He blinked. Had she been appraisinghimfrom afar and found him lacking? He smiled grimly. Was the idea so fantastic?
Like her, he longed to be judged for who he was, not what he was. When people looked at her, they saw a Wynchester. When they looked at him, they used to see his dissolute father. Now they saw a duke, a title, in want of a wife.
He was trying to use their preconceptions to his advantage. He had made his case to Miss York as His Grace, an unwed duke in search of a duchess, rather than as Lawrence, a man with thoughts and feelings and secret dreams of his own. Perhaps he suspected those attributes wouldn’t be enough.
Perhaps that was why offering a dukedom was so much safer than offering his heart.
Miss Wynchester took a step toward the table. The swing of her hips was sensual and confident. She was a Wynchester and a woman of flesh and blood. Not being a lady erased none of her power.
He leapt to his feet to help her into her chair.
She stopped her forward progress when she was less than an arm’s length away from him. Close enough to touch. Close enough tosee. Her eyes were the warmest shade of brown he had ever beheld. They were fathomless, penetrating. He wanted to see them flutter closed in pleasure and know that it was he who had brought her to that peak.
All he could offer were bland lessons in comportment. Such banality should have dampened his ardor, yet his blood quickened at the wickedness of his forbidden thoughts under the surface.
Lawrence could pretend there was nothing between them but a gentleman granting a simple favor for a little while longer. There was no cause to rush off to the Ainsworth party. The earliest guests wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour.
He needn’t share her yet.
“I find myself very pleased to meet you, Miss Wynchester.”
“I fear I may be just as pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” She gave him a pert look.
He grinned back. Miss Wynchester had no need to avoid her reflection. She was an impressive young woman, no matter what she was wearing.
“This kitchen is abominably slow.” Great-Aunt Wynchester made a disgruntled sound. “We rang for tea an hour ago.”
Miss Wynchester sank into her seat. “We did not ring for tea, Aunt. This isn’t a real party. We are pretending.”
“How will your pretending ease my parched throat?” Great-Aunt Wynchester made tiny coughs. “Every time I sip from my glass, it’sempty.”
“I’ll ring for tea,” Lawrence said. He had never previously done such a thing—he despised tea—but there was always plenty on hand for the staff. He motioned for a maid to bring the tea.
“I should smarten up as well.” Great-Aunt Wynchester swayed to her feet, then lowered her mouth toward her niece. “I told this pup he has ugly carpets and that you practically live in the Palace of Westminster.”
Miss Wynchester’s eyes met his, and the corners of her mouth twitched. “One of those things is true.”
Her great-aunt scooped up the basket and doddered out of the door.
Lawrence’s eyes were only on Miss Wynchester. “You hate my carpets?”
“You have fine carpets.”
He’d been afraid she would say that. How had he been so wrong yet again?
“You watch from the ventilation holes in the attic?” he stammered.
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the best angle, and not everyone enunciates, but we make do.”
“‘We’?” he echoed faintly.
“My siblings sometimes, if I wheedle,” she explained. “But I’m not the only woman interested in politics. A few of the statesmen’s wives have attended in this fashion for as long as I have.”
She was right, he realized. Hedidn’tknow her.
And now that he had begun to, he could not help but like her more each time.
“What are your thoughts so far this session?”
