Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(4)
Author: Tessa Dare

The latter. Definitely the latter. The most exciting quarter hour of her life, and she’d spent it completely insensible. Izzy, you fool.

But though she had no firm recollection of being carried in from the rain, her body seemed to have a memory of its own. Beneath her clothing, she smoldered with the sensation of strong hands on chilled flesh. As if his touch had been imprinted on her skin.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to carry me inside.”

“There’s tea. To your left.”

A chipped mug of steaming liquid sat on a table nearby—to her left, as he’d said. She took it in both hands, letting its warmth seep into her palms before lifting it for a long, nourishing draught.

Fire raced down her throat.

She coughed. “What’s in this?”

“Milk. And a drop of whisky.”

Whisky? She sipped again, not in a position to be particular. When approached with the appropriate caution, the brew wasn’t so bad. As she swallowed, an earthy, smoky heat curled through her.

On the same table, she found a small loaf of bread and broke into it, famished.

“Who are you?” she asked between mouthfuls. Aunt Lilith would not be pleased with her manners.

“I’m Rothbury. You’re in my castle.”

Izzy swallowed hard. This man claimed to be the Duke of Rothbury? It seemed too much to believe. Shouldn’t dukes have servants to make their tea and dress them in proper attire?

God help her. Perhaps she was trapped with a madman.

Izzy drew the blanket close. Despite her doubts, she wasn’t going to risk provoking him.

“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Should I address you as ‘Your Grace?’ ”

“I don’t see the point of it. Within a few hours, I hope you’ll refer to me as ‘That ill-mannered wretch you importuned one rainy afternoon and then never pestered again.’ ”

“I don’t mean to be trouble.”

“Beautiful women are always trouble. Whether they mean to be or not.”

More teasing. Or more lunacy. Izzy wasn’t sure which. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was no kind of beauty. It didn’t matter how she pinched her cheeks or pinned back her aggressively curly hair. She was plain, and there seemed no getting around it.

This man, however, was anything but ordinary. She watched him as he tossed more wood on the blaze. He added a log as thick as her thigh, but he handled it with all the ease of tinder.

“I’m Miss Isolde Goodnight,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name.”

He poked the fire. “Why would I have heard the name?”

“My father was Sir Henry Goodnight. He was a scholar and historian, but he was most well-known as a writer.”

“Then that explains why I don’t know him. I am not a reader.”

Izzy looked to the arched windows. The afternoon was darkening. The lengthening shadows worried her, as did the fact that she’d yet to make out the entirety of her host’s face. She was growing anxious to see him, look into his eyes. She needed to know just what sort of man held her at his mercy.

“It seems Lord Archer might be some time yet,” she ventured. “Might we have a candle or two while we wait?”

After a grudging pause, he took a straw, lit it in the fire, and, carefully cupping the flame with one palm, moved it to a taper fixed atop the mantel.

The task seemed to cause him inordinate difficulty. The candlewick caught, but he held the straw in place until it burned down to his fingertips. He cursed under his breath and whipped it with his hand, shaking out the flame.

“I hate to be a bother. It’s just that I’m . . .” She didn’t know why she was admitting it, except that she felt sorry he’d burned himself to increase her comfort. “I’m not fond of the dark.”

He turned to her, bearing the candle. One side of his wide mouth tipped, like a scale weighted with irony. “I haven’t made my peace with it either.”

The new flame cast golden light on his face. Izzy startled. His sculpted, aristocratic features did much to bolster his claim of being a duke. But something else about his face told a different story.

A dramatic, uneven scar sliced from his brow to his temple, ending on the crest of his right cheekbone. Though the candle flame flickered and sparked, his eyes didn’t narrow or focus.

Of course.

The realization flared within her. At last, something about this day made sense.

It all made sense.

The darkened room, his refusal to read her letter, his manual assessment of her health. His repeated mentions of Izzy’s beauty despite what should have been ample evidence to the contrary.

He was blind.

Chapter Two

Ransom remained still, letting the candle illuminate the mangled side of his face. He’d been keeping his distance to spare her this, but she’d requested the light.

So he waited, allowing her a good, long look.

No shrieks, gasps of horror, or soft thuds as she hit the floor. Not this time. She exuded nothing but that same teasing fragrance of rosemary.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the candle.”

Her voice was even more alluring than her scent. She had the accent of a sheltered English miss—but with an undeniably husky, sensual undertone.

“Has it been a long time since your injury?” she asked. “Were you wounded in battle? A duel? An accident?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m fond of long stories.”

He plunked the candlestick on the table with finality. “Not this one.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s terribly forward of me to ask. I had decided against it. But then I thought, surely you must know that I’m wondering. If I pretended sudden interest in the ceiling or the weather, that would be an insult of sorts, too. And you seem the sort of man who’d prefer honesty—even the uncomfortable kind—to insincerity, so I just”—her voice dropped a half octave—“decided to ask.”

She went quiet. At last.

He was irritated with his body’s response to her presence. Her femininity was like a lacy blanket taking up his favorite chair. Not something he would have brought into the room, but since she was there . . . he couldn’t deny that a scarred, neglected part of him craved that softness.

Hell, he ached for it, straight to his bones.

“Very well, I won’t press you for the story behind it,” she said lightly, “but be forewarned. I shall probably make one up.”