The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,87

from a bee sting. But Sebastian’s rejection had destroyed her, an unimaginable wound for a woman who’d never invited anyone, outside her twin and her duke, inside her lonely little attic.

The carriage rumbled over a crater in the road and tossed her against the velvet squabs. She glanced out the window, not knowing exactly where the conveyance took her, only that they’d traveled northwest of the city and had recently entered a stretch of woodland, a lake shimmering in the distance, charming stone cottages edging the roadway. She’d gone into her attic and studied a map, only to determine her treasures didn’t always provide answers. Hadn’t Sebastian once told her that reading about things doesn’t bring them to life?

The air was crisp, the scent of pine, earth and approaching rain circling the carriage’s luxurious interior. With a joyous smile she didn’t try to contain, she breathed deeply of her future.

He’d taken her dare. Sebastian had come for her.

In the summons, he’d sent Dickens, the book’s page marked with a bright blue ribbon attached to his signet ring, and his carriage. She’d climbed inside without changing into more formal dress, without asking a single question of his liveried footmen or her guards, such was her need to see him. Seven impossibly long days without him had shown her how unprepared she was to enforce her threats. Impose her will.

He loved her, loved their baby.

His love, even if it necessitated his absence, would have to be enough.

A stray sunbeam shot through the window and struck the tiara sitting on the opposite seat, dispatching a brilliant, faceted burst across the carriage walls. She reached, then pulled her hand back. The piece was dazzling, like nothing she’d ever seen. Scrolled platinum flowers set with sapphires, pearls and diamonds. It was elegant and pretentious, and she loved it upon first sight, like the man who’d given it to her. She’d visited her attic and determined it was likely designed in the mid-1500s, older than the country she was from.

It was a tiara fit for a duchess.

An invitation to be his. But on his terms.

After all, she was a humble girl from South Carolina who’d somehow fallen in love with a duke. So she kept her hands to herself but her eye on her tiara, wondering what Sebastian was set to offer. And what she could accept.

In the distance, the peaked roofs and spires of a city loomed on the horizon. Leaning from the window, she laughed and caught the eye of the coachman, who appeared startled before a broad smile lit his face. They traversed a narrow stone bridge over a thin river, angling between a set of low-slung buildings before turning onto a major thoroughfare. Wagons and hacks fought for space amidst a line of carts selling sweetmeats and pies. And young men, everywhere. Students. Racing across the jammed street and gathering in groups on the corners.

Delaney laughed, understanding dawning. Oxford. Sebastian had brought her to Oxford.

They passed a row of timber-framed dwellings with various shops on the first floor, then a set of medieval buildings made of bleached stone. Headington stone, she remembered from her research, sourced from a nearby quarry and used to construct many of the university’s towers, cathedrals and colleges.

Delaney waved to a group of students who, after a stunned moment, waved back. A rather imprudent young man even whistled. She winked and pulled herself back into the carriage as it halted in front of a set of buildings across from a large park. Keble College was easily identifiable, the crimson brick differing vastly from the sedate limestone typical of Oxford’s architecture. Controversial for its incorporation of color, the college stood out boastfully, exalting in its distinction.

Rain began to fall, plinking the carriage roof in noisy pops. The steps lowered with a creak as the door opened, then a footman’s hand shot into the interior. But it wasn’t a footman’s hand, gloveless, the scar on his wrist snaking into his neat cuff. Delaney leaned forward and peered out. And there he was, her duke. Dressed in black, except for his snowy-white cravat, looking impermeable and ducal. Glancing down at the faded gown she’d worn to dig in the garden, she shrank back against the squabs in horror. She should have changed. Must he always catch her unaware?

“Oh, no,” he murmured and climbed a step, took her arm and brought her off the seat and against his body. “You’re not getting away from me. Never again.” Tilting her head, he looked