The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,12

bed. Tucked a rebellious strand of hair the color of a midnight sky into the cavalier knot on her head. “Not too fast, or it will come back up.”

“A charming pronouncement from a charming woman.” Nevertheless, he refrained from asking for more water because she was probably right. God knows what he’d done to debase himself.

“That’s my intent, Your Grace, to be charming. The aim of every woman in England, so I’ll fit in.”

“As if, but it’s a solid ploy. You know, ‘Your Grace’ said in that flat American intonation doesn’t sound as reverent as it should.” He placed the glass on the bedside table and sank back, his strength drained from even this modest effort. “Or maybe it’s the little twist you give my honorific that makes it sound like a question. Dubious, the title and all that goes with it, I agree.”

“What should I call you then?”

He shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“In my country, you’d be plain, old Mister Tremont, as we don’t believe in titles. So, Tremont, answer me this.” She gave her lip a tap, staring at a point above his shoulder before pulling her ashen gaze to his. “Why did the fire in the hearth go out when Finn Alexander and his wife stepped in the room? It’s Victoria, I think. Every time she gets near you, whatever sparks you’re creating fizzle like I’ve doused them with water. I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out.”

He paused, surprised when nothing surprised him. As he’d told Julian and Finn—big brain, bad habits. “And you long to know.”

Delaney couldn’t hide her smile. “I so long to know.”

“That’s a relentless gaze you’re pinning me to the bed with, Miss Temple. I’m fairly sure it’s meant to coerce. When I like being pinned.”

A gasp—laughter?—slipped out, but the sound was pruned like a hedge she wanted to trim back. “Apologies. Women on my side of the ocean, as you put it, aren’t taught to look down.”

Irritated and regrettably aroused, Sebastian scratched at the dense stubble on his jaw and studied her, this intriguing creature. Here he was, making outrageously lewd comments, ones he’d never make to a woman of his station, and Delaney wasn’t running from the room. Or blushing.

Or going in for the kill and echoing his behavior.

What pluck, he thought with a sour smile. What daring.

Sebastian blew out an annoyed breath and traced the scar on his wrist until he lost it in his shirtsleeve. A gorgeous, supernaturally-gifted bundle of trouble who strangely ignited his dormant lust. And an American. Bloody hell.

Here goes nothing. “If I tell you one of my secrets, Miss Temple, which is what an answer to your question would be, then you have to tell me one of yours. A good start? How you came to know my middle name, seemed to stumble over it like a tree root snaking across your path. Like you’d read it in Debrett’s right there in front of me. When you held no book.”

Her fingers trembled on the curved arm of the chair, but her gaze never wavered. Not a flicker. Her bravery in the light of being caught, painted somewhat nebulously into a corner, impressed, he couldn’t lie. But what got him like a punch between his ribs, and deeper, in what might have been his heart, was her expression. One he recognized, not by sight but by life. Wounded and weary, as he’d looked when his father had plunged his hand in that fountain twenty-five odd years ago.

He’d not only looked, but been, alone.

But because of the League—Julian, Finn, Humphrey, Simon, Piper and Victoria—he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Is this a duke’s way of thanking someone for saving his life?” Delaney asked after a tight moment of silence, her lips puckered, the bottom enticingly, unnecessarily, plumper than the top.

Sebastian laughed, unable to call it back, a rusty sound that surprised them both. “By God, you are one brazen piece.” Suddenly dizzy, he dropped his head to the pillow, his vision beginning to spot. It was the first time he could recall a woman outplaying him. “Your kiss wasn’t a dream, was it?”

She hummed softly. “No. Although it was a resuscitation, not a kiss.”

“A resuscitation in front of all of London.”

She hummed again. “There was a crowd.”

“Should I propose?”

“Goodness, no, don’t be ridiculous. Princes can’t marry commoners,” she murmured and slid from her chair. He blinked to find her on her hands and knees, reaching beneath the bed.

The Soul Catcher. He’d nearly forgotten, when he never overlooked the gem