Leaving her alone with the duke, who prowled into the chamber with leonine grace and a complete lack of contrition for his interruption to the serenity of her day.
“What is today’s lesson?” he asked as he seated himself in a chair opposite her desk.
“Hot and cold savories,” she answered, taken aback by his question and his familiarity, settling in as if he belonged here.
He grinned. “Are your lessons open to gentlemen?”
And dear heavens, but something inside her was melting faster than cream ice in the sun. The Duke of Whitby was far too handsome. And when those summer-storm eyes of his twinkled with devilish merriment, she couldn’t help but want to smile back at him.
But she wouldn’t.
Because his reputation was notorious. And because if she caused even the slightest hint of further scandal, the fledgling business she had managed to build would disintegrate into the ethers, and she would be left with nothing.
“No,” she blurted, then straightened her spine. “The school of cookery is not for gentlemen. I am afraid you would be most unwelcome.”
“Pity.” Idly, he drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair. “How many pupils do you have,MissLenox?”
She didn’t miss the emphasis he placed on miss, as if it were dubious. But although she had been born the daughter of an earl and the honorific Lady Miranda was her due, she had chosen to shed it just as she had the hollow title of countess. Her family had disowned her, and she would be damned if she continued to acknowledge that familial connection. She was Miss Lenox now. Most importantly, she was independent, beholden to no one.
“I have a large number of pupils,” she lied. “Indeed, I don’t dare keep them waiting, which is why I must disappoint you, Your Grace. My students need me. I must refuse your generous offer.”
Proud of her control in issuing the pronouncement, she rose with as much stateliness as she could muster, given her present discomfiture. The Duke of Whitby left her flustered and hot anduncomfortably aware of his blazing masculinity. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t in some time.
“Sit,” he instructed, his tone languorous, as if they had all day to conduct a tête-à-tête and suit his whims.
“I am not a dog, Your Grace, nor am I your servant,” she informed him with icy reserve. “You cannot command me.”
“Of course you are neither.” He gestured implacably. “Do sit down, lovely Miss Lenox.”
It was the second time he had referred to her as lovely, and whilst she had once felt quite pretty, her bitter marriage had left her without vanity. She hadn’t even thought about her appearance, other than to make certain she was properly dressed. The weakest part of her could not help but to warm to his praise.
To long for more of it.
Ruthlessly, she banished such ridiculous feelings.
“As I said, my pupils await me,” she countered, refusing to obey him and seat herself again.
The less time she spent in this magnetic duke’s presence, the better.
“If you shall not sit, then I reckon I must rise,” he said, standing. “Pupils, you say.”
“Yes.” She held his gaze, hoping he couldn’t read the desperation in her eyes. “They are the reason my school can continue to exist.”
He stroked his jaw, his expression turning thoughtful. “It is interesting indeed to me that a handful of pupils are able to keep such an establishment flush in funds.”
She stiffened. “I have more than a handful, Your Grace.”
He sauntered around her desk, drawing dangerously near, invading her personal territory. “That is not what I’ve heard from your neighbors.”
“My neighbors?”
She was astonished. Had he been conducting interviews? The sheer nerve.
“Those whom I was fortunate to speak with,” he said, propping his hip on the end of her desk in an indolent pose and trapping her neatly where she was.
She could not flee this corner of her office without moving past him. And she could not bear to do so, lest she touch any part of his person.
Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. “And what tales have my neighbors been telling?”
