She blinked. Oh, the dastard. Katherine jabbed a finger at him. “And you, well I wouldn’t wed you if you were the last creature in the world, and the King decreed it to spare my life.”
His lips twitched. But then the firm line was back in place, so that she suspected she’d imagined the slight expression of mirth. “It is good we are of like opinions, then, madam. We are here,” he said.
She angled her head. And then the carriage rocked to a halt.
The sudden, unexpectedness of the stop, propelled Katherine forward, and she landed in an ignominious heap atop the duke’s chest.
It was as though she’d slammed into a stone wall. All the breath left her. She looked up at him through her lids, and found him coolly unaffected by the weight of her figure upon his person.
He yawned.
Yawned!
The lout had the audacity to yawn, as though he found the whole of this day—boring.
He set her back into her seat and rapped on the door.
The carriage door opened.
She glared. She felt frozen through. She didn’t think her teeth would ever cease chattering. And she knew she should really be more grateful considering he’d risked his life and limb to pull her from the river, but he was…was…bloody miserable.
And Katherine didn’t curse.
Not when she’d found out Father had left them destitute.
Not when the creditors had come to claim every last one of her books.
Not when they’d been forced from their cottage in Hertfordshire Estate while Mother had looked on, weeping piteous little tears.
She jabbed her finger across at him. “You sir…”
“Your Grace,” he corrected.
“Are a miserable monster.” Katherine leaned across the carriage and jabbed her trembling cold finger in his chest. “Which I know is redundant…and I’m not. Redundant. Ever. But you are foul. And odious. And if you didn’t want to risk your life and limb to save me, then you shouldn’t have.” Katherine fell back against the cushions, her chest heaving from her near brush with death. The driver stuck his head into the carriage. “Not that I’m displeased with being saved,” Katherine clarified. “Because I, unlike some odious, miserable beings, enjoy being alive.”
The servant gulped and ducked his head out of the carriage.
The duke’s black brows dipped, and his eyes narrowed into deep impenetrable slits. If Katherine hadn’t had a brush with death a short while ago, she expected his expression would have terrified her a good deal more. As it was, she was, cold, hungry, and too tired to fear a duke with a black scowl. His rudeness had exhausted her patience.
“Are you finished, madam?” The words contained a satiny edge as smooth as the side of a blade.
She swallowed, and tugged his jacket free. “Here,” she said. “I’d not care to impose any more on your hospi…” A squeak escaped her. “Wha-what are you doing?” she stammered as he tossed the thoroughly rumpled garment back over her shoulders and picked her up. “Your Grace…” He leapt from the carriage, holding her as though she weighed no more than a mere babe.
A vein pulsed in the corner of his eye. He stopped and glanced at the row of stucco townhouses.
The servant cleared his throat and gestured to the modest white front townhouse she now called home.
The duke strode onward, up the steps, and rapped on the door.
“Y-you m-may p-put me down, Your Grace.”
He rapped again.
“I said…”
“I am not deaf, madam.” He raised his hand to knock again when the butler opened it suddenly.
Ollie’s small blue eyes went wide in his ancient, heavily wrinkled face. “Lady Katherine,” he boomed.
The servant, fast approaching his seventieth year insisted on retaining his post. “Ollie,” Katherine murmured.
The duke’s frown deepened. “May I enter?” Mocking condescension underlined that question.
Oh the ba…lout, she silently amended.
Ollie blinked. “Enter?” His high-pitched voice thundered. “Er, yes, right, right,” he stepped aside and motioned the duke forward.
His Grace swept through the front doors as though he were in fact the owner of the modest townhouse.
Katherine looked up and swallowed at the sight of her mother descending the long staircase in a flurry of burgundy skirts. “Ollie, whatever is…?” Mother’s words ended on a gasp. “Whatever has happened?” she asked, her tone well-modulated, perfectly ladylike to match her sedate, unhurried pace.
Katherine sighed. Mother had always been a stickler for the rules of decorum. A lady must never run.
Not even if one’s daughter should appear in a stranger’s arms, thoroughly bedraggled, rumpled, and near death.