Page 58 of An Inconvenient Duke

With a strained chuckle, he grabbed her hand and placed a kiss to her palm. Then he snatched up his trousers from the pile of their clothes at his feet and stood before she could touch him again and once more send him reeling out of his mind. He chastised teasingly as he yanked on his trousers, “Insatiable.”

“Thank you.”

When he turned around with a quip on the tip of his tongue that she’d exhaust him to death before dawn at this rate, he halted. Her stare focused below his waist, and disappointment dulled the brightness of her eyes that he’d covered himself from her sight.

As he finished buttoning his fall, he grinned at her with masculine pride that she found him so desirable. God knew he certainly felt the same about her.

She tore her eyes away, letting her attention drift around them at the old building. “What is this place?”

“An old armory.”

As he knelt in front of the fireplace to stir up the coals and toss in more wood, he followed her gaze in an attempt to see the building from her perspective. That is, what could be seen of it in the dark shadows at the edges of the octagonal central room. But the fire was bright enough to reflect off the metal weapons on the walls, to show how thick and sturdy the old place was, even now after so many decades of being abandoned.

He’d spent uncountable nights here since he’d purchased the place, not falling asleep until the first light of dawn had shone through the windows at the top of the tower, because he hadn’t been able to face the ghosts haunting Charlton Place. On those nights, he’d been alone.

Tonight, though, Danielle was here, and for once, he didn’t dread the darkness.

“But you have a key to this building. Why?”

Balancing on the balls of his feet, he jabbed the iron poker into the fire to stir up more light and warmth for her. He’d found his own comfort in this place, and now he wanted her to feel welcome here as well. And safe. “Because I own it.”

When she said nothing to that, waiting for him to continue, he tossed in a few more pieces of old wood from the bin beside the large hearth and watched as the flames bit into them as he decided how much to tell her.

“I had just returned to London and was taking my business ventures and accounts back under my control. They’d been in the hands of accountants and other caretakers while I’d been away, and it was time for me to oversee them again.” He’d also needed something to do to keep busy, and he’d hoped that conducting business would do that. Good Lord, how wrong he’d been! Managing the accounts had barely scratched the need growing inside him to have a sense of purpose, to make a real difference in the world, the way he had during the wars. “I saw that this building was for sale and bought it to turn it into a warehouse. Now that the wars are over, normal trade will resume with the continent—and the Americans—and London’s docks will be bursting at the seams with incoming goods and no place to put them. What better to do with an old building like this than turn it into a giant warehouse?”

“But you didn’t turn it into a warehouse.” She swung her legs over the side of the settee and sat up, one hand keeping the coat in place over her. With the other, she gestured at the weapons on the wall.

“No, I did not.”

He frowned into the fire. Her curiosity wasn’t at all satisfied; he could feel her bewilderment as tangibly as he could still taste the sweetness of her on his lips. But he wouldn’t provide any more answers about how he used this place than that.

Instead, he purposefully misunderstood her comment and answered as he rose to his full height, “We’re safe here for the night. This place was meant to withstand invading armies.”

“And Vauxhall assassins?” she challenged. “They might roll in like a troupe of acrobats.”

Gallows humor. Her attempt to lighten the seriousness of their situation, yet he heard a trace of fear lingering behind it.

He explained as he stepped up to the side table along the wall and patted his hand against the bricks, “The walls are ten feet thick and built to survive direct cannon fire at less than ten yards, and it’s built on a foundation of solid Dartmoor granite so it can’t be undermined.” He reached for the bottle of brandy sitting on the table and pointed it at the central tower overhead that stretched four stories high, the roof impossible to see in the darkness. “The only windows are all the way up there and covered with bars made from the same iron that was forged for both the outer and inner doors.” He poured the brandy into a glass. “No one gets in or out unless we want them to.”

“Impressive. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you have a portcullis at the ready to drop.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Two.”

She paused for a beat, as if trying to determine if he was bamming her or not. Then she commented, “So this place is a fortress, then.”

“I suppose you could say that.” He brought back the glass of brandy and held it out to her. “One fit for an old soldier.”

She arched a brow. “Or a new duke.”

As she took the glass from him, he answered that silently with a glower. Damn her sharp mind. It was one of the things he liked best about her. Until right then.

When she lifted the glass to take a sip, the firelight reflected in the crystal and shone onto her hand—

A cut on her palm. A long slice and still pink-raw.

He snatched away the glass just as it reached her lips and earned himself an irritated scowl. “What do you—”

“You’re wounded.” Concern spiked inside him. He took her hand and turned it over, exposing the cut to the firelight.