In one split second, deep sleep became a painful and frightening awakening. The only thing Yancey’s shocked mind would register was that she was in a bed and something had fallen atop her, something that lay across her back and was crushing the life out of her. When the weight had hit her, her breath had left her lungs in a muffled whoosh that under other circumstances would have been a shriek. Where was she? She couldn’t remember. What was happening? She had no idea. All she knew was that something warm-blooded and heavily muscled—and deadly—held her pinned down.
That was when, in the next second upon being forced awake, her situation became crystal clear to her. She’d been attacked in her sleep. Terrified, yet determined to die with dignity, she stiffened, preparing to fight back. One thought reigned uppermost in her mind. Get to your gun under your pillow. Yes. If only she could. But, frighteningly, she realized that the weight atop her was so heavy that she couldn’t even draw enough air into her lungs to scream, much less to mount any kind of an effective attack. She was lying on her stomach and couldn’t even turn her head. Nor could she get so much as a hand out from under whoever was atop her.
So this is how it will end, a very calm part of her mind remarked. No. She wouldn’t accept that. Not without a fight. With a surge of determination lancing through her, Yancey struggled in earnest, wriggling about and straining ever upward. That was when she heard the voice—an irritated and pompous one that stopped her cold with disbelief.
“Would you bloody well hold still a moment, Miss Calhoun? We’re tangled together here, and I’m trying to get you free.”
The duke! Anger and outrage combined with fear and flooded through Yancey. When the weight gave some, finally lifting off her neck, she turned her head to the side so she could grit out her words through the tangle of her hair that covered her face. “Get off me, you big overbred ass.”
The mattress under her shifted with the man’s efforts to extricate himself from her. “I assure you that is exactly what I am trying to do … you underbred little guttersnipe.”
Yancey sucked in an insulted breath, or tried to. All she got was a pained attempt. “How dare you?” she bleated into the sheets.
“How dare I? I’ll tell you how I dare. This is my house.”
Suddenly the weight was removed completely from her back. Extreme relief coursed through her as, gasping for each breath, she remained flat on her stomach, her arms out to her sides. Every blink of her eyes revealed tiny stars dancing across her vision. They gradually receded as she shoved her hair away from her face and raised her head. Moonlight—or perhaps the beginnings of sunlight—peeking through the closed drapes across the way revealed that she now mysteriously was lying sideways to the bed and at its foot. She could make nothing of that as she concentrated on sucking in huge drafts of sweet and wonderful air.
When her breathing became more normal, she pushed herself up and sat cross-legged atop her bed, a hand to her chest as she stared at the duke.
He’d hopped off the bed and was now lighting a threesome of fat candles that sat atop a bedside table. A golden light suddenly suffused the room, pushing the gloom back to the corners. Yancey watched in disbelief, thinking how common and ordinary a task he’d just performed under these most extraordinary of circumstances. What did he think he was about? Then she realized that she was now capable of speech and made her demands known. “What in God’s name were you doing in my bed? And if you expect a ‘Your Grace’ to follow that, then you have a long wait, sir.”
“I expect nothing, I assure you,” the duke said, now standing beside the small round table, his body suffused in the candles’ glow as their combined light danced over his skin.
His skin? Blinking her surprise, but then instantly captivated by him, Yancey raised her chin and looked at him through different eyes. She slowly slid her gaze up and down the duke’s length.
A sensual awareness flooded through her, finally pooling low in her belly and leaving her limbs feeling heavy. The appreciative female part of her brain registered that the duke was a magnificent specimen, just as she had supposed he would be. Perfectly proportioned. Broad across the shoulders and through the chest. Narrow at the hip. Hard-muscled. Breathtaking. And almost completely unclothed. Yancey softly blew out her breath—then realized with a suddenness born of embarrassment that she was ogling her tormentor and thinking very unladylike thoughts of him. And he knew it.
“Are you done?” His voice was low, husky … faintly taunting.
“For now,” Yancey replied boldly, raising her chin. In order to meet his arrogant gaze, though, she had to tear her own away from the sprinkling of crisp curling hair that graced his broad chest. The candles’ insufficient light masked his gray eyes, but she could see that he had arched an eyebrow in a suggestive way that she deserved but didn’t particularly like.
She refused to look down at herself to see what, if anything, she might be exposing to his gaze. “I expect that at any moment now you will tell me what has happened here?”
“Certainly.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His bunched muscles spoke of power and health. “You cried out.”
“Of course I did. I awakened to find you atop me and crushing the life out of me with your bulk. Anyone would cry out.”
“No. I meant before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I came in here to see about you. You cried out.”
“I never.”
“You did. And more than once.”
This was unsettling news. But uppermost in her mind was her growing sense of immodesty in her pose. She subtly pulled at her gown, tugging it down over her legs and holding the gown’s fabric wadded up in her lap. “Say I did cry out in my sleep. I doubt that I called out for you.”
“Not for me. Not for anybody, actually. Just cried out. A moan of terror. You were apparently having a nightmare.”
Sitting there, considering him as much as his words, Yancey decided that she believed him. Certainly the frightening images that had been burned into her memory by repeated nightmares over the years could have assailed her once again. The dreams were always the same: the day her father came home when she was thirteen. Five years of hell had followed that, ended by an afternoon of violence that only she had walked away from. Or run, was more like it.
Yancey felt her throat tighten and her face heat up with remembered emotion. “I see. A nightmare,” she finally commented. “And you thought the best way to wake me from it was to jump atop me and try to smother me?”
His expression hardened as he lowered his chin. With his face partially in shadow, he looked positively sinister. “Had I had been trying to smother you, Miss Calhoun, there would be no need for this conversation because you would already be dead.”
Yancey’s breath caught in her throat. She reminded herself of her gun under her pillow and her own proximity to it. “I’ll strive to remember that,” she replied. “And given that’s the case, please accept my apologies. I never meant to malign your abilities or your motives.”
He ducked his chin regally. “Apology accepted. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to finish my night’s sleep.”
Again, and just like out in the garden last afternoon, his change in manner was so sudden that Yancey could only watch in disbelieving silence as the duke—acting as if they were fully clothed and stood in broad daylight, as if he’d only just met her on the street and they’d visited amiably—stepped away from the table and skirted the end of her bed.
Yancey crabbed around none too ladylike atop the mattress in order to keep him in her sight. The fear that he would again leap atop her and crush her no longer held sway in her mind, despite her warning to herself only moments ago. Instead, it was the breathtaking sight he made in only his smallclothes. They did nothing to hide his masculine endowments. Yancey’s gaze remained helplessly riveted to his body.
When the darkly sensual duke reached the open door of the dressing room that joined her bedroom to his, he stopped and turned to her. She’d thought he meant to say something, yet he didn’t. Instead, with a hand holding on to the doorjamb, he merely stared her way. Yancey’s heart beat slowly and dully. What now? she could only wonder, still under the spell of his overt sexuality that had her breathing in and out through her flared nostrils.
Then … he did speak, his voice a husky purr. “Good night, Miss Calhoun. Or should I say good morning?” He touched his fingertips to his brow in a mock salute to her. “I hope the remainder of your night, or day, is less eventful.”
“Yours as well … Your Grace. You’ll forgive me if I don’t leave my bed and curtsy this one time, won’t you?”
His chuckle was decadent. “Oh, I think under the present circumstances, we can forgo the formalities. But only if you’ll forgive me for how much I enjoyed holding you while you slept.”
* * *
She’d overslept. And it was no wonder, given her extreme tiredness of the day before and then the unusual but titillating events of the early morning hours. Refusing to dwell on his comment about how wonderful he had found it to hold her in his arms, and following a late breakfast alone in the very formal dining room, Yancey had set about some detecting duties. She didn’t know exactly what she was searching for in each orderly room she invaded. But, to her, it was enough that she was diligently on the job. Something, no doubt, of a suspicious nature would present itself to her trained eye.
But it wasn’t to be because no matter where she’d roamed, or into whatever room she’d slipped, she’d been politely confronted by some servant or another wanting to do her every bidding. It hadn’t taken her long to get full of that and to retreat in irritated self-defense to her own elegant suite of rooms upstairs.
Standing now in front of one of the tall windows in her bedroom, her arms crossed and her features set in lines of vexation, she stared at the landscape spread out before her. Hulking mountain peaks formed a jagged backdrop to the green hills and the thatch-roofed cottages closer by. Cattle and horses dotted the land. And an occasional farm wagon trundled by, headed in the direction of the village in the distance. Though the setting was beautiful, much like a fine pastoral painting, Yancey just couldn’t appreciate it today. Not when she needed instead to be working on a plan to solve the case for which she’d been sent here.
And that case involved the duke. Despite her best efforts not to indulge in fantasies of the man, her mind insisted on reliving the feel of his wonderfully lithe body and sensual presence in her bed only a matter of hours ago. Immediately Yancey responded, tensing with a yearning she found hard to control. She caught her breath and exhaled it slowly in an effort to cool her blood. Hoping to distract herself from what could only be ruinous yearnings, she lowered her gaze from the middle distance of the English countryside to focus on the formal gardens right below her window. Any distraction would do at this point.
Below her, the gardeners were revealed to be about their duties. The flower plots were overrun with an army of men who, like so many ants, were busy with potting and pruning and planting. And there was that scrappy little dog, Mr. Marples. Yancey grinned at his canine antics. Tearing about, he seemed to be purposely getting in the workmen’s way, only to be shooed irritably. Undaunted, grinning, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, he hurried to the next man and helped with the digging, throwing dirt and chaos everywhere, only to be shooed again.
Yancey then spied the dog’s three shadows … the cats Alice, Mary, and Jane. Taking the sun, the felines were elegant white splotches draped lazily over the various ornamental benches set around the fountain. Comparing her plight to theirs, Yancey called herself the very image of the damsel in distress from ancient times, withering away and locked inside her ivied tower.
And that was when it occurred to her: there was indeed an ivied tower here, one simply begging for exploration, if for no other reason than to see the view from its top. Just then, something pinged against the glass, at a spot only a few inches from Yancey’s nose. Startled, she blinked and pulled back. What in the world…? It happened again. Another sharp, startling ping. Much as if a small stone—
Someone was throwing rocks at the window. She leaned toward the glass pane and peered outside. And there he stood … the duke. A thrill of excitement chased through Yancey’s veins. The barest of smiles slipped onto her lips. Then she caught herself. No. She stiffened her knees and warned herself to adopt an attitude of diffidence toward this man. To do otherwise, to respond warmly or wantonly, could be the death of her, she reminded herself.
But her cautions to herself died a sudden death, and it was the duke’s fault. There he stood, dressed in much the same type of clothes he’d worn yesterday. Black boots, corded breeches, and a white shirt. He had his hands planted at his waist and he was staring up at her. Apparently realizing that he had gained her attention, he grinned and waved at her, signaling for her to come down and join him.
Join him, indeed. She couldn’t stop the seductive smile that claimed her lips, even as a fresh wave of desire-filled tension washed over her, raising the fine hairs on her arms and at the nape of her neck. She nodded her reply to the man below, signaling that she would join him. She raised a hand, sending him a tentative little wave in return to his more boisterous gesture.
Without thinking, Yancey flattened a palm against the cool pane of glass and held it there … as if awaiting his touch in return. Below her, standing with his feet apart, much like a ship’s captain on the main deck, his upturned gaze seemed to bore into hers. Awareness, not dulled by distance or panes of glass, flowed between them. Yancey couldn’t look away. Worse, she didn’t want to look away. In fact, if she could stay just like this for the remainder of her days—
She heard herself and gasped, jerking her hand away from the window. “Dear Lord, what am I doing?”
“Beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
Yancey gasped and spun around, her hands fisted around her skirt.
Across the room stood a slender, dark-haired girl in a maid’s livery, who proffered a quick curtsy and an apology. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Stung, embarrassed, wondering how much the girl had seen, Yancey all but barked out, “How long have you been standing there, Robin?”
Her eyes wide, the maid took a step back. “Not long, Your Grace. I’ve only just now come into the room.”
“I see. Well … then, good.” Yancey eyed the young girl with whom she’d already lost one struggle this morning. Robin had insisted that she’d been promoted to lady’s maid to assist Yancey. And as this was a major elevation in the girl’s status in the household, she wasn’t about to relinquish it. And so, over Yancey’s protestations, Robin had assisted with “my lady’s toilette.” And now, here she was again. Though she owed the girl no explanation, Yancey heard herself giving one. “Over there, by the window, I was just, uh, thinking and didn’t hear you come in. And there’s no need to call me ‘Your Grace.’”
The girl curtsied again. “Yes, Your Grace.” And continued to stand there at attention, her brown eyes wide and expectant.
A confused silence crowded the space between them until Yancey caught on that the girl possibly awaited her permission to speak. Damned stupid custom, was Yancey’s unvoiced opinion. Still, “Did you want something?”
“Oh no, Your Grace. Not me.” With her hands knotted together in front of her, the girl waited, yet looked ready to hare off at the slightest provocation.
Yancey wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. After another bit of awkward silence, she ventured, “Then … perhaps I can do something for you?”
“Oh no, Your Grace. Not at all.”
Really stymied now, Yancey brushed at a stray lock of hair at her temple and stared at the girl. “Then I find, Robin,” she began, “that I have no idea how to continue this conversation. Unless you came in here to ask me something specific or to—”
“I have a message for you, Your Grace.” she blurted. “From His Grace.”
“Really?” Striving to appear unaffected, even though a now familiar thrill shot through her, Yancey crossed her arms, feigning nonchalance. “I’d love to hear it.”
Taking a deep breath, Robin pulled herself up to her full height and proudly, loudly, announced, “His Grace the Duke requests that, if you are not otherwise engaged, you attend him in the gardens, Your Grace.”
No doubt, Robin had rehearsed that title-heavy speech all the way up the stairs. Yancey suppressed a grin. “Oh, I see. Well, yes, I knew that, Robin. He just now threw a rock at the window.”
The girl’s eyes widened, no doubt out of surprise at the unfathomable antics of her betters. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“What I meant was I was standing at the window, looking out, when suddenly a stone hit the glass and I looked down and there the duke was, signaling to me. And then here you were and…” Yancey’s voice trailed off, leaving her feeling silly for having divulged all that to her lady’s maid. “If that’s all, Robin?”
The girl gave a start. “Yes, Your Grace.” She curtsied and began to turn away, but then turned back to Yancey. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon?”
Already in motion, her feet being moved forward by an impatient desire for fresh air and sunshine—and nothing more, she stridently told herself—Yancey stopped short and met her maid’s gaze. “Yes?”
“I was wondering, Your Grace, about the rest of your trunks.”
“The rest of my trunks?” Yancey frowned her confusion. She’d brought all her clothes with her, not knowing how long she’d be here or what she might need. And only this morning Robin had told Yancey that she’d unpacked them last evening while Yancey had been at tea with the duke. Even knowing there weren’t any others, Yancey asked, “What about them?”
“The ones with your gowns. I didn’t find any, and I thought that exceeding strange, yourself being a duchess and all. Forgive me for asking, but will they be arriving from America soon?”
Now, how to answer that without giving herself away? Yancey decided on brevity … and a lie. “Yes.”
Robin’s expression cleared and she smiled widely. “Oh, Your Grace, I just knew they would be right along. I just knew it.”
The girl’s happy response gave Yancey pause. Was there perhaps discussion belowstairs about the impoverished state of the, uh, duchess’s wardrobe? And had Robin been defending her mistress? Yancey’s conscience reminded her that the maid’s trust in her would soon be dashed when no trunks appeared. Feeling guilty, Yancey added, “Hopefully, my trunks won’t be lost in the shipping. That happens more than one cares to think about.”
Robin was now agog with affirmations. “I’ve been told as much, Your Grace. We can only hope and trust to God that it won’t be so.”
Yancey came very close to chuckling out loud. “I hardly think it’s as dire as all that. We are talking about clothing here, and not a person’s life, Robin.”
Instantly contrite and red-faced, the girl dropped another curtsy. “I beg Your Grace’s pardon. I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds.”
“But you didn’t.” Yancey’s fleeting reflection was that she and Robin were both novices at this mistress-and-lady’s-maid relationship. In truth, and well Yancey knew this, she had more in common with the maid than she did with any duchess. “And I’m certain it will turn out well,” she added—only to be interrupted by another well-aimed stone pinging against the window behind them.
The duke was obviously becoming impatient. Yancey met her maid’s startled gaze and smiled a tight little smile as she again set herself in motion to cross the room. “Perhaps I’d best go before the duke unleashes a barrage of stones that brings the house down around our ears.”
“Yes, Your Grace. The duke is not a man to be denied long.”
Yancey’s pace didn’t slow but inside she was aflutter with nerves. Her traitorous body had given Robin’s innocent answer a different spin and left Yancey unsettled. Meaning that was exactly what she feared—that she would not be able to deny the duke anything … or for long.