Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(4)

He would deserve a great deal of gratitude for this when she awoke—but somehow he doubted he’d get it.

Izzy came to herself with a jolt.

She was indoors. Inside the castle. Pillars sprouted around her like ancient trees, soaring up to support the vaulted ceiling of a cavernous great hall.

Looking about, she saw scattered furnishings in various states of decay. The near end of the hall featured a massive hearth. If there weren’t a roaring fire in it, Izzy had no doubt she could stand inside that fireplace without even crouching. The blaze within fed not on splits of wood, or even logs, but on full tree trunks.

She lay on a dusty, lumpy sofa. A rough, woolen blanket had been drawn over her body. She peeked beneath it and cringed. She’d been divested of her frock, stays, petticoats, and boots. Only her chemise and stockings remained.

“Oh dear heavens.”

She put a hand to her unbound hair. Her Aunt Lilith was right. She’d always harped on Izzy during those summers in Essex. “It doesn’t matter that no one will see them,” she’d squawked. “Always—always—wear a clean shift and stockings. You never know when you might meet with an accident.”

Oh . . . dear . . . heavens. It all came back to her now. The rain . . . her swoon . . .

Izzy looked up, and there he was.

The Accident.

“You’re awake,” he said, without turning to confirm it.

“Yes. Where are my things?”

“Your valise is two paces inside the entry, to the right.”

Izzy twisted her neck and glimpsed the valise, right where he’d said it would be. It wasn’t moving or open. Snowdrop must still be asleep. That was a relief.

“Your frock is there.” He gestured toward where her frock hung over the back of two upright chairs, drying by the fire. “Your petticoats are draped over the far table, and your corset is on the other s—”

“Thank you.” Izzy wanted to die. The whole situation was mortifying. Swooning at a handsome stranger’s boots was embarrassing enough, but hearing him catalog her underthings? She clutched the blanket to her chest. “You needn’t have troubled.”

“You needed to breathe. And I needed to be sure you weren’t bleeding or broken anywhere.”

She wasn’t certain why that required undressing her to her shift. A quick glance would tell him if she were bleeding.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Are you with child?”

Her burst of laughter startled the dog. “Definitely not. I’m not the sort of woman who faints, I promise you. I just hadn’t eaten much today.” Or yesterday, or the day before that.

Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Perhaps she was catching a cold. That would help explain the fainting, too.

Throughout this conversation, her host remained at the hearth, facing away from her. His coat stretched tight at the shoulders but hung a bit loose about his midsection. Perhaps he’d recently lost some bulk. But there was plenty of him remaining, and all of it was lean and hard. His body was much like this great hall around them. Suffering from a bit of neglect, but impressively made and strong to the bones.

And that voice. Oh, it was dangerous.

She didn’t know which upset her more: That this shadowy, handsome stranger had made so free with her person—carrying her in his arms, unlacing her stays, taking down her hair, and stripping her to her thinnest undergarments? Or that she’d somehow slept through the whole thing?

She snuck another glance at him, silhouetted by orange firelight.

The latter. Definitely the latter. The most exciting quarter hour of her life, and she’d spent it completely insensible. Izzy, you fool.

But though she had no firm recollection of being carried in from the rain, her body seemed to have a memory of its own. Beneath her clothing, she smoldered with the sensation of strong hands on chilled flesh. As if his touch had been imprinted on her skin.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to carry me inside.”

“There’s tea. To your left.”

A chipped mug of steaming liquid sat on a table nearby—to her left, as he’d said. She took it in both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms before lifting it for a long, nourishing draught.

Fire raced down her throat.

She coughed. “What’s in this?”

“Milk. And a drop of whisky.”

Whisky? She sipped again, not in a position to be particular. When approached with the appropriate caution, the brew wasn’t so bad. As she swallowed, an earthy, smoky heat curled through her.

On the same table, she found a small loaf of bread and broke into it, famished.

“Who are you?” she asked between mouthfuls. Aunt Lilith would not be pleased with her manners.

“I’m Rothbury. You’re in my castle.”

Izzy swallowed hard. This man claimed to be the Duke of Rothbury? It seemed too much to believe. Shouldn’t dukes have servants to make their tea and dress them in proper attire?

God help her. Perhaps she was trapped with a madman.

Izzy drew the blanket close. Despite her doubts, she wasn’t going to risk provoking him.

“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Should I address you as ‘Your Grace?’ ”

“I don’t see the point of it. Within a few hours, I hope you’ll refer to me as ‘That ill-mannered wretch you importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.’ ”