Page 42 of The Dueling Duchess

“You know it is true,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with humor.

As much as he would have liked to continue the discussion, they’d reached their destination.

“It’s in here,” Guy said, turning down a narrow alley. “I’ll have to harness the horses.”

“I’ll help,” she said, going immediately to the tack room without needing any instruction from him.

They harnessed the two teams in companionable silence. Once again, he couldn’t help admitting that she was more efficient at the task than Guy, who’d always had servants to tend to such matters.

Thanks to Cecile, they were soon rumbling toward a livery that belonged to yet another of the innkeeper’s relatives.

While Guy made arrangements with the ostler, Cecile climbed into the caravan to look for whatever it was that she wanted.

A few moments later he poked his head into the glossy red caravan the women shared.

He gave a low whistle. “Very nice! I’d not seen inside here before,” he said, running a hand down the highly polished wainscoting beside the door.

“Yours looks much newer than this one,” she said in a muffled voice as she dug through something at the other end of the caravan.

“Ours is newer but it’s mostly unfinished inside and rather basic. But then, we’re mere servants, so that’s more than we deserve.”

She gave one of the throaty chuckles that went straight to his groin.

“It’s good that you’ve begun to accept your place in life.”

Guy snorted.

“Drat,” she muttered, yanking on something.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The handle is stuck beneath Blade’s trunk.”

“Here, let me help, since brawn is about all I have to offer.”

“Poor Lord Carlisle—is it wearing on you to work for your crust and take orders from women?” She turned to him, her flashing eyes just a few inches below his.

Guy hovered above her, captivated by her dark brown gaze; he’d never seen irises so dark before. They were almost as black as the pupils they surrounded, and he kept feeling an impulse to lean closer to see where the colors changed.

He was wise enough to quash that impulse as he suspected that she wouldn’t appreciate it.

She cleared her throat and pointed to her valise. “The bag.”

Guy wrenched his gaze away and then bent to tug the bag from beneath the trunk. He grimaced when it finally came free and he could lift it, his grunt only partly feigned. “What did you put in here—bricks?”

“The severed heads of all the men who’ve displeased me.”

He laughed. “I would think that would take a much bigger trunk.”

“I can carry it if it’s too heavy for you.”

“No, no, you must allow me to do my job.” He reached down to take the trunk by both handles, stood, and then took a step toward the door beyond her.

She didn’t move to let him pass. Instead, she just stood there staring up at him with the most . . . intense look.

Guy cocked his head. “Is aught amiss?”

She muttered something beneath her breath, slid a cool, slightly rough palm around his jaw, stood on her toes, and captured his mouth with hers.