The trouble is,Neil thought moodily,that I forgot I am a duke and she is a governess. I merely felt like a man.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.
Of course, Miss Winter was not quite what she seemed—he knew that. A runaway bride, perhaps? A witness to something darker? It didn’t matter. Whatever she was, she could notpossibly feel anything for him. A woman in her position would be mad to do so.
I shall leave her alone,Neil promised himself.I shan’t trouble her again.
He distracted himself by inspecting the stalls more closely and stopping more frequently. Lord and Lady Farendale skittered along behind him, their shoes clumping along the wooden boardwalks. Lady Constance stood beside him, bedraggled and thoroughly miserable. They kept their complaints to themselves, for now.
The fair would open officially at noon; it was now a quarter to. Neil walked past stalls displaying bolts of bright fabric, embroidered handkerchiefs, beaded trinkets, and polished wooden toys. The air smelled of gingerbread and sugar, spiced apples, and cider—warm, heavy scents that hung beneath the clearer breath of rain.
He paused at a stall of carved wooden ornaments: bracelets, pendants, and small figurines. Behind it sat an elderly woman, more wrinkle than flesh, with a long braid of iron-grey hair. Her face brightened when she saw him.
“Your Grace! What good it does me to see you,” she chirped. “Your father used to admire my work—many years ago now. A fine man, he was.”
Neil smiled. “I remember your stall well, Mrs Beaufort. I wish you luck today.”
“Luck? Don’t need it,” she tittered, holding up a brown, creased palm. “Not when one can read a person’s future right in the hand.”
“Mercy,” Lady Constance muttered—too audibly. She leaned up toward Neil’s ear, voice dripping disdain. “Let us leave this mad old creature to her ramblings.”
Mrs Beaufort’s face changed. She’d heard, of course. Still, she offered a smile, and picked up a neat little bracelet, madeof carved wooden beads painted red, secured by an intricately braided piece of twine.
“For you, my lady,” Ann said, offering the bracelet. “It’s said to bring luck.”
Lady Constance drew back her hand. “I’ve no money.”
“It’s a gift,” the older woman offered kindly.
“Oh, goodness,” Constance scoffed, flashing her parents a grin. “I do not want it. Nobody wants it—keep your tat for the country girls and simpletons, won’t you?”
The old woman’s expression cooled. She cradled the bracelet in her palm, then looked up at Neil with a knowing lift of her brow.
To his mortification, he felt himselfblush.He could not remember the last time he had done so. The Gambling Devil was not known for embarrassment—yet here he stood, crimson with it.
He turned to Lord Farendale, hoping the man would intervene, but his lordship was too busy eyeing the cider stall. Lady Farendale’s silence was heavy, almost pained.
“Well,” Mrs Beaufort said at last. “I may not have your palm before me, Your Grace, but I can tell you this much—your fortune does not lie withher.”
The words struck like a thrown stone.
Lady Constance gasped, then turned on Neil, eyes blazing. “Did youhearher? The insolence—”
“I did,” Neil said evenly. “And I heard what you said toher.”
“What’s that to do with anything?” Lord Farendale blustered, waddling closer. “Throw this woman out, Your Grace.”
“She ought to be whipped,” Lady Constance hissed.
Neil’s temper snapped taut. “I shall do no such thing. You were discourteous, Lady Constance—unnecessarily so. Mrs Beaufort had every right to defend herself.”
Lady Constance recoiled, eyes widening. She stared up at Neil, as if expecting him to back down, perhaps to smile or saysomethingto soften what he had said. When Neil only stared back, she spun around, facing her father.
“I would like to go home, Papa,” she announced, lower lip quivering.
Lord Farendale puffed himself up like a porcupine. “Of course, my dear. Your Grace, I think we had best—”
“You are goingnowhere.”
