Page 50 of Love, the Duke
“Merciful angels,” she whispered under her breath. Was there any chance the man would recognize her? Or her voice? There had only been the width of a table between the two of them at the garden card party they’d attended. At the time, it seemed Mr. Sawyer was more interested in Miss Georgina Bristol. Ophelia wasn’t intimidated by him and his arrogant ways, but she would be foolish not to be wary that he might recognize her and tell everyone who she was.
Her stomach tightened to the point of hurting, but she would do her best not to spend much time with him—just in case something about her tweaked a memory or two. She didn’t have many choices until the duke appeared.
“Good afternoon,” he said, stopping in front of her. “My apologies for introducing myself, but I feel I’m among friends. I am Wilbur Sawyer, one of the gentlemen selected to be vetted and considered for membership in the Brass Deck. Are you under consideration too?”
She already knew from the card party that the man wasn’t shy and was barely tactful. “Thad Warcliff,” she responded with a nod, and keeping her lids low over her blue eyes so they wouldn’t convey her inner turmoil or feminine qualities. “Very recently under consideration.”
“What is your expertise, Mr. Warcliff? Marksman? Fencing?”
“Both.” The response left her lips before she could reconsider saying it. That comment certainly wasn’t in her best interest, considering the situation she was in. All this did was muddy her already-churning thoughts.
What would she do if he started asking her questions about the sport of shooting? She didn’t know anything about it. In fact, had never picked up a blunderbuss, a musket, or even a pistol. She had seldom even seen one that wasn’t mounted on a wall as an ornament of decoration.
“How about you?” she asked, quickly following her ill-stated answer with a question of her own and assuming he was waiting for her to ask. “Are you a pugilist?”
Shaking his head, he responded, “Cricket and cards.” He looked her up and down rather doubtfully but, thankfully, not too closely. “Will you be playing matches with us?”
“Quite sure I won’t,” she answered, and then gruffly cleared her throat. Even with the two and a half inches of heel on her boots, she was still quite small compared to the size of all the men in the room. She had no doubt Mr. Sawyer was thinking she’d be squashed like agrasshopper underfoot in the summer grass on the first play of the match. “Cards for sure.”
She glanced around the room again, doing her best not to show just how nervous she was. Where could the duke be?
A burst of laughter from someone caught Sawyer’s attention. Thank goodness he was too busy looking as if to see who else might be available to talk to than to pay too close attention to her. That bought her a little time to try to figure out what to do since the duke wasn’t in the room.
Going in search of the missing host seemed the most logical thing for her to do, but that idea bothered her a little. The duke was very particular that looking around rooms in the privacy of someone’s home without invitation, no matter how saintly the reason, was wrong. She had a very clear feeling he would be especially displeased to find her rambling around by herself in his house.
A server approached them carrying a tray of glasses with a little amber liquid poured into the bottom of them. Mr. Sawyer took one and, because all the other men held a drink, Ophelia felt compelled to take a glass too.
“To the Brass Deck,” Mr. Sawyer said.
After toasting him, Ophelia took a generous sip of the drink. Not used to such a strong, burning concentration of manly vises, she downed too much with the first swallow and dove into an unplanned coughing spree. Trying to quell the strong and very real reaction in her throat, she quickly pressed her man’s handkerchief over her mouth to stanch the spasms. She occasionally enjoyed a glass of claret with her mother in the evenings, and champagne when available at parties, but she’d never tried anything as stout as brandy.
She gasped and managed to say, “Terribly sorry, Mr.Sawyer. Swallowed wrong. Excuse me, if you please.” She turned away from him and allowed her chest to heave in a deep clearing breath while remaining as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t attract the attention of the other men in the room. She didn’t need any of them to come over to ask if she was all right.
One thing was clear: Continuing to stand in this room wasn’t the best course of action for her. She was getting nowhere and had had enough of waiting around for the duke to show while she played the part of a man without much success. She had two choices: go looking on her own or seek help. That was easy. She would rather find the staunch butler and take her chances with him again. All he could do was say no when she asked him where the duke was and if he could take her to His Grace.
While stuffing her handkerchief back into her coat pocket, she had the oddest sensation that her world was suddenly tilting and immediately knew why. She sensed Hurst’s presence in the room. It was as if she felt the heat of his eyes upon her. She remembered the sweet passion of their kisses in the chill of the afternoon and how his body had seemed to warm her all the way down to her soul.
Without thinking, she turned toward the doorway, and their gazes met and for an instant she thought their heartbeats had too. He stood in the entranceway and she looked straight into the vivid green eyes of the impeccably dressed duke. All the other men in the room seemed to fade away as if they had disappeared from the room.
Her spirits lifted and she started to smile until she saw Hurst striding toward her as if with a life-or-death mission on his mind. One he didn’t intend to fail at accomplishing. Even so, his stern stare as he approached with a menacing glare reminded her how immensely attractedshe was to him even when his annoyance with her was flowing like a fast-moving current through him. There was something about him that made her know she’d rather be with him than anyone else.
Her heartbeat raced with thunderous pounding in her ears. She could feel his senses were alive and on alert.
In the next instant, she shivered with growing anticipation and fear for what he might say or do. In front of all these men he could call her out on her disguise. What would she do then?
He glowered at her with his jaw tightly clenched. She could almost hear his deep inhaling breath whistle through his white teeth. The closer he came the more she wilted.
