Page 7

A few mornings after the ball, the sun through the lace curtains was an anemic London gold, pooling on the carpet like spilled tea.

Chrissy curled on the settee in Grandmama Westfall’s drawing room, reading the first page of a novel for the third time, her thoughts persistently snagging on the memory of a blue-eyed duke.

The house was quiet, most of the staff dispatched for errands, Grandmama herself absent at a charity committee meeting.

Only a faint ticking from the mantel clock, and the crinkle of pages as Chrissy fidgeted, suggested the place hadn’t been embalmed.

The footman startled her by announcing, “His Grace, the Duke of Nomansland,” as if a foreign dignitary had arrived rather than the only man in England she could not keep from her mind.

Nomansland entered with a rush that brought the outdoors with him, a breath of fresh air, looking more handsome than she remembered.

She hadn’t known she could go so suddenly, so completely breathless. She stood at once, almost dropping her book, and tried for a smile that didn’t betray the reckless ballet her heart was performing. “Your Grace. How unexpected. Is something amiss with Dinah or Abingdon?”

He nodded, but she noted the stiffness in his jaw, the way he hesitated before advancing further into the room. The great Duke of Nomansland, undone by the drab drawing room of a working-class widow. She nearly laughed.

“I hope you don’t mind my calling,” he said. “I was passing through the neighborhood, and thought I might pay my respects. To your grandmother, of course.”

“Of course,” Chrissy echoed, unable to help the smile that flickered on her lips. “She is at St. Mary’s, but you are very welcome to wait for her. She will not be back for at least an hour.”

He hesitated again, as if this new information required a tactical recalibration. “I see.”

It would be absurd to offer him tea. They were alone, and his being there without a chaperone was almost as scandalous as…

as their conversation at the ball, perhaps.

It occurred to her that their discussion might be the reason he was there.

“Perhaps you would like a seat? If you are in a hurry, I can ring for a footman to deliver a note to Grandmama?—”

His smile, when it came, was slow and self-mocking. “No need. I’m not in any particular hurry.” He sat on the edge of the settee, posture betraying a tension at odds with his formidable frame. The furnishing groaned in complaint beneath him, or perhaps that was just her imagination.

She smoothed her skirts, doing her best impression of a woman entirely unruffled by the company of dangerous men. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Your Grace?”

Nomansland shifted, resting his elbows on his knees. “I suppose I ought to have prepared an excuse. I could tell you I was in the neighborhood, or that I wished to consult your grandmother on a matter of charity, but both would be unconvincing.”

She tilted her head, letting him see the mischief that danced in her eyes. “Perhaps you had Grandmama’s letters on your mind?”

His gaze narrowed. “Was it letters that tickled your curiosity? I’d thought a diary might have been found.” He studied her as though memorizing the details of her face for future reference.

Chrissy was not unaccustomed to being admired, but this was different—there was a hunger to it, a kind of longing that made her want to reach out and touch his hand just to see what would happen.

Instead, she folded her hands primly in her lap.

“If you wish, I could retrieve the letters. So you might enlighten me about the parts that confused me.”

He gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “This isn’t something we should pursue in your grandmother’s drawing room. In fact, Abingdon would have me shot if he learned of any such doings.”

She met his gaze, tried to match his intensity. “I’m not very concerned. I find I rather like the danger, sometimes.” She hadn’t meant to say this last part aloud, but the words lingered between them, daring him to answer in kind.

A long, charged moment passed. Then he looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand, as if scolding himself for his lack of composure.

“I danced with you at the ball,” he said, changing tack so abruptly it nearly unseated her.

“And since then, I find myself unable to think of anything else.”

Chrissy swallowed. “I quite enjoyed the dance, as well.”

His lips twisted in a rueful smile. “I suspect it’s unwise, my visiting you here. But I could not help myself. After the ball, after… everything, I find I have no interest in the ordinary diversions of my set. I have even neglected my boxing.”

She smiled at this, picturing him sparring with some desperate young lord, his mind wandering to the last waltz instead of the next punch. The image delighted her. “I should confess that I have attended two other assemblies since, but none of them has been quite so memorable. I blame you.”

He looked up at her, and this time the hunger was unmasked. “I suppose I ought to apologize,” he said, but his tone made clear he was not at all sorry.

She took a measured breath, aware that the atmosphere had shifted from awkward to incendiary. She moved a fraction closer on the settee. “I think you enjoy seeing me nervous.”

“I do,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “But I enjoy it even more when you make me nervous, Miss Westfall.”

There it was—the opportunity, naked and undeniable, suspended between them. Chrissy leaned in, closing the distance with a reckless confidence she didn’t know she possessed. “I don’t think I have ever made you nervous.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then to the hollow of her throat. When he spoke, the words were strained. “You do, constantly. You have no idea.”

She reached out, fingers brushing the starched cuff of his shirt, then lingering on his wrist. She felt the pulse, fast and shallow, beneath her thumb. “You are not yourself today,” she observed, more curious than afraid.

“I’m very much myself.” His protest was weak, and even he seemed unconvinced.

She slid her hand up his sleeve to his forearm, marveling at the solid muscle there. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were afraid of something.”

He let out a laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I am.”

She waited, unwilling to rescue him from his own admission.

He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that if I kiss you, I will not want to stop.”

The room felt suddenly, impossibly, smaller. Chrissy realized her hand was still on his arm, and that his own had risen, almost reflexively, to cover it.

“Would it be so terrible?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, he leaned in, his mouth just grazing the corner of hers. It was a hesitant, almost apologetic touch, nothing like the brazen promises he had made at the ball. He lingered there, breathing in her breath, as if gathering the courage for a second attempt.

But before he could, a sound from the corridor—a servant, perhaps, or the ghost of a chaperone—made him jerk away, his composure cracking visibly.

Chrissy, her head still spinning from the almost-kiss, watched as Nomansland straightened, smoothed his hair, and tugged at his cravat as if he’d just lost a particularly bitter argument.

“I should go,” he said, the words clipped and formal.

She blinked, disoriented. “But Grandmama?—”

He shook his head, rising from the settee in one fluid motion. “She will understand. Another time, perhaps.”

He bowed, almost managing to meet her eye, and turned for the door.

Chrissy stood, her heart racing. “Will I see you at the Munsterley ball?”

His hand on the doorknob, he paused. “You will,” he said. “But don’t expect me to behave any better.”

He slipped out, leaving the drawing room full of sunlight and emptiness.

Chrissy sat down, hands pressed to her cheeks, and tried to recall her place in the novel, knowing it would never seem as interesting as the story unfolding in her own drawing room.

The silence after Nomansland’s departure was so profound, Chrissy half expected the drawing room to creak with relief.

She set aside her book, heart thumping, then stood and paced, replaying the near-kiss, the way he’d trembled, the abrupt escape.

Every muscle in her body was alive with indignation and desire, as if she were a violin that had been tuned too tightly.

She would not let him leave in such a state.

She strode to the foyer, intent on catching him before he made it to the street.

Nomansland was already at the door, one hand on the latch, his broad shoulders tense and defensive as a fortress wall.

He glanced back when she called his name, but didn’t turn fully.

Something in his posture—the way he hunched, as if bracing for impact—ignited her stubborn streak.

“Are you unwell?” she demanded, skirting propriety entirely. “Or merely determined to make me the subject of a thousand dinner party anecdotes by storming away?”

He looked genuinely startled, as if he’d expected to be chased by a servant and not by Chrissy herself. “I—no. That is, yes. I mean—” He raked a hand through his hair, visibly at a loss. “I remembered an urgent appointment, Miss Westfall.”

“Liar,” she said, more amused than affronted. “You’re behaving as though we’ve never been alone together before.”

Nomansland’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “You are very—” He stopped, caught himself, and reset. “I’m not usually like this.”

She softened, slightly. “Nor am I. But I think I like you better this way.”

He laughed, a strange, broken sound, and finally looked at her. The intensity of his gaze stopped her cold. He spoke so quietly she almost missed it. “I’m afraid. Of myself. Of what I want.”

She stepped closer, refusing to let him retreat behind that granite facade. “What do you want, Nomansland?”

“You know very well what I want.”