Collette glanced up to see who was interrupting her last few moments of solitude and immediately straightened. Because that was what one did when in the presence of a duke.
He cocked one distinguished brow. “Have you seen a young miss, about so high? Blond hair, brown eyes—?”
“Lady Fiona.” She knew exactly who he was referring to and exactly who he was as well. Most of their students came from families on the periphery of the elite. They attended because their parents hoped their daughters’ manners and charm would attract a titled and/or wealthy husband.
Lady Fiona had no need of either. Because the man standing before Collette was the girl’s older brother, the Duke of Bedwell.
Her first thought was that she certainly mustn’t draw any complaints from him.
Her second thought was that he was even more good-looking close up than he had been when one of her fellow teachers, Miss Fortune, had pointed him out to her at the orientation earlier.
Not quite a full foot taller than her own less than imposing height, his elegant dress and demeanor made her feel as though he must be at least ten feet tall. He held a perfectly shaped tall black hat in his hands and not a single strand of his golden-brown hair was out of place. From the tone of his voice, she would have imagined him showing a friendly sort of expression, but his jaw was set, and the eyes directed at her were the coolest blue possible.
“Have you seen her?” He sounded annoyed now, and Collette blinked and dropped her gaze back to the papers on her desk. What on earth was she doing? Ogling one of her student’s brothers?
Who also happened to be a duke!
“I believe she was leading a group of students upstairs to the sleeping quarters. I overheard an abundance of giggling and footsteps headed for the back stairwell a few moments ago.”
Lady Fiona, of course, was very popular. And not simply because of her station in life. Collette had realized that the moment she met her. The girl, just four and ten, was unusually charismatic, good-natured, and kind. And if a few of the other teachers were to be believed, Lady Fiona Brierton was incredibly gifted in mathematics and the sciences.
The duke merely nodded, looking down his nose, and then, perfectly at ease with himself, strode toward the window where he stood silently staring outside.
A man such as he, she presumed, wouldn’t think it necessary to make conversation with a teacher or provide her with an explanation for his presence. But thinking it best to stay hidden from Mrs. Metcalf, she simply sat quietly staring at her papers.
She clutched her hands in front of her, wishing she’d listened more to some of her sister-in-law’s instructions on all the dos and don’ts for dealing with dukes. No doubt, even her sister Diana would find something clever to say.
“She is a lovely girl, your sister,” Collette offered. “I imagine you miss her while she’s away.”
Collette studied his straight back, noticing the exquisite cut of his clothing, her eyes skimming down the back of a perfectly fitted jacket, tan breaches hugging his thighs, and lower, to where shining Hessians were planted shoulders’ distance apart.
“You must be proud of her,” she added.
“I’d be prouder if she’d not insisted on attending this plebeian institution.” His response startled her.
Plebeian institution? Miss Primm’s School attracted young ladies from all over England! Although… Very few of those daughters hailed from ducal families.
In fact, as far as she knew, Lady Fiona was the first.
And only.
Collette stepped away from her desk and extended her right hand. She wasn’t one of those simpering debutantes she’d witnessed last spring. She was a teacher. And as a representative of the school, she would make him well aware that although the women at Miss Primm’s might beplebeian, they were not to be dismissed so easily.
“I am Miss Jones, Your Grace, and I shall be teaching your sister Latin this year.” She stood behind him, allowing him no choice but to turn and acknowledge her. “And French.”
When he did so, those icy blue eyes flicked to her outstretched hand as though she were offering him a snake. Which didn’t quite make sense until she realized her mistake.
She wasn’t wearing any gloves.
Indecision swept through her. Perhaps she ought to have curtsied instead.
Too late now.
With raised brows, he reached out and took her bare hand in his gloved one.
Oh, yes. She most definitely ought to have curtsied instead.
Because as he clasped her hand in his, she straightaway found herself in a state of total awareness—of his maleness—of hisdukeness.
