“My aunt was asleep, and my reading habits are therefore my own.”
“Do they always include scandalous French literature smuggled in your reticule, or was I privy to a special occasion?”
A flush swept up her throat. It was quick and pink, blooming just above the lace of her neckline, and the sudden color scrambled Ash’s carefully planned strategy. He caught himself tracking the heat on her skin, wondering, with a dark, private spike of curiosity, what other provocations might make her flush, and how far down that pink stain would spread if his mouth were tracing her collarbone instead of his gaze.
He forced his attention back to her face.
“A lady’s reticule,” she said, her voice betraying none of the heat in her cheeks, “is the last territory in England a gentleman has no right to search. I suggest you do not attempt it.”
A laugh escaped him, the same unguarded sound from the ballroom. It left him feeling dangerously unmoored. “I yield the point. Tell me, then, since French novels are off-limits, what do you read when you are not actively ignoring the entire ton?”
“Whatever I please.” She tilted her chin. “Richardson, Fielding, Burney. Though they are hardly equivalent.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Richardson cannot stop staring at the things he claims to despise,” she said crisply. “Fielding is merely a cynic masquerading as a comedian. And Burney understands exactly what it costs a woman to sit in a crowded room while no one listens to her.”
The casual observation landed with a sharp, unexpected force. She delivered it without a trace of self-pity, turning the brutal reality of her social standing into a dry literary critique.
“And the Marchmont ball?” he prompted, leaning forward slightly. “How does it compare to Burney?”
“The orchestra was competent and the potted palms were magnificent.”
“And the company?”
Imogen met his gaze directly across the faded carpet. “The company was variable, Your Grace. Some of it was tolerable. And some of it was entirely uninvited.”
He ought to have parried. A light, dismissive remark would have smoothed the barb into a harmless jest, returning them to the safe, shallow waters of flirtation. Instead, Ash sat in the worn chair and found himself thoroughly captivated by the fact that she had just insulted a duke to his face, and he had never enjoyed a morning call more.
Aunt Margery returned with a laden tea tray, depositing it on the low table with a rattle of porcelain that suggested she was already regretting her brief absence. The plate of biscuits accompanying the pot possessed distinctly charred edges.
“I assure you, Your Grace, the Cook is usually far more attentive,” Aunt Margery fluttered, her hands hovering uselessly over the cups.
“I have a particular fondness for culinary disasters,” Ash drawled, leaning back in his chair and offering her his most devastating, practiced smile. “They show character. Perfect pastries are always so terribly tedious.”
Imogen poured the tea without glancing at the pot. Her hands were entirely steady, the worn blue china settling into her grip with the familiarity of daily use. She handed him his cup, and in the transfer, her bare hand grazed his gloved one. The pad of her index finger slid across his knuckle for a fraction of a second.
The contact sank straight through the leather. A sharp, unreasonable heat traveled up the inside of his wrist and simply remained there, humming quietly in his veins.
“Your character must be vastly entertained by now, Your Grace,” Imogen noted, completely ignoring the sudden tension in his jaw as she settled back into the chair. “Though I doubtyou visit Mayfair drawing rooms actively seeking burned baked goods.”
He drank the tea to avoid answering immediately. It was a middling blend, honestly brewed, entirely inferior to the expensive shipments his housekeeper hoarded at Grosvenor Square. It also tasted remarkably better than any of them. He lowered the cup, bracing himself for the inevitable barrage of inquiries. Women always asked questions. They inquired about his estate, his horses, and his plans for the season, angling their conversation to match whatever mood they found written on his face.
Imogen did none of these things. She held her cup loosely in both hands and directed her attention toward the window, her gaze fixed on the street below. The sheer lack of performance unsettled him.
“You are remarkably deficient in curiosity, Miss Goodall,” Ash finally said, letting a touch of wicked amusement bleed into his tone. “We have been sitting here for ten minutes, and you have not yet asked how many thousands a year I possess or whether I prefer blondes or dark-haired.”
She turned her head slowly, her dark eyes meeting his. “I assumed debits and credits were a matter for your man of business, Your Grace. Unless you carry your ledgers with you on morning calls to impress unsuspecting spinsters?”
“Most mothers of the ton have my ledgers memorized. I am accustomed to being thoroughly interrogated by this point in the tea.”
“Then you must be enjoying the holiday.” She took a sip of her tea, completely unbothered by his reputation. “If you are desperate to boast, you may tell my aunt about your carriages. She is very fond of carriages.”
Aunt Margery offered a startled, scandalized squeak. Ash laughed, the sound escaping entirely genuine and stripped of thelazy armor he usually wore. The room's ease was alarming. It was the simplest thing he had done all season, sitting in a shabby parlor drinking tea with a woman who demanded absolutely nothing from him. It was a terrifying sort of ease, because comfort had never been part of Devlin’s wager, and Devlin’s wagers were designed to end in ruin.
He stayed twenty-three minutes. He knew he had overstayed the acceptable limit by exactly three minutes because Aunt Margery had begun a frantic, silent campaign to evict him. She shifted the sugar tongs from one side of the tray to the other, rearranged the charred biscuits into defensive formations, and cast increasingly desperate glances at the mantelpiece clock.
Imogen did not fidget. She sat with her back straight and her composure fully intact, betraying no sign that she minded his lingering presence. The utter lack of signaling drove him to distraction, winding a tight coil of tension low in his stomach.
