Page 26 of Twelfth Night Sorcery (The Cambion Club #2)

“Why would I mind? It is your carriage.” She spoke lightly, as if the subject were of no importance.

Valance had no idea how to respond. Ownership of the carriage had nothing to do with it. He was asking if his physical proximity was acceptable to her. Did she not understand?

“Miss Carrington calls you ‘Oliver,’” she remarked, apropos of nothing. “But her brother calls you “Valance.” Why is that?”

Valance shrugged. “I grew up next door to her, and we were in and out of each other’s homes all the time. We have never stood on ceremony with each other. Her brother only stopped calling me “Oliver” when we went to school together. At school, boys are always called by their surnames.”

“But which do you prefer?” she persisted. “Valance, as Mr. Carrington addresses you? Or Oliver?”

He frowned, though she probably couldn’t read his expression in the dark carriage.

“It depends on who is addressing me.” That answer sounded pedantic, even to him.

“Most of my friends call me Valance. But I do not mind the Carringtons calling me by my given name. Sir John was my guardian until I turned twenty-one, you know. So it was—”

“Almost as if you were one of the family,” she suggested. Unlike his mother, she did not seem to think that was objectionable.

“Yes, precisely.” Sir John had essentially stood in the place of a father to him, and the Carrington children were the closest thing he had to siblings.

“I am part of your family now,” Lady Valance pointed out.

Valance smiled. “You most certainly are.” He cautiously reached to find her hand. They both had gloves on, so he could not feel her bare skin. But he lifted her hand and held it lightly in his, hoping she would not pull it away from him.

“Do you want me to call you Oliver? Or would you prefer that I address you formally? I know many wives do not call their husbands by their given name.”

Valance wished the carriage were bright enough for him to see his wife’s face, because he could not quite interpret her tone. Of course, he could have whipped out a scrap of paper and scribbled his light spell. But that would have meant letting go of her hand.

“You may address me however you see fit.”

“Indeed? Should I call you my caro sposo, like Mrs. Elton did in Emma? Or ought I always address you as ‘my lord,’ as if I lived in awe of your great dignity?”

He did not need to see her face to recognize the playfulness in her voice. “I don’t believe you have ever been the least bit in awe of me.”

“I suppose not. Though you can be rather frightening when you are angry, you know.” Her voice lost its playful edge.

Valance frowned. Frightening? That surprised him. He thought he had good control of his temper.

She clarified: “When we met the duke in the park that first time, you seemed like an entirely different person.”

He squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her.

He thought he knew what she meant. “When I meet the duke, I must speak his language. He will not respond to good humor and reason. I must address him in terms he will understand: threats and insults. Like the way Bishop Barkley does not understand when you lecture him for soiling the rug, but he does understand if you give him biscuits every time he relieves himself outside.” He enjoyed comparing the Duke of Belmont to a spoiled lapdog.

“Bishop Barkley is making excellent progress,” she said happily. “I almost think he can be trusted in a room alone now, don’t you?”

“No, I do not. I think the moment your back is turned, he will chew on the furniture again.”

“But, Oliver—” she protested, doing a very good imitation of his mother.

He burst into surprised laughter. “You may not call me Oliver if you are going to say it like that!”

“Very well, my lord.” Her meek voice did not fool him. She was still teasing him. “I believe I will call you Valentine. That’s very Shakespearean, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, in between gasps of laughter, “you will not!”

He wanted to pull her onto his lap and kiss the nonsense out of her.

He reached out intending to do that. But he remembered in the nick of time that what made her run away from Belmont Court—what made her willing to seduce a random stranger to escape her fate—had been the duke kissing her.

Perhaps she would no more welcome Valance’s kisses than she had Belmont’s.

She seemed not to notice he had stopped laughing. “But what should I call you?”

“I think, my lady, you ought to call me Valance, as most of my friends do.” That is, when they did not shorten it to “Val.” He was not sure how he felt about her using that nickname.

“I reserve the right to call you Valentine when we are alone together,” she teased.

He swallowed nervously. She had given him the perfect segue to the subject that had occupied his mind all evening. “Lady Valance—”

“Honora,” she corrected him. “If I am to dispense with your title, you must dispense with mine.”

“Honora.” It did not sound quite right, but he was not sure why.

“Yes?”

“I want to kiss you,” he blurted out.