“I was told you went for a ride in the park with Lord Mowbray,” he said.
And so she had. Her campaign of causing Ridgely trouble hadn’t ended, and nor had her desire to return to Greycote Abbey.
“I did,” she said agreeably.
“Despite my concern that the viscount is not a worthy suitor,” Ridgely intoned, as stiff and proper as she had ever seen him.
Perhaps that was because they were in plain sight of the servants. Not that any were currently about. The well-trained domestics of Hunt House were as quiet as mice and every bit as difficult to find, unless one rang for them.
“Lady Deering disagrees,” she told him, leading the way to the music room.
“Lady Deering is wrong,” he snapped. “Mowbray is a witless dandy.”
“His phaeton is lovely,” Virtue told him airily as she ventured across the threshold and began the premise of wandering about in search of her nonexistent book.
She made the mistake of casting a glance over her shoulder at the duke as he prowled behind her. There was something about his forearms so blatantly revealed to her avid eye that made her almost weak in the knees.
“His phaeton,” Ridgely said, lip curled in a sneer, “cannot possibly compare to mine.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugged. “Never having been taken for a ride in yours.”
And having been quite soundly ignored by you for the last few days, she thought, still feeling hurt. Four. Not that she had been counting.
“Perhaps we shall have to remedy that,” he said, “and I can show you the difference between the silly pretensions of a fop and the refined taste of an intelligent man.”
Indeed. What did he think rendered him so superior, she wondered, suddenly vexed. But then in the next rush, it occurred to her that Ridgely was a duke and Mowbray a mere viscount in comparison. And he was a great deal more handsome and charming.
There was no comparison, curse the man.
“Such harsh words you have for Lord Mowbray.” She spun away from Ridgely, making a show of inspecting the pillows on a window seat, as if she had perhaps left the mysterious tome there.
“And not without merit.” Instead of searching the chamber for her book as she had supposed he would, Ridgely had followed her. He was perilously near now, his presence burning into her with a heat that would not be contained.
The man was like a flame.
And she was very much ready to combust.
“Hmm,” she said, echoing his noncommittal hum of earlier. “Lady Deering says I must wed soon, and the viscount is most amenable to a match. He has already told me so.”
“When, damn his eyes?” Ridgely snarled. “In his phaeton?”
The anger in his tone took Virtue by surprise. He was so often relaxed, his every reaction and tone languid and laden with easy charm.
She whirled about to find him looming over her, the picture of aristocratic refinement with an edge of roughness and danger she couldn’t help but to find alluring.
“And if it was then?” she asked, testing him.
Testing the both of them, it was true, and she didn’t quite know why. She had successfully baited Ridgely into irritation. He fairly vibrated with disapproval.
“Did he kiss you?” he demanded instead of answering her.
Was the Duke of Ridgelyjealousof Viscount Mowbray? How impossible it seemed. And yet, if true, the anger he was exuding made sense. As did the rigid set of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw, the fury glittering in the dark, chocolate depths of his eyes.
In truth, the viscount had been a perfect gentleman. He’d also proven himself the sort of company who delighted in droning on about himself whilst never asking her a single question about herself. For the number of times she had spoken, Mowbray may as well have been alone in his sleek phaeton.
She hesitated, deciding upon the answer she would give to Ridgely. He had all but disappeared from her life following the incident in the library. The passion she had known with him had produced a sea change in her. Every part of her had come to life in a new, previously undiscovered way. And he had merely carried on with his every day without her in it. Nary a word. Not a look, not a touch. Not even a note upon the books he had sent to her room.
Virtue tipped up her chin and sent the duke what she hoped was a wicked smile, one that said Mowbray had kissed her witless and she had adored every moment of his imaginary attentions. “Of course, he did.”
