The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(2)

And then he extended his other arm. He extended his arm. As if they were embarking at a house party.

As if he were a country gentleman, about to inquire about the weather.

"May I be of assistance?" he murmured.

Grace shook her head frantically. She could not touch him. She did not know why, precisely, but she knew in her bones that it would be utter disaster to put her hand in his.

"Very well," he said with a small sigh. "Ladies today are so very capable. It breaks my heart, really." He leaned in, almost as if sharing a secret. "No one likes to feel superfluous."

Grace just stared at him.

"Rendered mute by my grace and charm," he said, stepping back to allow them to exit. "It happens all the time. Really, I shouldn't be allowed near the ladies. I have such a vexing effect on you."

He was mad. That was the only explanation. Grace didn't care how pretty his manners were, he had to be mad. And he had a gun.

"Although," he mused, his weapon rock steady even as his words seemed to meander through the air,

"some would surely say that a mute woman is the least vexing of all."

Thomas would, Grace thought. The Duke of Wyndham - who had years ago insisted that she use his given name at Belgrave after a farcical chorus of your grace, Miss Grace, your grace - had no patience for chitchat of any sort.

"Ma'am," she whispered urgently, tugging on the dowager's arm.

The dowager did not say a word, nor did she nod, but she took Grace's hand and allowed herself to be helped down from the carriage.

"Ah, now that is much better," the highwayman said, grinning widely now. "What good fortune is mine to have stumbled upon two ladies so divine. Here I thought I'd be greeted by a crusty old gentleman."

Grace stepped to the side, keeping her eyes trained on his face. He did not look like a criminal, or rather, her idea of a criminal. His accent screamed education and breeding, and if he was not recently washed, well, she could not smell it.

"Or perhaps one of those dreadful young toads, stuffed into a waistcoat two sizes too small," he mused, rubbing his free hand thoughtfully against his chin. "You know the sort, don't you?" he asked Grace.

"Red face, drinks too much, thinks too little."

And to her great surprise, Grace found herself nodding.

"I thought you would," he replied. "They're rather thick on the ground, sadly."

Grace blinked and just stood there, watching his mouth. It was the only bit of him she could watch, with his mask covering the upper portion of his face. But his lips were so full of movement, so perfectly formed and expressive, that she almost felt she could see him. It was odd. And mesmerizing. And more than a little unsettling.

"Ah, well," he said, with the same deceptive sigh of ennui Grace had seen Thomas utilize when he wished to change the subject. "I'm sure you ladies realize that this isn't a social call." His eyes flicked toward Grace, and he let loose a devilish smile. "Not entirely."

Grace's lips parted.

His eyes - what she could see of them through the mask - grew heavy-lidded and seductive.

"I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure," he murmured. "It's not often an option, what with all those portly young gentlemen traveling the roads."

She knew she should gasp, or even spit forth a protest, but the highwayman's voice was so smooth, like the fine brandy she was occasionally offered at Belgrave. There was a very slight lilt to it, too, attesting to a childhood spent far from Lincolnshire, and Grace felt herself sway, as if she could fall forward, lightly, softly, and land somewhere else. Far, far from here.

Quick as a flash his hand was at her elbow, steadying her. "You're not going to swoon, are you?" he asked, his fingers offering just the right amount of pressure to keep her on her feet.

Without letting her go.

Grace shook her head. "No," she said softly.

"You have my heartfelt thanks for that," he replied. "It would be lovely to catch you, but I'd have to drop my gun, and we couldn't have that, could we?" He turned to the dowager with a chuckle. "And don't you go thinking about it. I would be more than happy to catch you as well, but I don't believe either of you would wish to leave my associates in charge of the firearms."

It was only then that Grace realized there were three other men. Of course there had to be - he could not have orchestrated this by himself. But the rest of them had been so silent, choosing to remain in the shadows.

And she had not been able to take her eyes off their leader.

"Has our driver been harmed?" Grace asked, mortified that she was only now thinking of his welfare.

Neither he nor the footman who had served as an outrider were anywhere in sight.

"Nothing that a spot of love and tenderness won't cure," the highwayman assured her. "Is he married?"

What was he talking about? "I - I don't think so," Grace replied.

"Send him to the public house, then. There is a rather buxom maid there who - Ah, but what am I thinking? I am among ladies." He chuckled. "Warm broth, then, and perhaps a cold compress. And then after that, a day off to find that spot of love and tenderness. The other fellow, by the way" - he flicked his head toward a nearby cluster of trees - "is over there. Perfectly unharmed, I assure you, although he might find his bindings tighter than he prefers."