The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton Page A

of manly and sartorial excellence, her
nose smashing against the ruffled perfection of his cravat. She inhaled the
scent of him – clean linen, a hint of sandalwood – and felt the
splendid heat emanating from his body. Something deep inside of her melted, turning
her insides to goo. She had the oddest desire to reach up and bury her fingers
in the folds of his jacket and push herself closer, ever closer, into his warm,
hard body.
    She jumped away with an abruptness that left her teetering
dizzily on jelly-like legs.
    He jumped away as well with a sharp intake of breath.
    “Miss Honeywell …”
    His voice was soft, as it had been this morning in the
corridor.
    She looked up and met his startled glance. His brows were
arched, his mouth slacked, and his silver eyes bored into her own as if
divining her soul.
    Her insides melted all over again. She licked her lips
unconsciously.
    His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and his eyes darkened
to an opaque, satiny gray. Then he glanced back to her eyes, looking as baffled
as she felt. “Miss Honeywell,” he repeated. “Your eyes …”
    “Yes?”
    “Your eyes … don’t
match .”
    The last two words were little more than a pained whisper.
    She crashed back to herself with a thud, her body suddenly
cold and rigid. His observation was a blatant accusation. He seemed disgusted
– horrified, really – by her eyes. And who could blame him? They
were uncanny and offputting to most people. Some even thought she was cursed.
But it was not as if she could help her hideous appearance, any more than he
could help being so damned beautiful.
    She had thought herself beyond the point of being wounded
by comments about her looks. But her vanity was struck very low indeed in that
moment. “I am sorry to offend you, Your Grace,” she ground out, stalking ahead,
not wanting him to see how he had affected her.
    She heard him groan behind her and lengthen his stride to
catch up with her. “Miss Honeywell, wait.”
    He put a hand on her arm. She felt it as keenly as one felt
a bee-sting, even though his glove and the fabric of her dress stood between
their flesh. She tried to shrug him off, but he held on tenaciously until she
was forced to stop. But she didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t.
    Her eyes felt hot and wet, and she tried to convince
herself it was an allergy.
    “I am sorry, I didn’t mean …”
    “I know exactly what you meant. You don’t have to explain.
I am quite used to rude comments from you,” she said in a surprisingly even
voice, considering her inner turmoil.
    He was silent for a long while, and she was forced to
listen to the rhythm of his breathing above her. It was as uneven as her own.
He still held onto her arm, as if afraid she would slip away if he didn’t,
which was probably true.
    “You make it very hard for a man, Miss Honeywell.”
    She didn’t know what he meant, yet at the same time she
knew precisely what he meant, and she didn’t like the implication of that at
all. She wanted no insight into him, and she certainly didn’t want him to know
her at all.
    “Please, let me go,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
    His hand fell away. He backed up a pace or two. He began
smoothing out his cravat, tucking and folding with a nearly obsessive
intensity. “Miss Honeywell, this is ridiculous. I do not want to insult you.
Indeed, I do not even want to be here.”
    “And yet you are. And yet you intend to stay.”
    “I want to know what the bloody hell is going on. You’ve
already lied about your father …”
    “I never lied. I simply forgot to inform you.”
    He raised an eyebrow, looking smug. “Ah, so then it was you. You are A. Honeywell. You are the blasted letter writer who’s plagued me
for years.”
    “Of course I am. Who did you think was in charge around
here?” she demanded.
    He held up a hand in a gesture of pure defeat. “Madame, to
be perfectly honest, I’ve had a great deal to sort out in the past four days.
Carriages. Mud.