Page 38 of His Grace, the Duke
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Tom
“He didn’t,” Rosaliecried, tears in her eyes as she choked on her laughter.
“Aye, he did,” Tom replied, reining his mount to a walk. “Three days underway and he made us turn around for a bloody parrot. We arrive back in port, and there the damn thing was, perched on the shoulder of the dockmaster.”
She laughed again, tipping her head back. “And was your captain relieved?”
“He paid the man a gold sovereign for his trouble, and we took right back to sea, parrot safely aboard.”
“He must have been quite the animal,” she mused.
“He was disgusting,” Tom replied with a grimace. “Loud and mean, it only liked the captain. The damn thing bit me twice.” He held up his gloved finger, sure he still had a scar on the tip.
They both laughed, giving their horses pats as the animals huffed. The weather was glorious, the heath was in its full autumnal glory, and Rosalie proved to have a more than adequate seat on a horse. For the past hour, they’d been racingover hills and through the weaving glen trails. In between bouts of galloping, they slowed to a walk and Tom shared stories from his travels.
Rosalie was curious but not pushy in her questions, letting Tom lead the conversation. He appreciated this, and it made him more willing to share. People were often enamored with the idea of navy life, but they weren’t always tactful in the way they asked questions. Some sailors may like to talk about tense skirmishes or storms at sea—anything to excite their audience—but Tom had always preferred to keep those memories private.
What lady seated next to him at dinner really wanted to hear the truths held in his soul? Shall he admit to his fear in the moment of battle, the way his hands shook, the way he was sick after? Shall he detail the sounds etched in his memory—the boom echoing across the water, the blood-curdling screams of a man cleaved by cannon blast?
No, that was not polite conversation. And yet the ignorant few had the audacity to believe themselves entitled to his worst memories for the sake of a thrilling story hour.
“Renley . . . are you well?”
He blinked, turning his gaze on Rosalie. Her fashionable pink riding habit brought out the rosy color in her cheeks. A jaunty hat sat perched on her head, with a little veil that swept down over one eye. He cleared his throat. “Well and recovered,” he replied, gathering his reins. “Shall we race beyond to the next hill?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a pained look. “It is getting darker now... and I believe a storm is coming in...”
Tom had noticed too. Heavy clouds were rolling in fast. It would certainly rain tonight. He should turn them around andget her safely back to the house before the heavens opened. But he wasn’t ready to go back. He wasn’t ready for this moment with her to end. Whenever they found themselves alone, it was like Tom could suddenly breathe easier.
He’d noticed it from that first morning at Alcott Hall when they met at the top of the stairs. He’d come upon her inspecting a vase of flowers. He could close his eyes and see her standing there. She turned with surprise, those brows arched high and her dark eyes wide. Her lips parted as she took him in, her eye tracing him from head to toe... then he exhaled.
That’s what Rosalie Harrow was for him: a breath of fresh air.
As soon as the words were thought, he felt a tightening in his chest.
Goddamn it . . . James was right.
Tom was as bad as Burke. Worse. Two hopeless romantics pining after the same woman... a woman who defied convention. A woman who’d made it clear she wanted no ties to bind her. But this attraction he felt wasn’t going away. There was no moving past it or ignoring it. In fact, each moment spent in her presence only sank the feeling deeper into his very bones.
Holding her last night, their naked skin pressed together... God, it was heavenly. He couldn’t remember a night of better sleep. He wasn’t jealous hearing her with Burke... well... maybe a little.
Fine, perhaps more than a little.
Okay, he was miserable. Aching all over. His cock had been so hard. It was torture to lie there and do nothing, hearing her soft moans through the closed door. His body had moved on its own, pulling him from his bed, drawing him across the hall into her arms. He hadn’t been sure how hisintrusion would be received, but he simply couldn’t stay away. Then she’d kissed him with such warmth of feeling. She trusted him, wanted him, found comfort in his arms.
And he wanted more. Christ, heneededit. That moment in the storage room was seared in his memory. He wanted another taste of her; he wanted all of her. And he wanted to see that look on her face—the calm adoration that told him without words that she breathed easier in his arms too.
He looked away from her, fumbling again with his reins. Anything to keep himself from saying or doing something they’d both regret. For, as much as he felt ready to declare himself, she’d been clear from the beginning.
Be my friend,she said.Be my friend... or nothing.
He grimaced. The word “friend” tasted like bile in his mouth. When he thought of her soft kisses, the sweep of her hands over his bare shoulders, the taste of her on his tongue...
Friends, indeed.
It was his own fault. All his nonsense with Marianne clouded the air between them. Rosalie may be attracted to him, but she didn’t trust him. She wasn’t ready to believe him when he said Marianne meant nothing. And could Tom blame her? What had he done to convince her otherwise? Most of their private conversations over the last month had centered on her offering him advice about Marianne.
