The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,81

of lavender I’ve only seen with expectant mothers.”

“Oh,” Victoria breathed, a hitch in her voice. “The duke’s ill mood this morn begins to make sense.”

“And the reason you think he won’t get over this,” Piper added with another boot tap against the wall they sat upon. “A man as protective as Sebastian would never knowingly put someone in harm’s way. For you, he’s—”

“Harm’s way.” Delaney wasn’t going to add that the moment he’d realized the state she was in, the entire room had burst into flames. In Sebastian’s rush to alert the servants and get her and Hep to safety, she’d hadn’t had time to question if his reaction meant he was thrilled or appalled.

A smoking bedroom spoke to the man being horrified. Although it had, once or twice, also spoken to the man being pleasured.

Well, he couldn’t stand there and continue to ignore the problem.

Impulsive. Always her downfall. An error in judgment to have to know, this very minute, what he was thinking. But following her gut, as she usually did, Delaney gave her puppy to Victoria, shoved off the wall and crossed to her darling duke, bare feet sinking into the mud, nightgown slapping her ankles. As she tugged the blanket close to her neck for the sake of propriety and warmth, slipping and sliding across the dew-slick grass, the League parted to allow her through until she stood before Sebastian, cheeks stinging, the wind tossing her hair into her face. “Your Grace, a moment, if I may,” she said and spat a strand from her mouth.

With a sigh, he scrubbed at the grime on his jaw and gazed at her, making no effort, as he sometimes did, to curl into his enormous height, affording her the superficial luxury of feeling equal physically. Or at least only partially overwhelmed. “Can you not do this now, Temple?” he pleaded, his eyes bloodshot, grooves of exhaustion etched alongside his mouth. “With my home currently ablaze”—he jacked his thumb over his shoulder—“I’m short on tolerance, and I fear I’m going to say something to make you angry. Or, more likely, you’ll say something to make me angry.”

She stared, fighting to ignore what being this close to him did to her. A nifty, poignant shimmer from lips to knees. If only he weren’t so damned appealing, standing there covered in ash and displeasure. The scar on the underside of his jaw that she’d traced with her tongue more than once, the hint of leather and earth that clung to him, the sliver of golden skin exposed by a rip in his shirt.

She didn’t want to feel fierce affection when he was set to admit things she didn’t want to hear. His glower meant he was devising a way to manage her—when she didn’t want to be managed.

“The fire’s out, not a bad time to talk,” Finn said to break the tense silence, then swore when Julian gave him a hard shove that sent him skidding to the side.

“Shut it,” Sebastian muttered, taking the Soul Catcher from his pocket and tossing it from hand to hand.

“About what happened in your—”

He didn’t let her finish the statement but grasped her arm and dragged her across the lawn and away from the castle, in the direction of the orangery. The clamor of startled conversation behind them was deafening.

“Oh, no, not there,” she hissed, and yanked her arm from his hold, her blanket fluttering to the ground in the struggle. He knew what the scent of citrus did to her. They’d made love in the dwelling three times, causing her to experience a scalding rush of heat between her thighs every time she smelled oranges. When she bit into one at breakfast, she had to glue her eyes to her plate to hide the graphic images turning her cheeks scarlet. That, or answer her body’s call and crawl across the dining table to get to a duke.

Sebastian released a masculine snort in place of a response, shoved the door wide when they got to the building and gently pushed her inside.

She halted in place, causing him to bump into her back, breath leaving her lungs in a rush. Dawn was breaking, wilted tiers of crimson and gold spilling through the wall of glass panes to splash the stone floor. The air was morning-crisp and redolent of passion and fruit, sending a flutter of awareness through her. “You cur,” she whispered as he moved around her to pace the aisle running the length of the building. “You