Page 17 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)

As her heart raced and her mind churned, she heard raised voices drifting out from the door where Ross and Grainger were cloistered. A moment later, Ross emerged from the nobleman’s study.

“Ross.”

He spun around, his face tight with anger. Then his expression immediately softened when he spotted her.

“We should depart,” he said with a glance back at the open door he’d just stepped through.

“Now? We’ve only just arrived.”

A servant rushed past them, heading for the study, and Ross strode toward her.

“Forgive me,” he said, his tone sharp. “But we should go.”

He lifted his hand and she noticed what looked like a drop of blood on his cuff.

“Ross…”

“A scratch. Nothing more.”

She took his hand, and he immediately led her toward the front door. The footman standing sentry looked startled, but escorted them out into the moonlit evening.

Outside, Ross sought his the carriage that had deposited them such a short time ago and handed her up into the vehicle. Then he climbed in and settled on the bench across from her.

“I’ve never done that before,” he said, then ran a hand through his hair. “Even when I was a young man, I knew better than to let temper rule my actions.”

“What did you do?”

“I…struck Lord Alec Grainger.” He rolled his shoulders, then settled his cuffs. “And I don’t regret it, though I am sorry for how it might reflect on you.”

Ivy learned across the carriage, taking his hand and turning it. An abrasion and a bit of blood darkened the knuckles of his right hand.

“Why did you strike him?” Before he could answer, she confessed, “I fear I know why.”

“Do you?”

“You did find me in the hallway outside of his study,” she pointed out.

“What were you doing?” he asked, then chuckled. “Eavesdropping? Of course you were.”

“I didn’t hear much,” Ivy confessed. “But he mentioned our betrothal, didn’t he?”

“The man was offensive. Unforgivably so. He baited me and suffered the consequences.”

He’d struck another nobleman because of her—the thought should have mortified her, but it wasn’t mortification she felt. Her pulse quickened, and she swallowed hard. He cared enough to defend her.

“Have I shocked you?” he asked when she fell quiet. “I don’t usually give in to bouts of temper, I assure you.”

“I believe you,” she said with a smile, then worry began to set in. “I hope he won’t retaliate in some way.”

Ross waved the thought away. “Let him try. He knew he’d pushed too far. My refusal to invest seemed to pique his anger, and he lashed out. If he had not mentioned you, he might have an escaped without a bloodied lip.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He leaned toward her, and the single carriage lamp lit his eyes. His nearness set her pulse racing again. The scent of him made her want him closer.

“You needn’t thank me.” He took her hand, stroking her fingers lightly, but even that gentle touch made her pulse thrum in her veins.

There was such warmth in his eyes for her now whenever he looked her way, and yet she wasn’t certain she was doing him any favors by maintaining this betrothal facade.

Even if Grainger made nothing more of the incident, it seemed their betrothal was a matter for sneering comments. She thought of the ladies in the hallway.

“Is something amiss?”

“Do you think this plan of ours, this false betrothal is a mistake?”

Still holding her hand, he bent his head and kissed her knuckles. “I do not. I regret nothing. Not getting caught in Penrose’s study. Not informing my mother and soon all of London that you are to be my duchess. And certainly not planting a facer on Alec Grainger, which he richly deserved.”

Ivy licked her lips. The words you are to be my duchess got caught in her mind, though from the hitch in her chest, it felt as if they’d lodged there.

Still, by the time they’d returned to Blackbourne House, Ivy was still debating with herself whether she should insist they end their engagement sooner rather than waiting for months.

He’d assured her that such a break would not harm his reputation, and whatever whispers there were about her would die down.

She’d never appeared in the gossip sheets before the incident and Lord Penrose’s, and she doubted she would again. Her intention was to build a life for herself that wasn’t reliant on the social circles of nobility.

Ivy waited until they were in the drawing room with the pocket doors pulled closed before turning to him, prepared to tell him she’d begun to doubt whether they should hold to their plan.

But when she turned to face him, he’d removed his suit coat and had a hand up to tug the knot of his crisp white bow tie loose. There was nothing particularly scandalous in it, yet somehow the intimacy of the act made her mouth water.

“Something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is.” He gestured toward the settee where they’d sat together yesterday.

Ivy walked over and settled on one end, and he sat closer than he had the day before.

She looked over at him and suddenly wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.

His nearness always scattered her senses and it was as if everything else faded.

The terrible thought came that if they ended the ruse, she’d have no reason to be here with him, sitting on his settee, close enough to reach out and touch him. Close enough to tug that loose fabric of his tie free.

“I’m not certain we’ve made the right decision,” she told him, her voice quiet and more tentative than she usually was with anyone.

He tipped his head, shifting so he was angling toward her. “What has given you doubts? The incident with Grainger?”

“No, of course not. But does it no trouble you that others whisper about us? That everyone’s wondering why you’d make such a rash choice?”

A frown pulled his brows down a moment. “No. Let them whisper. Let them judge. Trust me when I tell you they would do so no matter what we did. We are a morsel to chew on at the moment, and something else will soon be served up to distract them.”

“I’m not someone anyone could imagine as a duchess.”

His hand lay on the cushion near her left hand. He inched it closer, lifting his pinky to stroke it across hers, his fingertip brushing the ring he’d placed on her finger.

“I can imagine it,” he said in a husky murmur. “I have since the moment I met you.”

“How can that be?” Ivy’s voice was raspy too. It felt as if her heart had risen and lodged itself in her throat. “I wasn’t behaving like any proper duchess would that day.”

Ross smiled. “By whose measure? You showed courage and a great deal of mettle. Those are qualities any duchess would do well to possess.”

“I spent two Seasons as a wallflower, more interested in observing the nobility than ever truly being a part of them.”

Gently, he stroked his fingers over hers. Ivy instinctively turned her hand palm, and he fitted his own over hers.

“Did you ever see me at any of those balls or soirees?” he asked, his voice whisper low.

“No.”

“I prefer to spend my time with a circle of friends I trust or with my family. I understand my role, but I’ve always been determined to choose my own way of performing it.” He laced their fingers together, then looked up at her. “So could you?”

Ivy couldn’t look away, and the feel of her hand in his felt right, comforting and enticing all at the same time.

“But this isn’t real,” she whispered.

“May I confess something to you?” He hesitated a moment, licking his lips, drawing her gaze to his mouth a moment.

That yearning she felt whenever she was with him seemed to grow inside her like a hunger. She had the brazen thought of leaning in and kissing him before he could say another word.

“From the moment I suggested a betrothal, part of me wished it might one day be a true one.”

Ivy hadn’t known what she expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. A strange sense of panic seized her and she stood from the settee, looking down at him.

“You’d be making a mistake,” she told him vehemently. “There are dozens of other eligible, well bred, accomplished young ladies out there who would wish to take on the duties of a duchess.”

Even as she said it, the admission made her chest ache. How could she want him and yet have no wish to be the sort of lady he needed most?

And she did want him. The notion of ending the false engagement felt freeing, yet the prospect of never having a moment on intimacy with him again felt wrong.

Ross stood and looked down at her. “Do you not understand how much I admire you, Ivy Bridewell.”

Ivy swallowed hard. “We hardly know each other.”

A smile flashed across his face. “I know enough and quite look forward to learning more.”

“And if I wish to become a private investigator?”

He chuckled. “If you wanted it, I know you’d find a way.”

“A duchess detective?” Ivy tried to scoff at the notion, but it was impossible to be adamant when he was looking at her as if she was the thing he wanted most in the world.

“I have only one question for you,” he said, reaching for her hand, waiting to see if she would give hers to him.

Ivy did, lacing their fingers as they’d been a moment ago. “What is it?”

“Do you feel it too?” he said softly, lifting their joined hands and holding them against his chest. “What’s between us?”

“Yes.” Ivy felt such relief when the word was out, as if all the fears and worries and doubts were small compared to the certainty she felt in that yes.

A storm of emotions seemed to play out in Ross’s gaze, surprise and happiness and then a determination as fierce as her own.

He lifted a hand, stroking her cheek, then slipping his fingers into her hair to cup her nape.

“Then that’s all that matters.”