My babe cried harder.
The duke rocked Lionel a little faster. “Please, son, we were just getting along. Must be all these intruders.”
“Son?” Lady Shrewsbury held out her arms and took Lionel. “Duke, you sly thing. Your old habits of loving and leaving have caught up with you and now you’ve gained this morsel.”
He chuckled, a rich full-bodied laugh, and I felt more cheated, even jealous.
“Countess, I’m not one to kiss and tell, but this young lad is the son of my late cousin. I’m just a mere guardian. No lovers lost, not this year, not yet.”
All this inane conversation and Lionel was hungry. I looked to my friend to see if she could help, but Jemina might as well have been a lamppost.
She stood at the foot of the grand bed, stiff and stilled by a wheeled chair. The girl looked mesmerized by it.
I rubbed my brow. “Your Grace, sir. Lady Shrewsbury. Let me take the baby. The boy is hungry. I know he is.”
Lionel cried again.
The duke reached for him, but Lady Shrewsbury seemed not to notice. She turned and bounced Lionel in her arms.
“Ladies, I’m getting him on a schedule, and you’re interrupting.” He picked up his gold watch again. “Milk will be here shortly. So please leave.”
I undid my shawl and a few buttons of my gown to expose the wetness of my tunic. “Milk is here for the babe.”
The duke’s gaze fell upon me. “Oh.”
That was all he said, but he took his time staring with a cheeky smile that took years from his face. “Ah, yes, ma’am, you do. Of course.” He tugged on Lionel’s foot. “Be at it. Feed him.”
Permission given at last, I sighed and moved fast to get my son.
Then I tripped over those boots.
Hands flailing, I landed headfirst onto the bed. My cheek smacked hard against the chest I’d admired.
CHAPTER 8
THEWRONGMOVES
Naked chest. Naked chest. I’d landed on the duke.
There was no place to put my hands that wasn’t scars or muscles, lean shoulders, or taut abdomen.
“Sorry. Sorry. Your Grace.”
There was no rule, no protocol for this.
His arms came around my back and held me still. “Woman, don’t move.”
There was no rule for how I felt in this tight embrace. My cheeks burned.
“Don’t thrash, woman. My leg is injured. You’ll make this worse.”
Worse?
What could that be?
I was sprawled atop him. His breath wasn’t sweet like last night’s rum, but tart. I stopped twitching. With each twist he increased the pressure of his palms.
My legs sank more into the softness of the mattress and pillows that had surrounded the duke.
