Page 7 of Kiss the Duke Goodbye

Lost in the past, Clarissa dawdled with the knight on her chess board. If she moved it to g5, she could potentially attack both the queenandthe bishop. She brought the piece close to her face and turned it over, reading the artist’s initials carved into the base. Her father had given her the set on her twelfth birthday. It was at least two hundred years old and worth a small fortune.

And held the honor of being one of the few things she’d refused to allow her mother to sell when the shop was close to going under.

Clarissa adored chess, even if she loathed the man who’d inspired her to play the game.

She glanced to the window, as she had every minute since sending her impromptu note to a duke. It was snowing steadily, a lovely layer of pearl lining the sill. He likely wouldn’t consider accepting a decree under such circumstances. Carriages overturned all the time on days like these. Important men didn’t travel in squalls. She’d sent her staff of two home earlier, citing the storm when a potential guest was the true reason. She couldn’t afford live-in domestics, only day help, so this wasn’t truly a bother.

Besides, he had women who would come tohim. Why, Lady Dowling had fainted in his arms last week, according to the gossip rags.

Aggrieved, she plunked the knight to the board with a thump. She’d made the Duke of Herschel work too hard for her appreciation. Teased him for too long that evening in her shop. Peers of the realm didn’t take to playfulness. They preferred domination over every female they encountered, the brutes.

However…

Clarissa picked up the queen and rotated the gorgeous ivory piece in her hand. Knoxville DeWitt had a gentle side. He loved his brothers to distraction. Part of the reason she’d let himpurchase bonnets when she knew he didn’tneedanother bonnet was the sweetness of the Troublesome Trio’s visits.

He stood close to his siblings, vigilant, almost looming. Especially the younger brother, Damien. If they weren’t with him, hetalkedabout them. And their wives. And their children. Incessantly. It was clear to her that the man loved his family—and desired his own.

She decided she would go to Bath for a respite when he selected his duchess. The broadsheets would be filled with the exploits of a duke and his lady love.

Clarissa wasn’t a woman who embraced heartache.

The knock on the front door echoed down her hallway. She stood and gave her home a last, lingering review, wondering what her personal effects said about her. Her residence in Clerkenwell was modest but pleasant. And it washers, paid for with revenue from her profession. She’d considered looking at more prosperous districts when she’d bought this cottage outright two years ago, but she loved it. So, here she stayed.

Thankfully, aside from the chess board, there wasn’t a hint of her father about.

Or her mother, for that matter.

Clarissa took a deep breath and smoothed her hand over her chignon and down her bodice. Her legs were unsteady but hidden by rose silk the color of a vibrant sunrise. Her modiste was the best in Clerkenwell, and she didn’t wear these gowns while working.

They were for her.

And maybe, just maybe, for the man she would invite to know more.

She expected a liveried footman to be looming on her portico when she opened the door, announcing her titled guest. And from the bewildered look on his handsome face, the duke expected to see a housekeeper. Snow fluttered past and intothe entryway as they stared, but the chill was extinguished by the simmer bubbling beneath her skin. His gaze lowered to her feet, then slowly rose to her face. He held one of his elegant beaver hats in his gloved hand. (She knew the maker, the finest in London.) His dark gray greatcoat was open as if he’d thrown it on and raced from his Mayfair terrace. His waistcoat was a buttery hue somewhere close to the color of the cream the local grocer delivered each morning. His cravat was a simple coil, per his style. She appreciated the elegant simplicity of his dress.

Still, his jaw was stubbled, his cheeks flushed, his magnificent lips pursed, the bottom caught between his straight, white teeth. Teeth she’d grazed with her tongue three short days ago. And those eyes of his struck deep, stark sea green against the winter mist surrounding him.

My, she thought and clenched her hand in her skirt.

Whether she approved of this or not, she was smitten.

Attracted. In want…yearning…need.

And he was here. Apparently, he felt the same.

This understanding gave Clarissa the courage to step back and usher the Duke of Herschel into her private life.

Into her inner sanctum.

If he realized what a feat this was, he would have been astonished.

Wordless, he followed her down the narrow corridor to the parlor. The only one in the house. It was cozy, the hearthfire roaring, souchong tea in a pot on the table scented the air. Trying to disregard the sense of him standing so close, she procured his coat and hat, watching in suppressed awe as he removed his gloves with his teeth. With a hard swallow, she hung up the garments while he gazed about her home, cataloging, his expression bemused, curious. There was a mix of scoundrel and nobleman about him that intrigued her beyond measure.

Knoxville DeWitt had rough edges she wished to explore.

She’d never found anyone without them interesting in the least.

Also, she liked,loved, that he gave her time. He was patient. He didn’t push. He teased, unequivocally, but never pushed. In her experience, men often pressured a woman until she had her back to the wall. Clarissa only wanted her back to the wall if a duke’s lips were covering hers while he did the pressing.