He turned his wrist, pulse up, and gave a little jerk. The motion notched her index fingerinsidehis glove, along with two other fingers.
And now they shared the same glove.
“No man would make youstoptouching him, least of all me,” he rasped.
Isobel was awash in shimmers. She slid deeper into his glove, so deep the tight leather refused to give. Next she peeled the offending accessory from his hand. Theduke wiggled his fingers, helping. When his hand was bare, she interlaced their fingers and squeezed.
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” she whispered, finally meeting his eye.
“At the moment, neither do I,” he said.
“And I cannot be intimate with you.”
“You’ve mentioned this.”
“I’ve had my heart broken before.” She held his hand tightly between them.
“Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me who hurt you.”
The very odd thing was, even odder than her clasping his hand between them, was that shewantedto tell him.
She shook her head wildly.No.Tears stung her eyes.
“Why not?” His voice was gentle.
“Because you will be compassionate.” This was true, she realized. He would not scoff or deride or hold her at an arm’s length. It had been a wretched time, and he would understand. She was already too fond of him. He was too handsome and clever. And the prison escape story and orphanage rescue? So capable and brave. His fear of retiring, the vulnerability.
Isobel Tinker was not made of stone, but perhaps she was made of something like... porcelain? Strong but also breakable. And she could not allow herself to become his random, unaccounted lover.
She recited in her head,Dukes do not marry travel agents and I cannot be his lover.
“I willnotbe compassionate about it,” he assured her.
He was trying to make her smile. Shewantedto smile and laugh and make light of it all. This particular conversation should not feel so very important. She could not discover another irresistible piece of him every time they spoke. First he was charming and dashing.Then he was anxious but resigned. Now he was brave and commanding. What next? Did he fly?
She didn’t have the stamina to learn another reason to want him. She was too old for the racing heart and the belly shimmers—and for the hope.
Slowly, without any real design, their joined hands fell to hang between them, still joined. It was less like they were arm wrestling, more like they were sweethearts. It was worse.
They stood so very close. The sun had been swallowed by the sea, and the moon slid into position, frosting them in silver light.
“I wasn’t trying to charm you, Miss Tinker,” he said. “I was illustrating one of the many miserable contrasts between life as a spy and life as a duke.”
“Miserable?”
“Perhaps ‘miserable’ is an exaggeration.” His expression was miserable. “ ‘Dull’ may be a better word. When I am duke, there is a good chance that I will drop into the ducal bed at Syon Hall and never awaken.”
Isobel had a flash vision of Northumberland’s “ducal bed” and felt a ping of desire.
“Life is what you make of it,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Has no one said this to you?”
“Not really. You know what has been said? I’ve heard different variations of the same thing: your father is dead, and then your brother August, also dead; and now your brother James, dead too. The job that killed the three of them now rests on your unwilling shoulders. So pack it in andget home.”
“They said this to you. You were summoned?”
He shrugged. “Not in as many words, but—”
“If there was no summons, then perhaps it is not what was expected, not to the very letter. Perhaps youmay reinvent the dukedom in a way that allows you freedom to—”
