Dukes By the Dozen

As he advanced, Emmaline’s relief gave way to nervous excitement, and a strange angst settled in her chest. It felt vaguely like the anxiety she’d experienced this morning when she’d realized she’d never make it to the park in time—a scare that only now opened her eyes to how very much she looked forward to seeing him every day.

And yet, it was different, too. Warmer and…and more achy. A desire to be with him that was unsettling and stirring and…imperative.

His long legged strides were twice her own, so she’d barely made halfway to the bridge when he and Duke reached her.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—” she began.

“Is everything all right?” he asked at the same moment.

His handsome face creased with concern as his eyes searched her face and form.

She brought her hands up to her flushed cheeks, only now imagining how she must look. A fright, she’d wager, having practically run across half of Mayfair. Her hair had likely slipped her coiffure and she’d be shocked if her skin hadn’t gone blotchy.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He gave her a doubtful look, and she tried to decide if he questioned her answer or her sanity. Then he glanced behind her. “Are you all alone? Where is your maid?”

She flushed deeper. She was breaking the cardinal rule of marriageable young ladies: Thou shalt never find oneself unchaperoned with a gentleman—much less an unsuitable one.

Should anyone come across them, particularly with her pink cheeks and her hair all askew, she’d be ruined.

A thought she’d never considered before struck her: If she were to be compromised by a gentleman not of the aristocracy, would he still be honor-bound to marry her?

She didn’t know.

But she needn’t worry. While she still didn’t know her knight’s name, she knew him to be honorable. They’d talked of everything and nothing in their short time together. Yet every word he’d spoken, every story he’d told of his youth or the lessons he’d learned in his life or the literature that had touched his heart, made her admire him more.

Still, she imagined her father’s rage at the daughter he’d intended for a duke marrying a mere mister instead. The thought brought a bitter smile. If her father cared about what truly mattered, he’d be proud to have such a man as a son-in-law.

If only.

“I ran out of the house so quickly, I didn’t have time to wait for her,” she said, breathless now at the intensity of his hazel gaze. “I was afraid…”

“Afraid?” he asked, his voice delving into a low rumble.

She understood what he was asking. Understood, too, what his waiting in the cold for her for nearly an hour signified.

Emmaline swallowed to wet her suddenly dry throat. All she had to do was have the nerve to say it aloud, and it would be out there. Between them.

I find you quite brave, he’d said that first morning they’d met.

His words gave her courage now.

“That I would be too late and you would think I no longer cared. I was afraid you would leave and never come back,” she rushed out. “I wouldn’t know where to look for you and—” She licked her lips, bracing herself to say the rest. “I couldn’t bear not seeing you again. You are the best part of my day.”

She wasn’t sure what response she’d expected, but this charged silence wasn’t it. Gradually, she became aware of the morning sounds of the park—of birds chirping, water lapping gently against the mud bank, even a goose honk in the distance. But not a word from him.

His face, which she’d once likened to a master’s painting, now reminded her of sculpted marble instead—still a work of art, but less approachable.

Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Had she misread him? Had she made a fool of herself?

“Please,” she whispered. “Say something.”

He reached for her hand instead, grasping it in both of his and bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his mouth gloriously warm and firm on her skin. His eyelids fluttered closed, as if he were savoring her, yet Emmaline couldn’t take her gaze from him. All of the tension of the morning, all her worries, fled as joy burst through her.

A long moment later, he lifted his head, but didn’t relinquish his grasp. “Your hands are cold,” he said roughly.

She laughed. “Yes, I was in such a rush to get to you, I didn’t think to grab my gloves.”

He reached for her other hand then, and brought them together palm to palm, pressing hers between his own as if in dual supplication. Lending her his warmth. But she didn’t need it. Just knowing he might feel something of what she did for him heated her from within.

“We should get you home, then,” he said.

She shook her head. “No.”

Emmaline didn’t care if she froze to death. This opportunity wouldn’t come again, to spend time with him alone—no one trailing along behind them, listening to every word.