“I could flirt with other men too,” she added airily, adjusting a lock of hair. “The Duke seems so very confident. A touch of jealousy might be instructive.”
“That,” said a smooth, rich voice from the doorway, “would be highly inadvisable.”
The three women froze.
Evelyn turned slowly, feeling her heart sinking and racing all at once. Robert Firming, the Duke of Aberon, stood just inside the doorway, clad in slate-gray with darker leather gloves, as if he’d stepped from a portrait commissioned by a gothic imagination. His dark hair, unruly from the breeze, framed a face too sharp, too striking to ever be called gentle. His eyes, cold and impossibly focused, settled on her with the weight of gravity.
Worst of all, he appeared to be far too amused.
“I had no idea I occupied your thoughts to such an extent, Miss Ellory,” he continued, folding his gloved hands behind his back. “But I confess, the image of you plotting my defeat is… intriguing to say the least. I doubt my pride would suffer much from losing to you though I am open to finding out.”
Evelyn’s breath caught somewhere between indignation and something far more dangerous.
“And as for flirting with other men,” he added with casual menace, “I would urge you against it. I’m not in the mood to duel some poor idiot who mistakes you for a woman in need of rescuing.”
She shot to her feet with an entire storm in her eyes. “What has given you the right to walk in here, uninvited, eavesdropping like a highwayman?”
“I knocked,” he said simply. “Do you often plan covert campaigns within earshot of your enemy?”
Cordelia and Hazel had tactfully faded toward the farthest tea tray, whispering with wide eyes in an effort to look invisible.
Evelyn walked up to him, trying to keep at least a semblance of control. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to speak with your father,” he said smoothly. “We arranged the time earlier this week. You may remember, it’s when you were too busy throwing flowers into the fire.”
“He is not here,” she lied.
“Curious.” His dark brows lifted, and he took one slow step forward. “Then it is strange that his valet took my coat not five minutes ago and mentioned that the Viscount would join me shortly.”
Evelyn’s mouth opened. Then, closed. No witty reply came to her.
His grin was subtle and wicked. “Ah. Speechless. That is… a first.”
Before she could summon a retort, he took her hand gently in his, turned it palm-down, and pressed a warm kiss just above her knuckles. His breath brushed her skin.
“Until we speak again, my dear fiancée.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room like a man who knew she would follow eventually, whether to throttle him or something else entirely.
She watched him go, furious, but then, her eyes caught on the subtle twitch of his hand at his side. It was the faintest, frustrated flex of fingers into a fist, having happened just before he disappeared around the corner. And for some maddening reason, it made her feel the tiniest bit triumphant.
The moment the Duke vanished from view, Evelyn slammed the door with such force the windows rattled. Her cheeks were burning. In fact, they were absolutely aflame, and it had nothing to do with exertion.
The nerve of the man. The smugness. The insolence. The way his lips had brushed her hand as if she were some swooning debutante eager to be ravished. And worst of all, the way her pulse had betrayed her, racing like a silly schoolgirl’s at the brush of his fingers.
Cordelia cleared her throat delicately. “Well, I must say… if that’s what being ruined looks like, I’d like to schedule my own scandal at once.”
Hazel stifled a laugh behind her teacup though her eyes sparkled wickedly. “Do you suppose he practices that voice in the mirror? It’s very… effective.”
Evelyn turned on them both with a glare. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, we’ve already started,” Cordelia said, flopping dramatically onto the chaise and fanning herself with a biscuit. “I feel faint. Positively overwhelmed. That man said fiancée like it was a threat and a promise.”
“Ihatehim,” Evelyn growled, marching over to retrieve her forgotten embroidery hoop, jabbing the needle into the fabric like it had personally offended her.
“Is that why your cheeks are crimson and your hand is shaking?” Hazel asked sweetly. “Just wondering.”
“I am furious,” she declared.
