A Regency Duchess's Awakening: The Shy Duchess / To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabe

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      She still felt dizzy and silly, and on the verge of tears. She didn’t know where she was going, she only knew she had to be alone for a moment.

      “Why does this always happen to me at parties?” she whispered.

      She saw a narrower, darker pathway through the trees ahead and stumbled towards it on her cursed heeled shoes. There were far fewer lamps here, just a sprinkling set high in the trees, and the darkness closed around her in blessed quiet. She could hear whispers and soft laughter from the shadows, but she saw no one else. A cool breeze swept along the path, rustling the leaves and branches, and she shivered in her thin satin gown.

      Up ahead, she glimpsed the pale marble of a fountain, shimmering in the starlight like an oasis. Perhaps she could sit down there, get off her aching feet and breathe deeply at last. She lurched towards it, and was nearly there when her heel caught again in the gravel. This time it snapped right off, and sent her pitching head-first to the ground.

      She didn’t even have time to panic, let alone scream. A strong, well-muscled arm caught her around the waist and lifted her up.

      Cold fear rushed through her like ice in her veins, freezing her in place. She had heard the tales—she should have known better than to wander away on to the dark walks by herself! Now something dreadful was going to happen, something even worse than what happened when she had to fight off Mr Lofton in the garden.

      Emily kicked out wildly, but her feet tangled in her heavy skirts and threw her even closer to her captor. She twisted and shrieked. By sheer luck, her fist flew backwards and collided with a solid jaw.

      One arm tightened around her waist while one hand clamped over her mouth. Even in her haze of fear, Emily remembered the words of Sally, her pupil at Mrs God-dard’s: You have to bite if anyone tries something with you, Miss Carroll. Bite and kick them as hard as you can. And then run.

      That had been merely a rhetorical conversation on a situation Emily was sure would never happen, but here she was. She blessed Sally’s hard-won wisdom as she tried to bite down again.

      But the man’s hand pressed even tighter. “Be easy, minx! I mean you no harm, I promise.” His voice was low and rough, his breath warm against her ear.

      Emily heard Sally’s warning voice in her head again. Whatever you do, miss, don’t believe their promises!

      “I merely wanted to save you from falling,” he said. And this time something in that voice caught her attention and made her cease her struggling wiggles. Hoarse as it was, it sounded oddly familiar.

      She inhaled, and smelled the clean, soapy, lemony scent on his skin. It was just like that faint, summery cologne she had smelled when Nicholas caught her at the ball.

      Could it really be him, catching her yet again? She relaxed just a fraction, and felt the strong, lean body against her back. That panic roared back over her, but this time it burned rather than froze.

      “Good,” he said, a relieved tone in his voice. “If I move my hand, will you not scream? I won’t hurt you.”

      Emily nodded, and his muffling palm slowly slid away from her mouth. He carefully set her on her feet, his arms loosening around her waist.

      Emily spun around, teetering on her broken shoe. The shadows were deep here in the trees, but a stray strand of moonlight fell across her rescuer. He wore an enveloping black cloak that gave him a rather sinister aspect, yet bright blue eyes glinted through the eyeholes of his glossy black satin mask. It was the duke. Nicholas. He had come to her rescue again. What must he think of her, falling all over the place every time she saw him!

      Then she remembered—tonight she was not herself. She wore a raven-coloured wig and a mask, as well as her full-skirted, old-fashioned gown in a vivid colour a modern young lady would never wear. He would not even know it was her. Somehow, that thought gave her a new confidence.

      “Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said, pitching her voice low and soft. “I’m sorry I bit you.”

      He held out his hand ruefully to display her faint bite marks on his palm. “I should not have grabbed you like that. I didn’t want you to fall.”

      Emily nodded. She didn’t know what to say next; she was utterly tongue-tied. All she could do was stare up at him in fascination. If she was not herself tonight, then neither was he. He was not the duke, he was just a man. What if they were indeed two strangers, encountering each other by chance on a pretty moonlit night? Two people with no knowledge or expectations of each other?

      It was a heady, frightening thought.

      “You shouldn’t be alone here, miss,” he said, still in the rough voice. “Unless you are meeting someone?”

      Meeting someone …? Oh! Emily almost clapped her hand to her mouth at the sudden realisation—he could not know who she was, therefore he probably thought her a doxy, or at least a lady of somewhat loose principles. Being not herself was not so easy after all.

      “No, not at all,” she said quickly. “It was just much too warm in the supper box; I wanted some fresh air.”

      “Most understandable,” he answered. “The crowds can be most overwhelming.”

      “Yes, exactly so.” Emily’s head was spinning, and she felt oddly fuzzy-headed and giggly. “And I was a bit giddy.”

      Nicholas laughed. The sound was most delightful, and made her want to laugh, too. Everything just seemed so much grander tonight, larger and brighter and louder. “Too much of the excellent arrack punch? I know the feeling well.”

      She remembered the two—or was it three?—large glasses she had consumed of that delicious concoction. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”

      “It’s quite simple, I believe, grains of Benjamin flower mixed with sweet wine and rum.”

      “Simple and deadly, I would say.” Rum and wine? She never consumed more than a tiny bit of wine at a dinner party—no wonder she was so dizzy now.

      “It is rather potent, especially if one is not accustomed to strong drink.”

      “How do you know I am not accustomed to it?” Emily said, oddly indignant.

      “You don’t have the look of a habitual drinker,” he said. The back of his hand gently brushed over her cheek, leaving soft warmth in its wake. “Your skin is too clear, your eyes too bright.” He took her wrist lightly in his hand, turning her palm up on his. “You are too slender and pale.”

      Emily stared down in bemusement at her hand in his, so small against his rough skin. Did he ride without his gloves, work on his estate? Singular indeed. “No, it’s true. I don’t generally imbibe.”

      “Is that how you came to stumble?” he asked, his voice full of infuriating amusement.

      She snatched her hand away. “I stumbled because my heel broke. Blasted old shoe. I don’t know how ladies wore such heeled contraptions all the time.” She had a difficult enough time with her usual flat slippers.

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