Page 20 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Why do you wish to know her better?” the duke asked, his eyes clouding with suspicion. “Are you in search of a dowry?”
“My love,” the duchess whispered, placing a hand on the duke’s arm. Then she turned to Murdo. “My husband has a point,” she said. “My daughter is unused to Society. I wouldn’t want her taken advantage of. She’s a little different to the other young women here tonight.”
“Which is precisely why I wish to court her,” Murdo said. “She’s a free spirit, like myself. I’ve no interest in perfect Society misses.”
“That may be the case,” the duke said, “but you have no right to ask my permission to court my daughter.”
Miss Martingale’s body seemed to deflate with disappointment.
Then the duke met her gaze. “You must askhers.”
Her lips parted and her eyes flared with joy.
“After all,” the duke said, giving her an indulgent smile, “it’s not me you intend to court—is that not right, Clara?”
“Y-yes, Papa.”
“Then may I call on yer daughter tomorrow?” Murdo asked.
“Are you staying nearby?”
“With my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Tuffington.”
“Ah, we know the family,” the duke said, nodding. “The younger son is a great friend of my sons, though only the elder was here tonight, much to the boys’ disappointment. Why don’t we invite you all for tea?” He turned to the duchess. “My love, will you issue the invitation?”
“If that’s what Clara wants,” she said.
Murdo took Miss Martingale’s hand and lifted it. Her breath caught as he brushed his lips against her skin, and his manhood hardened at the eagerness in her eyes. Unable to conquer the primal urge to claim her, he nipped the back of her hand. Her eyes flared with desire.
“Yesplease,” she whispered.
“That’s settled, then,” the duchess said. “I’ll write to your aunt directly. Now, Harcourt, you promised me another turn on the dance floor.”
“My love, I think I’m done for the evening.”
“Nonsense!” she chided her husband. “Dancing is good for the limbs, even at our age.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward him. “And if you ache when the evening’s done, I can apply my special liniment.”
The duke’s steady expression faltered, and a flare of passion flickered in his gaze.
Devil’s ballocks—what must it be like to still harbor such passion at their age?
Murdo glanced at Miss Martingale. She was studying her hand, a smile of anticipation on her lips, as she brushed her fingertips over the red mark on her skin where he’d branded her as his.
Miss Martingale was not a woman to be courted—she was a woman to beclaimed.
And, judging by the eagerness in her expression, she would enjoy it as much as he.
Chapter Four
Clara brushed herfingertips across the back of her hand.
Where he’d bitten her—he’d actuallybittenher!
Like a savage beast marking his possession.
The sharp sting of his teeth had sent a thrill coursing through her veins and a fizz of desire straight to her center.
No London gentleman would behave so inappropriately—yet she had relished it.
