Page 9 of His Mad Duchess
She sputtered. “It’s your fault for sitting there like a gargoyle in the dark…”
“You think I look like a gargoyle? I’m wounded.” He swept a bow so shallow that it only made her want to slap him.
“You’re impossible. And ridiculous.”
“Yes, I know, and you’re out of options.” He dragged a chair beneath the window with a harsh scrape. “Up. Now.”
Her eyes darted to the door, then the window, then back to him, a cornered animal deciding which hunter looked slower. “Fine. But I’m not climbing out like some… some gutter boy. I have a torn dress already. I’ll not ruin what’s left?—”
“Then up you go.” He dragged a nearby chair across the rug with a loud scrape, planted it beneath the open sash, and turned to her. “Step up. I’ll boost you.”
“Absolutely not, I can climb perfectly well by myself.” She planted her hands on her hips, trying to look taller than she was.
“You’ll climb, rip your gown, and give Wrexford’s roses a scandal worth framing. Up you go.” He moved closer, and she braced back by reflex, bumping into the chair. He pressed a palm lightly to her waist, half guiding, half daring her to protest again.
“Don’t you dare touch me?—”
“I’m not touching you. I’m saving you from having half the peerage see more than they’ve already imagined.” His tone dropped lower, teasing but edged. “Unless you’d rather I haul you up by your skirts. I promise you, the view would be memorable.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Practical,” he corrected. “One, two, lift.”
He caught her hips with his warm, solid arms, which was entirely unasked for, and hoisted her onto the chair. Margaret squeaked, a tiny, undignified sound that would haunt her dreams.
She stiffened so hard that she nearly knocked her head into his chin.
“Hold still,” he murmured, too close now, breath brushing her hairline. “If I tried to drag you up by your skirts, you’d be naked before you touched the window. And as much as I’m sure the roses would be grateful, I’d rather not be staked to them by your aunt’s hatpin tomorrow.”
“Don’t drop me!”
She braced a hand on his shoulder, solid—annoyingly solid—and he lifted her, not roughly but with too much ease for her dignity. She squeaked—actually squeaked—as the chair wobbled beneath her slipper.
“If I drop you, it’ll be on purpose,” he said cheerfully. “Hold still. And mind the hem. You don’t want to leave a bit of yourself for the next unfortunate who wanders in.”
“You make it sound like I’m shedding feathers?—”
“Feathers would be simpler to explain,” he shot back, eyes glinting up at her. “Besides, if you’re caught half out this window and half in here with me beneath you, I’m fairly certain I’ll be forced to marry you on the spot. Which would be tragic for us both, don’t you agree?”
“If that happens, I’ll push you off the roof first.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, hands steady at her waist as she braced against the sill. “Now, up you go before I lose my last shred of dignity and toss you into the hedges.”
“I will haunt you if you do.”
“Perfect. I do like company at night, so I’d expect nothing less.”
Sebastian braced her higher, hands firm at her waist as she angled one slipper onto the narrow sill.
“Almost there, mind your head?—”
“If I fall, I swear…” She gritted out, breathless, twisting awkwardly to shove at the sash.
“If you fall, I’ll—” he began, but the latch at the door behind them snapped with a loud, traitorous click.
The handle turned.
The library door swung wide with a long, painful creak that might as well have been a trumpet blast.
