perhaps you could make allowances. I was a nurse, after all.”
