The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,58

A nod is not a bow. The poor chap’s social education is lacking.”

Delaney turned on him, the force of her fury catching her by surprise. “You arrogant toad. We were having a civilized conversation when you burst in. I rather liked him. He was almost normal. While you, you’re a rude, flame-throwing brute!” Sensing her excitement, her puppy began to race around her legs in bouncy, barking circles. Squatting to pick him up, she cradled him against her chest and cooed soft words in his floppy ear.

Sebastian tapped the arrow on the pup’s head. “Would a flame-throwing brute give you such a wonderful present? And who the bloody hell wants normal over tea and crumpets while discussing the colonies? Sounds abhorrent.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“Hephaestus. I named him Hephaestus,” she dared, and looked him dead in the eye, her heart taking a hard, skittering thump while her face remained, thankfully, impassive. The duke’s valet had missed a spot on his jaw while shaving him, a teasing triangle she wanted to run her tongue over, sink her teeth into.

A smile started in Sebastian’s eyes and moved to his lips. “The god of fire.”

The significance of the name wasn’t lost on either of them. Nor was her acceptance of the gift or his intent in giving it.

They were, whether they liked it or not, getting closer. Playing a dangerous game, becoming this lost in each other after having shared only one kiss. A kiss that should’ve been meaningless, a forthright answer to a challenge. But instead, was much, much more.

He reached, his thumb dusting the bruise on her jaw. “You scared the life from me, Temple.” The words were hushed, the admission reluctant. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

Delaney closed her eyes to the sensation of his touch, the feeling of opening the door to her world and inviting Sebastian Tremont in.

“Uncle Bastian!”

Bastian. Her toes curled in her slippers as the name hissed through her mind. Bastian.

Sebastian dropped his hand and stepped back, putting a proper distance between them. A good thing, as the boy racing across the lawn propelled himself into the duke’s arms without a word of warning. “My, you get taller every time I see you,” he said, and gave the boy a toss in the air before lowering him to the ground.

The boy turned to her, blue eyes sparkling. She guessed this was Julian and Piper’s son, Lucien, from the look of him. His father’s eyes, his mother’s face. An enchanting mix that would one day serve him well. “Is that your puppy?” he asked, and wiped his nose with his coat sleeve.

Sebastian yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and thrust it at the boy, who used it to give his nose another swipe, then tucked the length of embroidered linen away without thinking to give it back to its owner.

“This is Miss Temple. Miss Temple, Lucien Hale Alexander, Baron Saxson.”

She crouched down until their eyes were level, trying hard not to laugh at a child of five or six having a title, a ridiculous crown placed on his head. Nonetheless, she loved children and rarely had the chance to interact with them, especially a baron. “He’s mine, indeed. As of only yesterday. I named him Hephaestus. Hep for short.”

Lucien reached for the puppy, who took a faltering leap into his arms without a hint of objection, where he proceeded to clean Lucien’s cheek with his tongue. They presented an adorable picture, standing there on the lush lawn, boy and dog. “You have a funny accent.”

“American.” She pointed into the distance. “Across the sea.”

Lucien wrinkled his nose. “I dreamed about that place. You had dogs there, too. And a field of fluffy white.” He gave Hep’s round, pink belly a tickle. “But not snow. And there was a girl, the sad one. The one in the wrong time.”

“Cotton,” she whispered raggedly, alarm tearing through her. Her gaze found Sebastian’s over Lucien’s head. The duke’s cheeks had gone pale as parchment. “I bet he’d like to play, Lucien, though stay where the duke and I can see you.”

Lucien giggled and put the puppy down, racing toward the archery target with Hep in close, yipping pursuit.

“Did you have cotton fields at home? I’ve read about them but never seen one.” Sebastian’s voice sounded beaten, worn. Their gifts being inherited was, she understood from conversations she’d had with Julian, what they all feared. This news would devastate not only Julian, but also Finn, whose baby was mere weeks from