Anna Campbell: What a Duke Dares

“He’s terrified of fortune hunters spoiling his plans.”

“To be fair, that’s his duty.”

“But you’re not a fortune hunter.”

“I’m not.” He paused. “I’m not?”

“A fortune hunter wouldn’t hesitate to ruin me to force a marriage.”

Marriage? The word clanged through him like a great bell.

The malaise dogging his heels disappeared in Sophie’s company. The sight of her turned his day to brilliance. That left the choice of taking himself off and leaving her to the man her brother chose. Or ruining her. An idea which made every cell in his body revolt.

Or marriage.

“Harry?” she asked on a thread of sound. “What’s wrong?”

It was too early to mention lifelong commitment. Already she’d surrendered more than he’d hoped. His heart kicked as he remembered those wondrous kisses.

He eased his grip. “We’ve been here too long.”

“Yes.” Regret weighted her voice. “Will I… will I see you again?”

Despite the last fraught moments, he couldn’t contain a laugh. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m not experienced with flirtation.”

Another pang of painful tenderness. He wasn’t experienced with love. In this glorious new world, they were both innocents. “When can I meet you?”

“The park.” She sounded relieved. “I ride tomorrow morning.”

“With your brother?”

“He’s away this week.”

“I’ll find you.”

“I hope so.” He caught a quiver of uncertainty.

“I swear it,” he said.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

How he basked in hearing that, however difficult it made this parting. “I don’t want to let you go. But I must.”

He kissed her quickly. He meant the contact to be sweet and brief, but he found himself drowning again.

Luckily for failing willpower, she broke away and opened the door a crack. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, slipping outside.

“Tomorrow,” he confirmed, then waited in the dark while she shut the door with a soft snick. Right now he wasn’t fit for civilized company. He hoped Sophie was. He had a horrible feeling that she’d look mussed and thoroughly kissed.

Fontana dei Monte, Italian Alps, February 1828

It was snowing again. As this purgatorial week proceeded, Pen began to think that the world contained only snow and ice and wind. And flea-ridden inns. And rude servants.

And men who tried to push her around.

Or more accurately, one man who pushed her around. His overbearing Grace, the Duke of Sedgemoor.

Pen and Cam traveled as Lord and Lady Pembridge, using the Sedgemoor heir’s courtesy title. She supposed that now they left the mountains behind, the inns would become busier. She and Cam would need to be more discreet than ever in case they met someone who knew them.

Their coach bumped its way into the tiny hillside village where they would spend the night—or rather where the man who had assigned himself lord and master had decreed they’d stay. Idly Pen wondered when she’d finally break. Would this be the day when she pushed Cam headfirst into one of the towering snow drifts lining what was optimistically termed a road?

Cam sat beside her now, staring out the window as if the acres of white formed a glorious vista considerably more appealing than his companion. They’d had a long day. Not that they’d covered much ground. It was discouraging how much time they took to traverse every mile. Cam had been right, much as she hated admitting it. Crossing the Alps in February had been an asinine plan.

Over the last days, the temperature inside the carriage had been colder than outside. In public, Cam might treat Pen with deference that set her teeth on edge, but their infrequent private conversations had been stilted and tinged with hostility.

The coach shuddered to a stop, jerking Maria awake on the seat opposite. Pen had developed enormous envy for her maid’s ability to sleep through anything. Strangely Maria had immediately accepted the news that her mistress and the duke traveled as a married couple.

Desperate to stretch her cramped legs, more desperate to escape the oppressive atmosphere, Pen opened the door and jumped out before Paolo, their new coachman, could help her. Despite herself, she glanced back at Cam, expecting the usual disapproval.

But the expression in his watchful green eyes troubled her. In another man, she’d interpret the gleam as reluctant interest. But Cam treated her as a troublesome obligation, not a woman he wanted. Still, that level gaze made her shiver like someone brushed an icy hand across bare skin.

After weeks of rough travel, Cam was no longer a polished specimen of British manhood. His linen was grubby, his clothes crumpled, his boots cloudy with dirt. And he looked tired. He pretended that he rose above human weakness, but the man in the carriage looked exhausted to the bone. She’d always thought his impossible pursuit of perfection made for a lonely life. Right now, he looked heartbreakingly alone.

She resented Cam’s bossiness. She resented, much good it did, his inability to love her. Even so, he’d undergone considerable trouble for her and she’d rewarded him with a fit of the sullens. Her tone was friendlier than usual. “Cam, are you coming inside?”

Paolo disappeared to secure rooms. Cam regarded her with familiar coolness. “Of course.”

He sounded assured and dismissive. Much as he’d sounded all week. She bit back a sigh. Their easy communication had gone forever. She should be glad. The last thing she needed was a reminder of what a wonderful companion Cam could be. But good sense was difficult when one was stuck with a grumpy nobleman on an endless road to perdition.

“Well, do it soon. I’m freezing.”

Grim humor lit his face as he left the carriage and extended his arm. “As you command, my lady.”

Reluctantly she laid her hand upon his forearm, disturbingly aware of the muscles beneath her gloved palm. His physical reality was a perpetual torment. Over the years, he’d faded in her memory to an over-idealized cipher. Real Cam was more complex, more powerful, and more compelling than any fantasy.

Paolo chose that moment to return, his round, good-natured face troubled. “Milord, milady, there is a question.”

Surprised, Pen turned to the man she’d learned to respect for his ability to make the best of unpromising circumstances. However arrogant Cam had been to dismiss the craven Giuseppe without her permission, he’d unearthed a treasure in Paolo. “What is it?”

“A storm has hit the inn and only one room is fit for sleeping.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Cam said sharply while the nightmare ramifications of Paolo’s news invaded Pen’s mind.

Paolo flinched at Cam’s displeasure—and looked understandably puzzled. He’d never shown any curiosity when his employers requested separate rooms. He probably attributed it to English eccentricity. But surely at a pinch, a married couple could share a bed.

A freezing February night with deteriorating weather counted as a pinch.

“We shall travel on,” Cam said coldly.

The prospect of driving further prompted even imperturbable Paolo to protest. “ Signore , the next village is ten miles away, over the mountain. There will be heavy snow tonight.”

“With fresh horses—” Cam began in his “I won’t shift even for stampeding elephants” tone.

“Cam, we can’t go on. It’s dangerous.”

“Your courage fails?” He turned a supercilious expression upon her and Pen suppressed a shiver unrelated to the rapidly dropping temperature. “You were all set to drive single-handed across every glacier between here and Paris.”