The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(63)

“What in—” He leapt backward, the furred beast apparently not realizing that he’d ceded the carriage, as it clung to his coat with a mighty yowl.

Which was when he realized that Sesily was laughing. And that it sounded like fucking sin. Until that precise moment, Caleb would not have imagined that it was possible to simultaneously be attacked by a cat and go hard as a rock.

But Sesily Talbot was the kind of woman who taught a man things, that much was clear. Including how infuriated he could get.

He grabbed for the animal as it began to scale him like a tree trunk, and Sesily instantly gasped, “No! Don’t hurt him!”

And then she was close enough to touch him. And then she was touching him. If one could claim claw removal as touching. Which Caleb was finding he had to do, considering how the gentle movements and the soothing tuts she offered the little beast made him want to claw something himself.

He had to get away from her.

Which was difficult, as he had a cat attached to him.

Finally, she cradled the animal in her arms, and, from beyond the edge of his jealousy of the damn creature, Caleb heard the smile in her voice. “He likes you.”

He met her gaze. I like you.

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to say that. So he settled on, “Mmm. And why is he in my carriage?”

She lifted one shoulder and dropped it, her lips twisting in amusement. “In my advancing years, sometimes I forget where I leave things.”

This woman was trouble. The kind for which he did not have time or inclination. “So this was your plan? Set your cat upon me and hope for the best?”

She blinked, wide blue eyes making him want to kiss her without consequence. That was the problem, however. There would definitely be consequence. “Is it working?”

“No.” Too much consequence. He put his bag in the carriage and closed the door. “Old maid or not, Lady Sesily, you want love. And I know better than to get anywhere near that. With or without your attack cat.”

He thought she might deny it, but it seemed Sesily Talbot did nothing expected, and certainly not when it came to tearing men to pieces. “You know, Caleb,” she said softly, his name on her tongue a particular weapon. “If you did decide to seduce me . . .” He turned from her, unable to remain still as she spoke, as the words etched pictures upon him—images that he knew better than to think of and that he could not resist. When she finished the sentence, it was with knowing laughter in the words. “Well, you see it as well as I do.”

He turned back like he was under a damn spell, only to discover that she had resumed her lazy place against his carriage. Ruining it, forever, it seemed. Because he’d never be able to look at that door without thinking of the moment that Sesily Talbot, cloaked in sunset, baited him so thoroughly, even as she remained perfectly relaxed against the side of his coach, as though she had no interest in the moment other than to toy with him. “See what?”

And then she smiled, and it wasn’t the way she smiled while flirting. It wasn’t the way she smiled at dinner or when playing lawn bowls. It was private. Personal. As though she’d only ever smiled for him. As if she were his own damn sun. And when she spoke, it was with perfect simplicity. “You see how good it would be.”

He felt his jaw drop, and couldn’t stop it, not even when, without hesitating over the cat in her hands, she dropped into a perfect, pure curtsy that made him think imperfect, impure thoughts. When she came to her full height again, she said, “Travel safely, Mr. Calhoun,” and made for the house, her long strides lazy and without care, as though she hadn’t just destroyed a man in the drive.

Christ. He would spend the rest of the night imagining how good it would be. And he would ache with a desire that would not yield until he returned to her and got her the hell out of his thoughts.

Which was never going to happen.



Haven found Sera on the porch beyond the library that night, after the rest of the women had taken to their chambers. She sat at the top of the stone steps leading down into the gardens, where lawn bowls and dramatic revelations had owned the day, a glass in one hand, a lantern and a bottle of whiskey by her side.

The woman he’d met years ago had drunk champagne and happily scandalized Society with her tales of Marie Antoinette’s breast molded into glass. She’d drunk wine and every so often sherry, though he could remember more than one occasion when she’d wrinkled her nose at the too-sweet swill.

It had never been whiskey, though.

Whiskey had come when they were apart. And somehow now, as she toasted the darkness, it made sense. She, too, was made better with the years. Richer, darker, fuller. More intoxicating.

Minutes stretched into hours and Malcolm watched her, avoiding the temptation to approach, choosing, instead, to take her in, his beautiful wife—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—as she confronted the darkness of the countryside, dressed in a deep eggplant silk that had gleamed in the candlelight at dinner earlier and was now turned black in the moonlight.

His chest ached at the vision of her, stunning and still, lost in thought.

There had been a time when he could have gone to her and she would have welcomed him. A time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to interrupt those thoughts. To have them for his own. But now, he hesitated.

She spoke without looking back. “Do you have a glass?”