Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2) - Megan Frampton Page 0,52

anyone to dance.”

“I asked Lady Ana Maria to dance!” he retorted.

She gave a derisive snort. “The one lady you refuse to even consider marrying. You’ll forgive me if I don’t think that should be taken into consideration.” She rose from her chair, stepping close to him. “Do you want your cousin to inherit?” She thumped her cane on the floor. “You need to take this seriously, Duke.”

“I’m not that old,” he grumbled.

“Old enough to father a child,” she retorted. “The sooner you do that, the sooner all of us who know what could happen can breathe comfortably.”

His own breath felt tight, as though his chest—his responsibilities—were squeezing in on him.

He wished, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, that someone else, anyone else, had been in line to inherit the title.

If he had just been plain Nash. Not even a “Mr.” starting his name. He could live his life as he chose. He wouldn’t have to funnel his anger into street fights. He could be with the people whom he most enjoyed—people who worked hard, drank hard, lived hard.

Of course, a voice reminded him, those people also don’t have a choice about how they live. Many of them are poor and have to work even if they are in ill health.

He scowled.

“It’s not the worst thing that could happen to you,” his grandmother said, reacting to his expression. “The worst thing would be to die knowing you are allowing people you care about to suffer. I will be gone by then, but what about the other people in the family?”

“I don’t suppose we could persuade my cousin not to be violent?” he said.

She clamped her lips together and glared at him.

“Right. If you will excuse me, I need to—” He walked off without finishing his sentence, desperate to get out of the crowded room filled with people he knew he wouldn’t like. And who wouldn’t like him.

Not that he’d give them a chance.

He was able to take a deep breath as soon as he saw her. She was seated on a terrace bench, the farthest one from the door, looking as though her thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

Was she thinking of him?

She shouldn’t be. She should be thinking of anybody else, not surly men who kissed her passionately in one moment, told her it was an enormous mistake the next.

God, but she looked beautiful. Her dark hair was swept up into some complicated style, with some sort of spangly ribbon intertwined throughout. She wore a gold-and-white gown with enormous skirts that spilled out onto the stone of the terrace. Her gloves were white, while a small pendant hung at her throat.

Her skin gleamed in the moonlight. Her dark eyes were luminous in her face, those perfect lips tilting into a slight smile.

He hoped she was thinking of him. Even though he didn’t.

She turned her head toward him, as though she was as aware of his presence as he was of hers. Her smile broadened, and she patted the bench beside her. “Come,” she said.

He strode toward her, remembering the last time they were on a terrace together. “Terrace shenanigans,” he murmured.

A terrace would be awfully uncomfortable for an intimate moment, and yet it was staged perfectly for one: darkness surrounding them, the light from the ballroom spilling out in golden beams, the faint whisper of the trees as the wind stirred them.

Her, on her knees on the bench, holding on to the wall of the terrace. Him behind her, her skirts flipped up to reveal her shapely arse. Him grasping her around the waist as he thrust slowly into her soft warmth.

Damn.

He should not be thinking about that. This was Ana Maria, the one woman he could never desire in that way.

Although he was coming to realize that there might not be another woman he would ever desire that way.

“Nash?” she said in a questioning tone as he sat down at the edge of the bench. Nearly falling off, since it was a narrow bench, and he didn’t want to risk his body touching hers.

“Why are you out here hiding?” He spoke abruptly, but he knew she wouldn’t take offense. One of the few women who wouldn’t.

Scratch that. The only woman who wouldn’t.

“I’m not hiding, I’m—” she began, then nodded her head. “I’m hiding,” she admitted. “I came out for a chat with Ivy, but she had to leave. I only have two dances claimed thus far—yours and Lord Brunley’s—and honestly I don’t feel like dancing at all,