The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(48)
Drat. If only she hadn’t played so many tricks on him. She winced as she reviewed her trespasses. To be fair, he had got his revenge with the exploding fountain (neat trick, that), yet she had a lot to make up for.
Her chest squeezed. If only I could get Bennett to like me.
Gaining approval had never been her forte. For years, she’d tried with her father and her classmates, to no avail. Even Grandpapa, for all that he loved her, refused to see her for who she was. The thought of another rejection, especially from Bennett, caused fear to trickle through her, yet she had to try to win his heart...because he had hers.
Even if it meant exposing herself to ridicule and pain, she had to try. She was going to use a high-risk and potentially high-reward strategy: honesty. Since Bennett had seemed to like her disclosures that night in the billiards room, she reasoned she ought to stick with that tactic. To try to win his admiration by being herself.
It’s worth a try, she thought. I can’t bungle this up any more than I already have, can I?
She reached for the knob. When it didn’t turn, she put down the gift, pulled two hairpins out of her cloak pocket, and made short work of the lock. She pushed the door open, picked up the box, and entered the shadows. Thin ribbons of moonlight slipped through the shutters, limning the outlines of furniture.
Before she could locate a lamp, a rustle sounded behind her. In the next heartbeat, she was yanked backward. Her back slammed into a wall of muscle, an arm circling her throat. Panic swelled.
“Bennett, it’s me,” she choked out.
“Tessa?”
The pressure around her throat instantly eased. She was set on her feet. As she gulped in air, a lamp flared on a nearby table. The glow illuminated the room and Bennett’s austere expression.
“Bloody hell,” he grated out. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath,” she wheezed.
“I could have—” He bit off an oath, shoving a hand through his tousled hair. “What the devil were you thinking, sneaking into my room at this hour?”
Before she could answer, he steered her into the single chair at the table before stalking off. He returned a minute later and shoved a glass into her hands. She took a tentative sip; the brandy’s warmth soothed her throat.
“Well?” Bennett said.
He stood, scowling at her, his arms crossed, and it hit her: he was wearing a dressing gown…and nothing else. The well-worn navy fabric molded to his broad shoulders and revealed the strong column of his neck. Her gaze darted downward to the vee between his lapels, her pulse tripping. His chest looked like carved granite, the slabs of defined muscle dusted with dark hair.
The robe clung to his sinewy arms and narrow hips, ending below his knees. Below the hem, his naked calves bulged. His feet were large and bare.
Heat that had nothing to do with the brandy pooled in her belly. Beneath her cloak, her nipples tingled against her night rail. Zounds, he was beautiful.
“I’m waiting,” Bennett ground out.
And, unfortunately, not in a lovey-dovey mood.
“I thought you would be out tonight.” Popping up, she went to retrieve the gift she’d dropped in the scuffle. “And I came to leave you, um, something.”
A wave of self-consciousness struck her. Suddenly, she felt like an awkward schoolgirl bringing an apple for the tutor for whom she’s developed a tendre.
Bennett’s stare transferred from her to the box she was clutching. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she hedged.
Too late, she realized her impulsive gift was unusual. Far too intimate. Not something a lady would give to a gentleman unless she was brazen and utterly ignorant of social niceties.
God, what was I thinking? Heat scorched her cheeks.
He held out his hand. His long fingers crooked in a gesture that conveyed, Hand it over.
Her grip on the box tightened. “I’ve actually, um, changed my mind.”
“You can’t take back my gift.”
“Since I haven’t given it to you, I’m not taking back anything.”
“Despite your tendency to argue over everything,”—while his expression was grave, his voice held a trace of humor—“do you think, in this one instance, you might make an exception and give me the damned gift without prolonged debate?”
“I don’t argue over everything…” She bit her lip, feeling supremely foolish.
He quirked a sardonic brow.
“Oh, all right.” She shoved the box at him. “But don’t blame me if you think it’s stupid.”
“I won’t think it’s stupid.”
On pins and needles, she watched him set the box on the table, untie the string, and lift the lid.
His brows drew together. “You brought me…boots?”
Mortification tautened her insides. “I told you it was stupid. It’s just that I ruined your best pair because I was being silly and thoughtless and—”
“How did you know my size?” Lifting one of the boots from the box, he ran a hand over the supple black calfskin.
Despite her embarrassment, Tessa thought those boots would look smashing on Bennett. She’d asked the bootmaker to model them after those made by the famed but now defunct Hoby’s of St. James, the shop that had made footwear for the Duke of Wellington. The so-called Wellington boots were taller, closer-fitting, and less fussy than Hessians, and she thought their utilitarian elegance suited Bennett to a tee.