A Regency Duchess's Awakening. Amanda McCabe

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.

      “Let me see. Perhaps I can fix it,” he said. Much to her shock, he knelt down before her and gazed up at her in steady expectation.

      “Are you a cobbler, then?” she said tightly.

      He gave her a wide grin. A tiny dimple appeared in his cheek, just below the edge of his mask. It did very strange, twisty things to her stomach. “Oh, I am a man of many talents.”

      “That I can believe.” Emily felt that odd, bemused spell come back over her again. She didn’t seem quite in control of herself, especially with her stomach fluttering so nervously like that. She slowly lifted her hem a few inches and held out her foot in the broken shoe.

      Nicholas slid his hand around her ankle, his fingers strong and hot through her white-silk stocking. She shivered as his caressing touch slid over her instep. It felt as if he touched her bare skin, and it was quite shocking, quite.

      Delightful.

      He slid the gold brocade shoe off her foot and examined the broken heel as he still cradled her foot. She would never have thought she would enjoy someone touching her foot. Feet were merely utilitarian, of course, made to carry a person around. They were not especially attractive. But Nicholas touched it as if her foot was something beautiful and precious.

      It made her feel dizzy all over again, and she reached down to balance her hands on his shoulders. The feel of those hard muscles and smooth skin sheathed in fine black wool and velvet did nothing to steady her, though. It just made her even dizzier.

      “I’m afraid it is quite hopeless,” he said.

      “Hopeless!” she cried. Yes, it was hopeless, feeling this way about him. They were so entirely wrong for each other.

      And yet, at this moment, she had never felt more right.

      “Your shoe is broken beyond repair,” he said. Emily laughed. “Some cobbler you are, sir!” “I said I was a man of many talents. I fear I am master of none.”

      “I find that hard to believe,” she whispered. He was obviously a master in the art of touching a woman in a way that made her mind go all soft and misty. Every light caress he ran over her toes, the arch of her foot, sent fiery tingles up her leg that made her want to whimper.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      Thank goodness he had not heard her! “I said—how am I supposed to walk on a broken heel?”

      “Luckily, another of my talents is ingenuity.” He slid the shoe back on to her foot and gently placed it on the ground. Then he reached for her other foot, curling his fingers around her ankle. Emily let him; in that enchanted, time-out-of-time moment, she might have let him do anything.

      He removed that shoe and said, “Hold on to me.”

      She curled her fingers tighter over his shoulders, and he let go of her foot. As she tucked it back into her skirts, he twisted hard on the intact heel of that shoe and broke it off as well.

      “Voilà, madame,” he said. “Slippers. Very à la mode.”

      Emily giggled. How very silly she felt tonight! It was really rather nice not being herself. She should do this more often. “You