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“Oh, I am sorry, is it serious?”
“No, not at all. It’s only to be a short trip. I shall return with theValorin a week hence.”
Bronwyn shook her head, the rich curls catching the light in a way that Valentine tried not to notice.Focus on your meal, he told himself, attempting to block everything about her from his mind. Her pretty face. That provocative, smiling,vexingpout. The hint of décolletage that trembled with every breathless laugh. Her irritating scent that should not make his mouth water to have a taste; she was a person, not an autumn suet pudding.
Get a hold of yourself, you fool.
His grip tightened on his fork, but it was no use. His infamous, stony control was nowhere to be found. Rather than rebuke himself for being a surly curmudgeon in the middle of supper, glaring at everyone and answering in unintelligible grunts, Valentine did the only thing he could. He cleared his throat with a mumbled “Excuse me,” rose, and nearly bolted for the nearest exit.
Three
Bronwyn drew the first real breath since she’d been shown to the table.
“Was it something I said?” she asked, watching Lisbeth, who barely managed to stifle her snort of amusement at the duke’s rapid departure.
“Perhaps it was something he ate,” Lord Willington said. “I had an inkling that the sauce tasted a bit bitter. Did you, dear?” he asked his wife.
The lady frowned at her half-eaten plate. “No, it seemed fine to me. A dash more salt, perhaps.”
Thornbury’s former wife blinked. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He hasn’t been feeling well the past few days. I expect he’s gone to get some air. He’ll be back soon.”
Or never, Bronwyn hoped.
Being so late after getting lost in her own thoughts had meant that she could not choose her supper partners, and when Harry had led her to one of two open seats left in the crammed dining saloon, she hadn’t protested…until she’d viewed her companions. Or rather,companion. Luckily, she had met the Willingtons before, who were both adorably pleasant.
But the Duke of Thornbury. Of all the rotten luck. She had hoped to put her performance as the bubbly, brainless Lady Bronwyn to rest for five minutes during dinner before the pretense started back up in the ballroom for the last ball of the trip. In truth, she could have stayed in her stateroom, too.
You wanted to see him. Admit it.
Shut up.
Yes, perhaps in the ballroom from a good measure away, so he could look at her and long for what he couldn’t have!Notdirectly across from him, so close that she could lift her slipper and touch his person beneath the table, if she so desired.
Yes! No!
She’d had to keep her traitorous feet glued to the carpet to prevent an international incident. The breathiness of her voice hadn’t been a pretext—she could barely form two words together with his unwelcome proximity.
A man so dour shouldn’t be so handsome. But even with a scowl on his full lips, Thornbury was unfairly, sickeningly attractive. Curse them all if he had dimples! But if he had any secret indentations in his cheeks, she wouldn’t know because the man never smiled. His ex-wife was right about that. But even his surly demeanor didn’t detract from his sinful looks. There was definite padding beneath that finely tailored coat; there had to be. No man was that…perfect.
He’s not perfect, she reminded herself.He’s a jackass.
Yes, the lord of the jackasses.
Kingof the jackasses, in fact.
“So are you really going to Philadelphia to visit a sick aunt?” A low voice interrupted her internal tirade.
Bronwyn blinked for a beat and then nodded. “Yes.”
The lady chewed a mouthful. “You know, I ran from my home once, too. I could not bear the monotony a second more.”
“Where did you go, my lady?”
“Please call me Lisbeth.” Her smile was warm. “I went south. Stole my father’s carriage and took it all the way to Brighton.” She shook her head at the memory. “I barely had a farthing to my name when I arrived, but I found work as a governess. I shared a flat with three women of rather questionable morals, though they were kind, and by the time I came back home, I was a different girl. I’d seen the world and I wanted to see more.”
Bronwyn longed to give a fervent nod, those words striking a deeply resonant chord inside of her. However, she wasn’t stupid. This woman had been married to the Duke of Thornbury for years before he’d inherited his dukedom. She had to know he was a spy for the Crown. Perhaps, she might be one, too. A year ago, if someone had asked her if highborn women worked as surveillance operatives, Bronwyn would have laughed, and yet, here she was…running sensitive documents across the Atlantic while trying to outwit a retired master spy who might ferret her out in an instant.
With a hand to her chest, she feigned a horror-struck look. “That sounds positively dreadful, Lisbeth dear. I couldn’t do without my gowns and my necessities for a moment. And share? Goodness, how awful. I can barely tolerate my little sister as it is, and Florence has her own wing.” She shook her head and shuddered, rambling on. “No, this trip was only bearable as I had my brother’s luxurious rooms to myself. It’s been marvelous. I shall visit Aunt Tillie, the poor dear, and then return for a repeat experience. The only part of the world I truly wish to see, my lady, is my future husband’s ballroom.”
