The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,11

brother, Delaney felt the need to explain. To defend herself against a talent she couldn’t help having, one she’d never told Case, told anyone, everything about. “It’s nothing. I have a good memory. I read quickly, I remember.” It’s not like starting fires.

“You don’t find Ashcroft attractive? Is that it? He does have a fierce scowl on his face every time I see him. Known for his bitter disposition.”

Delaney paused, her heart doing a fearful skitter. In her mind, a dictionary opened. Pulchritude. Middle English, from Latin pulchritudin.

Beautiful.

His eyes…and that hair.

“He can’t help us,” she whispered as the dictionary closed. “Don’t expect it. Not these people. They’re the ones I’m supposed to gain information from, not give it to. Our secret only remains under lock and key if I partake in the exchange. I’m doing what’s best for both of us. What’s essential.”

“You have to pull every loose thread, Del, make things fall apart in your hands?”

If only there were another way to save us.

If only.

Chapter 4

Sebastian woke with a start, chased his hand down his chest to find the knife he usually kept in his waistcoat pocket missing.

Hell, the waistcoat was missing.

A burst of air carrying the scent of peony and coal wafted through the open window of a bedchamber unfamiliar to him. With a groan, he rose to his elbow, sending the room spinning and the Soul Catcher tumbling from his fingers to the faded carpet.

“It’s not there...your knife. The little bandit, Simon, took it. The pistol, too. Although your guards are armed, so it’s a moot point,” the sultry voice that had delightfully occupied his dreams called from the darkness. “Don’t start a fire to see me, though it is quite the parlor trick. Wait a moment. I’ll adjust the gasolier.” Soft footfalls sounded as Delaney Temple crossed the room. “I don’t need more torched furnishings. You got a curtain last time. This bedroom is starting to look like the inside of a hearth, blackened at the edges.”

“I don’t give two shits about your furnishings,” Sebastian whispered weakly and sank to the mattress, throwing his arm over his eyes. “And it’s bedchamber, on this side of the ocean.”

“Semantics.” Seconds later, a flood of golden light struck his sealed lids.

Fucking bees, he groused but didn’t utter the crude sentiment. “How long have I been down?” It felt like centuries, his throat parched, his body aching. The side of his neck where he’d been stung swollen and tender to the touch. Defenseless as a babe. Before a stranger, someone outside the League, outside his purview. His doctor had said the next incident would kill him, but somehow, due to this peculiar woman, it had not.

“Three days.” She crossed to the sideboard, poured liquid in a glass. The clink of a spoon against crystal as she mixed something in. “Every time we tried to move you, your breathing stuttered, making your rather eccentric assortment of friends frantic. So here you remain, in my home, if you hadn’t gathered.”

“Plain, if you please. The water. A rather desperate request, however, as my throat feels like the Sahara.” He wrestled to a sit, reclining awkwardly against the headboard to gaze across the dimly-lit chamber at the woman who’d saved his life. Without her, he’d have died in the mud alongside Rotten Row, the track’s dust washing over him as he drew his last. When someone saved your life, you owed a debt, a realization that brought the Duke of Ashcroft no pleasure. But the noble side of him, the soldier, couldn’t forget. “No more of whatever draught you’ve been giving me. As my physician would tell you, although I know I didn’t allow you to contact him, I’m not the best candidate for medicinal interventions.”

Delaney peered at the glass in her hand, then over her shoulder. And he almost—almost—smiled. Her smoke-gray eyes were round as halfpennies.

“I appreciate your incredulity. An opium-addicted duke isn’t the norm. But the drug was, at times, beneficial to surviving the process. Of living, that is. Until it started being the reason to live.”

After pouring a new drink, she returned to his bedside. She was strikingly lovely, but unlike most women in his set, one who enchanted without effort. Plain clothing, modest jewelry. An unflinching gaze, weighty confidence for a young woman; he wasn’t sure how to measure her.

“I’m speechless, Your Grace.”

With a grunt, he drained the glass in two long pulls. “I should feel fortunate for that, I imagine.”

“Careful,” she advised and settled into the armchair beside the