“Splendid,” said the duke. “Now what?”
He was tall but the high ceiling was much taller.
“Do you have a ladder?”
He looked at Portia as if she had gone mad as he gestured wildly around his study. “Why the blazes would I have a ladder, Miss Kendall?” Which she supposed was a valid point. Men like him paid people to bring a ladder if a ladder was required.
“Perhaps you could reach it if you stood on a chair?”
He did a quick gauge of the distance and shook his head. “I might be able to do it if I stood on my desk.”
In tacit agreement, they both grabbed opposite ends and heaved the heavy oak desk to the bookshelf. The duke clambered atop it and stretched as far as he could while she was forced to watch from a position just below his bottom—a firm, fine object of irritating beauty which, thanks to his lack of coat, was practically staring her in the face.
“It’s still too high… but perhaps if I climbed…” His thigh muscles and buttocks flexed beneath the tight fabric of his buff breeches as he lifted one booted foot onto a bookshelf, and much to her chagrin, Portia’s greedy eyes thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle. He grabbed the top of the highest bookshelf and, to unsettle her further, the same thing happened to the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he heaved himself upward. He brought his standing foot up to join the other one balanced precariously on the edge of the shelf.
Instantly, that shelf gave an ominous creak, and he immediately jumped back down. When he turned, her wayward eyes went straight to his crotch. Thankfully, he was too busy gazing around the room and trying to work out his next move to notice.
She just managed to wrench her gaze back to his face a split second before he said, “I need a bit more height, so pass me a chair.” He pointed to the small, hardwood chair his visitors sat on rather than at the enormous leather and oak beast he used.
Portia hoisted it up, then tried not to appreciate what happened to all his muscles again as he climbed on it. He let go of the backrest but as he tried to straighten, the chair wobbled. Instinctively she grabbed his ankles to steady them, and they both let out a relieved sigh as he finally found his balance.
“I’m going to gently grab the bird and pass it to you—will that be all right?” He was watching her warily, as if she were going to have a touch of the vapors at the prospect of handling a creature just like his youngest sister had.
“I have just gone into battle with a deranged Persian, your grace, so I think I can manage a blackbird with no problem.”
He smiled at that, then turned toward the huddled bird. “All right, little fellow, let’s get you out.” With Portia still steadying his feet on the chair, he reached out with both hands, rummaged in the gap, and then pulled them out cradling the bird. “Gently does it, Miss Kendall.” He crouched a little and offered it to her. The only way to take it was to let go of his ankles and cup her hands around his—which was most disconcerting after her close encounter with his bottom and crotch—while he eased his out from beneath her fingers.
The frightened bird twitched within her palms, its tiny heart racing as its whole body shook. But at least it was alive and, miraculously when one considered it had been impaled between M’Lady’s sharp fangs, did not seem to be bleeding. The same could not be said for the duke, who had a tiny trickle of blood going down his neck, which she decided was best not to apprise him of, seeing as the mere sight of the stuff clearly bothered him.
She carried the blackbird carefully to the window and gently placed it on the sill. It blinked back at her for a few moments as if it could not quite believe that its ordeal was over, then without further ado, swooped out into the garden and over the trees.
“We did it.” She turned, smiling at the duke, and he smiled back, and suddenly she was off-kilter.
She had no clue if it was his dratted dimples that sent her pulse aflutter, his deep blue eyes, the lingering effects of his touch, hisintriguing muscles, or his annoyingly perfect backside, but it really was most peculiar. She felt a little giddy and slightly breathless and wasn’t the least bit happy about any of it.
“We did, Miss Kendall.” He went to step down from the chair and without her stabilizing him, it wobbled. He grabbed the molded top of the bookshelf at the same moment she lunged for his ankles again, but unfortunately neither of their efforts helped. The chair slid sideways beneath him just as the bookshelf began to tip ominously toward them, and he fell to the floor, taking her with him.
He hit the floor first with an almighty thud, twisting slightly so that his body broke her fall, then he rolled to cover her as most of the books from the upper shelves rained down upon them. Portia felt every single buffered blow through his chest, which was flattened against hers. Every pained whoosh of his breath against her cheek as he absorbed each hit. Then they both held their breath while they waited for the heavy oak bookcase to follow—but it didn’t. The equally hefty oak desk had saved the day and had only shifted slightly as the bookcase had toppled, but it did cast a looming shadow over them as the shelf leaned upon it.
The duke levered himself up on his elbows and stared down at her wide-eyed. “Are you all right?”
No she jolly well wasn’t!
Having his face mere inches from hers had given her palpitations. Having her breasts flattened against the solid wall of his chest had given them improper ideas they had no place having and his thigh wedged right between the apex of hers was as thrilling as it was scandalous.
“I am just a bit winded, your grace.” Although she feared that the sudden impact was only responsible for half of her breathlessness. “You?”
He stared down at her for several long seconds before her words registered. “Er…” He shifted off her and immediately winced as he sat. “I fear my ankle and my knee took the brunt.”
Bizarrely, Portia instantly missed the contact, but scrambled tosit too, supremely conscious of the fact that he was hurt because he had selflessly saved her from harm. She wasn’t sure what she felt about that noble gesture, beyond grateful but bothered by it, so put that dilemma to one side to tend to him instead.
By the tenseness in his perfectly proportioned features, he was in some pain as he bent to massage his lower leg.
“Do you think you’ve broken something?”
He gritted his teeth as he shook his head. “All the bones feel intact. It’s probably just a sprain. Nothing some ice won’t fix.” He went to stand and grunted.
Portia stood and kicked several fallen books out of the way to clear a safe path before she braced herself to hoist him up. He grabbed her hand, took a deep breath, and then heaved himself upright. The moment he tried to put any weight on his leg he faltered, forcing her to grab his solid bicep to stop him from hitting the floor once more.
