Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(9)

“I won’t believe that. If your father was renowned throughout England—knighted, even—you must have funds. Or if not funds, friends.”

At his heel, the wolf-dog snarled.

“What’s in this valise?” he asked, frowning.

“It’s my . . .” She waved a hand. “It’s not important right now. I’ve told you I won’t ask you to leave, Your Grace. But you can’t force me out, either.”

“Oh, can’t I?” He gathered her shawl from its drying place and wadded it into a ball, preparing to stuff it into the valise.

The dog growled and barked.

“What the devil is in this thing?” He opened the valise’s latch.

“No, don’t,” Izzy said, jumping forward. “Be careful. She’s sleeping. If you startle her, you’ll—”

Too late.

With a primal howl of pain, he jerked his hand from the valise. “Mother of—”

Izzy winced. Just as she feared, his finger had a swoop dangling from it. A swoop of slinky, toothy, brown-and-white predator.

“Snowdrop, no.”

The dog went mad, jumping and yipping at the snarling creature attacking his master. Ransom cursed and raised his arm, backing in a circle, trying to keep the two animals apart. Snowdrop being Snowdrop, she latched on tighter still.

“Snowdrop!” Izzy chased circles around the knot of tangling beasts. “Snowdrop, let him go!”

Finally, she scrambled atop the table and made a wild grab for the duke’s wrist. She latched onto his arm with both of hers, using all her weight to hold him in place.

And then she paused there, trying to ignore the accidental intimacy of their posture. His shoulder was a stone against her belly. His elbow wedged tight between her br**sts.

“Hold still, please,” she said, breathless. “The more you flail, the harder she bites.”

“I’m not flailing. I don’t flail.”

No, he didn’t. Clutching his arm this way made her acutely aware of the power in his body. But she was equally aware of another force. His restraint.

If he chose, he could fling both Izzy and Snowdrop against the wall, just as easily as he’d demolished those chairs.

She calmed her trembling hands and reached for Snowdrop. With her fingers, she coaxed the animal’s tiny jaws apart. “Let him go, dear. For the sake of us all. Let the duke go.”

At last, she succeeded in prying Snowdrop free of his savaged, bleeding finger.

Every living thing in the room exhaled.

“Good God, Goodnight.” He shook his hand. “What is that? A rat?”

Izzy descended from the table, clutching Snowdrop close to her chest. “Not a rat. She’s an ermine.”

He swore. “You carry a weasel in your valise?”

“No. I carry an ermine.”

“Ermine, stoat, weasel. They’re all the same thing.”

“They’re not,” Izzy objected, giving the agitated Snowdrop a soothing rub along her tiny cheek. “Well, perhaps they are—but ermine sounds more dignified.”

She cradled Snowdrop in one hand and rubbed her belly with the other, then carried her back to the valise and opened the small door in her ball—a spherical cage fashioned of gilded mesh.

“There you are,” she whispered. “Now be good.”

The dog growled at Snowdrop. In response, Snowdrop curled her lip, flashing needlelike teeth.

“Be good,” Izzy whispered, sharply this time. She turned to the duke. “Your Grace, let me see to your wound.”

“Never mind it.”

Undeterred, she caught him by the wrist and examined his fingertip. “There’s a fair amount of blood, I’m afraid. You’ll want to clean this. It shouldn’t wait. Perhaps we could . . . Ooh.”

As she prattled on, he’d picked up his decanter of whisky from the table and poured a liberal stream of the amber spirits right over the oozing bite.

Izzy winced, just watching.

He didn’t even flinch.

She pulled a clean handkerchief from her pocket. “Here. Let me see.”

As she dabbed at the wound, she studied his hand. Big, strong. Marred with all manner of small cuts and burns—some fresh, others faded. On his third right finger, he wore a gold signet ring. The oval crest was massive. Apparently, dukes did everything writ large.

“The wound is still bleeding,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have a plaster about?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll just apply pressure until the bleeding stops. Allow me. I’ve dealt with this before.” She wadded the handkerchief about his fingertip and pinched hard. “There. Now we wait a minute or two.”

“I’ll hold it.” He wrenched away, applying the pressure himself.

Thus began the longest, most sensually charged minute of Izzy’s life.

In the past, she’d suffered through many an unrequited infatuation. But she typically lost her wits for pensive scholars in tweed or poets who sported tousled dark curls and woeful airs.

The Duke of Rothbury was unlike any gentleman she’d ever fancied. He was hard, unyielding, and even before his injury, he didn’t care to read. What was more, they were engaged in a property dispute, and he’d threatened to turn her out into the cold Northumberland night.