Page 24 of The Duchess Games

“Exactly.”

“Did you also leap from the cliffs into the sea at Christmas?” he asked wryly. “For a spot of fun? Juggle knives?”

“Don’t be silly,” she shot back, biting down on her smile. “We only had two knives to our name. I’ll go first.”

“By all means.”

“The trick is to move fast.”

“Clearly.”

“And stick to the raisins on the edge. Don’t get cocky.” She snatched one up and popped it in her mouth. It was warm, but not too hot, and sweet.

“And she eats fire,” he murmured. For some reason, it made her feel like blushing.

“Something about the burning brandy makes the fire less hot.” She leaned on the table. “Though my sister always went too fast and too far in and burned her tongue.”

The mention of her sister reminded her of why she was here. She was about to suggest that she go back to her room. He seemed to sense it, pushed up his sleeves. The light flickered over corded muscles, dark hair. “My turn.”

“You don’t have to. It’s silly.”

“Are you calling my honor into question, Miss Sparrow?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

He chuckled. She was sure of it. It was brief, quiet. Startled. But it was a chuckle.

“Be careful,” she added, just as he leaned forward.

He paused, shot her a stern scolding look from under his eyebrows. “Are you cheating?”

“I’m merely making sure the duke doesn’t set his very impressive eyebrows on fire.”

“I’ll have you know I survived a twelve-course meal seated between the Prince of England and a lady who could only talk about her father’s cows all while being fed foods set in jelly and the organs of animals dressed in roses. The entire dining room was decorated in puce, from the curtains to the chairs to the dress code requested by the hostess. She had heard it was my favorite color.”

Cat smiled with her whole face. “You wore puce?”

“I wore emerald.”

“Spoilsport. Who told her it was your favorite color?”

“Blackpool, that degenerate.” But he said it fondly, the same way he talked about his sister.

“Still.” She held up her hands in mock defeat. “Clearly a little fire is nothing to do that.”

“Exactly so.” He snatched the raisins from the plate before she could say anything else. He chewed them, nodding. “You’re quite right. Bad brandy is much better when it’s on fire.”

She tried for another raisin and was not quite fast enough. She yanked her hand back with a short hiss, shaking her fingers. “You win, Your Grace.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately.

“It’s fine.”

His fingers closed around her wrist. “I said let me see.”

She rolled her eyes and let him inspect her nonexistent wound. “No blister,” he finally said, satisfied. “No wound.”

“I told you, it’s nothing. I burn myself much worse baking the bre—”