Page 26 of Dukes for Dessert

What did he wish from her? For her to make a fool of herself? Well, she was capable of that without his help.

Sophie snatched the profiterole from David but this time made herself take a delicate nibble.

The cream, thick and sweet, smeared her mouth. David’s gaze flicked to it, smile gone, as Sophie licked it away.

She felt heat on her lips as though he’d licked her himself. Her whole body smoldered as his focus remained on her mouth. Sophie carefully took another bite.

David’s stare held fire, intensity, fierce desire. Sophie clutched the profiterole, cream oozing to her fingers. She absently put her forefinger to her lips and sucked the fingertip clean.

David let out a ragged breath and rose abruptly to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Pierson, Miss Tierney. I need a walk.”

Without waiting for their response, he strode swiftly from the room. He called more thanks to Mrs. Corcoran, then the front door slammed, and his footsteps faded down the slate path outside the house.

Uncle raised his brows but said nothing, returning to his notes. Sophie took another shaky bite of her cream puff, her confusion and the memory of what had been in his eyes blazing inside her.

“I am quite enjoying this,” Eleanor said as she sorted through plates of the photos she’d shot that day.

“You do love photography.” Her husband, the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan, lounged in a nearby chair, cupping a glass of Mackenzie malt. The windows were dark, night and London fog sealing them into their warm nest.

“Not what I mean. I meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Hart rumbled. He leaned back in his chair, a Mackenzie plaid kilt draping his legs and woolen socks. Eleanor liked him this way, rumpled at the end of a long day, his reddish hair awry, his golden eyes warm and half closed. “You are talking about David and your promise to help him be devious. Have a care, El.”

“Nonsense, it is most entertaining being devious. Mrs. Whitaker is a brick, is she not? I imagine most gentlemen never realize how very clever she is.”

“Oh, they know.” Hart let out a chuckle. “Or discover it too late.”

“And she is subtle. Knows exactly how and when to strike—rather like you and David. She’s very kind to help, when she doesn’t even know Miss Tierney. I ought to have taken Miss Tierney under my wing long ago, but Devonport is on the other side of the fence from you. Politics is a stupid thing.”

“True.” Hart shrugged. “But it is better than tyranny.”

“Tyranny is politics, you know, just of a different sort.” Eleanor studied a photo of young Malcom and a cat on its hind legs, smiling at the image. “Anyway, I have decided I will make a friend of Miss Tierney and see that she does well. David sets quite a store by her.”

She became aware of Hart’s piercing gaze. “How do you know that?” he asked in suspicion. “Did he say so?”

“No, indeed. But why else would David be churning that marvelous brain of his to set her free of her awful marriage? I have a feeling David regards Miss Tierney as much more than the pitiable niece of his mentor.”

Hart listened in growing consternation. “El—as I said, have a care.”

“I think it’s marvelous. David has been alone far too long.”

“My love, David Fleming is never alone. He is surrounded by people day and night, especially night. Believe me, he does not suffer by himself in a monk’s cell.”

“Don’t be maddening. I did not mean alone in the literal sense. I mean in his heart.” Eleanor lightly touched her chest. “He needs a wife.”

“God help us.” Hart took a long sip of whisky. “Would ordering you to cease your matchmaking tendency do any good?”

“Of course not.” Eleanor abandoned her photographic plates and went to him. Hart’s eyes softened as Eleanor curled up on his lap and rested her head on his formidable shoulder. The tension between them changed, from husband and wife disagreeing to the electric awareness that flowed from Hart to Eleanor and back again. “David is your best friend. He’s performed monumental tasks for you over the years. Do you not wish to see him happy?”

“You are boxing me into a corner.” Hart’s voice vibrated her pleasantly. “If I tell you to leave off, you’ll accuse me of not wanting David to be happy. I do wish him well, but that does not mean I condone you rushing him into matrimony with a lady he barely knows.”

“Then we must see that he learns more about her.” Eleanor ran her fingers down the placket of Hart’s open shirt. The warmth of the man beneath enticed her, but she made herself not touch him except through fabric—far too distracting. “They may not suit at all, but we must give them a chance.”

“We,” Hart repeated. “You keep saying we.”

“Well, of course. David trusts you.”

Hart growled. “Not if I shove him at a woman and tell him to marry her. He’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”