The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,60
be exposed.
She’d been looking at the situation from the wrong angle.
The notes weren’t a threat. They were a plea.
From the ghostly young woman who’d appeared on the riding path just before Delaney had tumbled from her mount. She didn’t know how she knew this. She simply did.
She needed to tell someone—and there was only one person she wanted to tell.
Glancing at the mantel clock, she chewed on her thumbnail as the minutes ticked away. The footman stationed outside her door left his station to piddle or get a bite to eat at midnight. Propping her chin on her fist, Delaney tucked the note in her bodice and perched on her bed in anticipation. In preparation, she tugged off her boots. Bare feet made less noise.
Exactly thirteen minutes later, thudding footfalls sounded as her guard traveled down the hallway. Delaney’s bedroom, or bedchamber, as the duke’s staff liked to say, was on the second floor, which they called the first, when it was obviously the second. More British foolishness. If there’d been a half-decent tree outside her window, she’d have taken that route.
She descended the narrow service staircase leading to the dungeon, splatters of light from the gas sconces lighting her way. The walls were cool beneath her fingertips, the carpets vivid splashes of color against pale limestone, her soft footsteps echoing off the enclosed space.
The dungeon was deserted when she arrived, but Sebastian had left his violin on the desk, and his coat tossed across it, as if he’d departed in a hurry. Lifting the garment to her nose, she breathed deeply of his scent, yearning a furious tangle inside of her. The finely-woven wool smelled of leather and the faintest hint of smoke. Slipping her arms through the sleeves, which dangled well past her wrists, she huddled into it, seeking solace. The sharp tang of citrus suddenly surrounded her.
She hummed, inspiration riding on the fragrance.
The duke had an orangery he was known to frequent.
Yanking the hem of her gown above her ankles, she raced up the stairs, across the gallery and through the vacant kitchen. Shoving at the door that led to the side garden, she gasped as the chill hit her, dew instantly slicking her bare feet. Wrapping Sebastian’s coat tighter about herself, she took the gravel path that bordered the moat, cursing as stones pricked her feet. Sprinting so the eerie darkness didn’t have the opportunity to swallow her, she released shallow puffs through her teeth, heart pounding against the crimson silk lining Sebastian’s coat.
He’d be incensed when she found him, if she found him. She could effortlessly envision his expression, eyes hard, top lip curled over the bottom, jaw tight. She’d seen so many choleric frowns on the man’s face that her attic now contained a veritable slew of bitter images. Heavens, what was one more, she decided, and hopped over a log a stray moonbeam had mercifully illuminated lying across her path.
Sebastian was entitled to his contemptuous opinion of her. An opinion most of the ton shared. She was half of the Terrible Two, after all. Society had her pegged from the first flat syllable that fell from her lips. Hooligan, commoner, outcast. Too clever for her own good—or anyone else’s. While he was a duke. A soldier. Brash, educated, erudite. Near the tallest aristocrat in England, he needed further positive attributes like she needed more books in her attic. The sculptures she’d seen in the National Gallery could’ve been modeled after him, every carved-in-granite inch. The only objectionable thing she’d found, aside from his arrogance and general disdain for his fellow man, was his penchant for torching things, which he’d done an excellent job of hiding and could not, in all honesty, help.
The orangery was constructed of the same sandstone as the main house, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows running along one side, the leaded-glass panes wavering in the meager light. She took the flagstone path leading to the door, entering with a hesitant step. Showing up in his coat, feet bare, hair wild, cheeks flushed, seemed a dicey premise. Halting just inside the entrance, the greenhouse’s dense air rolled over her like a wave.
The bouquet was delightful. Rich, sensual, citrusy magic.
With the thinnest hint of smoke, of fire, beneath it.
A row of orange trees bordered the wall of windows, five, no, six, of the blooming citrus shrubs planted in enormous earthen pots. Sebastian knelt before the last pot, furthest from where she stood, hand buried wrist-deep in dirt, the other holding a trowel.