AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m sorry, what?” Rosaline managed. She must have misheard. She must have done.
“We’re going to begin courting.” The Duke repeated calmly. He had stopped walking, and she had pulled her arm away. They were facing each other, Rosaline’s head tilted up to look at him. If she wanted to continue enjoying the shelter of the umbrella, she needed to stand close to him.
Far too close for comfort.
She began to laugh. “Oh, no, Your Grace. We absolutely are not.”
CHAPTER6
Part of Benedict was still convinced that Miss Atwood was a fortune-hunter, albeit a very clever one.
Whoever said that only gentlemen could be fortune hunters had clearly never met any of Society’s impoverished belles, armed only with breeding, beauty, and clever mammas.
Benedict, of course, had met most of these particular young ladies. Most of them saw him as an easy yet lucrative target, with no parents to ward off the ladies who only wanted a title and his fortune.
They were quickly disabused of this notion. Benedict could take care of himself and had no intention of marrying a woman who could not see beyond his dukedom. In fact, he had decided that he had no intention of marrying at all.
Still, he watched Miss Atwood’s face closely, looking for signs of triumph.
He saw only surprise, horror (mortifying though it was to admit), and something else that he could not read.
That was unusual. Benedict knew that he was good at reading people, and not being able to tell what a person was thinking felt strange.
Miss Atwood let out a nervous, high-pitched titter. “Oh, no, Your Grace. We absolutely are not.”
She meant it, too. She turned and began walking back along the path the way they’d come. She probably hoped to meet her unobservant lady's maid again, but Benedict was fairly confident that the poor woman was racing around the open stretches of the Park by now, desperate to find her missing charge.
He hurried after her.
“And why not, Miss Atwood?”
“It wouldn’t work.”
“Again, I must ask you why not?”
“You can ask, but I needn’t answer.”
Benedict grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him. Miss Atwood’s large brown eyes -which he’d meditatively compared to a pool of honey at one point flashed with anger. She tugged her arm.
“Don’t touch me, or I shall scream.”
Benedict took a step back, holding up his hands, palms out.
“Please accept my apologies, Miss Atwood. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Some of the anger drained out of her face. Without the spark of indignation, the poor girl only looked sad. Benedict frowned.
Why sad?
Ladies who turned down gentlemen tended not to be sad about it. They might feel relieved at an unwanted match neatly avoided, or regretful at any hurt they might cause, or the loss of a friendship.
But not sad.
Benedict’s instincts told him to step forward, to turn up Miss Atwood’s face towards him with one finger.
He stayed where he was. Something was upsetting her, and any further advances would probably be met with a well-deserved slap in the face.
“Miss Atwood?” he prompted gently.
