The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(16)

“I’m in need of my rooms.” He gestured down the hall, past her shoulder.

The abrupt movement unsteadied him further. He grabbed a nearby doorjamb to keep from toppling over but slid past it. Or did the door move? How would the owners manage such a feat . . . His hand collided with a door handle, and he pitched forward into the darkened chambers.

Robert grunted, and shot his arms out to brace his fall. He landed hard on his palms and sent pain radiating up his arms. With a groan, he rolled onto his back . . . and snagged his gaze on a naughty mural of smiling, buxom ladies twined in one another’s naked embraces.

He groaned as the tall, decidedly unsmiling woman leaned over him, obliterating that delicious view. “I asked, what are you doing here?” she demanded, running a cursory glance over his person. Robert opened his mouth to speak when she buried the tip of her foot in his side, ringing a groan from him.

“Did you kick me?” he said, his words slurring together. Blasted brandy. If ever there was a moment for a proper ducal tone then this was it.

“Yes.”

Quite the curt creature. With a long, painful groan that echoed around his throbbing head, he shot a hand over his eyes. “Couldn’t find the sweet-mouthed beauty,” he muttered.

“What was that?” The sharp sting of metal biting into the fabric of his jacket brought his eyes flying open, and he dropped his arm to his side. Robert stilled. The woman gripped a vicious dagger with unwavering strength. He swallowed back a curse, suddenly sober. Then, the threat of death had that effect. One quick movement on her part, and one flawed on his, would see him with a gleaming blade buried in his flesh. Mind muddled from too much drink, he struggled for the charming words that had served him well through the years with widows, dowagers, and debutantes alike. It really wouldn’t do to insult the woman with a vicious weapon in her fingers now pointed at him. “Uh . . .” That was the best response he could muster. He shook his head on the floor. I am never touching a bloody drink, again.

The woman narrowed her eyes all the more. “Never mind,” she muttered. “You need to go.”

Some of the tension left him. Well, they appeared to agree on that score. He . . . His gaze caught the naughty scene of luscious creatures with wings. Robert squinted. Did they have wings? Like voluptuous angels. A rather ridiculous . . .

His nearly six-foot-tall assailant buried her foot in his side, once more ringing another pained groan from him. “Did you kick me again?”

“I did.” She spoke between gritted teeth. “Get. Up.”

Robert levered himself up with his elbows and struggled to stand.

At last, she lowered that wicked blade. “Oh, for Joan of Arc and all her army,” she said, exasperation coating her tone as she offered him her free hand.

He eyed her again. Even with her five feet six or seven inches, the woman was so slender, a strong wind could knock her down. He grinned and placed his hand in hers if for no other reason than to feel the heat of her delicate palm folded inside his much larger one.

She tugged.

To no avail.

The nameless stranger grunted and gave another tug.

She pulled once more and she flew backwards, landing hard on her buttocks. Her knife clattered to the floor, the clank of it muted by the thin carpet. She sat sprawled in the midst of the hall, her skirts rucked up about her knees. The severe chignon that held her brownish-red locks at the base of her neck tumbled free and her hair cascaded down about her shoulders and trim waist.

He blinked several times. “By God.” She really is rather . . . pretty. In an odd, too-tall, sharp-featured way. In a way he’d never genuinely preferred.

The tall woman blew back the strand that fell across her eyes. “What is it?” Even drunk as he was, he’d have to be deaf to fail and hear the hesitancy in that query, so at odds with a hellcat who’d put a blade to his person.

Given their exchange thus far, compliments would only be wasted on her. Ignoring her question, he attempted to rise.

The woman hopped to her feet and hurriedly retrieved her knife. A moment later, she returned with a hand extended, once more.

This time, he allowed her to help him to his feet. “I need my rooms, and a warm bath and food.” Otherwise, I’m going to wake devilishly ill.

An inelegant snort escaped her pouty lips. “I’d wager you’ll wake devilishly ill regardless of what you eat this late hour, sir.”

Sir?

He scratched at his brow and looked about for this sir-fellow she referred to.

She sighed. “You must go that way, sir.”

Oh, he was the sir she spoke of. Not: my lord. Not: Lord Westfield. He found he preferred the anonymity of a simple “sir.”

Displeasure snapped in her expressive eyes, and she wagged her hand. Shaking his head, Robert followed her pointed finger and the room lurched. He managed a jerky nod.

The woman peered down her nose at him. He frowned. As the future Duke of Somerset, he was sought after by young ladies, his presence desired by the most distinguished hostesses, and yet, not once had anyone ever condescended to look at him like this fiery-eyed woman whose sneer penetrated even his drunken stupor. Did she see him as the same reckless, witless dandies who wagered away their fortunes and drowned themselves in spirits nightly? “I’ll have you know, I do not drink in excess,” he slurred. For, somehow, being viewed in that same, unfavorable light, grated.