Page 8 of Stolen By the Duke of Ice
Peter leveled her with his gaze. His voice was steel when he spoke.
“Really? I don’t suppose you were delivering a letter of yours to the Thomas & Sons Printers?”
Dahlia swallowed, a lump seemed to have formed in her throat.
“A letter with a title? One that saysThe Duke of Icedale and the Mysterious Debutante?”
His hand moved quickly. He reached towards her, and for a moment, Dahlia though he would touch her, but instead, he snatched the manuscript from under her hand.
“What are you—no!”
Panic talking over her, she jumped on his hand which held the bound manuscript.
Caught unawares by her violent reaction, Peter was thrown forward by her weight. Small as she was in stature, she was a woman fully formed. His face was shoved against the seat, his knees kneeling on the floor. Her knee pinned his arm, desperately trying to grab the manuscript from his tight grip.
“Give that back, if you please, Sir!” She tried to pry his fingers loose.
“Mmmfff oofffmmm!” Peter tried to speak, but the seat muffled his words.
“Your Grace, that is private property! YourGrace!” In the scuffle, Dahlia’s head hit the ceiling of the carriage, and she cursed. Above them, they heard Benson.
“Mayhap His Grace would like to sit out here in the coachman’s box? There is more room out here, Sir! Sir?”
Finally taking hold of Dahlia’s waist with his free hand, Peter pulled her back. “Move off me, you hellcat!”
“Give it back, you brute! Taking what is not yours! Have you no shame?”
She flung out her hand wildly and was able to snatch a corner of the manuscript cover. A loud rip echoed in the confines of the carriage. She gasped then went suddenly limp. She covered her face with her hands.
Had she not been in the throes of misery, Dahlia would have blushed at the position she and Peter were in. His bottom sat on the floor of the carriage, legs sprawled atop the front-facing seat, his torso half-hanging from the rear-facing seat.
Like a collapsed bridge, his body supported Dahlia who lay almost completely atop him, facing the ceiling. They swayed in unison to the movement of the carriage.
At her silence, he grew silent as well. He craned his neck in an attempt to see her face. “Lady Dahlia?”
“You Grace,” came a muffled reply.
“Perhaps it is best if you—if we resume our seats.”
Dahlia felt she could sink no lower, but as the impropriety of their position registered in her befuddled brain, she groaned.
“Earth, swallow me whole!”
“Let us not be too hasty. An earthquake might be too grand for just two people.”
There was no way around it. With a whimper, Dahlia rolled off the Duke. Her face flushed at the thought of describing her action.Well, hello, Celine. Good evening, Helena. Pardon my lateness, I had to roll off a duke!Another groan. This was one of the times in her life when she was thankful for her short frame, shorter limbs to detangle, not so much weight to weigh down one’s—er—human mattress.
As she positioned herself to take a proper seat in the actual carriage seat, she watched from the corner of her eye as Peter resumed his position opposite her. But this time her manuscript was on the wrong seat.
He held it firmly in his hands. Except for the torn part of the cover that included -ysteriousDebutante, the rest of the title and author of the manuscript were on perfect display.
“Lady Dahlia.”
“Your Grace.”
“Are you Penelope Lovelace?”
She gulped again. How was she to get out of this?
