Page 64 of Stolen By the Heartless Duke

She remembered his hand at the small of her back. The concern in his eyes after the attack. The patience with which he’d taught her. The careful way he’d watched until she safely entered Wynten House. The carriage never leaving before she disappeared inside.

“He has never once failed to keep me safe.” Her words were barely louder than a whisper.

Lavinia squeezed her hand again. “There he is.”

Jane blinked. “What?”

“The man you have been describing without realizing it.”

Jane looked confused.

“I have listened to you insisting you feel nothing for the duke.” Lavinia smiled. “And yet every memory you’ve shared has been about how carefully he treats you.”

Jane fell silent.

“I do not think kisses happen by accident as often as you would like to believe,” Lavinia said.

Jane stared across the pond. “The kiss was a mistake.”

Lavinia smiled gently. “If that is what you need to believe.”

“It is. The duke will return to his life once our brothers are found, and we’ll both forget about that kiss.”

“Will you now?” Lavinia arched an eyebrow.

Jane opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Instead, the memory returned with startling clarity. His hand cupping her cheek. The warmth of his mouth. The way her pulse had raced. The look in his eyes afterward. The apology that had sounded suspiciously like regret. Not regret for kissing her. Regret for stopping.

Jane forced herself back to the present. “Yes,” she said, though the word sounded far less convincing than she intended.

Lavinia said nothing. She merely smiled the sort of knowing smile that only an oldest friend could manage.

Jane looked away before she could see it any longer. Because despite every logical argument she had made, despite every sensible reason she had listed, despite her certainty that everything between herself and the duke would end the moment Colin and Evan were found…

She had not stopped thinking about that kiss.

Not once.

And somehow, that frightened her far more than anything else.

Chapter Eight

The fire in the study burned low, more smoke than flame now, casting long shadows across the polished wood panels. Hector stood near the mantel, one hand loosely behind his back, the other resting against the edge as though anchoring himself to something solid.

Ambrose, of course, looked entirely too comfortable for a man in a room where political consequences were being discussed.

He had already helped himself to brandy.

“And I told him,” Ambrose was saying, grinning at the man opposite them, “that if he thought the vote would pass without a scandal, he clearly hadn’t spent enough time in the Commons.”

Their acquaintance, Lord Edward Hale, laughed politely. The sound was careful, measured, the kind of laugh men in parliament learned early to deploy when they wanted to appear amused without committing to anything too honest.

Hector did not join in. He waited. Hale noticed eventually. They always did.

Ambrose, sensing the shift, tipped his glass slightly toward Hector. “Don’t look so grim, old friend. You’ll frighten the poor man into confessing to crimes he hasn’t even considered yet.”

“I doubt that,” Hale murmured, though his gaze flicked briefly to Hector’s face.