While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(57)

Lord Strickland nodded, looking bemused and still much too knowing. He turned his attention to folding his newspaper and setting it aside.

Struan chose that moment to lean close and whisper for her ears alone. “This time you win. Enjoy it. For the next time the victory will be mine. You’ll see what happens when you run from me.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms in a gesture of bravado and ignoring how his promise sent goose bumps rushing across her skin.

“Laugh now, kitten. The next time there won’t be anyone around to save you.”

“Stop calling me that,” she hissed uselessly.

Her face burned at his gravelly whisper so close to her ear. She knew she should be worried. Even a little scared. But the only thing she could wonder was how soon he might try to catch her again.





Chapter 21




She sat with Lord Strickland beside Marcus’s bed for a good hour, listening with interest as he regaled her with stories of his boyhood with the duke, including their years together at Eton. Mackenzie left early in the conversation—no doubt he did not wish to hear of the childhood he was denied. Whatever the reason, it allowed her to actually concentrate on what the earl was saying and attempt to put the vexing Mackenzie from her mind.

When she emerged from the duke’s bedchamber much later, she glanced around uneasily, almost expecting Mackenzie to pounce on her. After his warning, could one blame her? Things felt very unfinished between them.

Fortunately, she did not cross paths with Mackenzie. She was able to locate her sister without incident.

She found Bryony in her bedchamber, changing into warmer clothes to go on a walk with Clara and Enid. She tossed clothing from her armoire with frustrated tsks, as though she always possessed an extensive wardrobe and the addition of several new ensembles was not anything novel or spectacular. It occurred to Poppy that aside of being born to great beauty her sister was perhaps meant to belong to the upper echelons of Society. She had no difficulty navigating the social waters of the aristocracy. In fact, fourteen-year-old Clara seemed a bit in awe of Bryony.

“I’ve nothing to wear!” Bryony sighed, propping a fist on her hip.

“Try the plum-colored wool,” she suggested.

Bryony seized the wool dress with undisguised glee. “We’re gathering holly and mistletoe,” she exclaimed excitedly as though they would be gathering gold bullion. It gave Poppy a pang to realize how very much her sister’s life was lacking for her to take such intense pleasure in tasks that were very ordinary for others.

“Delightful,” she murmured distractedly, trying to think how best to broach the subject of Mackenzie with her sister.

“Bryony,” she began, deciding directness the best approach. Struan was not a man to be trifled with and her sister needed to realize that. “About Mr. Mackenzie . . .”

Bryony’s cheeks colored prettily for a moment. “Spying on me, Poppy?”

“I just happened upon the two of you . . . as anyone else could do. The stables are hardly private. Not that you should be anywhere in private with that man,” she said archly. “You really must have a care. He’s not a gentleman. Once a lady’s reputation is lost, it is no easy matter to repair.”

“I’m not an idiot!” Bryony snapped. “I know about such things.”

“Do you?”

“I know how to handle myself.” She began brushing her hair, savagely pulling the bristles through the rich auburn mass.

“With the likes of Mr. Mackenzie? I fear you do not. You are quite out of your depths with him.” They both were. “He is much more . . . experienced than you, Bryony.”

“You don’t think he likes me,” she accused, propping her hands on shapely hips.

Poppy sighed. Did she think this would be a simple conversation? There was nothing easy about Bryony these days. “On the contrary, I fear he might like you too much, but you’re much too young and he’s not the sort of man to settle down and offer matrimony.”

“If you, of all people, can win over a duke, I should be able to win over Mr. Mackenzie.”

Poppy jerked at the not so veiled insult. “Bryony, I’m only concerned—”

“No, you’re not! You’re jealous!”

“Jealous!” She worked her lips but no other words would come out.

“That’s right! Your duke is on his deathbed and you don’t like that I’m the one getting all the attention from a handsome man.” Her sister snatched up her muff and marched toward the door. “And don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Mr. Mackenzie either.”

She gaped after Bryony, speechless. If her sister had noticed something afoot between Struan and herself, who else had noticed?

With one hand on the door latch, Bryony’s razor-sharp eyes flashed with a fine fury as she accused, “You already have the duke, must you have Mr. Mackenzie, too?”

At that charge, Poppy found her voice. “Bryony! It’s not like that!”

Shaking her head, the girl yanked the door open. Before storming out, she cast one last withering glare at Poppy. “You make me so mad! I can’t wait until I’m married and you can’t tell me what to do anymore!”

Poppy had never seen her sister look at her in such a way. It was definitely not sisterly. No, she glared at her like she was a . . . rival.