So preoccupied was I by the decadence before me, I didn’t notice anyone strolling past my window, and I was in far too committed a relationship with my pastries to be distracted by such trifles as a door opening beside me.
In my periphery, I caught a gentleman and a lady walking over to the counter. “Raspberry, as usual, Anna. You know how he is,” a soft feminine lilt replied to the proprietress’srequest. The transaction continued, only occupying a hint of my attention.
A moment later, I was interrupted from my tart worship by a visitor in a delicately embroidered gown that matched her bright eyes. Lady Juliet.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
I shot to my feet and pulled free the chair beside me. “Lady Juliet, what a pleasure.”
Delicate as always, she dropped to the chair and allowed me to adjust it to her liking before settling back beside her.
“I’m afraid I cannot stay. I just wanted to say hello,” she said.
“I’m so glad you did.”
She leaned closer, nothing scandalous, just enough so we wouldn’t be overheard. “I also wanted to apologize for the masquerade. I fear I was a bit… presumptuous.”
“Oh… no. I had a… pleasant time.”
She straightened considerably. “Well then. I’m pleased that you enjoyed yourself. I do hope you know you’ll always be welcome.Always.”
“I… Thank you for that.”
Behind me, I heard a tentative, “Jules?”
Her gaze flitted past me while I spun awkwardly in my seat.
Damn.
“Your Grace, have you met Mr. Grayson?” Juliet asked. There was a hint of something in her tone, but I couldn’t read it. Not as distracted as I was by Mr. Grayson—suddenly everywhere.
“I have,” I replied, swallowing thickly.
Mr. Grayson merely nodded, looking anywhere but at me.
“Oh! I just remembered!” Juliet cried and shot to her feet. “I have something to pick up at the modiste. Tom, I’m afraid I must leave you here. I’ll just have Anna pack up my tarts.”
“Jules…” he said in a low tone. An overly familiar tone.
She peered up at him, her eyes wide and innocent. There was a subtext between them that I wasn’t privy to, and it was a nagging irritation. “Please, take my seat. I’m sure His Grace will not mind. Right?”
I rather did mind. Mr. Grayson left me on edge, unsteady, and flustered in every one of our interactions.
“Of course not. Please,” I said, gesturing to the vacated seat.
With a nod and a grin, Juliet flounced to the counter. Leaning across, she whispered something to Mrs. Ainsley.
Mr. Grayson shifted on his feet for a moment before carefully sitting. His back was rod straight, and he balanced right on the edge of the seat. His overlong legs tucked beneath the chair, but it was clear it would be too small for his frame even if he sat properly.
His gloves were tucked in one hand and he draped them across his thigh. A rigidly coiled thigh that flexed enticingly beneath his tan breeches.
“Thank you,” he croaked out, then cleared his throat. After settling one hand on the table, he stared down at it as if it held the answer to all of life’s secrets. With his thumbnail, he traced the grain of the wooden table. His fingers were long, elegant, but clearly possessing strength if the veins along the back of his hand were any indication. There was something beautiful, enticing about those hands.
Juliet returned, bag in one hand and plate and teacup in the other. She set the tart covered plate in front of Mr. Grayson before freeing her finger from the handle of the cup as it joined the tart. “She’s out of raspberry. I brought you blackberry.”
“What’s in the bag then?” Mr. Grayson asked.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” she replied smoothly.
