Free A Duke Never Yields by Juliana Gray Page B

she expected from him. “I don’t understand,” she said.
    “Of course you don’t. Innocent Miss Harewood.”
    “That’s nonsense. I’m not innocent at all. I’ve told you all about my kissing adventures, and you don’t know the half of what I get up to when my sister’s not paying attention. I wager on horses, I sneak out for pints down the pub, I read the most shocking literature, I . . .”
    He laughed and turned, crossing his arms, leaning against the wall. “Heinous crimes indeed.”
    “I dress myself as a boy when I visit the racetrack. I might be arrested for that.”
    Wallingford shook his head. “Go home, Miss Harewood. Go home and marry some suitable young chap, some pleasant smooth-cheeked fellow from a decent family. There are dozens of them about. I daresay you’d lead him around by the nose, and he’d never think of straying.”
    “If you were as bad as you say, you wouldn’t have such scruples. You’d take me regardless and send me on my way.”
    “Don’t tempt me.”
    “Why don’t you, then?”
    “Because you are innocent. You’re impossibly innocent, the most innocent woman I’ve ever met. Because I’d like to think . . . the point of all this, you see . . .” He waved his hand, stood away from the wall, took a step or two down the stable aisle. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into the darkness. “Just go.”
    She rubbed Lucifer’s muzzle and wrapped her arm around his contented neck. His head dropped, resting on her shoulder. “What if I don’t want to go?”
    Wallingford reached with his long woolen arm and took his lantern from the hook. He didn’t even look at her. “Then I’ll have to be disciplined enough for both of us,” he said. “Which is, I suppose, no more than I deserve.”
    *   *   *
    A bigail stood for some time after he left, caressing Lucifer’s motionless head. Her eyes were closed. She was absorbing everything: the whisper of straw as the horses moved about, the creak of wood, the tiny currents of air in the humid chill, the rich horsey smell of Lucifer’s black coat. The tingling at the back of her head, curling the roots of her hair.
    “You can come out now,” she said. “I know you’re there.”
    The air went still, as if holding its breath.
    “Who are you? Giacomo, I suppose? The groundskeeper. Morini told us about you. You’re ghosts, aren’t you?”
    The lantern flickered.
    “I’m not afraid. Look at Lucifer, here. He’s almost asleep. I know you won’t hurt me, or else you can’t hurt me, because otherwise the horses would be upset.”
    Lucifer nodded against her shoulder, lipped her collar.
    “You can show yourself. I won’t say anything to the others.” She paused. “Do you speak English?” There was no answer. “Can you tell me why you’re here? What’s going on? Have you brought us all together, here at the castle?”
    From some corner of the stable, beyond the reach of the lantern, a horse neighed softly. Abigail waited without moving, almost without breathing, every sense open. It seemed she could feel each particle of air as it touched her skin.
    At last she stepped away from Lucifer and gave him a pat. She lifted her lantern from the hook and gave it a last sweep about the space. The horses blinked at her from the cobwebs. Something rustled rapidly through the straw.
    “You know I won’t give up,” she said. “I will find out. You’ve met your match, Mr. Giacomo, or whoever you are.”
    She walked out through the stable door and closed it carefully behind her. Ahead loomed the castle, black against the charcoal sky, hints of light gleaming distantly from a window or two. At the doorway stood a cloaked figure, dangling a lantern from one hand. The fire crossed his face in harsh streaks and shadows.
    He was waiting for her.
    Abigail crossed the wet courtyard. The drizzle had let up, leaving behind a clinging mist. Wallingford held open the door and followed her silently into the great