Page 35 of The Duchess Games

She pointed to the dark gardens, the sky just beginning to glow like a pearl. “Out there, of course. Though, I am sorry. I’m afraid I get rather single-minded when it comes to creatures of all kinds.”

Lead with the truth and the lie will disappear like mist in the sunshine. Another of Ambrose’s sayings.

She had put herself in all manner of compromising situations in pursuit of an animal who needed help. This was the most normal part of her day, usually. Callum crossed the gleaming floor to stand by her side. She prayed he wouldn’t look down. She pointed hastily up and the side, where the house jutted out. “There,” she said. “I lost the owl but I found a hawk’s nest on the edge of the roof just there.”

“I see.”

What would it be like if she were truly one of these ladies? At ease with decorum, with shining hair and silk nightdresses. She would be in no less of a social pickle, but she might be able to enjoy the danger of it. She might flirt, lean in closer. Callum might even notice.

But she wasn’t a Lady Sparrow.

She was just Cat.

Did he think she was here hoping for another repeat of last night? Mortifying. Tempting.

She felt every freckle on her nose, the swing of her nightdress against her wide hips, the dog hair no doubt on her hem. The scratches on her arms. The key in her hand. The falsehoods shining from her pores like light.

She eased back, eager to get him away from the window, away from his desk. “I should go, I suppose. Back to bed.”

His eyes flared. She swallowed, waiting for an interrogation. Instead, he merely agreed. “That would be best.”

She tried not to run pell-mell out of there as if her hair was on fire. Calm. Collected. Innocent. When he followed her, she nearly tripped in her relief.

She would take smuggling over housebreaking and burglary any day. Her stomach pitched to and fro like a leaky boat in a storm.

An oil lamp had been left burning at the top of the stairs, throwing enough light to pick her way under a line of family portraits, eyeing her with disapproval. Several old men with wigs, women with diamonds as big as eggs. She turned down the hall, eager to get back to her room where she could panic in peace. She’d have to count the windows to know which was his library from the outside, and then come up with a plausible reason for lurking in the bushes.

“Miss Sparrow, the guest wing is the other way.”

She stumbled to a stop. Damn it. So much for not acting flustered.

He looked down his ducal nose at her. He stood strong and steady, as though he was on a ship, not in a hall filled with art and gold and candlelight. Not at all adrift, the way she was. “Miss Sparrow, you do not belong here.”

She knew that.

Didn’t he think she already knew that?

And why did a simple truth simply spoken feel like cold water poured down the back of her?

Clearly last night was an aberration. And worse, he now thought that she was like the others, sniffing around his door to gain from the title. She wished she could be offended, wished it wasn’t true.

She forced a smile even though it felt like a grimace. She added a curtsy, salt to her wounds. “Of course, Your Grace.”

They would eat her alive.

She absolutely did not belong here. Wandering around alone at night chasing owls and then turning down the family wing corridor in her nightdress. Too near his bedchamber. His bed. She’d be ruined before breakfast. They’d scorn her and disdain her and send her home with her reputation in tatters.

Like hell.

Not while this was his house.

Not only was it monstrously hypocritical for anyone here to pretend that they did not spend their nights in bedrooms other than their own, but Cat was under his protection. Always. She didn’t know it. No one else knew it either. But they’d find out soon enough if he was pushed even an inch.

Never mind the urge to shield her, the urge to stalk her backwards through the open door and into his chambers was deep and dark. Primal. He could see her there with the candlelight shining through the thin material of her nightdress, outlining her soft thighs, her generous hips. He felt a little mad at the thought.

Especially as it was immediately followed with Cat in his bed, nightdress on the floor where it belonged and she dressed in his body alone, pressing down over her—where he belonged. He needed to know the taste of her. The sweetness of each nipple, the honey of her quim.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. He was not going to survive these damn Duchess games.