Page 8 of The Duchess Games

He looked down his very straight nose at her. Why was his nose perfect? “Not from me.”

He didn’t mention his mother. Neither did she. Instead, she snapped a branch off, making sure it was sturdy.

“Are you going to poke at him?” Callum asked, left eyebrow raising.

“I would never do that. It’s just rude.” She stepped closer. “I’m going to keep him occupied so that he doesn’t take off your hand. Can’t have a duke bleeding all over the ladies.”

He muttered something about how losing a hand might be worth it if it kept him out of the parlor, the house, and the entirety of Cornwall. She had to grin even if he was not the sort of man who invited grins. “Are you not looking forward to being wooed?”

Now why had she gone and asked that?

He looked as if he was in pain. His sternness intensified, if that was even possible. “If I could hide in this fountain with this turtle, I would.”

“That’s most unduke-like. And I hear we are to sing for you,” she said innocently. It was inappropriate to tease him, but how could she resist, with all his cold dignity?

He narrowed one eye. “And are you going to sing for me, Miss Sparrow?”

Oh my.

“Definitely not.”

“Pity.”

She snorted. It was safer than examining the warmth that spread through her at his glance, which continued to be somehow stern and reserved, but also searing. She nearly had to search to find her voice. “You wouldn’t think so if you’d ever heard me sing.”

“I am sure you sing like an angel.”

She laughed, ignoring the blandness in his tone which he also somehow managed to make sharp as broken shale. He had definitely ruled Duke School. “Have you ever really paid attention to the biblical description of an angel? Because yes, possibly I sing like a terrifying creature with a thousand eyes, with four faces, on gold wheels.”

“And a stick.”

She looked down at her hand. “And a stick,” she agreed. “Are you ready?”

“You shouldn’t—”

“Hush.”

Hushing a duke was definitely frowned upon. He looked faintly startled which made her like him that much more, despite herself. He wasn’t just a marble statue, he was human. He just looked like a marble statue, with all those hard lines and muscles.

Turtle. Right. Focus on the turtle.

She put the stick near Bartholomew’s face and predictably, his neck extended with violent speed. His jaw closed around the offending stick with a powerful snap.

Callum cursed but did not give ground.

“You’d be peevish too if you were stuck here,” she merely said, having expected the reaction.

“I am stuck here,” he muttered. “I’m more concerned with the status of your entire arm. Stand back now.”

“I’m perfectly well,” she assured him surely. “This is not my first time.” And didn’t that sound entirely too suggestive? She stared at the turtle, refusing to look up at Callum even though she felt the weight of his gaze on her. Was there something in the fountain’s water? She felt nearly tipsy.

“His jaws are locked in.” she finally added. “You could move him now, I think.” Bartholomew glared at her. “You have very bad manners, sir,” she informed him.

Callum reached down to grip the shell. It was slippery, hard work and Cat knew exactly how rough and unforgiving the edges of a turtle’s shell could be. His forearms flexed. Bartholomew’s eyes rolled slightly, and his jaws moved. He was definitely peeved. “We’re trying to help you,” Cat scolded. “Don’t be so ungrateful.”

“Miss Sparrow, if he releases that stick, you are to get out of the way immediately.”

She waved a hand dismissively “Yes, yes.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You should pull harder.”