“I don’t want your arm,” Tommy quavered. “I’m old, not incapable. Now, if you’ve got a pair of handsome footmen to spare…”
“Ignore her,” Chloe whispered. “She blusters to salve her pride.”
“Pride? I don’t know what I did with mine,” he muttered. But he left his elbow proffered for her to take.
Her breath was unsteady as she slid her fingers around his upper arm. She was touching him just as she’d imagined doing. A shiver spread over her flesh, weakening her knees. She held tighter. Memorized the feel of him beneath each fingertip.
His arm was warm through the layers of shirt and jacket, and well-defined due to the musculature he’d earned doing…what? Did he swim or practice a sport like boxing?
Chloe tried not to imagine Faircliffe stripped to his shirtsleeves, dodging blows and throwing sweaty punches, before emerging from the ring triumphant and proud. Her pulse jumped at the idea of watching his muscles ripple, of pressing the soft tip of her tongue to his hard chest to taste the salt of his skin.
“Are we there yet?” Tommy barked.
Faircliffe glanced over his shoulder. “I’m taking the shortest path.”
Chloe held on tight.
A tour of his town house would have saved them a bit of reconnaissance, but she and Tommy had both agreed it was best for the duke to believe them uninterested in the details of his residence. Besides, none of these terraced homes was particularly large.
Not that there appeared to be any reason to worry. Faircliffe had accepted Great-Aunt Wynchester’s frightful lack of manners without question and believed that a woman of Chloe’s age could grow up under the tutelage of a baron and somehow not know which fork to use with the fish. All because their last name was Wynchester.
It would be funny if it weren’t so serious.
At the open door to the dining room, Faircliffe launched into a long explanation of the order in which guests would enter and who would sit where.
She pasted on a wide-eyedOh dear, you’re talking so fast, this is confusing meexpression, and nodded encouragingly at each tedious new tidbit.
He believed in her utter ignorance and complete incompetence so fully, it was difficult not to throw up her hands and scream. Perhaps invisiblewasbetter. She would rather keep believing she could fit in if given a chance than to have the idyllic fiction snatched away.
“All right,” Faircliffe continued. “Because of my rank, I would be one of the first to enter and be seated, whereas you—”
“Would be dead last,” she finished dryly.
Faircliffe rubbed his chin. “Let’s pretend I’m a younger son of an ordinary, untitled man.”
“The horror,” Chloe murmured.
“In that case, we might sit next to each other. I would lead you to the table like this.”
She locked her knees as they walked, allowing her wooden gait to make the short trip more awkward.
Tommy already sat at the head of the table and was inspecting her pristine glasses and cutlery for spots. A nervous footman stood just behind her.
Faircliffe joined Chloe in the middle, then motioned to the footman. “Jackson, if you’d pretend to serve…”
Tommy placed her hand on her stomach and gave a loud groan. “Ohhh, this pernickety gut. I cannot even glimpse anemptytable without… Have you a water closet, young man?”
“‘Your Grace,’” Chloe hissed. “Faircliffe is a duke.”
“He just said he wasn’t,” Tommy pointed out belligerently. “He said if hewerea duke, he’d have the best seat at the table, but instead he’s over there by you.”
“We’re acting, Aunt.” Chloe tossed Faircliffe a chagrined expression. “His Grace is still a duke. This is the only time he’ll ever sit with me.”
“Acting!” Tommy clutched both hands to her belly. “Well, does this theatre have a retiring room or not?”
“I’ll take her,” Chloe whispered.
Faircliffe nodded. “Down the hall, first left, second door.”
