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“We haven’t, my lord.” She replied to Blythe, purposefully avoiding looking in Granby’s direction, though she felt the press of his gaze touching her skin. “You were pointed out to me during an afternoon at the park.” There was no good way to explain how she knew Granby’s identity without sounding like a complete idiot. One didn’t tell a grumpy duke how fascinated she was by the length of his coat. Or any other part of his person.
“My apologies for disturbing you; it was not my intent.” She forced a polite smile to her lips. “I was sketching when His Grace stepped in front of me.” She held her tiny notebook up. “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave. Enjoy the party.” Turning, she took a step back, intent on escaping to the safety of Lady Masterson’s front lawn.
“Stop.”
Romy hesitated, not caring for the duke’s commanding tone. If she just starting running, would he attempt to stop her?
“Were you sketching Granby’s backside?” Blythe laughed out from between his gloved fingers, clearly finding the situation amusing. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
Heat stung her cheeks at Blythe’s scandalous statement. “I was absolutelynot, my lord.”
“Could you find nothing else more worthy of your talent?” Blythe’s tone turned flirtatious. “Mine, perhaps?” Blythe turned sideways and wiggled his hips.
Blythe was a shamelessrogue.Though Romy had to admit upon inspection, Blythe’s backside, like the rest of him, was rather magnificent.
Granby’s eyes fluttered shut, head shaking as if Blythe continuously tried his limited patience, before once again fixing Romy with a frosty glare.
He has uncommonly long lashes for a man.
“I was sketching Miss Cummings’s costume.” Romy waved in the direction of the young lady who was now wandering off, oblivious to the fact that her gown had been the cause of Romy’s current situation.
“And eavesdropping.” Granby’s snarl met her ears.
“Who knows what else you were sketching,” Blythe said mischievously. “I’dlike to take a look.”
She immediately hid her notebook within the folds of her skirts. “I’m not certain,” Romy snapped back, embarrassed to have been caught looking at Granby while Blythe took notice, “there was anything of merit for me to overhear. If you must know—”
“Oh, I must,” Granby drawled.
Worse than being commanded by Granby was being mocked by him. It shouldn’t have bothered her—after all, they hadn’t even been properly introduced—but it did. Romy had a temper. One that caused her to speak without thinking. According to her family, her temper was one of her biggest failings.
“If you must know”—she imitated in a mockery of Granby— “I was struck dumb at the sight of the duke’s coat.”
“My coat?” His dark eyes narrowed, blasting her with dislike.
“Yes, Your Grace.” She nodded as if truly at odds over what she was about to relay to him. “I noticed the length is incorrect. Two inches longer would be much more in line with what is deemed fashionable.”
Granby’s massive shoulders stiffened. One gloved hand tugged at his collar, though she hadn’t said a word about his cravat. Yet.
“She may have a point, Gran,” Blythe added helpfully, looking between his coat and Granby’s. “I think I mentioned—”
“I donot,” Granby said, interrupting Blythe, all his attention firmly on Romy, “take fashion advice from a woman who has the poor sense to come to a party dressed as ashrub.”
Romy sucked in her breath. Her costume was lovely. She was a dryad. A tree nymph. It was true that very few had seen the vision of her costume today, guessing somewhat correctly that she was a tree of some sort, but she certainly, emphatically, did not look like a shrub. Granby himself was a mountain masquerading as a duke.
“I am atree nymph, Your Grace,” Romy stated with determination.
“I beg to differ.” His dark eyes ran down her body. “Youlook like a shrub. All you need is a bit of red and I’d mistake you for a holly.”
“A holly?”
“Or,” he put a finger to his lips, “whatever that small bush is that is beneath the windows of my home. Do you recall the name, Blythe?”
“Hawthorne.” Blythe pursed his lips trying to hold back his laughter.
“It is not surprising you don’t recognize the difference between a tree and a shrub, Your Grace.” Romy’s chin jerked angrily in the direction of his coat. “You obviously do not have a discerning eye.”
This time, Blythe snorted in amusement.
