A Duke in Time (The Widow Rules #1) - Janna MacGregor Page 0,81
did you inherit it from your mother?” He smiled gently. “Perhaps your father.”
She clenched her hands tighter. Without looking down, she could tell her knuckles were turning white. “How did you know I was from York?”
“I made the assumption from the rose on your handkerchief.”
For a moment, her lungs refused to work as she struggled for a response. If Christian made that assumption, then Marlen Skeats would make that leap of logic too. He knew embroidery patterns and where they came from.
“Well, we were a typical York family.” What a bouncer. Could a person go to hell for lying? “My father traveled for business quite a bit. He was lost at sea. My mother never remarried.”
Better to experience an afterlife fanning the flames for Lucifer than forego the horror and pity that undoubtedly would cross Christian’s face if she told him the truth.
“Do you or Willa perchance know how to make Yorkshire pudding? Could you teach my cook?” When he grinned like that, he looked like a young lad, one who no doubt had charmed all the cooks in the kitchen to give him extra treats.
“Both of us do, and we’d be pleased to share our recipe.” Waves of relief spread through her at his change of subject.
Christian took her hand and raised it to his mouth. He pressed his lips against the skin before turning it over and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I should go.” He dropped her hand and stood. “Walk me to the door?”
She placed her hand on his outstretched arm. His forearm muscles twitched under her touch, reminding her that he was not only honorable, but a vibrant, perfect specimen of a man whom she desperately wanted.
Before she could finish the thought, they arrived at the door. Christian swept her into his arms and kissed her until she moaned in pleasure.
“I’ve wanted to do that since I left you last night,” he murmured against her lips. “All I’ve thought about today is you and me in this very room.” He nuzzled the side of her neck with his nose before pressing a reverent kiss on the tender skin below her ear.
“That’s all I’ve thought about too,” Katherine answered. She pulled back and absently played with the buttons on his jacket. “Do you trust Lord Sykeston?”
“With my life. He’s a good man.”
“I can’t help but wonder if he’ll marry her willingly. What if he says no?”
“We’ll think of something else. Don’t worry yet.” He pressed his lips against her forehead. “Keep the faith, Kat. Sykeston owes me a favor, so he’ll at least listen to Constance’s request.”
She shouldn’t ask, but curiosity got the better of her. “What does he owe you?”
“Everything,” he answered. “He owes me his life.”
Chapter Seventeen
The next evening, Christian stood overlooking Lord and Lady Halverton’s ballroom. For a small soiree, there seemed to be close to two hundred people below. He reached into the pocket of his evening coat and retrieved the piece of paper he’d untacked from the family portrait. Its location had been his father’s face.
For some odd reason, his usual loathing of his family and the enjoyment he experienced when he placed a new pin through his father or stepmother had diminished. It was as if those ever-present feelings had faded in importance.
Only to be replaced with Katherine. He wished she were here. Having her near would be a comfort in and of itself. He turned his attention to the paper where he’d penned a single word: Sykeston.
After his sister had married, Sykeston felt his patriotic duty required he join the war effort. Able to speak perfect French and German without any accent, the earl had traveled between British army camps with little interference. When he’d decided to return home after learning of his sister’s death, he’d been ambushed on his way out of camp. His leg had been shot and mangled in the process. Unable to walk, Sykeston’s death was guaranteed as the snipers were still shooting.
When they ceased fire to reload, Christian had galloped to him and swung Sykeston onto his horse behind him. A bellow, an ungodly sound that could only come from the hell of war, had exploded from his friend when he’d picked him up off the ground. It still rang clear in Christian’s memory.
Steps sounded behind him. One was a steady pace, and the other was an uneven gait accompanied by a walking stick. Without investigating, Christian could identify who was approaching.
“Randford,” called out Jonathan Eaton, the Earl of Sykeston.