She’d managed to attach Argyll’s difficult-to-snare notice.
He revisited the lady’s earlier statement.
“Youhave something to offerme?” he asked, full of sardonicism.
He’d hand it to the chit. She was queer as Dick’s hatband, but she took an insult the way Gentleman Jackson took right hooks—without so much as a twinge. The cut direct he’d given her at Lord and Lady St. Cyr’s would have sent every other woman running in tears. Not this strong-willed bit of baggage. She’d shown up a second time, in his residence no less. Determined as ever, she’d walked past Argyll’s partners, DuMond and Cadogan, like they were two footmen and she, their queen.
With that same command, Miss Kearsley came around the sofa. This time, with no invitation or order on his part, she availed herself to a seat at last.
The ennui that plagued him for some time now eased all the more.
Argyll studied her with a surprising interest. Fearless in front of him and his partners, and without a trace of passion in her pale, cold body, what would it take to erase her perfect composure? Would she be quiet in her surrender? Or scream for all the servants and passersby to hear? He’d venture she was as silent as the death she looked like.
At last, having the lady where he wanted, seated, with all advantage erased, Argyll slid onto the upholstered armchair adjacent to her.
“Daria,” he said smoothly. “You have me intrigued.” And she did.
“I could help you get closer to the Duke of Craven.”
Well, that was certainly unexpected.
“Are you offering to bring me Miss Caldecott to ruin?” The prospect of an easy ruin was a suddenly dull prospect.
She reeled like struck. “Never!”
There it was. Miss Kearsley blushed a soft, rosy red. Rocking her otherwise staid expression proved unexpectedly delightful. Would that color become an even deeper cherry red if she were under him, taking his deep, demanding thrusts?
“You’re a loyal thing. How trite.”
“If by thing, you mean, woman, Gregory. Then yes. I pride myself on being a loyal friend, sister, and daughter.”
“Like a dog,” he said lightly.
Miss Kearsley ignored his baiting. She’d make him work for this one: to elicit a reaction. To steal a smile. To quibble with him. Argyll’s intrigue deepened.
“My wife owes me loyalty in my club, in my dealings, and in every matter touching my name. In the bedroom? She may tup whom she pleases.” He’d never been and would never be the possessive sort, and certainly not over a virginal miss who shared his name. “After I have my heir, of course.”
Miss Kearsley took that in. “Are we discussing terms?”
Was he actually considering marriage to this one? He felt a droll smile curve his lips. Egad, he was even more bored than he’d accounted for. “You have gotten ahead of yourself, sweet girl.”
“But you are considering my proposal,” she said with an insistence people simply did not show in his presence.
Simultaneously amused and irked, he plastered on a smile. “I’d have to be mad.”
“Well, given you believe me mad, that would make us an ideal match.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Was that a joke, Miss Kearsley?”
“Yes, but as you had to ask, it was not a very good one.”
On the contrary, it’d been a clever little quip from the morbid miss. He’d never concede as much. Best to never let anyone have any sort of hand over him.
Argyll took a sip of brandy and sat back in his chair, keeping up his scrutiny. “Tell me more about howyoucan helpme?” Once again, she didn’t buckle under his taunting.
It’d be a trait any woman who ultimately became his duchess should be skilled at. Not because he was the cruel, bullying sort,but because of the gossip, scrutiny, and resentment the lady who married him was sure to encounter.
“I am a friend of Emmy’s.”
