The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,69
of documents, thousands of pages. You’re helping Finn translate coded messages and trying to uncover who is blackmailing you. Your mind isn’t an attic, Delaney. That’s your vision. And it’s only a vision, a mirage. There are limits where you find your gift is overwhelming you.”
“Brilliant,” Delaney whispered her favorite English expression, one she’d stolen from Sebastian and didn’t plan to return.
“He left this for you, for when you stepped back.”
Delaney lifted her head. The Soul Catcher rested in Piper’s palm, the stone casting crimson facets along her skin. She placed it in Delaney’s hand and curled her fingers around it. The blinding stillness was breathtaking. For once, there weren’t a thousand images racing through her mind. She gasped and sagged against the veranda ledge, exhausted.
“I can help you gain more control of your gift, Delaney. That’s what a healer does. We can find a way to organize your attic and segment the information so it doesn’t tax your mind so heavily. We can work on it. You should’ve seen the fires Sebastian started before he began working with me. Now we’re down to blazes of much less significance.” She tapped the spoon against her teeth with a click. “He hasn’t destroyed anything substantial in months.”
Delaney laughed at that, when nothing was amusing.
The League of Outcasts was welcoming her while the duke she wanted was pushing her away.
The men moved the discussion into Julian’s study, where spirits were readily available, and women were not.
Finn poured a liberal measure of brandy and perched on the window ledge, a crimson and gold sunset flooding over him, making him look even more angelic than usual. Sebastian was glad he’d gotten the chance to wipe the smirk from the boy’s face. “Next time, I’m wearing clothes put aside for the rag-and-bone man. This shirt was just in from my tailor.”
Sebastian grunted, unsurprised, and crossed to the sideboard.
“You’re doing an abysmal job of pretending you’re not love-struck, Your Grace,” Finn groused as he fingered the rip in his trousers. “Always telling us to maintain our defenses, and then what do you do? Relax yours to the point of delirium while you were mooning over the Terrible One. I could have gutted you, had we been on a city street, and I’m your shakiest soldier. You didn’t have to come back at me with such vengeance when I was just taking advantage of your stupor. Another scorched bit of earth on Julian’s lawn, too. Temper, temper.” He cursed when he found an injury to his sleeve. “I don’t know why you make us play these games anyway.”
Humphrey laughed, massaging the ribs that had taken a blow during the skirmish. “You’re just vexed he tore your fancy clothes, pretty boy.”
Sebastian poured water in a tumbler, when he wanted gin, and began to pace the study, feeling foolish, irritable and distracted. It was true. He’d been staring at Delaney, unable to keep his gaze from repeatedly tracking back to her, especially when she’d gone into a trance. Gone into her damned attic.
His mind, his body, had been hers to do with as she wished since ‘the orangery incident’. If he lifted his hand to his nose, he could smell the sweetness of her skin, taste her on his lips. Their experience had been erotic and stimulating; the first time he’d reacted from pure attraction without all of society’s rubbish driving his decision to rebel or consent. He’d known the moment she’d stepped from Julian’s house onto the veranda today, not because he’d seen her but because he’d felt her, that hot, misty brume that enveloped him when she was around, more tangible than London’s squalid fog. He was struggling every moment to see through it. “Drills, Finn, not games. And we execute them, so we’re able to protect our families when the situation calls for it.”
Julian gingerly kneaded the blackening ring around his left eye and winced from his spot resting against his desk. “I don’t guess anyone is interested in what I’ve seen by touching the notes from Miss Temple’s extortionist?”
Sebastian startled, the glass bobbling in his hand, water soaking his dirt-stained cuff. “What have you been waiting for if you have information, Jules?”
“Ah, Fireball’s cranky.” Humphrey wrestled his bulky frame into the only chair that would hold him and stacked his filthy boots on the table. “Not our fault the wee American devil has you by the short hairs,” he murmured, taking a long pull from his glass.