Page 14 of The Duke of My Desire

Or anyone. Ever.

“Here we are then.” The innkeeper’s wife unlocked the chamber door and pushed it open, granting them access. Justina stepped inside and swept her gaze over the small, well-kept space, which included a bed, an antique escritoire, and a dressing table with a plain porcelain basin and pitcher of water for washing. The linens and rugs appeared to be clean, and though the room—and the inn, for that matter—was far from fashionable, it would do quite nicely for the night.

“Thank you, ma’am, this will be fine,” Gregory said, smiling at the woman and still avoiding Justina’s gaze.

“Very good, sir,” Mrs. Martin replied. “Then I shall leave you now, but if you need anything, you have only to ask.”

And then she was gone, shutting the door behind her, leaving Justina alone with Gregory in their little room with the little bed, which seemed to be shouting in the silence that continued to stretch between them.

Justina turned to face him, clearing her throat. “Brother and sister?” she asked, one brow raised.

Gregory gave a sheepish shrug. “I was only trying to keep your reputation untarnished.”

“You’re sweet,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But my reputation has been frayed at the edges for a long while now.”

He said nothing to that, simply stood there, looking at her, and for one brief moment she thought she detected a flicker of heat in his eyes.

But he turned away before she could be sure, and edged toward the door.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “I think I’ll go down to the common room and see what there is to eat. Would you like to join me?”

Justina pursed her lips. Strictly speaking, he’d just invited her to dinner, but she had a feeling he hoped she would decline.

Have it your way, Duke.

“Thank you, no,” she said, keeping her voice even. “I’m still rather full from our afternoon meal.”

He nodded once and turned toward the door. She waited until his hand was on the knob before uttering her next words.

“I would greatly love a bath, though,” she said with all the innocence of a lamb. Or a sister. “Would it be an imposition if I were to ask you to arrange one for me?”

She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “Of course not. I’d be glad to.”

Again he turned to leave.

Again she stopped him.

“Before you go...”

He turned to look at her.

“...will you help me with my gown?”

She could have easily asked a maid or even the innkeeper’s wife to assist her, but where was the fun in that?

Gregory hesitated, his throat working again, then his hand slipped from the knob, and he turned from the door. “Of course,” he said, and the gruff edge to his voice made her belly flutter.

She turned her back to him and clasped her hands before her, every nerve in her body prickling, aware of his nearness, his heat, as he closed the distance between them.

“So many buttons,” he murmured, his warm breath rustling the wispy curls at her nape.

Her hands clenched with the effort to suppress a shiver, but she could not hold it back at the first brush of his knuckles against her sensitized skin.

She closed her eyes, bewildered by the intensity of her reaction to this man she had only just met.

Heart thudding, she forced a chuckle, which emerged more croak than laugh, and said, “And men wonder why it takes women so long to dress for an occasion. Half that time is spent on the buttons alone.”

“I imagine so,” he replied with a low chuckle, his fingers drifting downward to work on the next button. “They’re awfully tiny. Not made with a man’s hands in mind.”