Page 5 of The Duke of My Desire

She thought she’d detected a glint of recognition in his eyes when he’d heard her name, and she’d worried for a moment over what he might do. With men, one never knew how they might behave toward a woman like her, a liberated widow who lived as she liked, but she found they generally fell into one of two camps.

Either they treated her like a woman beneath contempt, or they treated her like a woman they hoped to tup.

The Duke of Paxton, however, had done neither. He’d seemed curious about her, yes, but mostly he’d seemed concerned for her well-being, just as he had before he learned her identity.

She turned back to the window, her brow knitting as she stared out at the passing townhouses. She didn’t know many dukes, but the two or three she had met were pompous and self-important, certainly too important to stop their carriage and help a strange woman on the street. But not this duke. This duke had stopped.

Why? Was it simply because he was a decent man? Did he truly want nothing from her in return?

Perhaps she possessed a cynical mind, but she had never fully believed in kindness for kindness’ sake. No one did anything good without wanting something back, not even handsome young dukes with kind eyes.

But perhaps this time she was wrong. Perhaps this duke made a habit of helping ladies in distress. She hoped so, because the carriage had just pulled to a stop outside a row of unassuming red brick townhouses. It would seem they had arrived at the duke’s lodgings.

The carriage door swung open and a liveried footman let the steps down then assisted Justina down to the pavement. The duke followed her out then led the way up the stairs to the door, which opened before they reached the top step.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the duke’s butler intoned as he stepped back to grant them entrance into the foyer. He was a stout man of middle years with a shiny bald head and slashing black brows.

“Thank you, Davies.” The duke handed his overcoat to the man before turning to help Justina out of her cloak. “This is my friend, Lady Dunne. She has suffered an ordeal tonight. Please have a blanket and a pot of tea brought to the drawing room.”

“Right away, Your Grace,” Davies replied, and if the man was at all curious about Justina or her ordeal, he showed not a bit of it.

“Shall we?” The duke extended an arm toward an open door across the hall.

Justina followed him into the drawing room, where a fire was lit in the hearth and candles and wall sconces provided additional light, casting the room in a cheerful glow. The room was tidy and well-furnished for a gentleman’s private lodgings, with plush rugs and overstuffed chairs in rich fabrics of bold greens and reds. The space was comfortable, but not entirely lived-in, and she had the impression he did not spend much time here.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” the duke said, and Justina realized she was rubbing her arms to warm them.

“I am a little cold.”

“Come, let’s sit by the fire, and we’ll get a hot cup of tea in you in just a moment.”

She sat in one of the two chairs situated before the fireplace and held her palms over the flames to warm them. “Might we have a glass of something stronger while we wait?”

She was chilled, but she was even more rattled, and a glass of spirits sounded just the thing to calm her nerves.

“Of course,” the duke said. “Sherry?”

“Whiskey, if you have it.”

She did not miss the flash of surprise in his eyes at her choice of libation, but he made no comment as he headed for the sideboard. Another point in the duke’s favor. She loved a man who knew how to keep his opinions to himself.

“Here you are,” he said, handing her a glass before claiming the chair beside hers.

Justina thanked him and wasted no time in taking a healthy drink, savoring the smooth liquor as it slid down her throat. A sigh escaped her as she settled back in her chair, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

“Excellent whiskey,” she remarked, before taking another sip. “My husband used to tease me about my affinity for whiskey. He would say that genteel ladies drink sherry, and only harridans drink whiskey.”

The memory made her smile. Phillip had liked to tease her, about anything and everything, so long as it earned him a laugh. He’d loved to make her laugh. She missed that.

She missed him.

“I’ve never much cared for sherry, myself,” the duke said conversationally.

“No. Neither have I,” she agreed. Sherry had no personality. No fire.

“I prefer brandy,” he said. “I suppose that makes me a harridan, too?”

He looked at her, one brow cocked, and Justina laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does.”