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Two ales appeared in front of them. She eyed the pewter tankard while Blake gave the fair-haired serving girl a coin and she scurried away, her cheeks pink, her head bowed. No doubt she felt like every woman did in Blake’s presence—overwhelmed by the sheer handsomeness of him.
“I think you just broke a heart.” He gestured in the direction of the girl.
“Me?” she spluttered.
He shrugged. “You make rather the striking young man.”
Striking. She bit back a sigh and forced herself not to sink deeper into her chair. How unfair. Could she not be a striking woman instead? She was no ugly beast, but she could not move like Chastity, who drew eyes wherever she went with a natural sort of sensuality or Cassie, whose vivacious laugh and golden hair never failed to draw attention. Even Eleanor, who was less like a wallflower and more like a recluse, caught many an eye though she would deny it emphatically.
His grin widened. “You’ll have to get used to breaking hearts if you continue dressing in this manner.”
“I do not want to break hearts. I only wanted to—”
He leaned forward. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why exactly do all this? Surely you could raise money via charity events?”
She stiffened. Talking about herself felt unnatural. No one really cared what she was up to or why. Those who spoke to her were usually interested in her family connections or discussing something menial. What could she even say?Well, I was bored out of my wits and so desperately tired of being quiet and dull?
“You would not understand,” she said instead.
“Try me.”
“Have you ever felt tired of life? Of doing the same things all the time?” She shook her head with a smile. “No, of course you have not. You are Jacob Blake after all.”
His smile wavered. “Perhaps,” he said softly.
“No. You love life. Everyone knows it.”
The rakish grin returned quickly, leaving herself doubting she’d seen that flash of uncertainty.
“Of course I do.” He clasped his ale and took a long gulp. She watched his Adam’s apple bob beneath his cravat and found herself breathless. Good Lord, getting hot and bothered over a man drinking ale. She really was a mess.
“So you decided the best way to cure yourself of this boredom is to dress up as a man.” He put the mug down and leaned froward again. “And the cards. How did you get so good at cards?”
“I thought we were here to discuss this meeting and whatever it is you wanted me to do?”
“You cannot blame me for being curious, Demeter.”
She could. No one was curious about her. She’d preferred it that way for a long time. It meant she did not have to stammer her way through a conversation. But with Blake, it seemed easy, as though she could spill all her secrets with barely a stumble. She needed to be careful—supremely careful. If she wasn’t, she might well do something truly stupid and admit her love for him.
***
Blake struggled to focus his attention on the reason for their meeting. He couldn’t help himself. Demeter was a paradox—a rare wild flower in a field of carefully cultivated roses.
Hell, maybe Ashford was right. He did need something different. Yes, he still kept thinking about her long legs in those trousers and wondering quite how she disguised her breasts but the oddest thing of all was he enjoyed their conversation. She barely stuttered when she talked of something she was passionate about, and her eyes lit up with such delight that he wanted to reach for the stars and hand them directly to her, just so he could see her face light up like that again.
“So your grandfather taught you cards?”
She nodded. “I was in ill health for a long time and my hearing took years to return. My mother wouldn’t let me leave the house for fear of me taking ill again...and other things.”
He grimaced. A duke’s daughter was expected to be refined and well-spoken, even at a tender age. He imagined her mother feared people thinking her slow-witted. It was becoming increasingly clear, however, she was anything but that.
“My grandfather played with me every day.”
“And the lipreading...”
“Well, it helps.” She clasped her hands around the tankard and stared at it. “I notice things a lot of people do not.”
The words struck him. He understood what it was like to know things of people and not be believed. The number of times as a child he had tried to tell people—even his mother—of his father’s treatment of him. But everyone dismissed him as a naughty child with too much imagination.
