Dukes By the Dozen

“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler glanced behind him as the lord of Falk Manor staggered across the parquet floor of the entryway, muttering something unintelligible “His lordship,” the butler murmured, “would be willing to offer whatever assistance you require.”

“Thank you.” Wulf eyed his host of the evening before.

The man still reeled from the effects of brandy and smelled like a perfumery. He appeared to have been sleeping, as his gaze was heavy-lidded and vague, and there were crease lines across his cheek.

“Highrow.” The earl squinted one eye and focused on Wulf. “Are you back? If so, ‘tis too late. My damned sister has rousted the lot of us, and the enjoyment is over. Everyone is off to bed.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Not, of course, that he was. The fewer guests he had to address, the better. Still, he decided to avoid mention of the Honest Highwayman altogether to the earl. “I was forced to shelter in the woods overnight. I thought perhaps I might impose upon you to arrange conveyance to Highrow Place.”

“’Course. Stewart?” The earl turned to the butler, waved vaguely in the air.

“I will send word to the stables to arrange a carriage.” Stewart bowed to Wulf and spared his lordship not a glance—the butler was clearly accustomed to taking the reins of responsibility from his employer. “In the interim, I shall procure a room for you, where you might refresh yourself and perhaps break your fast.”

“That would be most appreciated.” He ignored the earl as much as the butler had, which was just as well. His still-drunk host was listing sideways as he peered into the empty snifter in his hand.

“Your Grace,” Stewart gestured toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. “If you would follow me—”

“Bloody hell!” Filled with utter fury, the feminine shout rang under the high, painted ceiling of the entry and echoed long enough that the subsequent silence became ominous.

To a man, the occupants of the hall hunched their shoulders against that most terrifying thing—a woman’s anger—and turned toward the sound.

CHAPTER 9

THE LADY STRODE briskly through the sliding doors of the front drawing room, heels issuing a staccato beat on the polished parquet. Green flowers dotted her muslin gown, shifting over her skirts as if they marched along with as her temper.

“Did my brother ruin the drawing room rug? Truly? Mother took great care in bringing that from India ages ago. She would be heartbroken. There are burns. Burns!” The lady opened her arms wide, not in supplication or explanation, but as if to encompass the enormity of the transgression. A dusty paste bird nested in wigged curls just as the creature might have done during the woman’s come out a decade earlier. “The rug is not meant for the ends of cheroots. Or brandy. There is an extensive spill—Oh.”

She stopped, blinked at Wulf through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. Her skirts floated to rest around her slippers, the embroidered flowers ending their patrol.

“My lady.” He nodded in greeting, wincing because he should have addressed her as ‘Lady Christian Name’, but he could not remember her Christian name. He gestured to the wrinkled greatcoat, his bared head. “My apologies as to my appearance.”

“Of course.” A quick nod of her head, a flush of cheeks. “Your Grace.”

He did remember the girl—woman now—from his childhood. He had seen her a handful of times since then, hovering at the fringes of her brother’s house parties. Awkward in conversation but sweet in nature.

Desperately ready to wash, eat—and dear Lord, to sleep on a bed—Wulf turned back toward the butler. Stopped.

Cinnamon and woodsmoke.

He looked back, certain he was wrong. Sunlight reached beyond the lady’s lenses, shining on eyes not quite green, not quite brown. Eyes he had not expected to see again. Not here, not so soon.

It was she.

His lover. His highwayman.

Everything in his body heated, hardened, flamed. He did not need to search her face for the truth. Did not need to think about it.

He simply knew. He’d learned each burst of green amid the warm brown of her eyes the night before, how the firelight played on them. They were different now in the bright sunlight and behind wire rims, but no less beautiful. More so.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, traced the full shape. Oh, yes, he knew those curves. Quite well. Other curves were hidden by the muslin gown, which sagged rather than clung, but he knew the contours of her lips.

The Honest Highwayman had been hiding in plain sight—behind ugly spectacles and elaborate, unfashionable wigs—but in plain sight nonetheless.

“If you would be so kind, my lady, I should like to speak with you in the drawing room.” He paused, pinned her with his gaze. “About the circumstances surrounding last night, of course.”

He had found her now.

She would not escape again.

“THERE IS NO NEED.” Bea coughed, sputtered.

“I insist, my lady.” Wulf’s dangerous tone shivered through her veins, though she tried to quell the rising panic that accompanied it.