Chapter Six
In Victoria’s estimation, the Duke of Chase was not a man. He was no mere mortal.
He was a whirlwind.
Despite the fact that he claimed she had maimed him, he moved with an efficiency and enthusiasm that was shocking. He all but raced up the steps, her arm tucked into his. Supposedly she was to be helping him. This was not the case.
His ankle was not sprained, broken, or likely even slightly inflamed.
He was all but dragging her along, and she was not entirely certain what to make of this.
The door to his house opened magically, as if the butler had known that the duke would appear at that particular moment. Was it magic? Did dawn mean the appearance of the Duke of Chase? Perhaps. Who knew?
No one had opened it for her.
Perhaps they had not seen her. Perhaps they did not expect anyone. And of course, she hadn’t knocked, being far too out of sorts and conflicted to lift her fist and pound upon the ducal door.
They charged across the black-and-white foyer floor without a word to the butler who gaped at them, amazed.
His brows, wiry and white, lifted as if they were two shaky birds about to take flight. She gave him a small wave and a wan smile.
What else could she do, except to follow the man who owned the entire establishment?
Chase bellowed over his shoulder, “Clark, bring a bottle of brandy, and a pot of coffee, and an urn of ice.”
Clark did not appear flummoxed by this request.
If anything, it seemed to give the old man purpose. He bowed his head quickly, turned on his polished shoe, and off he went.
It was quite difficult to reconcile the fact that they were sweeping down the hall at the same time he was giving the order. On an ankle that had been declared broken.
It was all going so wildly fast.
Yet, even though it was terribly, terribly odd, she found that she liked it. It was strange. It was exciting. It was empowering. He was not equivocating. No, he was taking action.
Her life was usually quite staid.
Her father rarely looked up from his books, newssheet, or his artifacts. He gave little thought to his family and certainly did not go charging about his house.
No, he moved at a much more deliberate pace. Perhaps it was his age. She did not think so.
The Duke of Chase? Well, he gave chase.
She wanted to laugh at her silly pun, but she would not. After all, it was terribly bad form to laugh at one’s own jokes.
Chase all but vaulted into a room down the long hall.
As soon as they were well across the green-and-red Aubusson carpet, he let go of her arm and whirled toward a brass-studded leather chair. He threw himself down into the large winged-back object and stuck out his booted feet.
He was a picture of manly deshabille. His white linen shirt was open at the throat. His cravat was gone. He wore no coat. His breeches were still remarkably tight about his quite astonishingly strong-looking limbs. Limbs that rivaled trees’ noble trunks. And his somehow still gleaming boots?
They were thrust out, propped on the carpet.
He looked…so carefree. So at ease. How did he do that? She’d never seen someone who managed to look both coiled and languid at once. It had to be his inherent power and the knowledge that all people about him had to bow and scrape. Energy flowed from him like a never-ending spring.
And his hands!
They did something that was both shocking and delicious to her at once.