Page 9 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
His grip was firm and cool, not tight, yet she sensed reined strength behind it.
“Right, then. On the count of three.” She braced herself. “One. Two. Three!”
She hauled with all her might, and he pushed up, using her for balance as he straightened his long legs and got his weight over his feet.
At the last moment, he swayed, and she feared he would go down again, but he staggered back and caught the curricle’s side and managed to steady himself.
Then he smiled, nearly blinding her with charm. “There!”
Blinking, she saw that he was looking absurdly pleased. Smothering a snort, she freed her hands from his and stepped back.
Carefully balancing against the curricle, he straightened to his full height, which proved to be significantly taller than she’d thought. She was used to tall men; her brothers and most of her cousins were over six foot tall, yet this lordling would, she thought, be even taller than they.
“That’s better.” He risked taking his hand from the curricle’s side to tug his exquisitely cut black coat straight, then he fixed his gaze on the cottage’s rear door. “Now, to get inside.”
He took one step, and his leg buckled. She rushed to catch him, and he lurched into her, and she staggered as well.
For an instant, they teetered, and she prayed they weren’t both going to end on the gravel. In desperation, she wrapped her arms as far around him as she could reach. “Don’t go down!”
“I’m trying not to.” His arm descended across her shoulders, and his hand wrapped about her upper arm.
For several fraught seconds, they shuffled and shifted, but then steadied, and she breathed again.
For a moment, they both rested, simply breathing and taking stock. She had her arms wrapped halfway around his lower chest, hands splayed to hold him, and one heavy arm lay over her shoulders. They seemed to have achieved stability of a sort.
“My apologies. My limbs are definitely not behaving as they ought.”
He was entirely serious and sincere.
She angled a glance at his face. “Have you ever been this drunk before?”
He appeared to trawl through his memories, then hedged, “Not that I recall.”
She swallowed an entirely inappropriate laugh. “All right. Just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.”
He did as ordered, and they advanced step by shuffling step toward the cottage’s rear door. When they stood on the low stoop, he braced one hand against the doorframe, allowing her to release him and open the door, which was helpfully unlocked, as most doors in the country were.
She clamped her arms about him again, and his arm settled across her shoulders. With her on his left still bracing his weight, they angled through the doorway and moved into the small kitchen.
She glanced around and saw a deal table and counters lining the walls, but nowhere to sit.
“That way.” He pointed to a narrow corridor leading toward the front of the house.
Given the width of his shoulders, negotiating the corridor without letting him go was a trial. When she attempted to ease her hold, he staggered and almost fell, and she quickly clutched him again.
Finally, they reached the small front hall.
The front door lay ahead, with open doors giving access to rooms on either side, while immediately on their left, the stairs rose steeply.
“This way.” He urged her on.
As they neared the doorways, she peered through. To the right, she glimpsed a dining table, while on the left, she saw a sitting room. Relieved, she headed that way.
As they drew level with the newel post, she glanced at his face.
He’d noticed her looking toward the sitting room and shook his head. “Only armchairs. I need to lie flat.”
She opened her lips to waspishly inform him that he would have to make do, but he gripped the newel post and, using it as a fulcrum, swung around to face the stairs, of necessity taking her with him.
