Page 5 of The SEAL's Duchess
A man in a Coast Guard flight suit strode across the hangar, cutting through the noise like he owned the floor. Behind him, a second man—taller, dark-haired, with guarded eyes.
But it was the first who made her breath catch.
He was over six feet tall, shoulders broad enough to fill out the flight suit, his stride relaxed, comfortable in his body. Dirty-blond hair brushed his collar—a shade too long for regulation, but clearly no one called him on it.
And his eyes—blue, impassive, the kind that had seen the worst and didn't flinch.
They swept over her—once. Took in the heels, the thin coat, the exhaustion she couldn't hide. Then dismissed her as if she were background noise.
A tourist in heels.
His gaze flicked from her to George, then back again—cool and uninterested.
She’d crossed three time zones, risked frostbite in heels, and still didn’t register as worth a nod.
Excellent.
Just a tightening of his jaw and a flash of something that looked a lot like irritation. Like he’d been ordered to escort a pair of over-privileged tourists and was already regretting it.
The sting was instant and irrational. But it still burned, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the temperature change. Her shoulders tensed, jaw clenching tight enough to make her temples throb.
Breathe, Ivy. Don’t react.
Six years of boarding school etiquette stopped her from rolling her eyes, but barely. She straightened, smoothing the front of her coat as if that could erase twenty-plus hours of travel and endless cups of bad airport coffee.
She’d keep her mouth shut, and get through this briefing. Let George charm them while she did the actual work.
Just like always.
3
Ryder had been calledin on his day off for worse than escorting an English duke and his sister to an offshore rig. Still, standing in the freezing hangar didn’t improve his mood.
“Here they are.” Wyatt nodded as the hangar door swung open.
Ryder’s jaw tightened as they crossed the floor.
The duke was all booming charm and sweeping gestures, peppering Patterson with questions about fishing seasons like he gave a damn. Probably wanted to brag about roughing it in Alaska at some London dinner party next month. And when the investment turned complicated—when safety upgrades cut into returns—people like him disappeared, leaving the locals to deal with the mess.
Typical.
The sister though made his shoulders stiffen.
Her rigid posture screamed finishing school and trust funds. Dark-blond hair pulled back in a severe knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Pale skin, elegant cheekbones, jet lag she was trying to conceal. Even wrinkled from travel, her navy suit probably cost more than his monthly pay check. She movedcarefully on heels that had no business being anywhere near a helicopter, blue eyes scanning the hangar with cool assessment.
Another outsider treating Alaska like a photo opportunity. Heels and a suit that wouldn't last ten minutes in real weather—everything about her screamed short-term visit, long-term consequences for everyone else.
“Ryder, Wyatt.” Mayor Patterson waved them over. “Perfect timing. I’d like you to meet the Duke of Lambourne and Lady Ivy. They’re considering a substantial investment in offshore operations along our coastline. George, Ivy, this is Ryder and Wyatt Meyer, our Coast Guard medic and pilot.”
The duke offered a hand to Wyatt, then Ryder. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard glowing things about Coast Guard professionalism.”
Ryder shook the offered hand, noting the softness of his palms. What the hell was he supposed to call a duke anyway? Your Highness? Your Majesty? Your Dukeness? “Good to meet you… Sir.”
“Please, just George. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
The sister remained silent, her eyes tracking him like she was taking inventory.
George glanced at her, then back at Ryder with an apologetic smile that said, she’s always like this, don’t take it personally.
