Shehatedher reflection. Not always; sometimes she was almost pretty. But only in the privacy of her bedchamber. If she sat across from a mirror in this house, she would be forced to acknowledge how ill-matched she was to the others. How much plainer, how dull and irrelevant.
She would rather be tossed into the Serpentine.
“I spy a better location,” Faircliffe said, without asking further questions. “Come and see if this vantage point is superior.”
It was the chair nearest the door—half in shadow, because it made little sense to reflect light toward the hallway. Farthest from Philippa and her mother, with the view obscured by the towering tea trays.
It was perfect.
“Thank you,” Chloe said, and meant it.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. York simpered, “I saved you the best seat, over here next to my Philippa.”
“Thank you,” the duke replied, but did not sound pleased.
Chloe grinned up at him and bounced her fingers good-bye.
“In case I haven’t a chance to speak to you after the tea…” Faircliffe cleared his throat. A hint of color touched his cheeks. “This lilac color brings out your eyes much better than the ecru did.”
With that, he was gone. He must have taken Chloe’s breath with him, because she found herself without air. She sat down hard on her chair and tried to weather her vertigo. Her pulse fluttered so rapidly at her throat, it felt like it was trying to break free. She touched her fingers to the spot to quell it and could not. She stared after him.
Faircliffe wasn’t just pretending to see her today. Hesawher. He’d seen her last time, too. He remembered what she wore, and he liked…this…soul-sucking lavender-gray color better than the watered-down porridge of the other muslin. It brought out hereyes. Eyes no one but relatives had ever noticed.
Thank God she wasn’t seated before a looking glass. She doubted she’d recognize the expression reflected back at her.
10
Ialways say there’s a right and a wrong way for a kitchen to prepare a cucumber sandwich. Mine are the finest of all!”
Lawrence tried to concentrate on Mrs. York’s animated chatter. She would soon be his mother-in-law, and she deserved his attention and respect. His thoughts were much too fractured to be coherent, but fortunately his reputation for icy ducal hauteur meant he was not expected to smile and prattle in return.
He wassupposedto be thinking about Miss York. Instead, he was preoccupied with Miss Wynchester.
She had looked oddly defenseless when he told her the lilac brought out her eyes. Startled, perhaps, as if unused to hearing compliments. Or perhaps unused to society in general. That was why she had come to him, was it not? She didn’t know what to do or what to expect.
She certainly didn’t need to know what else he thought when he looked at her.
Her scent tickled his skin like feathers, sending a frisson of awareness along his flesh from the knowledge she was near. He could feel her, like the air just before a thunderstorm.
The lilac did bring out her eyes, but he would have noticed them regardless. They were her best and worst feature—too arresting and perceptive for comfort. His blood quickened. Her clear gaze made his clothes feel too warm, the fabric rough when before it had been smooth. He wondered if she felt the same.
He wanted to touch her skin to see if it felt as soft as it looked. To slide his fingers into the hair at her nape and draw her close, enveloping her in his embrace the way her scent enveloped him. Magnetic and inescapable, washing over him like rain. A summer storm, hot and wet.
These were dangerous thoughts that he would never admit. Acknowledging her was risk enough. Acting on animal impulse would be ruinous. A wise man would keep his distance.
Miss Wynchester was interesting, surprising…and not meant for Lawrence. He must put her out of his mind and remember his duty to his title. This little favor meant nothing. Miss York was the quarry. With his proper, respectable new wife at his side, Lawrence wouldn’t even notice Miss Wynchester’s presence at his end-of-season gala.
He hoped.
“I am delighted to have you for tea,” Mrs. York cooed. “Don’t worry about the blanket.”
Yes. Lawrence supposed Miss Wynchester was both to blame and to thank for that.
If it weren’t for being honor-bound to fulfill their bargain, he would not have attended an event called Blankets for Babes. Lawrence was a champion for the poor, but in the House of Lords. Hehatednot being in control, and he was unquestionably out of his element at this inspirational needlework symposium.
Then again, strategy was everything. Miss Wynchester had given him the perfect opportunity to present himself as more than a hard, standoffish duke. Perhaps his presence here today would warm Miss York’s affections.
Not that she glanced in his direction.
