Even if she did like kissing him.
Liked kissing him very, very much.
“The viscount takes care in his wardrobe,” she defended her dancing partner lightly. “I find his attention to his dress admirable, if you must know.”
“Admirable?” Ridgely’s eyes narrowed to slits of sparkling obsidian in the lower lights of the sitting room. “I can think of rather a great deal of adjectives one might use to describe the peacock in question, and none of them are admirable.”
“Don’t be unkind.” She forced a smile. “I think I am in love with him. Desperately, hopelessly in love with him.”
The duke sputtered, and were she not so intent upon her performance, she would have enjoyed his discomfiture immensely.
“Inlove? By God, did he tell you to slip away from the ball and meet him in a private room so he could compromise you? It’s like the scheming little worm has discovered you’re to have a sizable dowry, and he intends to spend it on hideous cravats and vomitous waistcoats.”
Virtue glared back at her guardian. “Do you suppose his lordship would only be interested in me for my dowry? Would not a gentleman wish to marry me based on my own merits?”
“A gentleman, yes. But not a scoundrel who attempts to lure you away from a ball. I forbid you from dancing with Viscount Mowbury again.” Ridgely sighed, then brushed at the sleeve of his coat. “You’ll come with me, and I shall return you to the watchful eye of Lady Deering, who will be reminded she needs to implement a shorter leash on you. Come.”
Mowbury? Was that the viscount’s name? Virtue was reasonably certain it was Morbray or Mowbray. But not Mowbury.
“His name is Morbray,” she guessed, hoping she was right, for the correct title seemed more important now. She needed Ridgely to believe she was serious.
It only caused the duke’s gaze to sharpen. “Mowbray, my dear. You see? You cannot be in love with the fellow when you don’t even know his name.”
Blast.Perhaps she had been wrong about the viscount’s title.
“You called him Mowbury,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” he said slowly, as if he were explaining to a child, “as a slight.”
Interesting.
“You dislike him, then?” she probed, not sure why it mattered to her; Ridgely’s opinion of the viscount meant nothing.
She had no intention of marrying the man.
The stinging ache in her thigh had finally dissipated, and she reasoned this was as good a time as any to put some more, much-needed distance between herself and the duke. She slipped nearer to the hearth, where a fire was merrily dancing in the grate. Surely a servant would soon arrive to attend it and find the door latched.
Ridgely’s stern voice followed her as she made her escape. “I dislike that he was attempting to lead my innocent ward astray. Where are you going? I’m attempting to have a conversation with you.”
Away from you, she thought, rubbing at her bare upper arms where her kid gloves ended. Not from cold but to chase the awareness that would not stop seeping into her body at Ridgely’s proximity.
She forced herself to turn back to him. “I thought you wanted me to marry with haste.”
Looking upon him was unfair, she thought. He was a Gorgon, a veritable masculine Medusa. Only, instead of turning her into stone, one look at him reduced her to a puddle of wanton longing.
“Yes,” he said, drawing nearer with those graceful, long-limbed strides, “but not to some witless fool who cares more about the cut of his coat than his wife.”
“I shouldn’t think it any of your concern how my future husband treats me,” she pointed out, and not without bitterness. “The sooner you are freed of the burden of being my guardian, the better.”
“I’ll still be your guardian after you marry. Until you turn one-and-twenty, your welfare is in my hands, regardless of whether or not you wed. It is my preference, naturally, for you to marry a man of my choosing, that he may essentially take my place until you reach your majority. Mowbray is decidedlynotthat man.”
Her ire rose as he stopped before her, his maddening scent mingling with the burning wood of the fire. “A man ofyourchoosing?”
He inclined his head, his expression still somber, his jaw hard. “A man of whom I approve.”
“And you do not approve of Morbray?” she asked.
The corner of his mouth curved upward in the semblance of a mocking grin. “His name is Mowbray, my dear.”
