Chloe rubbed between Tiglet’s furry ears. “The very one.”
“Why,” Faircliffe asked carefully, “would you bring him?”
“In case you didn’t recognize me,” she explained. “Most people remember Tiglet.”
“I imagine they do.” He sent a pointed look toward the open basket. “I shall thank you to leave the lid in place.”
And I shall thankyoufor leading me to my painting.
She closed the lid.
Taking Tiglet along had been a calculated risk. She needed Faircliffe to remember both her and their pact, yes, but she also needed to appear inept when it came to mixing with high society. She was a damsel in distress, here to collect on an IOU. Chloe was going to enjoy the game.
“How may I help you?” Faircliffe did not look as though he wished to be of any service at all. “Remember: no money, no objects. And I shan’t pretend to court you.”
Ah, so that was the third condition. Luckily for him, Chloe didn’t want that, either. She smiled up at him and tried to look as benign as possible.
“I need your help.” This was true. Chloe let him see the sincerity in her eyes.
He didn’t uncross his arms. “Help with what?”
“Fitting into society.” That was believable enough.
He looked appalled.
“You needn’t dance with me or feign particular interest,” she assured him. “I am a romantic”—she was not—“and will only marry someone who wishes to marryme.”
“What does any of that have to do with me?” he sputtered.
She lowered her gaze as if shy. “I wouldn’t imagine someone as fashionable as yourself to know much about wallflowers, but it is impossible to marry well—or at all—from the fringes.”
“I was right,” the duke said in disgust. “You wish to ensnare some other sap in your social-climbing web.”
But he didn’t say no.
Got you.
“Someone with a fine house,” she continued. “And at least four thousand a year.”
“Those are the qualities with which a wallflower might ‘fall in love’?” Faircliffe valiantly refrained from rolling his ducal eyes.
Chloe couldn’t be more pleased. His indignation at her presumptuous aspirations meant he didn’t question her motives. How could he? They were not dissimilar from his own.
“According to the papers, the Faircliffe dukes host a grand gala at the end of every season,” she continued.
He closed his eyes as if begging her not to complete her request.
“I want an invitation,” she finished. “And to be introduced to a few prospects beforehand.”
He said nothing for a long moment, allowing his gaze to rake over her with humiliating thoroughness.
Half boots, as plain and ordinary as the rest of her outfit. Gown the color of old ash and just as uninviting. Bodice modest and covered but suddenly tight, as though the air she sucked into her lungs no longer quite fit. Pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her throat.
Lips dry, so she moistened them with her tongue, only to be caught in the act.
Faircliffe’s eyes were no longer icy but glittered sharply, as though a dormant fire had been stoked deep within. Her tongue quickly retreated from view. Chloe’s halfhearted bun with its strands of flyaway hair no longer felt frumpish but oddly sensual, as though she’d been caught in a state of undress by a lover.
Having completed his assessment, his eyes returned to hers.
