Page 21 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“Don’t suppose someone will see to my horse,” Jack said.

“See to his horse,” the old lady snapped.

Jack allowed himself to be moved onto a seat, not a particularly easy maneuver, bound and blindfolded as he was.

“Don’t suppose you’ll untie my hands,” he said.

“I’m not stupid,” was the old lady’s reply.

“No,” he said with a false sigh. “I didn’t think you were. Beauty and stupidity never go as hand in hand as one might wish.”

“I am sorry I had to take you this way,” the old lady said. “But you left me no choice.”

“No choice,” Jack mused. “Yes, of course. Because I’ve done so much to escape your clutches up to now.”

“If you had intended to call upon me,” the old lady said sharply, “you would not have ridden off earlier this afternoon.”

Jack felt himself smile mockingly. “She told you, then,” he said, wondering why he’d thought she might not.

“Miss Eversleigh?”

So that was her name.

“She had no choice,” the old lady said dismissively, as if the wishes of Miss Eversleigh were something she rarely considered.

And then Jack felt it. A slight brush of air beside him. A faint rustle of movement.

She was there. The elusive Miss Eversleigh. The silent Miss Eversleigh.

The delicious Miss Eversleigh.

“Remove his hood,” he heard his grandmother order. “You’re going to suffocate him.”

Jack waited patiently, affixing a lazy smile onto his face—it was not, after all, the expression they would expect, and thus the one he most wished to display. He heard her make a noise—Miss Eversleigh, that was. It wasn’t a sigh exactly, and not a groan, either. It was something he couldn’t quite place. Weary resignation, perhaps. Or maybe—

The hood came off, and he took a moment to savor the cool air on his face.

Then he looked at her.

It was mortification. That’s what it had been. Poor Miss Eversleigh looked miserable. A more gracious gentleman would have turned away, but he wasn’t feeling overly charitable at the moment, and so he treated himself to a lengthy perusal of her face. She was lovely, although not in any predictable manner. No English rose was she, not with that glorious dark hair and shining blue eyes that tilted up ever-so-slightly at the edges. Her lashes were dark and sooty, in stark contrast to the pale perfection of her skin.

Of course, that paleness might have been a result of her extreme discomfort. The poor girl looked as if she might cast up her accounts at any moment.

“Was it that bad, kissing me?” he murmured.

She turned scarlet.

“Apparently so.” He turned to his grandmother and said in his most conversational tone, “I hope you realize this is a hanging offense.”

“I am the Duchess of Wyndham,” she replied with a haughty lift of her brow. “Nothing is a hanging offense.”

“Ah, the unfairness of life,” he said with a sigh. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Eversleigh?”

She looked as if she wanted to speak. Indeed, the poor girl was most definitely biting her tongue.

“Now if you were the perpetrator in this little crime,” he continued, allowing his eyes to slide insolently from her face to her bosom and back, “this would all be so very different.”

Her jaw tightened.

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