Hereford traced hissteps back through the garden maze, ostensibly searching for his missing cufflink, though he couldn’t quite explain why such a trivial trinket suddenly seemed so urgent. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the hedges, and that’s when he saw her.
Miss Thornton stood partially concealed behind a flowering shrub, her guard finally lowered now that she thought herself alone. The sight made him pause. Her chestnut hair caught the sunlight, turning the loose strands into burnished copper, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. She was attempting to fix the mess he’d inadvertently caused, her fingers working deftly.
But it was the pain in her expression that made his chest tighten unexpectedly. She shifted her weight, a wince crossing her features. The mask of competence and sharp wit she usually wore had slipped, revealing something raw and vulnerable underneath. The realization that she’d rather suffer in silence than accept help—especially his help—stirred something in him.
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered under his breath, though the words held none of their usual mockery. Instead, he found himself admiring the steel in her spine, the way she squared her shoulders even when no one was watching. She was… magnificent, really.
He watched as she gathered herself, piece by piece, reconstructing her armor of wit and propriety. The transformation was fascinating. The way she schooled her features, adjusted her posture, tucked away any sign of discomfort. Yet now that he’d seen beneath the surface, he couldn’t unsee it.
Hereford backed away silently, the cufflink forgotten, before she could notice his presence. He had witnessed something that made it impossible to maintain his carefully cultivated indifference toward Miss Thornton.
Hereford made his way back to the party, his thoughts still uncomfortably tangled around the image of Miss Thornton’s vulnerability.The gathering had grown more boisterous in his absence. Charlotte had arranged for music, and couples were beginning to dance on the lawn. He accepted a fresh glass of champagne, hoping it might dull the nagging sensation in his chest.
“There you are!” The Duchess of Rutland appeared at his elbow, fanning herself vigorously. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You promised to demonstrate that Italian thrust you learned in Florence.”
He forced himself to focus on her radiant smile, on the familiar dance of flirtation. This was safe territory. “Did I? How careless of me to keep a lady waiting.”
“Indeed.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I’ve been practicing what you showed me last week, though I fear I still haven’t quite mastered the proper form.”
As he followed her toward the cleared space where several guests had expressed interest in a fencing demonstration, he caught sight of Miss Thornton again. She’d managed to repair her hair and was in conversation with the Duke of Lancaster, no doubt discussing something dreadfully serious. But he noticed how her eyes occasionally flicked toward the impromptu fencing area with poorly concealed interest.
“Your Grace,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Why don’t we wait until we’re at the Swordsman’s Society? This is hardly the right place for serious instruction.”
“Oh, nonsense, Hereford. This is the perfect place. The lighting, music, audience…” the duchess said with a wink.
He gripped the cane a gentleman handed him with reluctance, aware of Miss Thornton’s attention even as he focused on the duchess. The Italian style had always been his favorite when impressing females who feigned interest in fencing when all they really wanted was to admire his backside. The Italian was all flourish and dramatic gestures, perfect for seduction. Except he wasn’t feeling too seductive at the moment.
“Now,” he said, sounding as official as possible while moving behind the duchess stiffly to adjust her stance, “the key is in the positioning…”
He didn’t need to look to know Miss Thornton was watching. He could feel her disapproval from here.
“Come, Hereford. Why have you turned so stiff all of a sudden?” the duchess chided. “This lesson is a lot less interesting and instructive than I recall from Brooks.”
“My apologies, Your Grace. I rather feel uncomfortable about performing in front of an audience at the moment.”
The Duchess of Rutland whirled around in his arms, standing with her front flush with his. Hereford took a step backward. She narrowed her gaze.
“Have you taken another lover, Hereford?” she whispered so only he could hear.
“No.”
“Then it’s me you’re tired of.”
Hereford made the grave mistake of hesitating. Her eyes gaping wide open, the duchess shoved hard at his chest. “How dare you!”
“What? I said nothing!”
“That’s precisely the problem!” she shouted as she stomped away from him.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, staring after the duchess, when he heard a soft, silky voice. “Looks like your skills seem to be waning, Lord Hereford.” Her voice cut through the noise in his head, sharp as any blade. It came from near his ear, Miss Thornton having stood on her toes to reach it. He felt the tiny tremors run through his body as her warm breath touched his skin.
He felt her withdraw quickly and he knew she had misunderstood his shudder as something undesirable. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but he wasn’t about to admit her proximity had aroused him.
He turned to face her hurt countenance and found her standing beyond his arm’s length.
“On the contrary,” he said in a lighthearted tone to cover up both of their embarrassment. “That was precisely the effect I had wished for.” He stood erect and folded his hands behind his back. “One does begin to wish for a variety in female company, if you understand my meaning.”
A scowl replaced her hurt expression. “Unfortunately, I do.”
