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She widened her eyes. “Don’t you enjoy striding across the moors with a hunting rifle swinging at your side and a pack of foxhounds baying at your heels?”
“Of course I do.”
“And if your carriage becomes stuck in the mud, you drag it out yourself instead of waiting for your servants to unstick you?”
“With one hand tied behind my back.”
“Rustic,” she said. “Quaint.”
“I was told you were the rustic one. My mother said that you were raised in the countryside and had a talent for estate management. I pictured you churning butter with one hand while balancing account books with the other.”
“Ridiculous!” As a matter of fact, she had learned to churn butter, but she certainly wouldn’t admit that to him. “What do you think I am, a combination milkmaid and secretary? You’ll have to seek elsewhere if that’s what you’re looking for. This ballroom is filled with ladies who are finished and polished to a highly reflective sheen.”
He glanced around the room. “You’re right. But you’re not one of them.”
Blast. She should have made more of an effort with Grizzy’s decorum lessons. He saw right through to her rough and splintered heart.
She stared up at him as if he were a squashed insect on the ceiling, and not a virile, devilishly good-looking, and highly infuriating duke. “If you’re insinuating that I’m not a proper dance partner for a duke, then have no fear, Your Grace, there are dozens of ladies dying to take my place. I would be more than happy to relinquish you to one of them.”
He took a leisurely perusal of the room, stopping to gaze at several beautiful, elegant, and poised young ladies. “You’re right, MissPenny.” He caught her gaze and held it. “You’re infinitely replaceable.”
The music ended. She retrieved her hand from his grasp.
His bow was perfunctory. Her curtsy nearly insulting.
He stalked away. She whirled around and marched in the opposite direction.
Goal achieved. He wasn’t the least bit interested. She wasn’t memorable. She was infinitely replaceable.
He’d find some graceful, meek, biddable lady, sweep her off her feet, and install her in his desolate mansion on the moors.
And why that idea rankled so much, she had absolutely no idea.
Chapter3
Now that Mina had driven away the duke, her one purpose for being here was to speak with Lord Rafe. She had a proposition to make. She and Lord Rafe would forge an equal partnership—one based on mutual skills and ambitions.
Lord Rafe was affable, charismatic, and infinitely more manipulatable than his brother. Perhaps he wasn’t the most brilliant of men, but he was perfect for her purposes.
With his charm and access to society, and her pedigree in espionage, they would bring the criminal underworld to its knees, starting with Le Triton, the notorious French antiquities thief and spy who had murdered her parents. She burned to have revenge on the cruel man who had cut her parents’ lives short and left her so alone.
She planned to corner Lord Rafe and explain her proposal for building his career as a secret agent and establishing their partnership.
After which he would agree to marry her.
After which he would spirit her away to the gardens for her very first kiss. He was a wicked rake, after all, and would be woefully unimpressive if he didn’t steal a kiss.
She wouldn’t close her eyes while he was kissing her because she’d want to soak it all in, to remember it for later, remember what freedom looked like. Tasted like.
His kiss, their partnership, would mean her escape from her uncle’s control, her legitimate entrée into the world of espionage, and her freedom.
He wouldn’t close his eyes, either. He would feel the connection between them, the inevitability of their partnership. His eyes would glow hot and gold.
Wait. No. His eyes were cool and blue as the ocean.
What was wrong with her? She’d actually pictured Thorndon kissing her.Thorndon. The man her uncle had decided would make an excellent substitute jailer. Her uncle wanted to hand Thorndon the keys and have Mina locked away in Cornwall.
Blast her guardian. And blast all arrogant dukes.
