Dukes By the Dozen

His smile was all in the corners of his grey-green eyes. “When you put it like that, the burden does seem negligible, and certainly much less demanding than my former career.”

There was something wistful in his tone. “Will you miss it—the navy—do you think?”

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as weighty as a secret. “Like a dead friend.”

She felt his longing like a weight upon her heart. “Even though it has cost you so much?”

His eyes found hers, and he gifted her with that wry, half-smile. “Not so much as others.”

Others who had lost their lives. Or their legs. Or their minds.

The thought was sobering. “Dear Beech—”

“That is the third time you have called me that, Pease Porridge. If you will insist on doing so, I do think I’m going to have to marry you.”

CHAPTER 5

MARCUS’S impromptu proposal shocked her. Sweet Pease Porridge gaped at him, as if such a thing were not just improbable, but impossible. “Truly, I begin to think we are admirably suited to—”

“What’s this?” Behind them, the barred latch rattled, and a voice from without interrupted the intimacy of the moment. “Who’s in there? I say, open this door!”

Penelope bolted to her feet. “My father,” she mouthed as she practically dove for the window farthest from the door.

“Let me go.” Marcus was beside her in an instant.

“No—I’ll never get that blasted chest of drawers moved myself,” she whispered as she flung back the draperies. “I’d have gone out the window in any event, and just circled back around.”

An excellent plan—and one that she, who knew the house, could accomplish more stealthily than he. Marcus threw up the sash and stuck his head out into the frigid night to reconnoiter. “All clear. Handsomely now,” he cautioned. “It’s an easy drop—I’ll let you down.” He clasped the bare skin of her forearm with his right.

She stilled at the sudden contact but didn’t object. Instead, she said, “Thank you. For not arguing. Or questioning.” The chill night wind whipped through the window, blowing her closer—so close she pressed an impulsive kiss to his cheek. “For everything.”

Her lips were unspeakably soft against the taut, sun-scoured skin above this beard. “My dear Pease Porridge, the pleasure was mine.”

She was so close.

So close, he felt the febrile warmth of her chest just barely brushing against his. So close, his eyes fell to the sweet curve of her lips. So close, he could think of nothing but what they might feel like against his.

“Devil take me, Pease Porridge, but I very much want to kiss you,” he murmured, as if he could not fathom why. As if his lips were not already descending toward hers. “Properly.”

Her own voice was nothing but breath and desire. “Oh, Beech, I do wish you would.”

He met her mouth with all dispatch. And of course, Penelope Pease kissed like an angel. A lovely, impish, fallen angel—if she was to be believed—who looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself to his lips, so he could taste the brandy on her tongue when he opened her mouth ever so slightly to appease the needy ache that washed through him like a rogue wave.

“Devil take me,” Marcus breathed against her forehead, before he lowered her down until her tiptoes scraped against the frozen gravel of the courtyard. “Damned if you don’t give ruined a bloody good name.”

Marcus made sure his lovely bundle of contradictions was safely delivered to the ground and well away before he turned to the door. “Belay that racket,” he growled as wedged himself between the wall and the chest of drawers. He put his back into it, leveraging the hulking piece back to its proper place, before he flipped the latch and snatched the door open wide.

In front of him, Sir Harold Pease was bent double in an attempt to peer through the keyhole.

Marcus drew himself up to his full height and weighted all his displeasure into his voice. “What the devil do you mean interrupting a man’s peace?”

“This is my house, sir,” the startled father barked before he demanded, “Who the devil are you?”

“Warwick. Newly duke thereof. Commander Marcus Beecham, as was, Sir Harold.” Marcus stepped forward into the corridor and shut the door behind him—Penelope’s brandy snifter lay overturned on the floor near the chair she had only just vacated. “Is there something I might do for you, sir?”

“Your Grace.” Sir Harold lost a great deal of his bluster and made him a hasty bow. “Your pardon. Looking for m’daughter.”

“Which daughter, sir?” Marcus asked with the wry directness he had perfected as a commanding officer. “Or have you lost more than one?”

Sir Harold turned a satisfying shade of puce. “Miss Pease. Penelope.”

At least the damned man had lowered his voice, but by now Sir Harold’s commotion had drawn an even dozen neighbors waiting breathlessly for fresh scandal.

Marcus was just the man to give them satisfaction. “Ah, yes, Miss Penelope Pease. How fortunate— I should very much like to speak to Miss Pease myself.”

“Your Grace?” the man stammered. “Surely you know—”