Page 9 of The Duchess Games

“Is that what I should do?” he asked, softly, dryly.

“Better yet, if you push down on the edge there, he should pop free.” She leaned closer to better point out the spot. “Just here—”

“Caitriona, don’t.” His voice was a controlled lash. Expecting to be obeyed. And he’d said her name again. She wasn’t a silly schoolgirl to be offended. Especially not when she liked it so much. The way he rolled the syllables in his mouth, it sounded like the wind off the moors, the sea finding its way home. She felt it everywhere.

He shifted his stance.

The shell released.

Without warning.

Bartholomew shot over the lip of the fountain. Time slowed down, stopped. Water droplets sparkled near Cat’s nose. He finally landed safely on a patch of grass. Then he trundled off without so much as a how-do-you-do.

Or an apology.

Because his sudden freedom also came with a certain amount of momentum. Enough to cause Callum to stagger. He slid and lost his balance, falling into the water with a resounding and impressive splash. Cat jerked to the side to avoid being smacked in the face with a turtle-projectile, stumbled against the stone edge, floundered, and fell right in next to him. With a yelp. And a splash to rival Callum’s own.

All in all, not her most graceful moment.

Callum pushed out of the water that fell directly into his face from a carved conch shell and tossed his hair back. He reached for Cat who coughed and choked. “Are you hurt? Caitriona, answer me, are you—”

She wasn’t choking on fountain water.

Well, not only fountain water.

Mostly laughter. Callum paused. It only made her laugh harder. His answering smile was slow, nearly shy and it transformed his entire face. He was still somberly handsome, with that quiet intensity, but now there was a sweetness to him.

She had a sudden, intense craving for dessert.

The smile vanished so quickly she might have imagined it.

She hadn’t though. And the need to make him smile again tingled inside her chest.

She was never going to be a duchess, but sitting in a fountain with a duke while a rescued turtle sauntered away was far more fitting for someone like her. More amusing, too, it had to be said. Even if her dress now weighed as much as a house. It tangled around her knees as she tried to clamber out.

Callum stood and offered his hand again, dripping water from hair gone dark and tangled. The thin lawn of his shirt molded to his chest, outlining his muscles. Even soaked through, he exuded the bearing of an aristocrat. His back was straight, his expression calm.

Until a tiny frog plopped out of a fold of his shirt.

She guffawed. She wished she could say it had been a demure giggle, a seductive chuckle. But alas, a guffaw.

She pulled the wet mass of her dress out the fountain, guffaw giving way to a chortle. Not precisely an improvement. “If only turtle-dodging were a contest, I’d fancy myself the winner.”

“It might be better than what my mother has planned.” No smile this time, but a gleam of amusement; something to be shared between them.

Oh, she could be in trouble with this man.

Again.

And she could not afford to be. She could not forget why she was here. What she must do.

To him.

“Let me escort you back to the house,” he said.

“I hear the ladies in London dampen their dresses,” she said, water squelching with every step as they moved through the garden. “I can’t say I see the appeal.”

He glanced down at her, glanced away, all while making a sound in the back of his throat, a kind of hum that somehow touched the back of her thighs.