While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(2)

He doffed his head politely. “Good day, Mrs. Barclay.” He inclined his head toward Poppy, always ever the gentleman, but did not address her. Likely he had forgotten her name.

“What can we assist you with today, Your Grace? Tulips? These just arrived. Even in this unseasonably warm winter they are still hard to come by, even from the hothouses, but you can trust Barclay’s to have them for you, Your Grace.”

He thoughtfully considered the blooms. “I don’t think so.” He lifted his head and scanned the shop, his gaze stopping on Poppy—or rather the pair of lemon saplings beside her. “Those are lovely.”

He closed the space separating them, hands clasped behind his back. The duke stopped before Poppy and leaned in to inhale the lemon saplings. The young trees were almost her height, which brought his fine aquiline nose very close to her shoulder. Her lungs ceased to draw air.

Blast, but he smelled nice.

“Would you like these?” Poppy managed to get out past her lips. Seeing that the duke was well attended, Mrs. Barclay turned her attention back to the new arrangement of flora.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I think I shall take two.”

“Lovely.” She fixed a smile on her face. “Would you like them delivered, Your Grace, or—”

“Yes.” He removed a card from his pocket and slid it toward her. “To this residence. And can you tie a ribbon and bow around the trunks or some such?” He gestured with a flick of his hand.

She nodded, fumbling for the spools of ribbon. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The duke turned that devastating smile of his upon on her. “Splendid.” He turned his attention out to the window, perusing the street and forgetting her.

Disappointment punched her in the chest as she fumbled with ribbon. What was she expecting? For him to lavish her with his undivided attention? She’d said nothing clever or amusing.

Think, Poppy. Be witty.

She finished wrapping each slight trunk with yellow-and-green striped bows. Following that, she marked the transaction in Mrs. Barclay’s ledger so that the expenditure could be deducted from the duke’s retainer.

“There we are now,” she announced with a touch of too much effusiveness. Trying too hard, Poppy. Trying too hard.

Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Here you are, my lord.” She turned and plucked a card off the counter, handing it to him to write a personal note. Her pulse kicked a little harder as their fingers brushed. He bent his head and jotted a quick message, not affected by the contact. Finished writing, he lifted his head and returned the card to her.

“It shall be delivered this afternoon,” she assured him.

“Very good.” He touched the rim of his hat. “Until next time.”

Mrs. Barclay called farewell as he departed the store.

Poppy drifted to the storefront window and peered at his departing form between the buckets of flowers on display for passersby. She couldn’t help herself. Mrs. Barclay was preoccupied and he cut such a fine figure strolling down the sidewalk that he beckoned her gaze.

The street was not yet crowded this early in the morn. She was so absorbed on him, fantasizing that he might stop abruptly, swivel around and meet her stare with his own in some epiphanic moment of recognition that she did not immediately notice he had stopped and was talking to someone.

She dragged her gaze away from Autenberry and examined the stranger in front of him.

If possible, the man was even taller than the duke, standing well over six feet. He was a veritable giant. Broad shouldered in his great coat. Remarkably, he was without a hat in the wretched cold as though he were impervious to the winter. His dark gold hair was a rare spot of lightness amid the dreary, fog-ridden morning.

There was something familiar about him. Perhaps he had come into the shop before. He was handsome, although not as beautiful as Autenberry. Even though the stranger dressed as a gentleman he had a certain roughness to him. A harshness that reminded her of the men she’d seen working the docks. A face carved from granite. Locked jaw. Hard eyes. A brutal slash of unsmiling lips. He was not a man one would wish to cross. The thought popped unbidden into her head and she gave a small shiver, her gaze returning to her beloved duke—just as Autenberry pulled back his arm and brought it crashing into the stranger’s face.

The crack reverberated through the air, finding her ears even where she stood inside the shop. Her hands flew to her mouth, stifling her sharp cry of dismay. The big man staggered back a step from the force of the blow, his head whipping to the side. He froze for what felt like an endless moment when her heart ceased to beat. When all air ceased to pass through her lips and into her lungs.

Then he moved with the suddenness of a coil sprung. He pounced, striking Autenberry in turn. The duke staggered and did not have time to recover before the stranger was on him again.

Not about to stand by whilst the duke was pounded to an inch of his life, she sprang to action and stormed from the shop.

She was not the only one to take notice. A small crowd formed. A pair of riders on horseback stopped and dismounted. Not to stop the fight, merely to observe and call out encouragement. The shopkeeper next door, a haberdasher, emerged with a gaping customer, watching as the two men clashed, delivering savage blows that elicited cringes and cries from onlookers.

Mrs. Barclay emerged to clasp her arm. “What on earth?” she exclaimed.