Perhaps she was now “Lady” or “Mrs.” and no longer the Miss Noelle Pratchett he remembered.
He didn’t want details, he reminded himself. Learning she’d found someone else would serve no purpose, and discovering she was still unwed would not signify. And yet he couldn’t help but gaze at her hungrily as she broke from her friends and made her way to the refreshment table, right in his direction.
The moment she caught sight of him, she pulled up short. All traces of laughter disappeared from her eyes. “Silkridge.”
“Miss Pratchett,” he replied, bracing himself for the inevitable correction.
It did not come.
“Five years,” she said instead.
“You look lovely,” he blurted out, and could have kicked himself. She did look lovely. He had not meant to notice, much less give any compliments.
She ignored it. Her lips pursed. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“So did I,” he admitted. He had missed her so much, those first few months.
After that, he had done his best to push her from his mind. One should not dwell upon things one could not have. Such as a rekindled romance.
Or forgiveness.
She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “No doubt you’re here for the will.”
Ten o’clock on the morrow. He wouldn’t be a single moment late.
“I shall be gone before you know it,” he promised.
“No doubt.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You were last time, too.”
Chapter 2
He was back.
Noelle Pratchett gazed at the imposing, impossibly handsome gentleman before her in disbelief. For years, she had vowed that if she ever crossed paths with the Duke of Silkridge again, he deserved nothing less than the cut direct.
And yet she was rooted in place. Her knees were locked tight to keep from trembling and her traitorous eyes could not be distracted from his form.
Tall, intense, tightly controlled. It wasn’t just that his clothing had been perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular body. Every thread, every stitch had been selected with the same care and precision that ruled the rest of his life.
He was never well-dressed; he wasperfectlydressed. Every fold of his cravat, a work of art. Every crease, starched and crisp. Every hair just so, with nary a tendril out of place. His jaw, smooth and clear of stubble.
He wasn’t a fashion plate come to life. The duke was no dandy. Rather, he was the very embodiment of rules and expectations. His hair, the perfect length. His waistcoat, the ideal pattern. His choices in color and style, muted but elegant. Timeless. As if an artist might paint his portrait at any moment.
And this magic, despite having just stepped inside from a long drive on a blustery day. Not even wrinkles would dare to mar the plans of the Duke of Silkridge.
He was not here for her, of course. For a while—a very short while—her naïve heart had once believed such a thing possible.
Back in those days, he was not yet a duke but ratherBenjamin. Irresistible, despite the same haunted eyes and carefully controlled exterior. If it had not been for that one reckless kiss, she would not have believed passion capable of sneaking past his defenses.
At the time, she had been delighted. It was a fairy story. She, the penniless orphan. He, the handsome prince. What had begun as friendship had turned into so much more. He would not have kissed her otherwise. Surely this meant they had a future.
He had been horrified. They had no future at all. Indeed, the next morning he was in the first coach heading out of town. That was the last time she saw him.
Until now.
“This is a surprise,” came the duke’s low, comforting voice. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
Noelle was not comforted. She was annoyed. She hadn’twishedto see him.
