Page 6 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
Cressida opened her mouth, then closed it, frustration coiling tight in her chest.
Because damn him, he was rightagain.
No magistrate would care about her grievances, not when she’d been the one attempting to disrupt a ceremony.
She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, and became acutely aware of how disheveled she must appear. Her riding habit had twisted during their struggle, the fabric pulling tight across her bodice. She tugged at the collar, attempting to restore some modicum of propriety.
His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before returning to her face, but she’d caught it: that momentary lapse in his otherwise infuriating composure.
“See something of interest?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
One dark eyebrow rose. “Should I?”
Cressida was not one to get embarrassed so easily, especially when she believed she had the upper hand. “You tell me. You’re the one staring.”
“I wasn’t staring. I was observing that your attire has suffered from your theatrical exit attempt.” His tone remained maddeningly neutral. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when one flings oneself about carriages like a bedlamite.”
“Bedlamite?” Cressida’s voice rose. “You threw me over your shoulder like a sack of grain!”
At her affronted words, his lips curled up. “Would you have preferred I drag you by your hair? I was attempting to be civilized.”
“Civilized,” she repeated incredulously. “Yes, nothing says civilized quite like manhandling a woman.”
“An extremely reckless woman, in this case,” he said. “You were about to ruin your friend’s wedding. I did what was necessary. I make no apologies for it.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, leaning forward. “And why do you care so desperately about that wedding? What is Lord Whitebrook to you?”
He studied her for a long moment, as though weighing how much to reveal. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
“Theodore Yeats,” he said finally. “The Duke of Ashmere.”
Cressida barely managed to keep from stiffening.
A duke.Of course, he was a duke. That explained the arrogance, the presumption, the absolute certainty that he could simply?—
Rain struck the carriage roof.
The Duke glanced toward the window with what might have been annoyance. “Brilliant.”
Before she could respond, the drizzle became a downpour. Rain hammered the carriage with sudden violence, and the vehicle lurched to a stop.
The Duke rapped on the ceiling. “Driver! What’s the delay?”
A muffled voice called back through the storm, “The horses, Your Grace! They’re badly spooked. Can’t risk pushing on to London in this—it’s many miles yet, and the weather’s worsening by the minute!”
“Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “Where’s the nearest shelter?”
“Ashmere Castle, Your Grace. Just an hour back the way we came.”
“What? No!” Cressida lurched forward. “We cannot—you cannot possibly?—”
He ignored her entirely. “Take us to Ashmere. Now.”
The carriage began to turn, the movement confirming Cressida’s worst fears.
“This is unconscionable!” She grabbed his arm, her fingers clutching the fine wool of his coat. “This is… this is proper kidnapping now! Taking me with you to your own home? Alone, unchaperoned? You’ve ruined me!”
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. For a heartbeat, they were frozen there. Her hand on his arm, his fingers circling her wrist, their faces close enough that she could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes.
