The Art of Duke Hunting Read Free Page A

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    Every English lady worth her weight in smelling salts had a favorite member of the royal entourage, and Norwich had always been Esme’s since the night many seasons ago when she had first spied him entering a gilded ballroom in Mayfair—his mother on one arm, his ravishing sister on the other. His intelligent, regal face full of angles had mesmerized her, and she had silently prayed his cool eyes would meet hers. But they had not. He had swept the room with a casual, arrogant gaze and she had not caught his eye even though she had been standing in prime view. And he had barely glanced at her later that evening when the Duke of Candover had introduced her along with a bevy of his sisters. Then again, this gentleman’s indifference to ladies with matrimony on their minds was legendary. Like all the other events she spied him attend afterward, he danced once with his mother, once with his sister, and then disappeared with members of the royal entourage. He was the most mysterious one of the tribe.
    But right now, there was not a hint of pride in the duke’s stark expression. He drank the last bit of water and returned the cup to her hand. His unguarded expression met hers and she could not stop herself from moving a step closer.
    She set the two cups on the side table, and then paused, trying to fight the intimacy of the moment. But the black despair she spied in his face broke her. She sat on the bunk beside him.
    R oman’s thoughts were perilously close to getting the better of him. He was even allowing a tall, spindly countess beyond the first blush (and second blush, most likely) to order him about. He’d be damned if he’d spend another second here, except that he was beyond weary to the bone and his head ached from slamming into the mast and suffering the ill effects of drinking too damn much.
    And she’d been wrong. The storm was regaining intensity now. The sounds of creaking wood made the blood pool in his ears and block his thoughts.
    Someone was speaking to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the countess for he was lost in the past, his brother’s last words swirling in his mind. He looked up to see her studying him and noticed she was shivering.
    Without thought, he grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her slim shoulders. He secured it about her, and a small sense of calm invaded his gut as he tended to her.
    A great horrid boom buffeted the air. He closed his eyes and listened so hard for the sound of breaking beams that he couldn’t breathe. Instead, he felt something ever so smooth course down his sideburns and cheek. And again. And then he felt it on both cheeks. He exhaled deeply. Roman opened his eyes to find her stroking his face. God, was he nothing but an infant to be coddled? It was not to be borne.
    “Listen to me,” she whispered. “It’s all right. Just take my hand in yours.”
    “Don’t cosset me,” he gritted out.
    “Why would I want to do that?” she replied with a casual shrug. “You’re as cross as a bear and half as pleasant.”
    She was damned good at dissembling. A crack of thunder broke his momentary lucidity. He jumped up and hit his head on the low hanging portion above the bunk and fell back. He eased onto the length of her bed as dizzying darkness retreated from the edges of his vision.
    Her gown rustled and he felt the small dip of the mattress as she lay down beside him. His head pounded with a vengeance.
    “Look,” her voice was so soft. “I know your story. It’s all right. Just lie here with me.” Her thin hand slipped into his.
    An ache in the back of his throat would not allow him to speak. The waves were crashing faster, and the pitch and sway of the ship made him feel like the jaws of death were within a hair’s breath. He fought the overwhelming desire to get the hell up. Find the blasted key. Sprint to the deck and climb the damned mast. Like before.
    “Please don’t,” she whispered as if she could read his mind.
    He