“Did the gowns not fit properly?” he asked quietly as he guided her through the great hall and an assorted collection of statues and antlers.
“I wouldn’t know,” she answered primly, taking care to keep a proper distance between their persons.
So proper that her body was held at an awkward angle, almost as if she feared her own arm and sought to remove herself from it. The result left her with a cramp in her shoulder, but she refused to so much as frown and allow him to see her further weakness.
“Never mind. There is something irresistible about that infernal line of buttons,” he told hersotto voceas they reached another hall and approached a room where the doors had been left open and the savory smell of food wafted outward, along with the inviting glow of lamps. “A man cannot help but think about undoing them, one by one.” They crossed the threshold to find a table dressed in snowy linens and gleaming cutlery, an epergne laden with fresh flowers at its center, domed platters and twin tureens neatly laid, awaiting their delectation. “With his teeth,” Whitby added, his lips so close to her ear as he spoke those final, sinful words that Miranda swore she felt the graze of them, like hot velvet, brushing over her.
She shivered, but not from cold. “I have already given you my answer, Your Grace.”
“Ah, but your hungry emerald eyes give me one answer, whilst your honeyed lips tell me another.” Gallantly, he escorted her to a chair and held it out for her as she seated herself.
“I do believe you are being intentionally ridiculous, Your Grace,” she said coolly, trying to tamp down the stupid thrill his words somehow sent through her.
“What part of what I say is ridiculous, Miranda dear?” he asked smoothly.
“I have neither emerald eyes nor honeyed lips.” She kept her tone soft and curt, despite their lack of audience.
True to his words, the room was bereft of servants, as if the entire affair had been arranged with one courtly wave of his hand. She knew he could not have timed their arrival with such perfection. Perhaps the food awaiting them had been standingfor several minutes already, but the silver domes, etched with engraving and placed neatly over each dish, served to keep them warm.
“On that, we agree.” He seated himself at the place setting opposite her. “Your eyes are bolder and more brilliant than emeralds. Likewise, your lips, one must imagine, are sweeter than any honey.”
Miranda was determined to remain unaffected by his effusive charm. “How do you utter such claptrap with a bland expression?”
“Wine?” he asked, holding up a bottle. “It’sune grande année,Chateau Margaux1864.”
She eyed the bottle, then the duke. “I cannot think it wise.”
He tipped the bottle and poured a handsome amount into her glass. “Wisdom is boring.”
She swallowed, watching as he filled his own glass, trying not to admire the strength of his jaw or the way his hair curled under his ears, too unruly to be tamed, just like the rest of him. “Having been the recipient of far too much upheaval, I can assure you that there is nothing wrong at all with boring. Boring is safe.”
He raised his glass to her, regarding Miranda with a solemnity she found disconcerting. “May you always feel safe with me, but never bored.”
Her inbred sense of politeness stirred, forcing her to raise her glass in kind, despite her inclination to avoid drinking so much as a drop of the wine it contained. “As we won’t be spending much time in each other’s presence this week, I cannot think it shall matter either way.”
Whitby took a slow, considering sip of his wine, never ceasing watching her as he did so. And she found herself stupidly entranced by a drop of wine lingering at the seam of his lips until his tongue darted out to catch it. His Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed.
“I do hope to make a liar of you. I’ll have duties as host which will require my time and attention, and naturally, you shall have your cream ices and cornets to make. However, there is no reason why we cannot see each other often.”
Seeing him often sounded akin to torture. Acute, sensual torture. Miranda was sure her resistance couldn’t possibly withstand it.
“The cornets and cream will take up a large portion of my day,” she said, before taking a sip of her own wine.
“Delegate duties to the kitchens,” he told her, reaching forward to lift the lid on one of the tureens. “They are at your disposal and have likewise been instructed to aid you in all matters. You havecarte blancheover them. Would you care for some duck soup, my dear?”
“Of course,” she murmured, trying not to be distracted by the underlying implications of the phrasecarte blanche.
He ladled some of the richly scented soup into her waiting bowl. Orange, herbs, and savory broth made her stomach rumble. It had been some time since they had partaken of a modest mealen routeto Hertfordshire, and she couldn’t deny she was hungry.
“But I still shan’t be spending any time with you, Your Grace,” she added frostily as he added soup to his own bowl next.
“But we will have to plan the menu,” he protested, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“The housekeeper can attend to that.”
“No,” he countered swiftly. “She cannot. I don’t wish to speak with Mrs. Gilliebrand. As kindly and efficient as she is at running this household, she is old enough to be my mother, and she jingles when she walks.”
“That would be her chatelaine,” Miranda protested, amused in spite of herself.
