Relief soared through Amelia. They would be leaving.
And bythey, she meant one man—the ox.
But her relief wasn’t to last long, for Archie asked, “Are you joining us, Ripon?”
What was this?
Impossibly, the duke shook his head. “I’m not much for evening entertainments.”
Archie shrugged, and within thirty seconds, he was gone with Ravensworth and Kilmuir.
Which meant that within thirty seconds, Amelia was left alone with the Duke of Ripon.
How dare Archie invite Ripon to supper and not take the blasted man with him when he left? None of this would pass muster in London, that much she knew. Yet another reason she couldn’t wait to return to her homeland and a sense of normality.
After the sweet course, but one course remained—cheese, usually her favorite. Tonight, it was like sand in her mouth. But she was determined to push through and send this man on his way in short fashion. Yet as she took one determined bite after another, she couldn’t help noticing from the edge of her vision that the duke wasn’t eating, or even drinking. Not a single bite or sip. Instead, he’d settled back in his chair and was staring at her.
What was he looking at, anyway? Had a large chunk of bleu cheese become lodged between her front teeth? A dribble of lemon ice down her bodice?
At last, she could take it no longer. A woman had her limits. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m a sculptor.” He smiled. Or what passed for a smile with him. More of the suggestion of a smile. “And, very soon, you will be my subject. It’s what I do.”
“Well, you’re making me…” Oh, she didn’t want to finish that sentence. She suspected it would give him too much satisfaction.
He, however, decided to finish it for her. “Uncomfortable?Your cheeks do look flushed.”
Amelia opened her mouth and closed it. He looked decidedly smug. She used her irritation as motivation and said, “You simply cannot speak that way to a young lady.”
His mouth curled into the arrogant, condescending smile of a duke. “I can speak any way I like,” he said. “Besides, you’re not that young of a lady.”
*
For some reasonthat Tristan couldn’t be bothered to explore, he enjoyed discomfiting the not-as-young-as-she-once-was Lady Amelia Windermere.
Just look at her—brow lifted to the ceiling…clear blue eyes round as saucers…pert mouth formed into a small, perfect O.
He’d shocked her speechless. A rare thing he would wager.
Delicately, she cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’ve been away from the niceties of proper society for too long, but one doesn’t call attention to a lady’s age whether she be young or not.”
Tristan knew he should, but he felt not a bit chastened. Still, he conceded, “Fair enough.” He hoped that would appease her, for he wouldn’t be apologizing for speaking the plain truth.
Of course, she was beautiful—thetonwould call her a diamond of the first water—that went without saying. Logic would follow that the only reason she was yet unmarried was through her own choice, not from a lack thereof.
Anyway, the subject bored him, and seeing as how they were the only two left at the table, conversation must be made. “So, what is it you do?” he asked, not particularly concerned with the answer.
Her brow knitted. “Do?Have you mistaken me for a washerwoman?”
He snorted. Why did aristocrats become so offended by the very notion ofdoingsomething? “You strike me as an industrious sort of woman, is all.”
She pushed a piece of cheese around her plate with her fork and took to not looking at him, as if she could ignore him into nonexistence.
“What are your interests then?” he asked.
“I dabble in painting.” Still, her gaze remained averted from him, now appearing to count the individual crystals in the chandelier above.
Her irritation was wearing off on him. “Dabble? You either paint or you don’t,” he all but growled.
