The Art of Duke Hunting Read Free

thanked her for saving his life. That reminded her. “I saved your life.”
    “Sorry?”
    “I’ll enunciate better, Your Grace. I. Saved. Your. Life.”
    “What is your name, madam?”
    “Esme March, Countess of Derby,” she dipped the smallest curtsy possible, “at your service even if you aren’t at mine. May I see to that gash?”
    “No.” He showed not an ounce of recognition.
    How lowering. “It’s the least you could do since I saved your life.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ll tell every last sodding person in London you saved my life if you give me the key.” His voice rose with each syllable.
    She smiled and hoped it didn’t appear sincere. “But the winds have died. Why are you acting so oddly and what is so bloody important to you out there?” She was proud of herself for swearing. She so rarely had an opportunity to try it unless she was in private. And blasphemy was much more fun with two.
    He stared at her and those strange eyes of his bored into hers with an intensity she felt down to her toes—just like the first time she had seen him in a ballroom, and he had not noticed her.
    “Ships sink.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If you can swim, you are far less likely to drown if you’re on deck. You won’t be able to open that door”—he nodded to hers—“with the weight of water pushing against it. It’s simple science.”
    His words made a small amount of sense, and so she locked away the schoolmarmish tone from her words. “Of course. But I really don’t think we have anything to worry about now. Don’t you agree? The Drake is new and well built—such fine craftsmanship.”
    He closed those unnerving eyes of his. “ The Drake ? This ship is named The Drake ?” He seemed to moan.
    He might be a handsome devil with that ancient noble mien, but his wits were scrambled. Right. She walked to the secured water jug, poured a good portion in a bowl and dipped a piece of linen in it. Crossing the space, she faced him. “May I?”
    He didn’t move. She wiped his face with clean water and dabbed at the cut on the upper edge of his forehead. She almost recoiled when she noticed a familiar licorice scent almost oozing from his being. Absinthe . One of her beloved deceased husband’s poisons of choice. She held her breath and forced herself to say not a word lest she lose her grip on common civility.
    When she was done, she dropped the linen and he stepped on it so she could upend the bowl over his head to sluice the salt from his face and clothes. Silently, she repeated the steps to cleanse herself. After scrubbing her face dry, she offered him a new scrap of linen too.
    “Are you ever going to tell me what was going on out there?” she finally asked.
    “I was preparing to die, madam. You must be one of the few in England who hasn’t heard of the Norwich Curse.”
    “Oh, I know all about the ‘Duke of Duck Curse.’ ” Why, she knew more about it than anyone. But now was certainly not the time to tell him she was a direct descendant of the initiator. She certainly didn’t want to play, ahem, ducks and drakes with his sanity.
    He pokered up. “We prefer the other reference.”
    The vessel immediately dipped ominously and both stumbled sideways. His eyes glazed over as his face paled. He looked ready to lose his bearing again and so she dragged him to the sole bunk in her cabin to urge him to sit.
    “Rest for a moment,” she urged. Esme crossed the space to pour a tin cup of water for each of them and then returned to offer him one.
    As she watched him drink, she suddenly remembered. Remembered hearing what had happened to his brother all those years ago. The duke had every right to be terrified, especially since he obviously had not an idea why he was on the ship. If she had to wager on it, she would guess it had something to do with the royal entourage, the infamous rapscallion band of dukes who walked hand in glove with the Prince Regent, and of which he was a