“I should beg your pardon,” she said, knowing it was what was expected of her.
“Youshould, or youdo?” he asked pointedly.
“I should,” she responded, just to needle him.
“You are not sorry, then,” the duke observed, his tone as forbidding as his countenance.
She wondered if he had ever known a carefree day in his life. She also wondered why the supposition he had not should bother her so. Certainly, the duke had never shown her a kindness or a mercy. Nor had he given her any indication he enjoyed her company. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“I know what is expected of me,” she said, her tone challenging. “YouthinkI should beg your pardon, Your Grace. Society has its whims and its rules, and we are all expected to follow them without question. But if I have indeed been familiar with you, I do not regret it. This is the most entertainment I have enjoyed since my arrival here in Oxfordshire.”
That was the truth, all of it. She thrived upon gaiety and interesting characters, parties and routs and balls, the whirl and bustle of London life. The country had been remarkably staid thus far, with all the rakehells in attendance otherwise occupied by her sisters. Merriment and games grew old. The Duke of Coventry, however, presented a challenge.
Christabella Winter adored challenges.
And handsome men.
Not necessarily in that order.
The Duke of Coventry sighed. “In truth, your lack of propriety is somehow charming. And disarming as well. I suspect that is quite intentional. You strike me as the sort who could lead an army into battle with ease.”
“Ah, but I would never lead an army into battle,” she told him. “I would convince them all the cause was futile and they should return to their homes to live happily ever after.”
“And then their villages would be pillaged and burned, they would be murdered in their sleep, and the enemy would overtake their land, their wives, and homes,” he countered, quite brutally.
She blinked.
An unexpected darkness lurked behind his quiet façade. What had happened to the Duke of Coventry in his life to render him so embittered?
She wanted to know, and yet, a part of her did not.
Christabella frowned at him. “That is a harsh interpretation, Your Grace.”
“That is anaccurateinterpretation, Miss Winter,” he said, a stubborn note entering his baritone.
They were engaging in an argument.
Her frown turned into a grin. She felt as if she had won. Because he was speaking to her, nevertheless. He had not frozen, and the haunted expression had fled.
“I believe you have just proven me correct, Your Grace.” Energy and delight suddenly filled her. She had to move. And there was only one way she could conceive of doing so. She closed the distance between them once more.
Scant distance.
He smelled delicious, of lemons and bay and shaving soap.
She wanted to touch him again. Her fingers almost itched with the need. His muscles had been so…strong.
“How have I proven you correct?” he asked.
The husky rumble of his voice was as delectable as his scent.
“You are still speaking with me,” she said, her gaze dipping once more to his forbidding mouth. “Quite eloquently, even if somewhat rudely. I have settled upon an excellent plan. Would you like to hear it now?”
“No,” he said.
The disagreeable man.
She gave him a quelling look. “I am going to tell you anyway.”
