“What are you doing?” she hissed. “I told you—”
“I know what you told me.” He spoke gently to the boys, cognizant of their shocked expressions. “I must speak with your mother. Can you make your way to your chamber on your own?”
Peter stood back, every hackle appeared raised on his small body. “Are you going to yell at her again?”
Sebastian’s insides bristled at insolence he never tolerated from underlings—only the king could get away with such behavior. He should be knighted for the innate calmness that quickly dissipated when Rebecca Thatcher was in the vicinity. “I am a duke. I do not yell.”
Peter narrowed his eyes on Sebastian. “Are you going to kiss her again?”
“Am I—” Sebastian stopped, rendered speechless momentarily. Annoyance pricked him and he glanced at Rebecca, whose face registered shock with a deep shade of scarlet coloring. “She’ll be along shortly,” he told the crafty little imp. His words didn’t keep Peter from backing down. He sidled alongside his mother, taking her hand as if to protect her. From him!
Even more insulting, Percy stepped up to her other side, taking her other hand. Sebastian was so struck by the sight, his chest tightened, stealing his breath. He’d never hurt a woman in his life.
Rebecca’s eyes flashed fire, but she managed to hide her ire from the children. “Go on. I’ll be up in a moment,” she said softly. She kissed each boy on his forehead. But then, in true Amazonian fashion, her voice firmed. “No detours. You understand?”
There was a slight standoff that Sebastian didn’t quite understand. A second later, Peter’s shoulders fell. “Yes, ma’am.” His mother had bested him in their silent battle.
Sebastian opened the door. “Good night. I shall see you in the morning. Stay out of the stable yard,” he added quickly before shutting the door with a distinct click. He turned and faced Rebecca with his arms crossed over his chest. “Would you care to enlighten me as to what is afoot?”
She spun on her heel and strolled across the room; poured herself another half glass of wine. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He followed and did the same, only he filled his glass to the brim—with brandy. Dealing with an Amazon required more than half a glass of fortification. He wanted to rail at her. Demand she answer his questions. Kiss her until she couldn’t think clearly. He wanted her but he didn’twantto want her. Instead, he fell back on old history. It was familiar and gave him the advantage. “Your ploy won’t work, you know.”
Her brows creased. Surely she didn’t expect him to believe she was confused. “What ploy?”
“The one in which you attempt to entrap me into marrying you. It didn’t work seven years ago, and it won’t work now.”
Her face paled with her surprise, then flushed with outrage. She took in a deep breath, narrowing her eyes on him. It was if a veil settled over her, effectively barricading her emotions. Her lips curled, and not in an attractive fashion.
He swallowed a groan, wishing he’d never brought up the debacle from her season debut. He could be kissing her right now, or more, but for his own stupidity. They were alone and unchaperoned. What the devil happened to his brain when this woman was within touching distance?
She crossed an arm over her waist with her elbow resting on it, holding her glass. She took a sip and shook her head. “Ah, I see you’ve found me out, Your Grace.” She lifted her glass in salute. “Consider my lesson learned.” Then tipped back the rest of her wine, plopped her glass on the table, and with her nose in the air, went to the door. “I’ll say good night then.”
Before he could raise an objection, she was gone.
Damn. He’d wanted a fight. Not some melodramatic exit. Rebecca was reckless and forthright. She didn’t fear offending him like others ready to kowtow to his every whim. She wasn’t one who fabricated things in an effort to placate. It was as astonishing as it was disconcerting. He disliked and admired her verve.
But what the devil was he to do about it?
~~~
Being angry would do her no good. All anger did for anyone was elevate their heart rate until they swooned. Not her, of course. The man had more nerve than a patroness at Almack’s. Her pulse throbbed. Not that she’d ever been invited orwantedto attend. She’d never met a man who infuriated her more. The egotistical, arrogant arse. Why, if it wasn’t for her promise to Owen and Oliver, she would hire a horse and gallop all the way to Exford without a second look back.
Rather than heading to her chamber, she found a side door that led outside for a desperate measure of air. The breath escaping her dropped her shoulders. Of course, she couldn’t just dump her charges off on their unappreciative father and leave. There was still the little matter of Gabby. Her one true friend in the whole world who’d decidedshe didn’t wish to be a countess anymore. Gabby obviously needed to talk, and Rebecca could never desert her friend. Just as she told Owen perhaps in not so many words, Gabby had saved Rebecca’s life as far as Rebecca was concerned.
What was it about Ryleigh that flipped her rational life to a jumbled mess? How gentle he’d handled Duke? How he spoke to the boys as if they were intelligentbeings rather than in the way and underfoot? His attitude toward her could use an adjustment, but that was nothing she wasn’t accustomed to. If he’d treated any of the others with the slightest amount of disdain, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—have tolerated it.
She let out a sigh, terrified her feelings of long ago were making a grand resurgence. And if he ever learned that horrifying fact, well, she might as well throw herself off the cliffs of Dover.
Nine
The next afternoon, as the barouche drew closer to Dorchester, the thicker the tension grew within confines that were already as thick as coal darkening the London skies in winter. All stemming from the twins and the duke. Sharing a window with Duke—the dog, not the man—Rebecca ignored the rising pressure inside that was downright palpable, and stared out at the lush greenery that marked their path to the portico. Serena’s cowering in the corner in her efforts to stay as far away from Duke—the dog, possiblynotthe man—was not helping with the anxious atmosphere.
Surprisingly, Oliver snuck his small, trembling hand within hers.
She darted him a quick look, but his eyes were averted and she just gave him a reassuring squeeze. With her free hand, she stroked Duke’s clean, softened coat, forcing herself to save her questions for later. When they had no audience, because something was definitely amiss. She glanced over at Owen, but his gaze was anchored out the other window.
The wide stone stairs to the grand entrance came into view and with it, the end of this bizarre journey. Almost, she silently recanted. There was still the little matter of setting the boys’ father straight regarding Owen.
