Dukes By the Dozen

“I can’t allow it,” he went on, removing his plain brown jacket and waistcoat. Though decently tailored, the fabrics were far from the finer cuts favored by the upper ten thousand, which relieved her mind further. He was not of her world. The chance that this encounter would make the rounds of ton gossip were slim.

She really should look away, Emmaline knew, even as color burned her cheeks. An unmarried lady oughtn’t see any man in just his shirt and trousers, and yet the grace of his movements—and the form they revealed—held her in thrall.

“With my luck, your skirts would drag you under and then I’d have your death, and the dog’s, on my conscience.”

With that, the man bent low, braced one hand on the bank and vaulted down into the water below with a splash that sent stinging cold droplets back up to wet her, too.

He cursed.

She didn’t fault him for it.

Emmaline watched in amazement as the man strode out into the water—first knee deep, then thigh, then waist—before finally accepting his fate and setting off with long, bold strokes toward the puppy.

She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he’d reached the dog, scooped the tired beast over one shoulder, and was headed back with the puppy safely tucked against him. She exhaled long and low.

As he reached the depth where he gained his feet again, Emmaline sucked in her breath anew. Dear God, the man looked like a hero of myth coming up out of that water. His shirt clung to him, as did his trousers, accentuating muscular shoulders and thighs and—oh my.

“Here,” he grunted when he reached the bank, thrusting the pup up with both arms.

“Oh!” Emmaline snapped back to the moment, bending down to take the dog, who immediately starting licking her face in gratitude, as if she were the one who’d swum out to save him instead of just running off a few geese. “Poor little thing is wracked with shivers,” she said as she tucked the wet dog against her chest.

“I can sympathize,” the man said wryly, then he placed his palms on the bank and jumped, pulling both of his knees up onto the ground first before coming lithely to his feet.

“Thank you for saving him,” Emmaline said, valiantly trying to avert her eyes from the dripping man. His light cotton shirt had been rendered rather see-through by the water, and though his trouser fabric seemed more substantial, it really wasn’t that

much more so. “And me,” she added quickly.

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, his teeth chattering only a little. “I was never one who could ignore a damsel in distress—or her dog.”

“Oh, he’s not mine.” Emmaline bent to retrieve her cloak with the hand that wasn’t cradling the dog. She offered the garment to the man, but he shook his head, so she swung it around her shoulders and wrapped the front around the pup in her arms.

“But I think he shall be,” she said, using the cloak to rub the pup dry. Upon closer inspection, he was an adorable little thing—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, if she wasn’t mistaken. “Won’t you, sweet boy?” she cooed to the dog. “I think I shall call you Duke.”

“Duke?” the man said, eyeing the dog’s stature with a raised chestnut brow. “A lofty name for such a small creature. Why Duke?”

Emmaline snorted, remembering her heated discussion with her father over breakfast. With the Duke of Albemarle’s recent death, there might soon be a newly-belted unmarried duke in town, and the expectation had been made clear.

“Because I’ve been ordered to land a duke,” she muttered bitterly. Her eyes widened. Had she said that aloud?

She glanced at the man, but an easy smile played about his beautiful lips, as if her slip of the tongue hadn’t registered. Of course, the matrimonial woes of the aristocracy likely didn’t concern him. She decided to play her words off as a jest, so she kicked her own lips up into a grin and added a jaunty shrug.

“And now, with your help, I have.” She turned her voice softer, speaking to the puppy now, bringing her face close to his. “And you’re the only Duke I intend to have in my life, aren’t you?”

The pup licked her nose as if to agree.

Emmaline was saved from digging herself in deeper by a running Molly, brandishing a carriage blanket in front of her like a sword on a battlefield.

Everything happened quite quickly then. The man gratefully accepted the blanket from the maid, wrapping himself in the coarse wool before making to leave—most likely so that he didn’t freeze to death.

Emmaline offered to drop him in her carriage—it was the least she could do, she insisted—but the man demurred. He offered to return the laundered blanket if she would but give him her direction, but she told him it wasn’t necessary and they parted ways without even exchanging introductions.

It was better that way, she knew, given the improperness of their meeting. And given their difference in station, it was unlikely she would ever see the man again.

But as she watched him walk away toward Rotten Row and Kensington Road beyond, she found herself wishing it wasn’t so.

CHAPTER 2