Jenkins’s voice from the doorway shattered the moment like glass. Joan tried to snatch her hand back, but the Duke’s fingers closed around hers, holding her in place.
“Yes, Jenkins?” The Duke’s voice was perfectly calm, betraying nothing.
“Your guest has arrived, Your Grace.”
Joan’s heart hammered against her ribs. Jenkins stood in the doorway, his eyes registering their clasped hands on the desk.
Oh God, Joan thought.He saw. He definitely saw.
The Duke released her hand with his thumb brushing across her knuckles one final time before letting go.
“Show him to the drawing room,” the Duke said. “I will join him shortly.”
Jenkins bowed and departed, but not before Joan caught the glint in his eyes.
The Duke turned his attention back to Joan. “You should go home and rest, Miss Sinclair. Give your wrist time to heal properly. I will see you in two days’ time.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Joan rose quickly, perhaps too quickly, nearly knocking over her chair in her haste. “Thank you for the medicine.”
And she found herself fleeing, again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Come now, Ashcroft,” Hugo panted, his handsome face already gleaming with sweat despite it being barely ten minutes into their bout. “Surely you can show a friend some mercy?”
Laurence’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Where would be the sport in that?”
The Duke’s private boxing room was a space tucked away in the lower level of the estate, far from the ornate drawing rooms and stuffy formality above. Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, circled his opponent with the predatory grace of a man who had spent years honing his body.
Hugo St. Vincent, Duke of Ravenvale, danced backward with less grace but considerable enthusiasm, his fists raised in what might charitably be called a defensive position.
He feinted left, and Hugo fell for it exactly as Laurence had known he would. Laurence’s right fist landed on Hugo’s ribs.
“Bloody hell,” Hugo wheezed, stumbling back. “How do you do that? You can barely see, and yet you read my movements better than I do myself.”
Laurence tracked Hugo’s movement through the blur of his limited vision, relying more on sound and instinct than sight. “You telegraph your intentions rather obviously, my friend. That shuffle you do before attempting a right hook? It might as well be a written announcement.”
Hugo groaned. “This is why I always lose to you. Even half-blind, you’re insufferable.”
They had been sparring partners since their days at Cambridge. Hugo’s natural charm and easy manner should have made them incompatible with Laurence’s cold reserve, but somehow they had balanced each other perfectly.
Over the years, they had maintained this tradition. Once a month, Hugo would travel from London to spar and share gossip and simply exist without the weight of their titles and responsibilities pressing down upon them. Even Hugo’s sister Octavia had gotten friendly with Laurence over the years.
Hugo came in fast with a flurry of jabs that Laurence deflected easily, then attempted one of his infamous tricks, a sudden lunge that was meant to catch Laurence off guard.
Laurence sidestepped and landed a light tap on Hugo’s shoulder.
“Damn it!” Hugo lowered his fists, breathing hard. “One of these days I’m going to actually land a solid hit on you.”
“I live in hope of witnessing such a miraculous event.”
Hugo’s grin was unrepentant. “Speaking of miracles, I’ve heard some interesting news about you, old friend.”
Laurence raised his fists again, inviting Hugo to continue their bout. “Have you?”
“Indeed.” Hugo began circling once more, though his tone had shifted from competitive to conversational. “Word has reached even London that the reclusive Duke of Ashcroft has been entertaining a very beautiful lady at his estate. Multiple visits, in fact. Alone. In his study.”
Beautiful,Laurence thought, momentarily distracted.Is she?
