Forbidden to Love the Duke by Jillian Hunter Page B

wasn’t about to agree with him, but Sir Oliver had overdone his apology.
    Still, what would a poet want with an impoverished lady? Was his conscience so sensitive that he would seek out her prior activity at the pawnbroker’s shop andattempt to redress a wrong with this flamboyant gesture? Ivy simply didn’t know. And quite honestly she preferred to remain in her ignorant state.
    One scoundrel of a duke was enough to deal with.
    One scoundrel who sneaked up behind her in the mist with such stealth that the cry of surprise in her throat died to a gasp before he spoke in her ear. “I hope I didn’t startle you again. The children wanted to wave to you from the front steps.”
    She spun around to stare up into the duke’s face. “I am merely traveling to Fenwick, Your Grace, not to France. I don’t need a farewell party.”
    His grin said that her forgiveness was assumed. “I know that. But they don’t.”
    And while she turned to wave at the two children who, looking utterly miserable in their nightclothes, had obviously been dragged from their beds as an excuse for the duke to—to search her carriage? “What
are
you looking for?” she said indignantly.
    His dark eyes shone in the breaking light. “Blankets.”
    â€œI beg your pardon.”
    â€œBlankets. Brrr. It’s cold these mornings, and as you know, my coach is designed for comfort. Do be home by six. Mary and Walker tend to work themselves into a frenzy if they’re left alone too long. They’re too much for me to manage.”
    â€œYou underestimate yourself, Your Grace.”
    He smiled. “Return to us safely, Miss Fenwick. We’ve come to rely on you.”
    â€œIt has only been a week.”
    He motioned the footman out of the way to personally help Ivy into her creaky old carriage. She felt thepressure of his hand upon her hip, the hardness of his body against hers.
    â€œIvy,” he whispered against her cheek.
    She restrained the urge to turn her face to his. His closeness devastated her, filled her with reckless desire. “What?” she whispered back.
    His mouth slid to the corner of hers. His fingers lifted to the underside of her breast, a sinful caress that fizzed her blood like champagne. “Do you have to go?”
    â€œI’ll come back.”
    He drew himself upright. “You’d better.”
    â€œGood day, Your Grace,” she said.
    He glanced back at the house. “One can hope.”

Chapter 12
    S ir Oliver was as unimpressed by the exterior of Fenwick Manor as he was unprepared for the impact of its interior. With obvious reluctance, Rue Fenwick, recognizing his name, had invited him into the great hall. He managed to overlook her loveliness for several minutes as he cataloged the interior of the house.
    In his mind he heard drums and cymbals, the music of revels and whispers of Tudor political rivalries. His imagination caught fire.
    How could four young women have spent their lives in this splendid ruin and not have found the hidden treasure? They must have heard of it. And how would he delicately approach the subject without appearing to come across as the fortune hunter he was?
    Poetry, of course.
    Words of flattery. He made his living writing sonnets to noblewomen who in turn supported him with little baubles, which he sold and professed to have lost.
    â€œDarling Oliver, how can you be so careless with your watches?” his last countess had asked him as she lay naked and squashing him to the bed.
    â€œPerhaps because time flies when I am with you.”
    â€œYou adorable cad.”
    Yes, he was a cad, and were he a more talented cad, he wouldn’t have to write poetry to wealthy ladies of the beau monde in order to survive. He wasn’t much of a gambler. But this endeavor, a treasure hunt, inspired him. He disregarded his stirrings of guilt and allowed Rue to introduce him to her sisters.
    Naturally, he would