Nothing Like a Duke is number four in my
Duke’s Sons series. Highjinks at a houseparty end in literal and metaphorical
fireworks as Lord Robert Gresham finds out how not to rescue a lady. Here’s an excerpt.
There, concealed behind a ruffle of
coverlet, sat a small wooden chest, about the length of her forearm and half as
wide. Flora might have thought it belonged to the house, but Durand’s initials
were inlaid into the top. She knelt, slid it out, and tried the lid. It was
securely locked. Here, then, were any secrets he wished to keep. She pulled at
the lid again, but the chest was sturdily constructed, and the mechanism didn’t
appear simple.
Flora gazed at the small box. If this
were a boys’ adventure story, she thought, she would pluck a pin from her hair
and pick the lock with a few deft movements. Shrugging, she tried it. Her
hairpin rattled ineffectually in the keyhole. It didn’t catch on anything. Papa
had neglected to include any such skills in her education. Flora looked around.
She’d seen no keys in the room. Undoubtedly Durand kept this one with him. For
now, his hidden possessions were out of her reach.
The door handle rattled and started to
turn.
Heart suddenly pounding, Flora shoved
the chest back into place, sprang up, and ran to the glass doors. She stepped
behind the long drapery at the side, making certain the fall of cloth concealed
her skirts. The curtain stopped a half inch above the floor. Her feet would be
visible in the shadows if anyone looked closely.
The door opened. Someone came in. The
door shut. The hunting party couldn’t have returned so soon. Perhaps it was
Durand’s valet, Flora thought with a sinking heart. Who knew how long he might
linger at his duties?
And then she heard the distinctive
sound of the wooden chest sliding along the floor.
Pulse racing, Flora risked a peek
through a chink in the draperies. Lydia Fotheringay knelt as she herself had a
moment ago, with the chest before her. Lydia was trying a key in the lock. When
it didn’t turn, she muttered a curse and set the key aside. From a small cloth
bag at her side, she took another. Clearly, she’d come prepared. She tried the
second key, without success, laid it by the first, and repeated the action. By
the fifth attempt, she was obviously frustrated. She threw that key down. Metal
rang against the wood of the floor.
Mrs. Fotheringay went very still. She
waited. When nothing happened, she sighed. She started to reach into the bag,
then hesitated and looked around the room. “Is someone there?”
Flora shifted very slightly behind the
curtain. Often, people could tell they were being watched. If she stopped
looking, would Mrs. Fotheringay’s suspicions subside? It was agony not to be
able to see what was happening. The older woman might be walking softly toward
her right now.
The sound of another key rattling in
the lock reassured Flora. But she still fervently wished herself elsewhere. How
many keys had the woman brought?
Flora’s gaze lit on the bolt that
secured the glass doors.
Beyond the drapery, Lydia Fotheringay
cursed colorfully.
Flora dared a quick look. Her fellow
intruder was glaring at the chest, muttering. She snatched another key from her
bag.
Under cover of the metallic sound as
she rattled it in the lock, Flora pushed at the bolt. It slid back easily. Before
she could change her mind, she opened the outer door, slid through, and closed
it silently behind her. She blessed the efficient caretakers of Salbridge Great
Hall, who saw to it that hinges did not creak. With nowhere to hide, she waited
with pulse pounding and fingers crossed. The door remained closed. Lydia
Fotheringay did not rush out and discover her.
Flora breathed again. She stood in a
narrow space behind the ornate stone balustrade. It was purely decorative, not
a proper balcony, but a narrow ledge extending along the side of the house past
several rooms. There was barely room to stand between the coping and the wall
of the house.
A cold wind tugged at Flora’s skirts.
Her gown was no protection at all. The weather had worsened since early morning
and would probably cut the hunting short. Flora debated whether to wait where
she was—surely Mrs. Fotheringay would be on her way soon—or to risk entry
through one of the other bedchambers. Neither option was very appealing.
Three rooms down from where she stood,
another set of glass doors clicked and opened a crack. A familiar small dog
emerged. Plato turned and looked directly at her, as if he’d fully expected to
find a young lady huddled against the house. He trotted toward her.
“Plato,” came a familiar voice from
inside. “Where do you think you’re going?” Robert leaned out of the open door. “Come
in at once, sir,” he commanded. He saw Flora.
One problem solved by another, Flora
thought as she moved quickly along the narrow passage. At least she didn’t have
to pass Durand’s window. She didn’t look to see if any of the other rooms were
occupied. Best to move by very fast; an observer might think he’d imagined her.
Flora reached Robert and slipped past him into his room, Plato at her heels.
Robert followed. He closed the glass
door and shot the bolt. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Getting in out of the cold.” Flora
rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and went to stand near the fire. “I should
have brought a shawl, but I didn’t think I’d...”
“Yes?” he said when she broke off. “Didn’t
think you’d what?”
Robert wore only a shirt, half
unbuttoned, and breeches. His feet were bare. Flora couldn’t take her eyes off
him. He looked so unlike his customary polished self. Disheveled, she thought,
or tousled or disarrayed. Delectable.
Comments
Post a Comment