Anna Campbell - What a Duke Dares

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. They weren’t falling into the habit of private little messages. They weren’t going to act like intimate friends. She glared. “I’ve developed many unfortunate habits,” she said flatly. “Are we going?”

“Your eagerness for my company fills my heart with elation.”

“Give yourself a day or so in a carriage with me and see if you feel the same,” she snapped and flounced outside to where the perfidious Giuseppe waited in the driver’s seat. A high-bred bay gelding was tied to the back of the coach. The snow might have stopped, but it was bitterly cold. Pen hoped Giuseppe froze.

When Cam entered the vehicle, she was bundled under fur throws with Maria beside her. The lamps inside were lit. He settled with his back toward the horses. Again, the perfect gentleman.

He banged on the ceiling to tell Giuseppe to go. Pen bit back a snide comment about him taking charge. Even as a small boy, Cam had been inclined to command. Seven years as Duke of Sedgemoor had only fortified his dictatorial tendencies. If she bridled at every order, she’d be a wreck before they reached the foot of this mountain, let alone England.

Maria curled into the corner and closed her eyes. Cam shot the girl a disapproving glance. Servants at Fentonwyck displaying such lèse-majesté would be dismissed without a character. Pen stifled the impulse to justify herself. In Maria’s defense, Pen saw little point making the girl sit up when she had nothing constructive to do.

Already Cam threatened to become a tyrant. If he was hers, she’d bring him down a few pegs. But to her everlasting regret, he’d never be hers.

“Does your maid speak English?” he asked once they were on their way.

“No.” The mountain road was bumpy. Pen grabbed the leather strap against the jolting.

“Good.” He extended his closed hand. “Here.”

Automatically she reached for what he offered. He dropped something small and round and warm onto her palm. She looked down. It was the Sedgemoor signet ring, carved with two rearing unicorns, their horns crossed to make an X.

Shocked, she looked up. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a loan.”

Her fingers closed around the ring. For centuries, it had been the tangible symbol of Rothermere power. “Why?”

To her surprise, he looked uncomfortable. He hadn’t looked at all awkward when he’d pushed her around. “Wear it on your ring finger. I don’t imagine anyone will recognize us and we’ll use false names. But we’ll attract less attention if people think we’re married.”

Feeling sick, she stared at the gold ring gleaming in the lamplight. It taunted her with the cruel reality that she’d never be his bride. “How… practical.”

He heard her implied criticism. His lips tightened. “You know the consequences if we’re discovered.” His tone bit. “It’s not as if you want to marry me.”

She sighed, depressed that he held a grudge when they both knew she’d done him a favor by refusing him. “Cam, you can’t still be angry about the proposal. That makes no sense. Especially when now we’ve met again, you must see that I’d make the worst wife in the world.”

His jaw hardened. “Don’t flatter yourself, Pen. I got over any youthful pique years ago.”

She wasn’t convinced, although it seemed out of character for Cam to be such a poor loser. Mostly he’d won their various games, but if he hadn’t, he’d taken defeat in good spirit.

“Well, stop harking back to it,” she snapped.

“I’m offering you a ring. I’m inevitably reminded of the last time I did that.”

Her heart lurched with futile longing. If he’d offered love along with the ring, they’d have been married nearly a decade. Gracelessly she shoved the ring onto her finger. “Life was easier when I traveled alone.”

“Stow it, Pen. We’re together until we reach home soil. You’re always cranky when you lose.” He settled into his seat, folding his arms across his powerful chest. His black superfine coat was so beautifully cut, it didn’t strain against the movement. The boy she’d known had been quick and strong, but nine years had turned Cam into a man ready to take on the world and win.

“I haven’t lost,” she said coolly. “I’ve retired to regroup.”

More displeasure blasted her way. He’d perfected the crushing effect of his stare since their last meeting. “Don’t cross me on this, Pen. I promised Peter I’d get you to England.”

She strove to remain uncrushed. “What happens when we arrive? Will you dog my footsteps until I perish of old age? Or irritation, which is more likely.”

His smile held no amusement. “Once you’re safely home, as far as I’m concerned, you can go to the devil.”

Chetwell House, London, February 1828

Harry marked the moment that Sophie slipped from the crowded ballroom. Hardly surprising when he’d observed her every move.

All week, he’d waited impatiently to catch her alone. The burning need to speak about something more significant than the weather had built until it threatened to explode.

The night they’d met, he’d obtained a formal introduction. He’d managed a country dance and a schottische with her since—quite a feat when she rapidly became the toast of London. During their dances, he’d confined himself to platitudes. He’d had to be satisfied with touching her hand and delighting in the shy attraction glittering in her blue eyes.

Tonight, neither the watchful marquess nor Lord Desborough attended. Under other circumstances, Harry might admire Leath’s protectiveness. In worldly terms, an undistinguished younger son from a ramshackle family was no fit match for the Marquess of Leath’s sister. But surely Sophie should marry a man who adored her, rather than one who treated her as Desborough did, like a pretty pet to fuss over or ignore at his whim.

Harry didn’t move in Desborough’s exalted circles. But he had eyes and a brain, however rarely he’d exerted it. While he discerned no dislike between Sophie and the man touted as her husband, he discerned no genuine attraction either.

Damn it, she deserved better.

Whether she deserved Harry Thorne, well, that was her choice.

Harry tracked Sophie into the gallery. The long room faced the gardens with doors open onto the terrace. Fortunately, for February, it was a mild night, but even so, away from the crush, he shivered in the chill air. At the far end of the room, a couple he didn’t know bent their heads toward each other.

Sophie paused before a portrait of a bewigged, double-chinned gentleman. She looked beautiful tonight in rose silk and with pearls tangled in her upswept hair. Harry stopped a few feet away, waiting until the couple wandered into the garden without sparing him a glance.

“You followed me,” Sophie said, without turning.

What point prevaricating? “Yes.”

As he’d stalk a skittish animal, he edged closer. He stared at her vulnerable nape, wanting desperately to kiss her there. Wanting to kiss her everywhere.

It was too soon.

Still she didn’t glance back. “My brother warned me against you.”

Did the bastard, by God? “What did he say?” Harry kept his voice soft. He and Sophie might be alone, but they were still in public.

“That you’re a fortune hunter.”

He laughed dismissively. “You know I’m not interested in your money.” While he’d love to see her face, there was a delicious suspense in standing so near, catching the soft drift of her fragrance, flowers and beautiful girl.

“That’s what a fortune hunter would say.”

“Probably. But in my case it’s true.” He paused. “That wasn’t all he said.”