“I shall inform your master!” She had a definitely threatening tone. Rather like a queen.

He placed her gently on Cleese’s sofa, then threw a shovelful of coal into the stove and gave it a stir. Yellow flames surged up just as he swung the stove door shut, and they threw out enough light so that he got a good look at her face. She was furious, eyes narrowed, arms wound around her chest as if he were a ravisher.

He would be happy to oblige.

Her dog had hopped onto the sofa as well, and was perched next to Miss Lytton. The beast was only slightly larger than a Bible, but she had the fierce eyes of an attack dog.

In fact, Lucy and Miss Lytton had a certain resemblance, though not in the nose.

A person would always know what Miss Lytton was thinking, he realized, lighting the Argand lamp on Cleese’s sideboard. At the moment, her eyes were full of rage.

“If you don’t fetch your master this very moment, I shall have you let go. Dismissed, and without a reference!”

Her dog barked a sharp underline to that threat.

He felt a strange sensation bubbling up in his chest. It took a second before he realized it was laughter. “You’re going to have me dismissed?”

She leaped to her feet. “Stop looking at me like that! If you had a brain that was bigger than a mouse’s willy, you’d realize that I have been telling you something important!”

At that he surprised himself with a laugh. His mother was not going to appreciate Miss Lytton’s colorful use of the English language. “I cannot lose my position. I was born to it.”

“Even a family retainer should not be tolerated if he oversteps the bounds of propriety.”

That sounded faintly familiar, probably because it was the sort of thing his mother said. It created an odd contrast to mouse’s willy. He’d never met a lady who’d admitted to knowing terms of that sort.

Following his gut instinct, Quin took a step toward her, just enough so that he caught her enticing scent again. He expected her to scream at him, but she didn’t.

“I am not a footman,” he stated.

Their eyes met. The world of logic and reason—the world that Quin inhabited on a regular basis—peeled away. “And you are very beautiful,” he added.

She blinked. And then, just as if she were the vicar’s wife and he was a man who’d suddenly lost his mind, he bent his head and brushed his lips over hers.

They were soft and berry colored, like a raspberry tart. It was a gentle kiss, at least until he pulled her against his chest. His body turned to flame and the kiss changed, turned dark and deep. He gave a silent groan and put a hand to her cheek, tilting her head so that he could kiss her again . . .

Her cheek was very cold to the touch. He straightened, reluctantly. “I had better fetch you a blanket.”

That snapped the invisible thread that had kept them staring at each other. Just like that, all the outrage flooded back into her eyes. Quin felt a deep sense of rightness. He could read her, just like a book.

“I suppose you are the duke,” she said stiffly. “I realize now that you sound like one, though I might add that you are not behaving like one.”

“I am not the one who was throwing around references to willies, whether belonging to small rodents or other mammals. The last time I heard that word I was five years old.”

He was fascinated to see that although a trace of pink was stealing into her cheeks, she tilted her little nose firmly in the air. “Lady Cecily is out there in the rain, as is my sister. Why aren’t you sending people to rescue them, not to mention that poor coachman? It’s cold and wet.”

She had the bearing and tone of a duchess, he thought, and then: Lady Cecily?

“Lady Cecily Bumtrinket? My aunt? Lady Cecily is out in the rain?” As she started an explanation that had to do with her carriage and the missing coachman, Quin finally snapped out of his trance. He yanked the cords connected to Cleese’s rooms, the kitchens, and the fourth floor. For good measure, he pulled open the door and bellowed, “Cleese!”

Then he turned back to Miss Lytton. She was shivering, her arms still wrapped around that magnificent chest of hers. He felt for his coat and realized that he wasn’t wearing it, nor even a waistcoat. No wonder she’d decided he was a footman. A gentleman is never seen in disarray.

Livery hung on the wall, and he grabbed a coat.

Her eyes were dark and suspicious, but she took the garment. She wasn’t fast enough, so he threw the coat around her shoulders himself and pulled it tight, even though he didn’t like seeing her luscious bosom disappear under a swaddling of black cloth.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“I’ve been trying to tell you. We hit a pillar at the end of the drive,” she said. “I think Lady Cecily is fine, but she’s injured her ankle and her ear hurts where she struck the edge of the window. My sister and I were unhurt, luckily, but I couldn’t find the coachman anywhere. The horses seem to be sound, though it was so dark I couldn’t be completely certain.”

Quin was quite aware that what he most wanted to do was scoop up his watery visitor and then sit down, with her on his lap. At the very least, he didn’t want to leave her.

The very thought was a shock. He had felt like this once before.

The first time he met Evangeline, he had felt intoxicated. He had seen her dancing, as delicate and joyful as if she were floating on the wind, and he had succumbed on the spot. Even now, after the years of disappointment and grief, he could remember the sense of wonder he’d felt.

But he could also feel his scalp prickling. He was at risk of succumbing again. As if he were a mad hare in the springtime . . . just what his mother warned that he shouldn’t do.

What’s more, given Miss Lytton’s creative vocabulary—not to mention the fact that she allowed a man she believed to be a footman to kiss her—she was as unlikely a candidate for the role of Duchess of Sconce as Evangeline had been.

If there was one thing he knew in his bones, it was that he never, ever, wanted to fall under the spell of a woman again. Nor did he wish to humiliate himself by marrying a second wife who had no respect for her marital vows. He took a deep breath and willed the world to reassemble itself.

He was the Duke of Sconce. This young lady had been summoned to his house as a prospective duchess, and she was clearly, definitively, ineligible. That was the end of that.

True, his impulsive kiss suggested to him that he should make a greater effort to find a mistress. It wasn’t like him to accost strange women who appeared on his doorstep, no matter how revealing their attire might be.

He pulled himself upright. “Miss Lytton, I trust you will forgive me if I leave you for the moment.”

“Certainly,” she murmured. She was looking at him with a rather amused curiosity.

He bowed.

“Your Grace,” she said, still clutching the coat to her neck. It had to be his imagination that there was a faintly mocking tone underlying her salutation.

He headed out the door without another word.

Seven

Ineligible! And More So Every Moment

Olivia took a deep breath as the duke disappeared into the corridor. She felt as if her mind was darting in fifteen different directions, all at the same time. Who could have thought that the mere absence of a coat would emphasize a man’s shoulders so much? At first she’d thought the duke’s eyes were black, but then she’d realized they were gray-green, fringed with surprisingly long lashes.