She expected him to wince or to color or to otherwise indicate that he regretted speaking without thinking.
Instead, his gaze held hers without flinching.
Of course the Duke of Lambley would not speak without thinking. He had been thinking about her, and now they both knew it. But why had he told her? Because she was “Miss Thorne, Courtesan”?
No, that was not it. Another man might have been interested in procuring a saucy mistress, but Lambley’s attention infamously waned before dawn, and the tryst never repeated.
Nor had he any need to pay for such encounters. His home filled with willing bodies every week. He had only to crook his finger at a woman, and she was his for the taking. Had Unity not proved as much herself, by kissing him with abandon in front of hundreds of watching eyes?
But she would not be intimidated. She was almost his equal in one sense, whether he believed it or not. Soon-to-be proprietress of the newest masquerade establishment on everyone’s lips.
Well, everyone in her circles.
“I was thinking about you, too,” she replied, as though the topic were no more consequential than cabbages and watercress. “And then there you were.”
“Specifically,” he said, “I was thinking about our kiss.”
Well.
“Specifically,” she replied, “I haven’t stopped thinking of it.”
There. She waited for him to say that it was a mistake. Or to proposition her to one night of torrid passion, followed immediately by never seeing each other again.
He said nothing of the sort. Just watched her, with his forbidding, carved-marble countenance. His eyes, however, were not hard at all. They gazed at her with the same hunger she’d glimpsed last night, right before his mouth claimed hers.
“Are you just finishing up?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just starting.”
“Then I shall accompany you.” He tugged her basket from her suddenly weak fingers and looped the handle over his strong forearm.
“Oh,” she managed weakly. “There’s no need to—”
“Do you want to hold the posy, or shall I place it in the basket?”
“You didn’t buy the flowers for me,” she stammered.
“And yet,” he replied, “I find it is you whom I wish to give them to.”
Heat rushed her cheeks. “B-basket.”
There was no way she could stroll casually about the market with a posy from the duke clutched in her sweaty, trembling fist. She was no one, but he was recognizable from dozens of caricatures. Heknewhe could be recognized, standing here, sparring withher. And he cared not one whit what the gossips would have to say. The Duke of Lambley did as he wished, and what he wanted in this heady, inexplicable moment, was to give a posy to Unity.
He dropped the flowers inside her basket.
For a brief, mad moment, she imagined he might offer her his free arm.
He did nothing of the sort.
Her cheeks flushed hotter, and she cut her gaze away as she fell into step beside him. Of course he could not offer his arm. Who did she think she was, a princess? She should count herself flattered that he condescended to carry her basket.
Shewasflattered, damn him. And embarrassed that she’d thought for even a moment that it might mean anything more than a courtly gentleman’s act of kindness. Their worlds did not intersect outside of his anonymous masquerades.
In fact, he wouldn’t dare to stroll next to her if she were one of his upper-class set. Being alone with a debutante was scandalous enough to send him to the altar, whether he liked it or not.
But with her, such proximity did not signify. Unity did not count. It was like being alone with a servant in one’s employ.
Shewasin his employ, she realized grimly. That was exactly the situation. Working for him was her idea. What was she complaining about? She had got her way. Huzzah.
