Page 10 of Never Dance with a Duke

Good God.

“You may not.” Between his voice and eyes, she’d be a pile of smoldering cinders if she permitted any such thing.

This situation grew worse with every passing second.

“Do you know your eyes fairly flash blue fire, when you are peeved?” he asked, conversationally.

She chose to ignore his question.

“I cannot imagine what tales they will spread. This could very well see us both ruined, Your Grace.”

“Nonsense. I’m merely assisting a damsel in distress,” he said airily, striding along as if she weighed no more than Bella. “How can they find fault with that?”

Oh, they’d find fault, even if they had to contrive twaddle themselves.

“You are no knight in shining armor,” she muttered, peevishly.

Chivalry and gallantry had gone by the wayside centuries ago. Men nowadays—except for Ansley and a select few others—only cared about one thing. Themselves.

No, that wasn’t accurate.

They cared about five things: themselves, drink, gambling, bit o’ muslins, and horses.

The Duke of Westfall glanced down, a challenging grin slanting across his strong, tempting mouth. “I’ve never taken you for the melodramatic sort, Miss Twistleton.”

“You, sir, well know how rumors start,” she snapped, far too aware of the sinewy arms holding her and the very masculine wall of his chest pressing into her injured side. Heat exuded from him, and it was all she could do not to snuggle closer and hold him tightly. Dangerous musings, indeed, for an avowed spinster.

“I don’t even want to think of what will be said about us,” she said, cringing at her strident tenor.

Was she well on her way to becoming a crotchety old tabby already?

Mayhap she should acquire a dozen cats and a few moth-eaten shawls, too. And a cane. A scandalous one with a shockingly engraved handle. And she’d only wear one color—scarlet—ever.

Whether the increasingly painful throb in her shoulder and ankle or the genuine fear their names would be on every gossipmonger’s tongue before day’s end caused her heightened temper, she couldn’t guess.

Indeed, it had nothing to do with the peculiar flutters and sensations assailing her.

Did the duke have to smell so bloody divine, too?

Peppermint and starch and sandalwood and perhaps a hint of brandy or whisky?

A hundred winged insects of some sort took flight in her belly. The feeling was rather heady and unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

“Rest assured, Miss Twistleton, I shall quell any gossip.” He winked and flashed that devil-may-care smile again. “We dukes can do that.”

Nicolette’s mind went blank as a sheet of foolscap for a blink, and then a horrendous, ghastly, catastrophic epiphany struck with the force of a sailing schooner’s foremast cudgeling her.

And, good Lord, if she didn’t find herself gaping in utter disbelief, unable to accept the insight.

Her ragged breath stalled for several heartbeats.

No, she instantly denied.

She’d been so diligent. So cautious. So, so punctilious.

It wasn’t possible.

Yes. It is.