The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,14

than a duke and his unfortunate allergy to bee stings had already involved her.

“Well, well, this night is full of surprises. Here I am, looking at the stars and wishing this teacup was filled with gin, and what do I find? A young man peering into my window with a perplexed look on her, I mean his, face. A young man with riding boots more costly than a year’s lease on many a hovel in this city, creatively scuffed though they may be. A young man, I suspect, in the midst of a caper.” Sebastian issued a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Disdainful, whatever it was. “The good news is, with you to entertain me, I no longer need opium.”

Delaney bit the inside of her cheek and glanced over her shoulder. Moonlight speared the yard, diluted by the choking haze that seemed a never-ending part of this blighted city, but it was enough. The Duke of Ashcroft leaned casually against her garden wall, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other wrapped around a teacup that looked ridiculously fragile in his grasp, shirttail flowing over his hips, collar and cuffs absent. His voice was polished and precise, all that was English refinement, but the man looked more bandit than duke. He would have fit in well on the high seas with a sword tucked in his fist.

Appealing, this juxtaposition, because she was foolish and attracted to trouble.

Only foolish people liked life’s petite calamities.

“Come and let me look at this disguise of yours.” Snaking his hand from his pocket, he beckoned with a crook of his finger, and her blood simmered as it galloped through her veins. Anger and attraction. “What one chooses to hide behind is usually a self-portrait.”

She cursed sharply and stalked from the garden, sure his frailty would render him unable to catch her. Of all the arrogant…he had no sway over her, no influence, no control. But he was quick, although winded, when he reached her, grasping her arm and spinning her to face him with a surprising show of might. “You’re mad if you think you’re marching out of here at midnight dressed like that.”

“I have a meeting, and I’m not going to miss it. Unhand me, Tremont. I’m not one of your withering English roses.” She yanked on her arm, but he only tightened his hold.

“Does your brother, the better half of the Terrible Two, know about this?”

Oh, he wanted to get her that way. Men. She balled her hands into fists, refusing to answer. Which was all the answer he needed.

“Shall I find him, ask him to provide proper accompaniment?”

“You mongrel.” And with this yank, Sebastian released her.

“I wish I were, as my life would be easier,” he volleyed, and gave his shirt a rough tuck into his trousers, displaying a long, lean body she’d been trying to ignore since the moment it had landed at her feet.

“You’re not going with me.”

“Oh, yes, Temple, I am.” Recapturing her wrist, he dragged her across the lawn, releasing her only long enough to snatch his coat from the garden wall and shove his arms into it, sending the teacup he’d forgotten about flying.

She pointed to the men loitering in the shadows. “Call off your contingent, or I won’t agree to this. Not for one moment, will I agree to it.”

He worked his broad shoulders into his coat, then gave a royal salute that sent his guards gliding into the miasma.

“And you can’t go looking like”—she gestured to his rumpled clothing that, even in a sad state, did little to conceal his martial bearing—“a prince who’s just stepped from the shop of the second-best tailor in the city. You’ll garner too much attention.”

“Best in the city,” he corrected and reached, ripping his coat lapel until it dangled mid-chest. Then he did something that, one, took her breath, and two, proved how susceptible she was to his abrasive charm. Tunneling his hand through his hair, he brought those glorious, overlong strands across his brow and into his face, hiding part, but not enough, of his beauty. “Let’s go.”

“Should you have to speak, can you fake an accent that doesn’t sound like a blessed king’s?” Delaney asked, as he hauled her toward the mews running alongside her townhouse.

“Doubtful. I went to Cambridge.”

She grimaced. Perfect. “Then keep your trap shut, your head down. If anyone sees your eyes, the jig is up. Oh, and hunch your shoulders; you’ve got to be about the tallest man in England.”