Undercover Duke

up at my lodgings in the Albany. Then he sent a note saying he’d meet me here and gave me your direction. When I realized you were only a bit more than a mile away, I walked over. I take it he hasn’t yet arrived.”
“No. Or if he has, he was turned away.” Although she doubted that. It wouldn’t be like him to try calling on her before the designated time.
Mr. Juncker gazed around at their surroundings. “This is a pretty little park, isn’t it? I ought to stroll over here more often.”
“You should, indeed,” she said, somehow rousing herself to flirt, though she wasn’t in the mood. But if Sheridan should happen along . . .
Oh, why was she even hoping for that? He probably had no intention of coming here ever again, after that nightmarish confrontation between their mothers. He’d said he would merely keep her from complaining further. But who could blame him for trying to put distance between him and her? Mama always managed to scare off the only suitors Vanessa might want.
“You should give me a tour of the square, seeing as how you know it so well,” Mr. Juncker said, offering her his arm. “I hate to let all this loveliness go to waste.”
As she took his arm, she caught him staring at her, and his flirtatious remark hit her. Oh, Lord, she didn’t want to be doing this with no Sheridan around to see. But she couldn’t be rude. “This truly is a charming garden. I come here sometimes just to read and watch the birds. There are blackbirds, sparrows, robins, blue tits, and of course pigeons.” Heavens, but she was prattling on and on about nothing. He would think her quite the chatterbox. “What would London be without its pigeons?”
“And its beautiful ladies to watch them,” he said.
Stifling a groan, she met his provocative grin with a frown. “There’s no need to flatter me, Mr. Juncker. I know perfectly well you’re merely humoring me to help me with Sheridan.”
He shook his head, his gaze showing interest in more than just the garden. “Hardly. I’m continuing the flirtation we began at Thorn’s party the other night.”
“Even though you know I’ve set my cap for Sheridan.”
“Especially because I know that. I told you before. I enjoy annoying Saint Sheridan immensely.”
“Well, he’s not here,” she pointed out. “So I’m not certain how you mean to annoy him.” Her voice grew acid. “I hope you aren’t one of those fellows who boasts of his conquests to other men despite the risk of ruining the reputation of the ladies he boasts about.”
He sobered. “I would never ruin a woman’s reputation by boasting or anything else.” His eyes gleamed at her. “But as I said at Thorncliff, lately I’ve begun to explore the idea of looking for a more respectable companion.”
“Like Flora, you mean.”
His lips tightened. “Like you.” He pulled her into a corner of the garden where an overgrown box hedge and a conveniently placed plane tree formed a sort of private nook. Then he swept her into his arms. “I find myself curious to see how a respectable lady kisses.”
She stared up at him incredulously. “Here? Now?”
“Why not? Armitage isn’t here, and we both suspect he isn’t coming. Who knows? We might find that we suit. Besides, you must be at least a little curious to see how an unrepentant rogue kisses.”
With a lift of one eyebrow, she said dryly, “I think of you more as a reprobate than a rogue, to be honest.”
“That’s like saying a sandwich is different from a slice of ham between two slices of bread.” He lowered his head and whispered, “But if you make a distinction . . . Shall we see exactly which one I am, reprobate or rogue?”
She gazed into his ice-blue eyes and thought, Why not? She was unlikely to see the man she really wanted ever again, except at formal affairs. And she had to admit she was eager to compare Mr. Juncker’s kisses to Sheridan’s, against whose standard she would forever measure all others. Unfortunately.
That decided her. “Very well.”
She tipped her head back. He took that for the invitation it was and pressed his lips to hers. It was a chaste kiss, the only kind a respectable woman should like, and it was swiftly over, besides. It didn’t begin to give her enough of a demonstration for comparison.
“That didn’t seem remotely the way a reprobate or a rogue would kiss,” she said lightly.
But when she started to pull away in disappointment, he kissed her again, this time with far more passion.
It was perfect. He used the perfect amount of pressure and moistness, and he held her tightly but not too tightly. His breath was sweet, and his scent pleasing enough, if not quite as good as Sheridan’s spicy one. Yet his kiss seemed practiced . . . the kind a devilish fellow like him was used to giving any woman who might allow him to kiss her. It left her cold.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on why it didn’t move her, why her heart didn’t race and her legs feel as if they’d buckle under her any minute. Unless it was because it didn’t begin to compare to Sheridan’s kisses.
That made her want to weep, since Sheridan was obviously not going to—
Something wrenched Mr. Juncker from her. Someone, that is. She opened her eyes just in time to see Sheridan punch Mr. Juncker in the face.
“What is wrong with you?” Sheridan growled as Mr. Juncker gaped at him. “How dare you take advantage of a lady?”
Sheridan pulled back as if to hit the man again.
“He didn’t take advantage of me!” she cried. When Sheridan froze, she stepped between them. “He merely stole a kiss. As a certain other gentleman did at least once before.”
Pulling out his handkerchief, Mr. Juncker dabbed at his lip. “You bloodied me, Armitage!”
Sheridan dropped his hands but kept them in fists. “And I’ll do it again if that’s what it