Page 5 of Never Dance with a Duke

“Stay, Sampson,” came a melodic male voice, a great deal of concern inflecting the man’s timbre.

Nicolette went perfectly still, a fresh wave of chagrin winging through her.

Really, God?

Him?

It had to be him?

Damnation, she groaned inwardly, for she knew that baritone voice well.

Hadn’t she heard it often enough these past two years and knew full well who it belonged to? The incorrigible, dashing, perpetually cheerful and charming, Mathias Pembroke, Duke of Westfall.

As luck would have it, he was a good friend to her friends’ husbands. Their graces seemed to run in a ducal pack. So wherever Sutcliffe and the other dukes were, so was Westfall. Usually with a cheeky grin on his devilishly handsome face and a seductive glint in his blue eyes.

At practically every assembly, she and her closest friends attended in Colechester and in London. Not that she’d been keeping track. After all, she wasn’t interested in any particular man.

Except, if she were honest with herself, at the Christmastide house party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffe last December, she had noticed Westfall’s attentiveness to her.

What was more telling—troubling in the extreme—was that Nicolette hadn’t rebuffed him, as she possibly should have.

Possibly?

Well, of course, she should have. At once. Immediately. Without hesitation or preamble.

Westfall was the single man to pique her interest one iota—a very, very tiny iota—since Kilbourne had thrown her over. And therefore, the duke was the most dangerous of men for her to associate with. Never again would she trust her instincts when it came to a man or believe a blasted thing that came from his mouth.

“Damnation, Sampson,” Westfall breathed beneath his breath. “See what you’ve done?”

He sounded exasperated, as if he reprimanded an intractable child who’d but broken a treasured vase, rather than knocked a lady off her feet in Hyde Park.

Nicolette supposed it was too much to pray Westfall wouldn’t recognize her or that he’d just collect the mongrel and go away.

Nay, he was much too much of a gentleman to do any such thing.

She refused to open her eyes just yet, however. She required a moment longer to regain her equanimity. To erect her battlements, take up her arms, and gird her loins, metaphorically speaking.

He would not rattle her composure.

She would not permit it.

Bella tried to wriggle free of her embrace, but Nicolette still feared the huge dog would make a snack of the pup.

A heartbeat later, a large, warm hand settled upon Nicolette’s uninjured shoulder, and the most provocative of searing tingles radiated up her arm. And these were not painful in nature, but rather extremely arousing.

Good Lord.

“Miss Twistleton?” he inquired ever so gently in a purring voice that could melt butter. Or bones. How was she, a mere mortal, to resist such a force of nature?

I will resist.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, genuine concern coloring his words. “Are you hurt?”

Mayhap if she pretended to have swooned…

Bella whined her frustration at still being held captive.

Yes, indeed, in a dead faint and still retaining a steely grip upon her puppy. Wholly believable.