Page 4 of The Duke Meets His Match

He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his damp brow. He wandered aimlessly down the hall and paced back and forth until his heartbeat slowed and his body temperature returned to normal.

He’d lost track of time. Had it been ten or twenty minutes since he’d left? He could hear voices. The group was still enjoying Napoleon’s carriage and they were asking to take turns sitting on the plush, red velvet cushions. He straightened and reached up to ensure his cravat was in place. He could do this. He could return and no one would be the wiser.

Still, he hated that he’d been completely helpless to prevent the episode, and anger and frustration roiled in his gut at his weakness. The triggers were different each time, but the fits were always the same, sudden and shocking, throwing him off balance and sending him back to past events, shadowy and gruesome battlefields that he wanted to forget. How long would this last? He’d been home for months and the fits continued—even seemed to worsen. Was this his fate? To become the mad duke?

No. He owed his friend and he had a duty to carry out.

He returned to stand outside the room. Taking one more deep breath, he took a step forward and collided with Chloe Somerton.

“Oh!” she cried out, stumbling back.

Instinctively, he reached out to grasp her arms.

Her blue eyes widened. “Pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t see you.”

Up close, she was even more striking. The top of her head reached his shoulder, and she tipped her face up to look at him. Her skin was flawless and smooth, and her blue eyes were fringed with thick lashes. The scent of lemongrass filled his nostrils. Fresh and pure.

He understood how Henry was besotted.

“I’m fine now. You can let go,” she said.

He realized he was staring. His fingers flexed and he reluctantly released his hold.

A tiny crease formed between her brows. “Are you well, Your Grace?”

Of course she could tell something was wrong with him. One fraud could recognize another.

“I know who you are,” he said, his voice terse.

A finely arched eyebrow shot up. “Pardon?”

“I know about your past. I’m responsible for Henry. His father died on the battlefield under my command, you see. I swore to look after his son, and I intend to honor that promise.”

She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. “If you’re referring to my family’s history then you needn’t bother. Henry is aware that my father was the infamous art forger who duped half of the ton. Henry knows and is unfazed.”

His lips thinned into a grim line. “Your family’s history is damning enough, but that’s not what I’m referring to.”

“Then what?”

He leaned close and gave her his sternest no-nonsense stare, one that made battle-hardened soldiers snap to attention and quiver in their boots. “You’re a thief, Chloe Somerton. A pickpocket, to be precise. And you’re as far from a lady as one can imagine.”

She stiffened, but to his astonishment, she didn’t cower or flinch. Not one tear glimmered in her lovely blue eyes. Rather, she lifted her chin and met his icy gaze.

“So? What do you want?”

He blinked. “It’s simple. Stay away from Henry.”

Full pink lips curled in a slow, mocking smile. “Not a chance, Your Grace.”

…

He knows!

As Chloe Somerton returned to the room, her face was serene, her steps measured and graceful. Inwardly, her heart was pounding as loud as a drum in her chest. She tightened her fingers in her skirts so that no one would notice them trembling.

She was furious. Furious and fearful—a volatile combination.

Henry approached her. “What do you like best of Napoleon’s carriage?”