The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(32)

“Sera?” Sesily asked.

“Hmm?” She did not look away from him. She couldn’t. He was always more handsome in the country, dammit.

She didn’t like being off-kilter. Didn’t like the sense that all this was about to go pear-shaped.

“Does Haven like cats?”

She looked to Sesily, already coming to the edge of her seat, Brummell in arms, as though she was prepared to do battle. Sesily was often first into the fray, even when she was green at the gills. “I don’t know. But I doubt it.”

“Excellent,” she said.

Haven opened the door, and Sesily flew from the carriage, thrusting the panicked cat into his arms. “Hold this!”

Surprisingly, he did, somehow controlling his own shock as he failed to control the animal, which immediately went wild, hissing and clawing and flailing to be free.

All while Sesily cast up her accounts upon the duke’s perfectly polished boots.

Sera’s hand flew to her mouth, as though she could capture her astonished gasp. As though she could hide the pleasure that edged through it. She couldn’t.

His head snapped up at the sound, and he met her eyes, at once furious and shocked beyond words. Sera lowered her hand, revealing her grin, wide with the realization that everything had, in fact, gone pear-shaped.

For him.





Chapter 10



Dangerous Daughter Downs Duke!




April 1833

Three years, four months earlier

Highley Manor



Malcolm couldn’t believe his good fortune.

She’d come. He’d asked her to come, and she had.

He bounded down to the carriage, ignoring the cool April wind, looking up to the coachman as he opened the door and pulled out the steps. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

If she’d been followed, she’d be ruined. And he did not wish her ruined. He only wished her his. Privately. There was no privacy to be found in a London season.

“No, Your Grace,” the driver said, his tone barely edging into offense. “Followed your directions to the letter.”

Haven was already looking into the coach, breath catching as skirts appeared, a deep berry red, the color of desire. And sin. And love. The color of love.

He reached for her hands, gloved in the same wicked color, disappearing into a perfectly tailored grey traveling cloak, buttoned high up the neck with utter propriety. He hated that coat, and vowed to remove it just as soon as she was inside this house. Just as soon as she was on solid ground—the ground that would soon be theirs.

Just as soon as he asked her to marry him.

She grinned up at him. “I hope you understand how well I trust you, Your Grace. Some might say that accepting an hours-long carriage ride to Lord knows where, alone, is a terrible idea.”

He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, wishing the fabric gone. Wishing her warm skin against his. Soon. “Your trust is valued beyond measure, my lady.”

Her gaze slid past him to the manor house. “This is an impressive cottage.”

He didn’t turn to look at the massive structure, at the cold stones, hundreds of years old, that had seen generations of dukes before him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely recognizing himself when he said, “I wish it were a cottage.”

Her eyes lit with teasing pleasure. “What then? You, a humble shepherd? Me, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid?”

Settling her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her up the stone steps and through the enormous entryway, empty of servants. He’d given them the day, and in that, taken it for himself. He did not have to play the duke. Not ever with Seraphina. He spoke low at her ear, nevertheless. “Is that what you’d like?”

She looked up at him. “Shepherd, woodcutter, butcher, rat catcher. Whatever you choose, that’s what I’d like.”

He believed her. Had there ever been anyone who had wanted him first, and his title second? Not any of the women who chased after him at balls throughout London . . . not any of the men who angled for his friendship and his financial backing . . . not even his mother.

Indeed, his mother had only ever wanted the title. The child required to secure it had been an inconsequential aside.

But Seraphina, she wanted him. Not the title.

He guided her into his private study—the only room in the house where he felt truly comfortable—where a fire burned in the hearth. “Rat catcher?” he asked, turning her to face him as the door closed behind them, her nearness relaxing him, warming him.

She smiled. “They can be terribly useful.”

“And what of you?” He pulled her close.

Her hands came up, around his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the touch.

“What would you like me to be?” she asked, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his, seeing into him.

He didn’t want some fantasy version of her. He didn’t need it. She was the fantasy. Heart pounding, he shook his head. “Whatever you wish to be,” he whispered. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“A seamstress then,” she whispered, her gaze falling to the weave of his topcoat, one hand sliding down to stroke the fabric. “Mending clothes by candlelight, singing in the window, waiting for you to come home.”