A Duke in the Night(90)
“Is that an answer?” he asked.
“Was that a question?”
“Marry me. Or don’t. But promise me you’ll never dance with anyone besides me for the rest of your life.”
“I like the first option,” she whispered again. “And the third.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again, and this time she became aware of a smattering of sniffles and applause. August got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “I think we’ve properly scandalized your students.”
“I hope so.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you, August,” she whispered.
“And I you.”
“This was a terrible waltz, by the way. All that crying and talking and stopping.”
“And kissing.”
“And kissing,” she agreed, joy and love making it hard to speak. She felt, more than saw, August signal the quartet, and within seconds music once again filled the air.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, pulling her tightly against him. “Because I plan on dancing many, many more waltzes with my wife.”
Eli Dawes, fourteenth Earl of Rivers, assumes that his name has been permanently etched in the long lists of soldiers who died at Waterloo. But now here he is, back on English soil, heading for the one place where he knows his arrival will go unmarked and his presence unheeded by anyone save a handful of servants.
Avondale. And, unbeknownst to him, Rose Hayward.
Please turn the page for a preview from Last Night with the Earl.
It wasn’t the first time Eli Dawes had broken into this house.
The rain seemed to slow slightly as he headed for the rear, toward the servants’ entrance near the kitchens. The doors of the house would be bolted, but there was a window with a faulty latch, which he had taken advantage of a lifetime ago when he would stumble back from town in the dead of night after too much whiskey. Eli gazed at the empty windows that lined the upper floors, relieved to find that the vast house was dark and silent. Avondale would be operating with only a skeleton staff—aside from maintaining the structure and grounds, there would be little to do.
Eli slipped his fingers under the edge of the lower window and tapped on the top left corner while gently pushing upward. The window inched up slowly, though with a lot more resistance than he remembered.
Above his head another roll of thunder echoed, and he cursed softly as the rain once again came down in sheets. Quickly he wrestled the window the rest of the way up and swung himself over the sill, then lowered the window behind him. The abrupt cessation of the buffeting wind and the lash of rain was almost disorienting. He stood for a long moment, trying to get his bearings and listening for the approach of anyone he might have disturbed.
But the only sounds were the whine of the wind and the rattle of the rain against the windows. He breathed in deeply, registering the yeasty scent of rising dough and a faint whiff of pepper. It would seem nothing had changed in the years he’d been gone.
The kitchens were saved from complete blackness by the embers banked in the hearth on the far side. Eli set his pack on the floor and wrenched off his muck-covered boots, aware that he was creating puddles where he stood. A rivulet of water slithered from his hair down his back, and he shivered, suddenly anxious to rid himself of his sodden clothes. He left his boots on the stone floor but retrieved his pack and made his way carefully forward, his memory and the dim light ensuring he didn’t walk into anything. Every once in a while, he would stop and listen, but whatever noise he might have made on his arrival had undoubtedly been covered by the storm.
He crept soundlessly through the kitchens and into the great hall. Here the air was perfumed with a heady potion of floral elements. Roses, perhaps, and something a little sharper. He skirted the expanse of the polished marble floor to the foot of the wide staircase that led to the upper floors. Lightning illuminated everything for a split second—enough for Eli to register the large arrangement of flowers on a small table in the center of the hall, as well as the gilded frames of the portraits that he remembered lining the walls.
He shouldered his pack and slipped up the stairs, turning left into the north wing of the house. The rooms in the far north corner had always been his when he visited, and he was hoping that he would find them as he had left them. At the very least he hoped there was a bed, and something that resembled clean sheets, though he wasn’t terribly picky at this point. His stocking feet made no sound as he advanced down the hallway, running his fingers lightly along the wood panels to keep himself oriented. Another blaze of lightning lit up the hallway through the long window at the far end, and he blinked against the sudden brightness.
There. The last door on the left. It had been left partially ajar, and he gently pushed it open, the hinges protesting quietly, though the sound was swallowed by a crash of thunder that came hard on the heels of another blinding flash. He winced and stepped inside, feeling the smoothness of the polished floor beneath his feet, his toes coming to rest on the raised, tasseled edges of the massive rug he remembered. This room, like the rest of the house, was dark, though unlike in the kitchen, there were no embers in the hearth he knew was off to his right somewhere.
Against the far wall the wind rattled the windowpanes, but the sound was somewhat muffled by the heavy curtains that must be drawn. Eli drew in a breath and suddenly froze. Something wasn’t right.