The Art of Duke Hunting (2 page)

Please let him not be dead. It would be too much to witness again. Finally, his chest rose and fell. By habit, she slipped the door key into the top of one of her sodden calfskin half boots.

She grasped his nearly frozen hand and felt for his pulse. Not that she’d know what to do if she found it. She had not an idea if it was too fast or slow. She was tempted to slap his face to revive him since cold water would likely not work on someone who’d just endured a wall of seawater.

Just then, with a rushed gulp of air, he came full awake, scrambling like a wild animal looking for escape. The unearthly pale blue eyes that met hers were intensified by an intriguing web-like line weaving through each iris.

Lord, it was he.
Only one man had eyes like that. They were unforgettable. It was unfortunate and obvious that none of her features had the same unnerving effect on him.

Lurching to one knee, he flinched away from the touch of her hand and half crawled toward the door. He wrestled with the brass lever.

For some absurd reason, he wanted to get out. Thank God she’d hidden the key just as she had on so many other occasions with her husband. But this gentleman was another case altogether. She had not a chance of holding him back. He might be her height, but his torso was immense and he was clearly as strong as a bull stampeding the corridors of Pamplona in August.

“Please stop,” she said, gripping the back of the one sturdy chair in the cramped cabin. “Wait a minute.”

He again rattled the handle, his shoulders flexing with the effort to rip the door from the frame.

She had a terrible thought. “Is there someone else out there?”

“Key,” he shouted. “Where is the bloody key?” They both stumbled sideways when the ship heaved starboard.

“But you’ll die out there.” There was not a single melodramatic note in her words—just stated fact.

He didn’t deign to turn to face her, but at least he paused, a sign he was finally listening. He then jammed down the brass lever so violently, a screw gave way and the handle failed to return to its position. The oath he swore was so blue it made Esme cringe.

“Fool,” he gritted out, still not looking at her. “Death is in here, not out there.”

Esme stared at the back of his coat. The stitches at the center seam were stretched to the limit. The drenched blue superfine clung to the striated muscles of his shoulders.

“Please look at me,” she said quietly.

“I’ll find it myself,” he choked, finally turning to stare at her. His eyes swept down her tall frame.

“What is so important out there?” She’d never backed down from a threat in the past, and no matter how intense his glare, the clothes of a gentleman were a good calling card.

He marched toward her, his black riding boots with the arched outer edge molded to his calves. The seawater-soaked leather soles made smacking sounds as he walked. He extended his palm for the key.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you where it is if you tell me what you were doing.”

“I’ll have the key and then I
might
tell you.” He grasped her arms and Esme felt the strength in him as his hands squeezed her. He was a mere half inch taller than she, so she looked almost directly into his light blue eyes, which almost glowed in the static air.

“Are you going to growl now?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Look the storm is waning. There’s no need to go out there.” And, indeed, it was true. Even the howl of the wind seemed muted.

He released her abruptly, but the wildness in his eyes did not disappear.

“You’ve a cut on your forehead.”

He refused a reply.

She continued her tried and true methods of speaking calmly in the face of insanity. “I’m freezing.” She reached for her two blankets and offered him one. “You must be too.”

He muttered something incomprehensible and didn’t take the blanket. She set both back down.

“Oh pish. Do tell me what’s going on, Lord . . . ?” She might know exactly who he was, but she was not in a fawning frame of mind.

“Grace . . .” He barely paid her any attention.

“Lord Grace? Hmmm, I’ve never heard of a Lord—”

“No,” he sighed, “Duke.”

Yes . . . that explained it precisely. All dukes were overbearing. Too much power. Too much deference. She raised an inquiring eyebrow. Too much inbreeding.

“For Christsakes . . . I’m Norwich.”

“I see. Are we sure?”

He sighed heavily. “Roman Montagu,
not
at your service.”

She smiled inwardly. There was always such a darkly humorous side when past and present collided. “Really? How lovely. I didn’t know we had such refined company on board.”

Again he muttered.

“Would you be kind enough to speak louder, Your Grace? I guess I must be becoming a bit hard of hearing in my advanced years.”

When he didn’t refute her, it irked her, which annoyed her even further.

“I said,” he articulated clearly, “I didn’t know such refined company would be aboard either.”

“I’m merely a countess, Your Grace. I’m—”

He interrupted. “I was talking about me.”

She frowned. “Of course you were.” She lowered her voice. “It’s what dukes do best.”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “What did you say?”

“I see old age has affected you too, sir,” she said sourly. She would not kowtow to him. He hadn’t even thanked her for saving his life. That reminded her. “I saved your life.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ll enunciate better, Your Grace. I. Saved. Your. Life.”

“What is your name, madam?”

“Esme March, Countess of Derby,” she dipped the smallest curtsy possible, “at your service even if you aren’t at mine. May I see to that gash?”

“No.” He showed not an ounce of recognition.

How lowering. “It’s the least you could do since I saved your life.”

He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ll tell every last sodding person in London you saved my life if you give me the key.” His voice rose with each syllable.

She smiled and hoped it didn’t appear sincere. “But the winds have died. Why are you acting so oddly and what is so bloody important to you out there?” She was proud of herself for swearing. She so rarely had an opportunity to try it unless she was in private. And blasphemy was much more fun with two.

He stared at her and those strange eyes of his bored into hers with an intensity she felt down to her toes—just like the first time she had seen him in a ballroom, and he had not noticed her.

“Ships sink.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If you can swim, you are far less likely to drown if you’re on deck. You won’t be able to open that door”—he nodded to hers—“with the weight of water pushing against it. It’s simple science.”

His words made a small amount of sense, and so she locked away the schoolmarmish tone from her words. “Of course. But I really don’t think we have anything to worry about now. Don’t you agree?
The
Drake
is new and well built—such fine craftsmanship.”

He closed those unnerving eyes of his. “
The
Drake
? This ship is named
The Drake
?” He seemed to moan.

He might be a handsome devil with that ancient noble mien, but his wits were scrambled. Right. She walked to the secured water jug, poured a good portion in a bowl and dipped a piece of linen in it. Crossing the space, she faced him. “May I?”

He didn’t move. She wiped his face with clean water and dabbed at the cut on the upper edge of his forehead. She almost recoiled when she noticed a familiar licorice scent almost oozing from his being.
Absinthe
. One of her beloved deceased husband’s poisons of choice. She held her breath and forced herself to say not a word lest she lose her grip on common civility.

When she was done, she dropped the linen and he stepped on it so she could upend the bowl over his head to sluice the salt from his face and clothes. Silently, she repeated the steps to cleanse herself. After scrubbing her face dry, she offered him a new scrap of linen too.

“Are you ever going to tell me what was going on out there?” she finally asked.

“I was preparing to die, madam. You must be one of the few in England who hasn’t heard of the Norwich Curse.”

“Oh, I know all about the ‘Duke of Duck Curse.’ ” Why, she knew more about it than anyone. But now was certainly not the time to tell him she was a direct descendant of the initiator. She certainly didn’t want to play, ahem, ducks and drakes with his sanity.

He pokered up. “We prefer the other reference.”

The vessel immediately dipped ominously and both stumbled sideways. His eyes glazed over as his face paled. He looked ready to lose his bearing again and so she dragged him to the sole bunk in her cabin to urge him to sit.

“Rest for a moment,” she urged. Esme crossed the space to pour a tin cup of water for each of them and then returned to offer him one.

As she watched him drink, she suddenly remembered. Remembered hearing what had happened to his brother all those years ago. The duke had every right to be terrified, especially since he obviously had not an idea why he was on the ship. If she had to wager on it, she would guess it had something to do with the royal entourage, the infamous rapscallion band of dukes who walked hand in glove with the Prince Regent, and of which he was a member.

Every English lady worth her weight in smelling salts had a favorite member of the royal entourage, and Norwich had always been Esme’s since the night many seasons ago when she had first spied him entering a gilded ballroom in Mayfair—his mother on one arm, his ravishing sister on the other. His intelligent, regal face full of angles had mesmerized her, and she had silently prayed his cool eyes would meet hers. But they had not. He had swept the room with a casual, arrogant gaze and she had not caught his eye even though she had been standing in prime view. And he had barely glanced at her later that evening when the Duke of Candover had introduced her along with a bevy of his sisters. Then again, this gentleman’s indifference to ladies with matrimony on their minds was legendary. Like all the other events she spied him attend afterward, he danced once with his mother, once with his sister, and then disappeared with members of the royal entourage. He was the most mysterious one of the tribe.

But right now, there was not a hint of pride in the duke’s stark expression. He drank the last bit of water and returned the cup to her hand. His unguarded expression met hers and she could not stop herself from moving a step closer.

She set the two cups on the side table, and then paused, trying to fight the intimacy of the moment. But the black despair she spied in his face broke her. She sat on the bunk beside him.

R
oman’s thoughts were perilously close to getting the better of him. He was even allowing a tall, spindly countess beyond the first blush (and second blush, most likely) to order him about. He’d be damned if he’d spend another second here, except that he was beyond weary to the bone and his head ached from slamming into the mast and suffering the ill effects of drinking too damn much.

And she’d been wrong. The storm was regaining intensity now. The sounds of creaking wood made the blood pool in his ears and block his thoughts.

Someone was speaking to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the countess for he was lost in the past, his brother’s last words swirling in his mind. He looked up to see her studying him and noticed she was shivering.

Without thought, he grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her slim shoulders. He secured it about her, and a small sense of calm invaded his gut as he tended to her.

A great horrid boom buffeted the air. He closed his eyes and listened so hard for the sound of breaking beams that he couldn’t breathe. Instead, he felt something ever so smooth course down his sideburns and cheek. And again. And then he felt it on both cheeks. He exhaled deeply. Roman opened his eyes to find her stroking his face. God, was he nothing but an infant to be coddled? It was not to be borne.

“Listen to me,” she whispered. “It’s all right. Just take my hand in yours.”

“Don’t cosset me,” he gritted out.

“Why would I want to do that?” she replied with a casual shrug. “You’re as cross as a bear and half as pleasant.”

She was damned good at dissembling. A crack of thunder broke his momentary lucidity. He jumped up and hit his head on the low hanging portion above the bunk and fell back. He eased onto the length of her bed as dizzying darkness retreated from the edges of his vision.

Her gown rustled and he felt the small dip of the mattress as she lay down beside him. His head pounded with a vengeance.

“Look,” her voice was so soft. “I know your story. It’s all right. Just lie here with me.” Her thin hand slipped into his.

An ache in the back of his throat would not allow him to speak. The waves were crashing faster, and the pitch and sway of the ship made him feel like the jaws of death were within a hair’s breath. He fought the overwhelming desire to get the hell up. Find the blasted key. Sprint to the deck and climb the damned mast. Like before.

“Please don’t,” she whispered as if she could read his mind.

He turned his head toward hers. She had the most intelligent, tranquil face—a sense of calm and kindness radiated through every pore. Her wet and tangled light brown hair framed a face with large gray eyes that were fixed on him with compassion and ageless wisdom. Her eyes made the chaos beyond these walls almost fade into a static hum. She shivered again and primal instincts rose within him.

Instinctively, he released her hand and pulled her into the crook of his shoulder before wrapping his arms around her thin frame. That was when he felt her gentle lips graze the edge of his jaw. He’d never felt anything like it. It was pure comfort.

The storm had reached a pitch of intensity and he gripped her tightly, barely realizing she might not be able to breathe properly. She reached and stroked his sideburn and jaw again and he exhaled.

And suddenly, desperately, he wanted her.

Roman groaned. For Christsakes, it was insane. And impossible. For some confounded reason he was aroused and the touch of her hands was bewitching him to a blinding degree. She was soft and gentle and he felt like a wild animal.