The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,28

on the run no less, and now found herself attracted to a duke. She would’ve laughed if she hadn’t received her body’s appalling warning in the dungeon. While she struggled to solve this puzzling dilemma, the nightingale called again. She pointed in the direction of the sound. “Do you hear that?”

Lady Hazelton tilted her head, flaxen curls tumbling over her shoulder. A classic portrait, a delicate English rose in need of love and care. “I think so.”

Delaney closed her eyes and slipped into her attic. Found Charles Johnson Maynard’s Naturalists' Guide, read two pages and slipped back. “Nightingales get their name from the Old English for night songstress. Only males can sing. Isn’t that unfair?” She grunted and tapped her bottom lip in consideration. “But it’s the way the world works. The male in the species has more vivid coloring and certainly more freedom.”

“You’re the American,” Lady Hazelton whispered, as if it were not only a secret but also an affliction. “One of the Terrible Two. The one who kissed the duke in the park.”

Delaney shrugged, unable to compose a creative response to the use of that silly moniker, when it was said everyone in London must be saddled with one. Perversely, she rather liked it. After all, the day the ton gave her a nickname was the only day she’d been noticed. “I didn’t kiss him,” she finally said, exasperated but unsurprised that the rumor was gaining traction. “I was saving his life. Forcing air into his lungs after he passed out from an allergic reaction. It was science, nothing more.”

“My word, that sounds different than the scandal sheets had it.” She patted her ample chest with a breathy sigh, fresh femininity on display. Delaney was charmed and repelled. “Goodness. I realized the League was growing, but they’ve reached as far as the colonies.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand. I have no gift. I’m just very good at memorization. I’m only here to help with research.” And to ferret out information so my blackmailer doesn’t sell my secret to the highest bidder. She bumped back against the step with a muted sigh. Which she didn’t suppose would happen now that the Duke of Ashcroft knew she had a blackmailer.

“Yes, yes, this makes sense. Research. Julian, Viscount Beauchamp, is always researching our world.”

Delaney hummed without comment.

“It’s laughable that I worry about any woman who shows up at this estate, isn’t it? Although he hasn’t officially proposed, it’s more of an understanding. I mean, Ashcroft can’t possibly marry a commoner. He’s still a duke, no matter how supernatural his talent. And the duchess being in the League will be very beneficial. Everyone has told me this. And his wife must be aware, fully aware, of his…that is, I don’t know what may happen during…” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and cast her gaze to her slippers. “What if he started a fire during the, well, during”—she glanced over her shoulder, then continued in a softer tone—“the act? What if I pull my ghosting trick? How do we make babies from that?”

Delaney gestured to the handkerchief Lady Hazelton had twisted in her fist, willing to go down any conversational path that ended this one. The act. Dear God. “Would you like to talk about why you were crying?”

Lady Hazelton flushed, a lovely sweep of rose across her décolletage. It was a neat trick; few women could make embarrassment look enticing. “Oh, it’s nothing. A paltry matter of humble concern. I’m foolish, or so my father tells me. And my brother. My mother. Juliette, my companion.” She fluttered the handkerchief like she was signaling the start of a race, her gaze shooting to the sky. “But you see, I want my husband to adore me. Not only a compulsory arrangement, a suitable match. A woman who can provide an heir for the offer of security and a home. I’ve always dreamed of a man who loses thought when he sees me, like Mr. Darcy did when he met Elizabeth. Even if I have this ability, does that mean I can’t have love, too?”

What to say…? Delaney opened her mouth, then pressed her lips together, because her advice, when she’d run it quickly through her mind, was judicious but harsh, inviting the possibility of more tears. Because Lady Hazelton expected a response, she made do with another low hum.

“It’s not what I anticipated, you see. Darcy never started fires, except in Elizabeth’s heart. Why, Ashcroft shows more interest in his hounds. Darcy never left