The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,57
she’d seen that had caused her to tumble from her horse. While he hadn’t told her everything about his father, his hands being plunged in a fountain only a taste of the abuse he’d suffered trying to be someone he wasn’t.
No choice to be anything but what you were told to be when you were a child.
But he was a man now—and fucking tired of pretending.
So, he started toward his lovely temptation, intent on breaking up her friendly conversation with the forger.
Even if he had no reason to intrude. No reason at all.
How long is he going to stand there staring. Delaney sent an arrow from her bow that was wrecked from the start. It sliced the air, fletchings quivering, to embed in the scarlet ring’s outer edge. Flustered, she glanced toward the rose thicket to find the duke gone. No. A gentle breeze carried his harassing scent past her nose.
Stifling an unladylike oath, she looked over her shoulder, and there he stood. Looking regal and indifferent —and so dashed handsome, it made her teeth ache. His long body clothed in more formal attire for some godawful reason, except for his shirt and cravat, cool, crisp black from head to toe.
“Temple,” he said, and nodded to the bow. “Archery is today’s effort to humiliate someone, I see.”
She smiled tightly, taking the jab without flinching. “Tremont.” She hadn’t grown up with a twin who harassed her at every turn without getting good at accepting blows. “The first recorded archery event took place in England in 1583. In Finsbury, wherever that is.” Plucking an arrow from the quiver on her back, she worked it into place with an audible click that meant she’d found the precise alignment. “Imagine, over 3000 participants.”
“Those are tidbits from the attic, I assume,” Sebastian murmured for just the two of them, a playful slice of intimacy the dreary morning didn’t need.
“Southeastern part of Islington, just outside London proper.”
Startled, she turned to Sir Kinkaid, who, with the arrival of her dashing duke, she’d forgotten was there. “Excuse me?”
“Finsbury, Miss Temple. The site of the first archery event.”
“Interesting,” Ashcroft murmured, as if it were anything but.
Sir Kinkaid took a step back, the air between the men swelling to a choking degree for no good reason. The way it did when one dog took sight of another dog and decided, this is someone I’d like to bite. Or piss on.
Delaney sighed. Men. She tapped Sir Reginald’s shoulder with her arrow, then Sebastian’s, knighting them. Which she found amusing, so she laughed, with absolutely no one joining in. “Sir Reginald Kinkaid, Sebastian Fitzgerald Tremont, the Duke of Ashcroft. Fourth, isn’t it, Tremont?”
“Fifth, going back to the first duke, who was born around the time of your archery event. Although he wouldn’t have attended, as he was a drunkard and a lothario,” Sebastian said, and took a bow from the rack. “All glorious details of my family history noted in your edition of Debrett’s.” Leaning close, too close, he slipped an arrow from her quiver with a grin she wanted to forcibly remove. He trailed the pointed tip up her forearm before lifting it free and fitting it to his bow. Goosebumps prickled the skin he’d touched, hidden beneath layers, thank goodness. But her knees trembled, which he’d likely noticed when she’d swayed. Damn him.
The men took each other’s measure with reluctant nods of recognition, disdain a swift current racing between them. After a moment, Sir Kinkaid doffed his hat and gestured to the house. “I’m scheduled to meet with Mister Alexander, so I’d best leave you to your competition.” He’d evidently decided they were going to have one. “Miss Temple.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. “Until we meet again. I would love to hear more about the colonies. Tea? Later this week?”
Behind her back, Delaney whacked Sebastian in the leg with her bow when he grunted. “I’d be delighted, Sir Kinkaid.” If only he had amber eyes and a wicked smile, was so tall she had to lean her head back to look into his face. If only he could start fires with the twitch of his fingers and make her laugh when she wanted to cry. If only he looked at her like he understood her better than anyone. Or wanted to.
When she was tempted to let him.
As they stood there in silent negotiation, the knight crossed the lawn, circled the house and disappeared into the mist.