Page 122 of A Duke in the Rough

She scooted to the edge of the bed and threw her arms around his neck, practically toppling them both to the floor yet again. Her green eyes, so trusting, gazed at him. “I will marry you. No matter what.”

Three heavy knocks sounded at the door.

“What now!” He rose and grabbed the linens, hastily wrapping them around his waist. “Hurry, hide again.”

When she moved toward the window, he said, “Not there! Quick. In the dressing room.”

Confident Honoria was out of sight, he strode to the door.

Ready to pummel—or dismiss—whoever had interrupted his confession, he threw the door open.

Simon practically fell on him from the open doorway. “Hurry, get her out of there. The servants have been up for hours completing their morning rounds.”

Drake blinked and stepped out into the hall, partially closing the door behind him. He narrowed his eyes. “What time is it? And how do you know?”

“It’s after eight in the morning, and I’ve been out here keeping watch.”

“What?!”

“Keep your voice down. That’s precisely why I felt it was my duty to keep a vigil by your door. There were some fairly loud noises comingfrom inside your room.” He grinned. “Although I didn’t expect to hear any cries of pain fromyou. What happened?”

Drake rubbed his chin. “Never mind.” He glanced both ways down the hall. “I don’t see anyone.”

“I ordered the maids to start with the unoccupied rooms. But you don’t have much time; your valet seemed anxious to lay out your clothing for the day. I gave him a pair of boots to shine. Now, go! I’ll keep watch at the end of the hall and detain anyone if they start heading this way.”

Once Simon raced down to the end of the hallway, Drake stepped back inside.

How could it be morning already? Sure enough, light spilled in through a slit in the curtains Honoria had hidden behind earlier.

He rushed to the dressing room and tugged Honoria gently by the hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“The servants are coming. You need to get back to your room.” Drake spun in a circle, searching for wherever he’d tossed her nightdress.

“Was that Burwood again?” Her soprano voice pitched higher.

“Yes. No. Yes. I’ll explain later.” He tugged open the curtains a breadth wider for more light to find her nightdress. He couldn’t have her wandering the halls naked. And he couldn’t have her discovered in his room.

The last thing he wanted was to force a marriage by compromise. He needed to ask her father for her hand like a gentleman. To prove to her as much as?—

There!

Half under the bed, the garment lay taunting him. He snatched it up, then handed it to her. “Hurry. He’s keeping the staff at bay down the hall.”

“What?!” Her eyes grew huge. “He . . . knows?”

“He won’t say anything. And he doesn’t know for certain it’s you in here.”

Her hand froze mid-air while tying one of the ribbons of her nightdress. “Who else would it be? You said . . .”

He hated doing it, but he grabbed her by the shoulders. “All will be well, my love. Trust me. But you must get back to your room!”

Once she’d finished tying her nightdress, he opened the door and peeked out, confirming the hallway was still clear of servants. He turned and motioned her forward.

More light from the risen sun illuminated the room, and Honoria paused halfway to the door, her head turning toward the wall on the left.

Damnation! The portrait!

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