Page 32 of A Duke's Keeper
He grinned. “How many partners haveyouhad?”
Camille threw out the first number that came to mind, atwo-digitnumber that seemed respectable for a woman in her supposed profession.
The duke’s grin vanished, and an enjoyable paling of his smug face told her she’d regained the upper hand.
“Any preferences or fantasies you wish to enlist in sessions?” she asked sweetly.
He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee, his gaze narrowing. “I’ve a fondness for rescuing damsels. A recent experience turned me on to the merits of a grateful woman.”
She managed a casual, “Oh? Recent experience, you say?”
Was he here to relive what had happened last night?
“Very recent,” he said. “The woman was in shock, you see. Poor thing could barely walk. Naturally, I carried her to safety.”
Her teeth ground together. “How valiant you are, sir. And you wish to act out such”—falsehoods—“heroics here?”
At the mention of ‘heroics,’ he flinched. “How could I not? Especially as the lady had the same hair color as yours.”
Camille forced herself not to play with the curls at her chest. “Hair like mine? What a coincidence.”
He stood. “And the same fair skin.” He moved closer, his gaze no longer distant.
Camille stood so fast, she knocked the board and parchment to the floor in her haste to reach the door. Ink spattered the floor. “This is a great start, Your Grace. An excellent place to begin.” She turned the handle and smiled over her shoulder. “I’ll file your answers and we will place you on the schedule for next week—”
“Why wait?”
He was right behind her, his arm placed beside her head, his hand on the door, making escape impossible.
Camille felt the heat of him through her cape and knew if she turned around, she’d expire on the spot.
She swallowed. “There are rules, sir, a process. You must be checked... for illness.” That sounded plausible. “The health of the Ponies is Madam’s priority.”
His arm was removed. “All right.”
She turned around. A mistake.
He hadn’t retreated. He stood a scant foot from her, his honeyed gaze hot on her face. Untying his cravat, he slipped it through his collar and dropped it to the floor. His coat followed. When his hands went to work the buttons on his shirt, she panicked.
“What are you doing?”
“Undressing.” His gaze didn’t leave hers. “I wouldn’t want you to ruin your process.”
“Process?” What the hell was he talking about? Her brain stuttered, starting and stopping with every exposed inch of tanned skin.
His shirttails pulled free of his trousers, leaving his chest and waist visible.
Her mouth went dry.
“Miss?”
She looked up. “Did you say something?”
His slow smile left her head spinning. She leaned back against the door.
He sloughed off his shirt, where it joined his coat and cravat at their feet. “I asked your name.”
Name. All the Ponies had stage names. Scrambling, she said, “Angel.”
