Free Trouble at the Wedding by Laura Lee Guhrke Page B

thick, black cloud poured over the promenade right where they’d been standing. She watched it through the door’s pane of window glass, and she could only imagine how awful her beautiful yellow dress would look now, had she remained out on deck.
    â€œThat was a near shave, wasn’t it?” he murmured behind her, his voice near to her ear.
    Though he was not touching her, Annabel was acutely aware of how close he was to her. His body seemed to emanate heat she could feel even through her clothes, the kind of heat she hadn’t felt for eight years, the kind of heat that fired up a girl from the inside out, flared out of control, and left her as scorched and empty as a burnt-out shack.
    She would have hightailed it out of there as fast as she could, but for the moment there was nowhere to go. So she turned around, met his eyes, and kept a firm grip on her parasol, just in case it was needed again.
    â€œBeastly stuff, coal dust,” he murmured. “It penetrates right through your clothes and puts a dingy film on your skin.” His lashes, thick and straight and as black as the soot he was discussing, lowered as he cast a glance over her, and the heat radiating through her body flooded into her face. She recognized that look. It was the same one Billy John always had, that slow, sliding sort of glance that could make her weak in the knees.
    â€œIn fact,” he went on, returning his gaze to her face, still smiling a little, “I doubt even the steam of a Turkish bath would do the trick.”
    Those words doused her susceptibility to hot looks from heartbreakers as effectively as a flood of water doused a fire. “You were eavesdroppin’ on me and my sister?”
    â€œSorry. Couldn’t help it.” He pointed directly above their heads. “The balcony of my cabin is right up there.”
    Annabel glanced up at the ceiling, then back at him, frowning. “That’s my uncle’s suite.”
    â€œIt was, yes. Urgent business called me back to England unexpectedly, and because of your wedding, I could not obtain a stateroom in first class. Hearing of my difficulty, Mr. Ransom kindly offered his suite to us and agreed to take my sister’s cabin in exchange.”
    â€œUncle Arthur isn’t kind, not kind like that, not to strangers.”
    â€œAh, but I’m not a stranger, Miss Wheaton.”
    â€œYou are to me, and how do you know my name?”
    â€œI know your fiancé,” he said as if that was an answer to her question. “It’s not uncommon for a duke and an earl to know each other.”
    â€œYou’re a duke?” Annabel sniffed, not believing it for a second. Despite his fine suit of clothes, accent, and access to first class, he had a touch of the tar brush about him that seemed at odds with the high and noble rank he claimed. Besides, a duke surely wouldn’t eavesdrop on a woman’s intimate conversations, and even if he did, he’d never be so uncouth as to mention it to the woman afterward.
    â€œDifficult to imagine, I know.” He reached again into his jacket pocket, this time extracting a card. “The Duke of Scarborough, at your service,” he said, presenting it to her with a bow.
    She hesitated, not taking it. She knew who the Duke of Scarborough was, of course. His sister, Lady Sylvia Shaw, was one of the guests Bernard had included on their invitation list. But she found it hard to believe this man was the brother of a lady like that. Why, he wasn’t even wearing gloves, she realized, staring at his long, strong fingers. How could he be a duke? How could he even be a gentleman? A gentleman, she knew, always wore gloves.
    With skepticism, Annabel took the card, an elegant one of white linen edged with silver that supported his contention of a ducal title, not that an elegant card meant much. Hers were every bit as fancy as these, but they weren’t what would make her a lady.
    â€œChristian