Four Dukes and a Devil Read Online Free PDF

know how she’d feel in his arms. He had a sudden need to know the scent of her skin and feel her move close to him in harmony.
    Her long lashes swept down toward her cheeks.
    The room seemed to hold a collective breath, one Roan discovered he held himself.
    Her gloved hand came up to rest in his as she dipped into a small curtsy. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”
    Triumph shot through him—and not because of the wager.
    It was as if something he’d long sought was now in his sights. This woman was unlike any other. He knew it with a conviction that went all the way to his bones.
    The room had come alive with her response. He could hear murmurs around him and knew those who had wagered against him must be spitting with frustration at how easily she had yielded to his request.
    Roan turned to lead her to the dance floor. Their audience stepped back to allow them passage. They’d not taken more than two steps when Miss Rogers made a sharp gasp of a pain and started to fall forward. She caught herself before he could and straightened, placing all her weight on one foot.
    Those demure long lashes at last raised for her eyes to meet his. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I seem to have twisted my ankle. I won’t be able to dance.” She let go of his hand and limped back a step, practically hopping on one foot to demonstrate. “I beg you, please find another partner.”
    She didn’t wait for his response but hobbled awkwardly away from him.
    Now, he’d been outflanked.
    Worse, the majority of people in the room knew, too. Many outwardly grinned.
    In two steps he came up beside her. Hooking her arm in his, he said, “Please, let me help you, Miss Rogers. I feel completely responsible for your accident.”
    She tried to disentangle herself. “It is not your fault, Your Grace. I pray you, please choose another partner.”
    He tightened his hold. “I would be less than gallant to desert you after causing such an injury.”
    “Your Grace—” she started to protest, but he cut her off by swinging her up in his arms.
    “Let me carry you to a chair,” he said, moving toward a set of chairs in a corner of the rooms.
    Laughter started all around them. Bright spots of color appeared on Miss Rogers’s cheeks. There would be hell to pay once she could set her tongue loose on him, but Roan now had the answer to some of his questions: She felt good in his arms, and there was no perfume that smelled better than the scent of her.
    Realizing their audience, he enjoyed making a great show of making her comfortable in a chair. He had a servant fetch a footstool, but instead of setting her foot upon it, he sat himself, reached for her ankle, and rested it on his thigh.
    “Your Grace,” she protested, trying to pull her foot away from him. He held fast, even going so far as to slide her kid slipper off her foot. “This is unseemly,” she whispered furiously at him.
    “We must be careful,” he said with a straight face. “A twisted ankle is quick to swell. I think it must be wrapped. Fetch bandages,” he ordered the footman.
    She leaned forward, speaking for his ears alone, “I don’t need it wrapped. Please, Your Grace. It will be fine.”
    “You don’t want me or the rest of this fine company to believe you have twisted your ankle accidentally on purpose, do you?”
    She studied him a moment, then looked around, realizing that even though the music and conversations had started up again, they were being closely watched. She settled back in her chair, turning her head away from him. “This is ridiculous.”
    “Yes, isn’t it?” Roan agreed with mild amusement although he didn’t mind having Miss Rogers’s foot in his lap. She had a nice foot, as attractive and well formed as the rest of her. He couldn’t resist covertly running his thumb along the inside of her arch.
    Her toes curled, but she pressed her lips together, stoically—and he had a flash of insight.
    “It isn’t just me, is it? Or this Irish duke