“You’re all invited to my June gala,” he announced.
Several of the young ladies cheered.
“Thank you,” gushed Mrs. York. “You are everything that is gracious and kind.”
Miss York did not stifle her yawn.
“I spied His Grace last week in his theatre box,” whispered one of her friends.
“He never misses a performance,” said another with great authority.
“He’s always alone.”
“I suppose someone in this room will be his first guest…” said another slyly.
Even before the passing of Lawrence’s father, the Faircliffe private opera box had been exclusively Lawrence’s domain. Father had never attended. Lawrence, as this impertinent chit had pointed out, could not keep away.
Attending a performance felt like stepping into one of his paintings, into a life full of music and daring and love. He couldn’t afford the extravagance, but neither could he give it up. The private box was his haven. He didn’twantanyone close enough to watch him grip the sides of his seat during reckless acrobatics onstage or see him swallow hard to hide his emotion during plaintive ballads of heartbreak.
The unmarried ladies of the ton had taken one look at an eligible duke seated all alone in a theatre box and determined the first female to be invited within those hallowed half walls would undoubtedly become his bride.
They were almost right.
Lawrence would never refuse his duchess her rightful place… But he would not relinquish this innocent private pleasure until then.
Yet, the ladies made a fair point. If attendance by his side in a theatre box was tantamount to a public proposal, some level ofprivateconversation with Miss York was long overdue.
He turned toward Mrs. York. “What interesting craftsmanship on that tall case clock across the room. Might I inspect it closer?”
“Straightaway. Philippa wouldloveto escort you.” She sent her daughter a speaking look. “Darling, please show His Grace our clock.”
Miss York did not appear enthusiastic, but she inclined her head in assent. “As you please.”
The back of Lawrence’s neck crawled. What would Miss Wynchester think when he and Miss York engaged in a tête-à-tête on the other side of the tea cakes? As he rose to his feet, his gaze flicked in her direction.
She wasn’t even looking. Tiglet had climbed up her bodice and was trying to lick her face. Miss Wynchester twisted this way and that, making droll faces as though the kitten’s little tongue tickled. The effect was endearing. He could hardly look away.
And…perhaps the Duke of Faircliffe was paying too much attention to the wrong woman.
He immediately offered Miss York his arm and forced an awkward smile.
She took his arm but did not return the smile. They walked to the ornate Chippendale tall case clock in silence.
Helikedsilence, Lawrence told himself. His reputation for reticence was unfeigned. There was no reason to blather about nothing. A wife with whom he could share the occasional companionable silence would be a treasure.
If his moments in Miss York’s company had thus far failed to seem companionable…well, this was his opportunity to correct that.
“Do you want to look at the clock?” she asked. “Here it is. Shall I point out how numerical and clocklike it is?”
His lips tightened at her jibe. Perhaps she felt as uncomfortable as he did. Lawrence had never learned to be flirtatious and rakish. He’d been too busy studying to be a better man than his father. Moments like these weren’t easy.
As a child, he’d been shunned for so long, solitude had become normal. He’d longed to connect meaningfully with others but hadn’t known how. He still didn’t know. He hoped his wife would be the person he could be genuine with, without judgment. He wanted a relationship based on mutual trust and respect. Safety and comfort. Not duty.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” he assured her.
Except that wasn’t true, was it? He wanted her towantto marry him.
“That is,” he clarified, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wish to. May I be frank?”
