Page 9 of Look at Her Duke
Contrary to his smile, his tone sounded a little…bitter.
“You are not excited to become a duke?”
He sighed and glanced down at their hands. He started, as if he’d forgotten their palms were pressed together, but he didn’t release her. “I wasnae supposed to be. My father and my older brother both had to die before me.”
She hadn’t thought of that.Oh, hell.“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Both of them passed a while ago. My uncle—the last Duke—died in a hunting accident earlier this year.”
A memory surfaced of the newspaper article. “In Canada?” she asked slowly.
“In America.” His lip curled wryly. “This was the no’-so-nice uncle I mentioned. He and his oldest son were avid hunters, and saw nothing wrong with shooting buffalo from a moving train and leaving their carcasses to rot. Uncle was after more excitement, however, so he convincedbothhis sons to ride untrained horses into the herd itself.”
She winced, remembering the newspaper story. “There was a stampede, correct?”
Kip didn’t answer for a long moment, even as his thumb began to caress her palm while he stared down. “I suppose wild animals were just trying to protect themselves. I dinnae blame them, but I ken my younger cousin Jerry wouldnae have chosen to be there. He lingered with his injuries, which he didnae deserve either. He was a good lad. Would’ve made a better duke than me.”
Instinctively, Amelia flipped her hands over in his hold, until she could lace her fingers through his. “That is not true, Kipling. You are smart. You are compassionate.” His comment about not blaming the buffalo proved that. “You will make a fine Duke.”
He studied her face for a long moment, his gaze flicking between her eyes, as if searching for the truth.
Finally, he admitted, “I am a coward.”
What to say to something like that?
Nothing. Just squeeze his hand.
Ah, that seemed to work, because his lips curled wryly. Self-deprecating.
“I ran away to Europe because I was afraid.”
She opened her mouth to askAfraid of what, but instead sucked in a gasp as a disoriented moth—likely attracted by theglittering lights of the ballroom, fluttered from the gardens past her face.
Her “Oh!” changed to a happy sigh as the poor thing alighted on her collarbone. Smiling, she glanced up at Kipling to see his gaze had followed the moth.
“A peppered moth,” she whispered. “See how beautifully it is camouflaged? I once collected the caterpillars just to watch them pupate, then I released them into the wild.”
His gaze lifted to hers. “Perhaps this is one of them.”
He was whispering as well. Was it in awe? Or only because she was?
Either way, Amelia’s smile was bright. “Perhaps,” she agreed, even though she knew the moth’s lifespan made such a thing impossible. Look at her, ignoring science all for a handsome man. “A descendent, at least.”
“Then we must keep it safe,” he whispered.
Before she realized his intent, Kipling had dropped one of her hands and reached for her chest. His fingertips skimmed across her skin as he scooped up the moth and then gently—so gently—placed the poor confused thing on the balustrade beside them.
“Go on, then. Go.”
Kip was looking at the moth, but Amelia was looking at him.
Her entire body had shuddered at his touch, and her stomach was knotted from his sweetness. She found herself leaning toward him—as ifhewere the flame and she was the helpless moth—because whatever infatuation she’d thought herself in the midst of two years ago?
Oh, it was so much worse now.
Or better. Possibly better. Much, much better.
“Kipling?” she breathed, and when he lifted his gaze to hers, she forced herself to be brave. To speak the unspeakable. “Why did you leave?”
