Sins of a Wicked Duke by Sophie Jordan Page A

he neared, Fallon noted a brightness to his eyes and a flush riding the swarthy planes of his cheeks.
    “You intend to go out again, my lord?” Diddleworth’s throat worked as his gaze darted wildly over the duke’s less than tidy appearance. “In your condition?”
    “Indeed, I do, Diddly. The night is still young.”
    Diddlesworth’s face burned deep red.
    A small sound escaped from the back of her throat—half chuckle, half snort.
    Both men turned their attention on her. Precisely what she did not want. She might have passed the duke’s scrutiny before—but she did not want him to study her further. Even with his judgment impaired by alcohol.
     
    She swallowed, donning a bland, impersonal expression.
    He took an uneven step her way, focusing those bright gray eyes on her. Or rather one good eye. The other peered out from red, swollen flesh. “Frank.” He snapped his fingers and nodded as though satisfied. “I remember.”
    “Yes,” she murmured.
    “How old are you?” He staggered a step closer. She resisted the urge to retreat back and endured his nearness, the overwhelming masculinity that surrounded him like mist. A dark intoxicating mist that threatened to suck her under. She inhaled deeply through her nose.
    “Twenty, Your Grace,” she replied.
    He shook his head. “Babe in the woods.” His head dipped and he studied her closely. She struggled not to fidget beneath his assessment. “So untried. Innocent.” His lips tightened and he leaned sideways, his shoulder hitting the wall with a bouncing thud. “Cling to that.”
    She blinked, amazed at the glimpse of vulnerability she saw in his bloodshot eyes. His lips loosened then, relaxing into a smile that did strange things to her insides. “I don’t remember a time in my life where I was like that.”
    “Ever?” she murmured even as she was certain she should stop this conversation, no matter how intriguing. Diddlesworth seemed to concur, if his high-arching brows signified anything. She shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t want to know about him.
    “You must have been a child once.” She heard herself volunteer, trying to offer forth a smile.
    Diddlesworth shifted where he stood, sending her an impatient look.
    The duke angled his head, musing. “No. Can’t recall a time when my soul wasn’t black.” He laughed then—a terrible, ruthless sound—and shoved off the wall. “My own grandfather would vouch for that. According to him, I am the devil himself.”
    Without further comment, he strode away.
    She stared after him…feeling dumbstruck, and filled with absolute certainty that more existed in him than she first assumed. He no longer fit quite so neatly in the box where she lumped all gentlemen of rank.
    My own grandfather would vouch for that. According to him,I am the devil himself.
    “Ahem.”
    Her gaze flew back to Diddlesworth. His nostrils quivered. “No one likes ingratiating little toadies. You’d do well to remember that. Back to your duties.” Lifting his nose high, he hurried after the duke.
    Shaking her head, she turned and headed to the kitchens with the tray, wondering if, perhaps, a heart beat within the duke’s chest after all.
     
    “Take these to the duke’s study. Lord Hunt is in there with him, so of course they’ll want…” The rest of Adams’s word faded to an insignificant buzz at the mention of Lord Hunt. Her stomach pitched.
    Could it behim ? After all these years?
    The skin of her face grew cold and clammy. Sucking in a deep breath, she fought a rising tide of nausea and prayed she would not be sick. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she shook her head in fierce denial.
    “What’s wrong with you, lad? Are you ill?”
    Fallon continued to shake her head, stopping only when she felt the curious stares of other servants on her. Moistening her lips, she accepted the lacquered cigar box with trembling hands. “No.”
    Duty first. No matter how she trembled at the mention of the duke’s guest, her eyes