Their brief, rare clash in his private library the night before had produced a strange confusion within her. For a few, lost moments, she had been someone else, wrapped in the cocoon of the wine, wearing one of her best dresses, feeling falsely feminine. Almost alluring. Had she believed he had stared at her lips as if he wanted to claim them with his kiss?
It had been the wine.
Never again, she vowed as she seated herself and prepared her posture for a long morning of typing. The machine before her, like everything else in Westmorland House, was the best money could procure. Set in a sleek mahogany case with ebony keys, it looked more like a musical instrument a virtuoso might employ rather than the workhorse typewriters she had on hand in her school. Typing upon it yesterday had been an undeniable joy. Seeing it once more before her now was a reminder of the vast difference between their social strata.
She glanced up from her perusal of the expensive machine to find him seated, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
“You are ready to begin, Miss Hilgrove?” he asked solemnly.
Her fingertips settled upon the smooth keys. “Begin at your leisure, Your Grace.”
His stare still riveted upon her, he began. “Twelfth January, eighteen hundred eighty-five…”
Knowing his gaze remained upon her left her flustered. But she forced herself to listen to the deep baritone of his voice above the strokes of her keys and the rapid striking of the hammer as letter by letter, his words appeared upon the page.
He spoke rapidly, but her fingers were agile from years of practice, first on the piano, and then later on the typewriter models her father had begun selling in his shop. She could keep pace with the duke easily. Part of her relished the sound of his voice as he unemotionally relayed an account of recent Fenian arrests made in the wake of the death of Drummond McKenna. Another part of her was grateful for the distraction.
Time passed by with relative ease until at last the duke came to the conclusion of his narrative.
“I believe we shall pause there,” he said suddenly, “in favor of some sustenance. Would you care for some tea and biscuits, Miss Hilgrove?”
The abrupt shift took her by surprise.
Tea and biscuits with the Duke of Westmorland? Yesterday, she had taken her tea at her desk while he had gone elsewhere for a brief break.
“I am not sure that would be wise, Your Grace,” she managed. “If you have other reports for me to type, I would be more than happy to carry on with those while you take your tea.”
“Are you not hungry? I am certain I heard a stomach rumbling a time or two in the last quarter hour.”
Her face flamed. Her traitorous stomach had been the source of the inglorious rumbling, and no doubt because there was nothing in it.
“A gentleman would not comment upon such an indelicacy,” she said, unable to squelch her dismay.
Quite likely, the stomachs of ladies never rumbled. Or if they did, they employed a clever ruse to cover up the sound. She ought to have coughed, she thought mulishly now. Or laughed.
“I am not precisely a gentleman, my dear,” he drawled, his brilliant eyes once more upon her, assessing. “I thought you may have realized that by now.”
He was dressed like a gentleman. Indeed, he was dressed like the elegant, wealthy duke he was. And she had once more dressed in a serviceable black day gown to nettle him. There was no hint of the lady she had fleetingly allowed herself to be, for the span of dinner last night.
Belatedly, she realized her gaze was traveling over his broad shoulders and strong arms, encased in his well-tailored coat. She jerked her eyes back to his, cheeks hotter still. “I believe I am beginning to understand that.”
A small smile curved his lips. “Do not forget it, Miss Hilgrove. I have every intention of winning this wager of ours. First, however, tea.”
She opened her mouth to politely thank him and decline.
“Yes,” she said instead.
And she had no earthly idea why.
Benedict had noearthly idea why he had invited Miss Hilgrove to take tea and biscuits with him.
Very well, fair enough. Her stomach had rumbled. Twice. He had taken note, and he had realized she had likely not breakfasted that morning. Out of economy? Lack of funds? It had startled him to discover he did not like the notion of Miss Hilgrove either not having the funds to allot to a proper breakfast or wishing to save the funds for other expenditures, foregoing her morning meal.
She needed to be fed, and he needed to chase away the lingering cobwebs in his mind. That was all. Selfish, really.
Even so, as he watched her gracefully pour in the sanctity of his private library, he could not say he regretted the decision. She had already invaded his domain last night. What was the harm in one more time?
Moreover, there was something to be said for the act of a woman pouring tea. It was deliciously sensual. Miss Hilgrove’s hands were small and dainty, and he had spent the better part of the morning admiring her fingers as they flew over the ebony of the typewriter whilst he droned on.
