Free In the Bed of a Duke by Cathy Maxwell Page B

madness, and I can’t remove them myself.”
    The change of subject caught her off guard, and then made her laugh. “I know how you feel. I kicked off my shoes the first minute I could.”They were lined up beside the wall of the hayrick.
    She held out her hand. “Here, let me have your heel. I used to do this for my father.”
    He sat back on the coat spread over the hay and raised his right foot, placing the heel in her offered palm. She tightened her grip. He pretended to wince. “You are a strong woman, Miss Cameron.”
    She nodded, relieved the unpleasantness of the letter was behind them. “It comes from years of chopping my own firewood, Your Grace.”
    “I daresay there are few earls’ daughters who could make that claim,” he answered, and she nodded her agreement. He really wasn’t a bad sort. He just didn’t like to be crossed…like any other man she’d ever met. She pulled on the boot.
    It moved, not far, but it did move.
    It was now a challenge.
    Charlotte tugged again. This time the boot held fast. “Who made these? Hoby?” she asked him with a grunt, naming the most fashionable bootmaker in London. She yanked on the boot so hard she almost fell back on the ground. No wonder he wanted the boots off. She went back at it again.
    Fighting the battle from his own end, with his own share of grunting, Colster repeated, “My bootmaker? No, Lobb.”
    Catching her breath, Charlotte said, “Lobb?Isn’t he out of fashion? I thought everyone of importance used Hoby.”
    His brows drew together. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. My father used Lobb—” He offered his boot to her again. She took it. “My grandfather used Lobb. His father used Lobb, and I—”
    “Use Lobb,” she said in unison, giving the boot a pull. It finally slid off. She took a step back from the exertion. In spite of being wet, the leather was still good and soft. She could see why he used Lobb. Setting the boot on the ground, she asked, “Will the next be as difficult?”
    “No, this one is easier.”
    It wasn’t.
    But by the time they were done, she was laughing. She couldn’t help herself. The hour was late, she was tired, and she’d spent a good portion of time being the Duke of Colster’s lackey. She sat down on the far side of his greatcoat. He took off his stockings.
    Her feet were bare, she’d removed her wet stockings when she’d taken off her shoes, but there was something, well, intimate about seeing his bare feet. They were strong, handsome feet. Long and masculine.
    Heat crept up her neck at the yearnings his feet seemed to stir inside her. She reached for his coat, which he’d offered her as a blanket.
    Colster was not for her . He was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a man—in spite of being such a formidable enemy—but no, he could not be hers.
    After all, why would a duke marry an insignificant earl’s granddaughter? Before coming to England, Charlotte wanted to dream such things were possible. However, now, after being around the ton, she knew she had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying than to ever become a duchess.
    She settled in, wiggling into the hay, and tried to distract herself with its earthy, green scent.
    He’d stretched out on the coat beside her, not really making a great effort to keep space between them.
    Of course, she was so very conscious of him that even if he slept outside the hayrick, she’d be aware of every nuance and movement. She wondered if he was as aware of her?
    She rolled on her other side, giving him her back.
    He rolled, too—closer to her.
    Charlotte could almost feel his breath against her shoulder. She debated moving farther away. It would move her off the coat and into the hay. For a long moment, she weighed her options, and in the end didn’t move. He couldn’t read minds. He didn’t know what she was thinking.
    And perhaps it wasn’t prudent, and was certainly a bit silly, but she wanted to just lie still and