What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

He knew he wasn’t off the hook. “Around you, I make nothing but mistakes.”

“Then perhaps it’s better that we never meet again,” she said dully.

“That might be best.”

His ready agreement shouldn’t sting. Of course he wanted to be rid of her. She’d been nothing but trouble, and now she’d teased him into a lather, then clouted him for good measure. “So get out of my cabin.”

A lurch of the ship had him grabbing for the bedpost. Fortunately the furniture was nailed down. “You said you were frightened.”

“Now I’m frightened of you,” she said with a spite that later she’d regret.

He paled and his hand clenched on the carved column. “Pen, I—”

She stared blindly at the paneled wall, hoping he’d take the hint. Still he didn’t go. Couldn’t he tell that she didn’t want to see him?

A splintering sound rent the air. A more fanciful woman might say it marked the splitting of her heart.

“Pen, I never meant it to be like this. Please forgive me.”

Cam sounded like the boy she’d grown up with. She’d fallen in love with that boy. She’d trust her life to that boy. She turned ready to scream like a harpy, then stopped astonished as the door behind Cam slammed open and an oilskin-covered Goliath barged in.

“Your Grace, Your Grace, come above. The lady too. Cap’n says the Windhover’s about to founder on Goodwin Sands. The mast’s gone and we’re taking water. We must man the boats if there’s hope of saving ourselves.”

For a burning instant, Pen stared into Cam’s eyes. “Cam, are we lost?”

“Never.” The mad courage in Cam’s response made her heart surge, despite all the anguish and hatred of the last hour. “Give me your hand.”

Then the world turned to chaos as the yacht slammed into a solid obstacle.

Chapter Eleven

Leath House, London, late March 1828

By God, Leath’s butler was a superior bugger. Harry fought the urge to stick a finger in his neckcloth to loosen it. He stalked through the door that the haughty fellow held and into an extravagant library.

The tall man who rose from behind a vast mahogany desk bore an expression even more forbidding than the butler’s. By the hard set of his jaw and the shuttered eyes, he looked ready to boot young Mr. Thorne back into Berkeley Square. Harry gulped to moisten a dry mouth, then told himself to buck up.

“Thorne.” Leath’s voice was particularly deep and resonant.

Only with difficulty did Harry stop himself from jumping like a nervous cat. He’d heard innumerable stories of the marquess’s lethal tongue and razor-sharp brain shredding any members of the House of Lords rash enough to set themselves against him. “My lord.”

No invitation to sit. Instead Leath prowled around the desk to prop his hips against the edge. Harry supposed Sophie was upstairs. He hadn’t informed her of this afternoon’s call.

Harry swallowed again and struggled to keep his voice steady. He felt colder inside Leath House than outside in the squall slapping rain against the windows. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why I requested this appointment.”

The marquess’s expression remained discouraging. “Perhaps you should tell me.”

Harry had devoted the last week to planning his campaign. He’d arrived dressed in his best and armed with an array of arguments to melt a bronze statue’s heart. Now he stared at the man he hoped would become his brother-in-law and couldn’t recollect a word.

Impatience drew the marquess’s fierce black brows together. “I’m a busy man.”

The world accounted James Fairbrother a handsome fellow in the brawny, saturnine fashion. Right now, Harry just thought he was terrifying.

Harry drew himself up and spoke from the heart. Which was the last thing he’d intended. He’d long ago realized that no appeal to sentiment would win over the marquess. “I’m here to ask permission to court Lady Sophie. I love her and I’m sure I’ll make her happy.”

To Harry’s mortification, the marquess laughed. He folded his arms across his dauntingly wide chest and bent his head and snickered fit to send a man mad.

“My lord, I see nothing amusing in my request.” Harry cursed himself for sounding like a pompous blockhead.