Free A Duke Never Yields by Juliana Gray Page A

“Was I supposed to put on my stays and petticoats?”
    “You’re a fool. It might have been anyone.”
    “But it was you, after all. You’d never hurt me.”
    He breathed steadily, one hand curling around Lucifer’s neck. “How do you know that?”
    She shrugged again and hung her lantern on the hook, near his. “My instincts are never wrong. You’re full of bluster, Wallingford, but you have a kind heart.”
    “A kind heart ?” he asked, incredulous.
    Abigail stepped forward and placed her hand on the other side of Lucifer’s neck, stroking him gently. “Look at you, here in the stables at midnight, checking on the horses.”
    “Horses are one thing. People are another.” His tone was bitter.
    She let his words sit there between them in the damp air. The strands of Lucifer’s mane, stiff and wiry, brushed against the back of her hand. She combed them thoughtfully with her fingers. “Do you feel it?” she asked, in a whisper.
    “Feel what?”
    “Around us.”
    He paused. She felt his breath near her ear, warm and spreading, carrying the faint hint of the old wine they’d drunk at dinner. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Abigail couldn’t tell if he spoke the truth or not. There had been that pause, after all. “Don’t you think there’s something odd about this place?” she ventured.
    “Yes. Damned odd. Starting with the fact that the three of you are here with us.”
    “It’s fate, obviously. We’re meant to do something extraordinary together.”
    “ Together is out of the question.”
    She turned and smiled. “You’re not still thinking about that silly wager, are you? Vows of monastic seclusion and all that? We’re civilized beings, after all. We can rub along quite well with one another. We sorted everything out so agreeably over dinner, after all.”
    “That agreement is not meant to be permanent, Miss Harewood,” said the duke. “Only until Rosseti can be found, and our rights asserted.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Women in the east wing, men in the west. Why shouldn’t it go on all year, if we mind our language and manage to keep our laundry separate?”
    He sputtered. “Because it’s impossible. Because three ladies and three gentlemen cannot go on in close proximity without . . .”
    “Without what?”
    “Without driving one another mad!” he burst out, stepping back and turning away.
    “Oh! Are you talking about carnal urges? Because I do think . . .”
    “Miss Harewood,” Wallingford said, into the stable floor, “I assure you, I don’t wish to hear your thoughts on the subject of carnal urges, at the moment.” He lifted his woolen hat, brushed his dark hair, and replaced the cap in an angry jerk.
    “But why should it bother you? Why is it so necessary that we resist our natural inclinations?” Abigail asked. “Are you really so desperate to win your silly wager? I assure you, I don’t care two hoots . . .”
    “Damn the wager! Damn the whole silly project! I must have been mad.” Wallingford leaned his forehead against the stable wall.
    Lucifer gave a sympathetic whicker.
    “Then why don’t you simply turn about and go home?”
    “Can’t,” came Wallingford’s voice, from the stable wall. “Too late.”
    “Too late for what?” Abigail scratched Lucifer’s forelock and gazed at the duke’s dark form against the wall, at the curious way his head bowed, as if in despair, exposing a sliver of his nape to the damp air of the stable. When he made no reply, she went on gently: “Why are you here, Wallingford? The last place in the world anyone would look for you. No comforts, no ceremony. Not even your valet.”
    He said nothing.
    Abigail said softly, “What are you hiding from, Your Grace?”
    His hand formed a fist against the wall.
    “My grandfather,” he said, very low. “Myself.”
    She wasn’t sure she’d heard him properly. He had muttered the words into the wood, and they seemed quite unlike him, quite unlike what