Then again, maybe not. Presumptuous, conceited…accurate beast.
“That is somewhat arrogant.”
He prowled the terrace, dancing slippers soundless on the flagstones, and Evelyn was able to admire him in the glow of the lanterns which had been strung along the rear of the house.
How could any debutante consider him dull merely because he refused to play whist? To her, all his ancestors’ lineage of fighting knights, keen leadership and stern authority were encapsulated within his lean, muscled body which pulsed with vigour and power.
Sans tailcoat, she could appreciate his…attire: immaculate white billowing shirt sleeves, an equally immaculate burgundy waistcoat that enhanced his broad chest, immaculate cravat with a spanking diamond, immaculate black breeches which clung in all the right places and immacu– actually, no, his hair appeared scruffy, as though he’d been heaved through a hedge.
Still, it must take him hours to ready himself of a night.
And where had a duke accumulated so much muscle?
“Iamarrogant, Mrs Swift, have you not noticed?” He braced hands on hips. “If not, who would listen to me in the House of Lords? Who would comply with my orders for the thirty-four thousand acres that I inherited? Indeed, if I did not display conviction in my own beliefs and abilities, any hassling jade at a loose end might seek to deceive me.”
He neared and her gaze was forced up. She’d always suspected he would possess too many acres.
“My showing ofThe Fall of Innocence Unveiled,” she said, ignoring all that arrogance, “will be held two days hence, but if you do not wish to attend, I’ll find some other duke.”
A knuckle stroked below her chin. “Abundant dukes aren’t wandering around willy-nilly, you realise.”
Evelyn thought otherwise but that knuckle navigated her cheek to encounter a ringlet which he rubbed between his fingers, and she strived to act the widow, an experienced woman who’d not flinch like a naive girl beneath a man’s touch. She sighed breathlessly instead, which he appeared to appreciate as he drew back as though singed.
“I’ve met two of you tonight,” she stated innocently, batting her lashes.
“For your information, there are currently twenty-eight dukes, unless one has died this sennight without issue. Half have little interest in art whilst the rest are either no longer sane, haven’t the coin or are distributed around the globe, hunting butterflies in the Ionian Isles or mouldering in Wales.”
Grief.
“Well, dukes or no dukes, my showing will take place on the hour of nine at No. 3 Clipstone Street.”
“I could not possibly attend at that hour. I have a meeting with my man of affairs every day at nine.”
“Can you not…amend it?” After all, she would need to enter and remove herself from the house before any residents of Clipstone Street had arisen from their beds and could query her claim to be the new occupant of No. 3.
“I do not amend my schedule for anyone or anything.”
“Maybe ten–”
“Not ten either. My days begin thus: seven, I partake of breakfast and newspapers. Eight is ablutions. Half past is shipping ventures. Nine is my man of affairs. Half past estate business. Ten, I lecture Ernest. Eleven, parliamentary matters. Twelve is for–”
“Visiting one’s mistress?” Evelyn suggested, not believing anyone’s life could be thus regimented or that a duke laboured so hard. “Ten past the hour is lift her skirts, thrusting by quarter-past. Finished by half past in order to stuff oneself at the local chop house, then home for a nap at one.”
As his eyes widened to whirlpools, Evelyn slammed a hand to her lips – blamed the champagne, blamed her empty stomach, blamed Flora, blamed the duke…for everything.
He stalked a step forward.
She took a step back. And another, until her spine met the cold stone of the house.
Was he to reprimand her for such a direct manner? Lambast her for pretending to be a lady?
The duke placed one hand to the wall, blocking Evelyn’s means of escape – should she wish to.
With a dip of the head, his lips brushed her earlobe. “Are you suggesting, Mrs Swift…” A gloved hand caught her throat, the finger stroking her pulse. “…that I require only one quarter of an hour for lovemaking?”
The atmosphere, which was turbid enough, transmuted to fog, cloaking both illicit thoughts and his wandering hand which trailed the edge of her bodice. Evelyn ceased breathing as his fingers dawdled beneath the ribbon trim.
“I…”
