Julian was not thinking about her family situation or her managerial acumen, but rather the kisses they’d shared in his carriage. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. In fact, he’d decided very firmlynotto.
And then she was right in front of him, being beautiful and maddening and irresistible, and the next thing he knew, the line had gone from “never again” to “we’ll part once I’ve chosen a bride.”
He hadn’t wanted to stop. He would’ve driven about the city for hours, just to keep on kissing her. If shewouldhave given her true address, if shewouldhave invited him inside...
Oh, who was he kidding? Julian had been so discombobulated by their encounter in the market, he’d forgotten to purchase the items he’d traveled there to select in the first place. Ofcoursehe would have gone upstairs with Miss Thorne and engaged in any activity she wished.
And of course she would have been aware of his reputation for refusing second encounters. She might have thought that indulging the itch they both longed to scratch would have resulted in losing his interest altogether.
Which was indeed what would have happened. Wouldn’t it?
Heaven knew he wasn’tsmittenwith her. He was incapable of emotions, soft or otherwise. These fireworks were just chemistry. His attention would wander any day now. It was a miracle she’d distracted him for this long. He wouldn’t go on like thisforever.
He was busy. Very busy.
Julian arranged himself at his escritoire and reached for the correspondence he’d been attending to before Grenville arrived.
Barnaby appeared in the doorway.
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace,” said the butler. “Miss Thorne is here to—”
Julian leapt to his feet. “Where did you put her?”
“The green parlor, Your Grace. As you requested.”
Julian strode down the corridor, slowing only when the parlor door came into view, so that he could saunter through the door in a sedate and disaffected manner. Because he was sedate and disaffected.
Mostly.
Maybe.
Her eyes lit up when she saw him. His blood pulsed faster. Rather than curtsey—or kiss him—she deposited a square, cloth-covered basket in his hands.
“What is this?”
She swept the scrap of linen from the short, squat basket with all the flair of a magician unveiling a stunning metamorphosis.
“Biscuits!” Her smile lit her face and her brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “In a style that you don’t offer at your masquerades.”
“Nor will I,” he said coldly.
The cursed things smelled absolutely delicious.
Miss Thorne plopped onto his bespoke Chippendale sofa as though it had been made for comfort rather than aesthetics. She patted the cushion beside her as if she were the hostess and he the guest she was graciously allowing into her parlor.
Stiffly, he placed the basket on the hand-carved tea table before the sofa and took his seat beside her. Not because the Duke of Lambley followed anyone else’s orders, but because it was the most convenient seat from which to share fresh-baked biscuits.
...and efficient proximity in the event he decided to haul her into his lap and kiss her.
“Shortbread,” she informed him.
Yes, he could see that it was shortbread.
Shortbread was the sort of treat one might find in a country house in Scotland. Not the sort of confection one might expect in a ducal ballroom where exquisite refreshments were presided over by a talented team of French chefs.
“They’re circles,” said Miss Thorne.
“I see that.” He raised his brows. “Is there a reason for the round shape?”
