The Duke Is a Devil by Karen Lingefelt

Author:Karen Lingefelt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Karen Lingefelt
Published: 2021-07-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Cecily opened her eyes to stark blackness and the realization that she was in bed with no memory of how she got there. The last thing she recalled was looking at the Duke of Bradbury and then—nothing.

Maybe he carried her back to her bedchamber? No, he was a duke. More likely he summoned a servant or two to do that.

Her hair was down—she usually braided it before going to bed—yet she was wearing the same pink frock she wore last night. And one stocking. The other was bound rather snugly around her foot, and that’s when she remembered stubbing her toe on that suit of armor.

She peeled off the stocking still on her left leg and yanked the other off her right foot, tossing them aside as she wiggled her sore toes in the cool, open air. After working her way out of her dress and stays, she fumbled around for the chamber pot. She tossed her drawers aside, used the chamber pot, shoved it under the bed, and then crawled back beneath the covers in nothing but her shift. She felt dizzy and dazed, as if a thick fog swirled around inside her brain, while a more severe weather system rumbled in her belly. She curled up into a ball, wondering if she should pull out the chamber pot again, but then everything went blank.

Next thing she knew, she opened her eyes to blurry daylight and the thudding of shutters being opened. “Good morning, Your Grace,” said a man’s voice.

Cecily gasped and swiftly unfurled herself, bolting upright to receive an arrow of horrible pain right between her eyebrows. The arrow pierced her brain and punched out the back of her head. Her stomach twisted. She clutched one hand to her head and the other to her middle. At least her feet weren’t hurting for a change.

“Beg your pardon, miss,” said the disembodied voice. “I had no idea. His Grace must have risen already for an early morning ride. Or walk. Or...”

“Out!” Cecily wailed, as another arrow shot into the side of her head, in one ear and out the other. She flopped back down on the pillow, bending her knees as she struggled to focus on where she was and why there was a man in the room who thought she was the duke.

Had the duke...? Had he...No. The very idea was too horrifying to contemplate. All the same, it was imbedded in her head, as if that phantom archer had attached it to his arrow before firing it into her brain.

She gazed up at the ornate tester over the bed that was twice the width of the one she’d slept in the night before. No, this wasn’t her bed and it certainly wasn’t her bedchamber. This was a bed fit for an earl—or even a duke. Possibly a prince or king, but—how in heaven’s name did she end up in Bradbury’s bed?

And wearing nothing but her shift. Where were the rest of her clothes? She slowly rolled to her side to peer at the floor.

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