Romancing the Duke (7 page)

Chapter Seven

T
he next morning, Ransom awoke with a surplus of inches—all of them straining against his breeches falls.

Hazy, dreamlike images lingered in his mind. Images of dark hair spilling through his hands and a lush mouth moving under his. A soft hand splayed against his chest.

He turned on his side and groaned. God, that kiss. That stupid, ill-conceived, arousing, soul-rearranging kiss.

She could not spend her nights in this castle. He had to find her other lodgings. Today.

Sitting up, he pushed both hands through his hair. A bath was in order. Preferably a cold one.

“Duncan,” he called.

No answer. No valet-sounding noises, either.

He made his way out to the cistern just off the courtyard and drew a bucket of water. Then he stripped to the waist, lifted the bucket high, and poured its freezing contents straight over his head and torso.

Lust be drowned.

The cold shock of his dousing was just starting to wear off when Magnus joined him by the cistern. Ransom drew some water for the dog and gave him a scratch behind the ears.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Damn. One day, and he’d know that voice anywhere. Husky. Soft. Much too close. How did this woman keep sneaking up on him?

“Goodnight,” he muttered.

Her footsteps crossed the courtyard, destroying his calm beat by beat.

Ransom braced himself for his first sight of her.

No one knew it but Duncan and a few useless surgeons, but his injury hadn’t left him
completely
blind.

Oh, he was mostly blind, most of the time—blocky shapes and shadows were the best he could make out. And sometimes, he was fully blind. Everything was a dark, murky gray.

But then there were a precious few hours of the day when he was only
partly
blind.

In those hours, he had the vision of a nonagenarian with no spectacles. He could make out vague contours and a few muted colors. A tree might appear as a fuzzy, irregular patch against the sky, its foliage a gray-green shade, like mold on cheese. If he stared at the page of a book, he could force a dark square of text to separate into lines. But he couldn’t make out any words or letters. He could get a vague idea of a face—the most prominent features standing out, like the simple face of a child’s rag doll. Two button eyes, a slash of mouth. No subtleties of expression.

That was how much he could see at his best. And for once, that seemed like a blessing. He might have been addled by the feel, scent, and taste of Miss Goodnight last night . . . but at least he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the sight of her. At best, she’d appear to him as an anemic, pale column with dark hair. Bland and uninspiring.

He was counting on it.

But as she entered his view, she had the wretched luck to pause just in front of the castle’s eastern archway, which was flooded by morning sun.

His first glimpse of Izzy Goodnight was to see her bathed in gold. The sunlight showed him, in blazing relief, a slender, gracefully curved silhouette and a corona of wild, loose hair that seemed to be afire.

Holy God.

If he’d been standing, he might have dropped to his knees. He was sure he heard a choir singing. This was the kind of beauty that one could rightly call “striking.”

As in, he felt struck by a brick.

Move,
he silently begged her.
Take two steps to the right. Or the left. No, no. Just leave entirely.

“I didn’t think you were awake,” he said.

“Oh, I’m awake.” He saw a smile—a wide, reddish curve—bloom across her face.

He ran his gaze down her body, taking in the hazy but quite evident curves of her bosom and hips. He’d held all that against him last night. And now he couldn’t fathom why on earth he’d let it go.

“Believe me,” she said, “I’ve been awake since the batwing crack of dawn. I’ve been exploring my castle.”

Right. That was why.

With a whistle to Magnus, he headed back inside.

She followed him, of course. All the way into the great hall.

“Do you know,” she said, yawning a sultry yawn, “this place really is lovely in the morning. The way the sunlight comes through the windows, taking all that dust in the air and whirling it into gold. We had a rocky start yesterday, but today . . . Gostley Castle is starting to feel like home.”

No, no, no. This was not home. Not for her, and most definitely not for
them.

“Did you . . . want to put on a shirt, Your Grace?” she suggested.

In reply, he crossed his arms over his bare chest. He wasn’t doing anything to make her more comfortable.

“I’ll make tea,” she said, moving toward the hearth. “Oh, look. Fresh bread.” When next she spoke, she did so with her mouth full of it. “Did Duncan fetch this, or does someone bring it up? I know there was milk yesterday.” She poked around, making busy clanging noises. “I don’t suppose there are eggs? If I do say it myself, I make a very good pancake.”

Oh, no. This just grew worse and worse.

I make a very good pancake.

Appalling.

What was even more appalling was that Ransom found himself suddenly hungry for a very good pancake. Starving. Ravenous. Damn it, he was faint with yearning for a very good pancake.

Any self-respecting rake had two kinds of women in his life: those he took to bed at night and those who made him a pancake in the morning. If he suddenly wanted both from the same woman, it was a warning flag. One big and red enough for even a blind man to see.

Get out now. The threat is coming from inside the castle.

“Keep your breakfast simple,” he said. “And quick. Duncan will take you to the village this morning. We’ll see about finding you lodging in the inn, or—”

“Oh, I’d love to go into the village,” she said. “But only for provisions. What sort of fish do you have hereabouts? I’d wager there are some lovely trout in the river.”

Ransom gritted his teeth. There were, indeed, lovely trout in the river. Miss Goodnight was never going to taste them.

He rose to his feet. “You need to understand. You cannot stay here. Not after what happened between us last night.”

“Last night,” she repeated. “Yes. Do you mean the part where you tried to frighten me off from a property that’s legally mine?”

“No. I mean the part where we kissed like illicit lovers.”

“Oh.” She drew out the word. “That. But we both know that was nothing.”

Nothing?
Offended, he pushed a hand through his hair. “That was not nothing.”

“It was one kiss. One kiss doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course one kiss changes things. If it’s done right, a kiss changes everything. A kiss is the first step on a long, winding, quite perilous path of sensuality. This morning, Miss Goodnight, is where you turn back.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I promise, Your Grace. I won’t fling myself at you again. I wanted a kiss, and you gave me one. You are safe from my curiosity.”

God. So that’s what this was. The girl was letting him down gently. In his eagerness to get a first glance at her, he’d forgotten that she’d be doing the same—taking her first well-lit look at him, and all his scars. Or her second proper look, if he included the time she’d swooned.

You’re not a handsome, swaggering buck anymore, you fool.

She went on, “When we’re not at work with your correspondence, the castle will keep me fully occupied. There’s a great deal to be done here. Rooms to survey. Vermin to purge. A proper bedchamber to furnish.” She dropped into a chair nearby. “Bread?”

She touched his hand with a hunk of bread. He took it, resentfully, and tore off a bite with his teeth.

He was beginning to think he’d have to go back to his first strategy—tossing her over his shoulder and toting her away. The problem was, considering how much he enjoyed tossing her over his shoulder, he wasn’t sure they’d get very far.

“But before I can think of anything else”—her head turned, and that mass of unbound curls became a fiery whirlwind—“I must find my hairpins. Do you know where you placed them yesterday?” She reached and prodded the cushions to his side. “Maybe they’re in the sofa.”

He tried—and failed—to ignore the scent of rosemary.

“Aha.” She jumped with discovery, and her arm brushed his. “Here’s one of them. And another.”

Damn her hairpins. He pushed to his feet. “You’re not staying here.”

“Your Grace, you’ve made a valiant effort at scaring me off, but you’ve thrown your worst at me, and it didn’t work. Don’t you think it’s time to give up?”

“No.” He jabbed a finger in his chest. “I don’t give up. On anything.”

“You don’t give up?” She laughed a little. “Forgive me, but from what I can gather, you were injured many months ago, and you haven’t left this castle since. People in London think you’re dead. Your post has gone unanswered, your servants aren’t allowed to serve you, and you haven’t done a thing to improve your living conditions in a moldering, decrepit castle. I don’t know what definition of ‘giving up’ you’re using, Your Grace, but this looks rather like mine.”

Ransom fumed at her. How dare she? She had no idea what he’d been through. She had no notion of how hard he’d had to work in those first few months to regain the simplest of capabilities. The ability to walk without stumbling. To count higher than thirty. Damn, it had taken him ages just to relearn how to whistle for his dog. And he hadn’t needed any cosseting, nor any managing female to cheer and goad him on. He’d done it on his own, step by excruciating step. Because the alternative was to sit down and die.

He ground out his words. “I . . . don’t . . . give up.”

“Then prove it.”

E
asy,
Izzy told her galloping heart.
Go easy now.

The next few minutes called for extreme caution.

In truth, she needed to watch her every step, move, word, and breath with this man . . . but this was different.

Rothbury stood over her. He was shirtless, wet, wild-haired. Handsome as sin and angry as Lucifer. A duke accustomed to having his way. Now she’d not only defied him, she’d directly challenged him.

His words were low and even, but they smoldered like a fuse burning toward gunpowder. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

He propped his hands on his hips. One of his pectoral muscles twitched angrily. As if registering an indignant
harrumph.
A little rivulet of water slalomed through the golden brown hairs on his chest.

Izzy clutched her hairpins so hard, they bit into the soft flesh of her palm.

She rose to her feet. Because that’s what one did when moved to genuine awe.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” she replied, speaking as calmly she could to his incensed left nipple. “But there are things that need proving. Such as the validity of the property transfer and the . . . and the . . .”

Oh, heavens. Now her
own
nipples decided to have their say in this conversation. Standing this close to him brought back all the memories of their embrace last night. Distracting sensations coursed through her body. Not to mention all those pent-up emotions she’d poured into their kiss.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I have a strong hand, literacy in several languages, only two of which are dead—and an abundance of discretion. I will help you sort through all your affairs, and we’ll solve the mystery of just how this castle was sold.”

“It
wasn’t
sold.”

“But I won’t be pushed about.” Izzy opened her eyes. Good heavens, the man was stubborn.

It must have been the nerves raised by proximity, but she had the uncanny sense that he was looking at her. Or through her. And she suddenly felt very embarrassed for staring at his chest.

She tried gentling her voice. “I know you’re apprehensive.”

“I’m not apprehensive.” He pushed a hand through his hair. His arm muscles bunched and flexed in distracting ways. “Good grief, Goodnight. You are the most vexing woman.”

Despite everything, Izzy smiled to herself.

She couldn’t help it. He’d called her a woman.

“The two of us residing in this castle . . . it’s not possible. If you meant to set up house here, you’d need more than brave words. You’d need furnishings, servants. Most importantly, a companion.”

“Why a companion? There’s Duncan. And there’s you.”

He snorted. “I’m no chaperone.”

“Is it still that silly kiss that’s concerning you? I thought we’d reached an understanding.”

“Oh, that kiss gave me plenty of understanding.” He moved close and lowered his voice to a growl. The air heated between them, and she could have sworn the beads of water on his chest sizzled and became steam. “I understand how your body feels against mine. I understand how sweet you taste. And I understand—precisely—how good we could be together. In bed. Or atop a table. Or against a wall. The problem with understanding seems to be yours.”

The air left Izzy’s lungs in a breathy, “Oh.”

She stared up him. The poor, confused man. He seemed to believe this sort of growly, lewd declaration would send her running and screaming into the countryside. Instead, his words had the opposite effect. With every carnal suggestion he made, her confidence soared to a new, dizzying pinnacle.

He
wanted
her. He wanted
her.

And she wanted to do a little dance.

“Your Grace?” A bright, feminine voice trilled up from the courtyard, like birdsong. “Do be calm. I’m on my way. Whatever it is you need, I’m here.”

Ransom jerked into motion. Whirling away, he reached for a shirt thrown over the sofa’s back. It took him a few seconds of fumbling to lay his hand on it.

“Who is it?” Izzy asked, gathering his coat in advance.

Whoever the visitor was, he wanted to look presentable for
her.

“It’s Miss Pelham.” He jerked the shirt over his head, punching in different directions to work his arms through the sleeves, then accepted the coat she offered. “The vicar’s daughter. Another interfering woman I can’t seem to be rid of.”