“My father says that Lord Gwanton is an admirable fellow; one hates to see snobbishness from someone like her?—”
“—such bravery, to show her face?—”
Clio pretended she heard nothing, even as she wished she were still listening to the prattling about horses.
She pretended this so well that, after a moment, all the voices abruptly stopped.
Or, no. She glanced up toward the front entrance of the house and found her own breath catching in her throat, too.
The sudden silence was because of the appearance of the Duke of Metford.
Hector, her mind whispered to her.Like the hero of old.
She pushed that voice down. One ill-advised kiss wasnota reason to begin referring to a man by his Christian name, and he certainly wasnother hero. Even if he had rescued her from likely death. With impressive strength.
But there had beennogallantry! None at all!
His eyes were intent on hers as he descended the steps; he seemed to think that none of his other guests even existed. And maybe the rest of the worldhaddisappeared, for she could see nothing but him, either.
He looked far more genteel and polished than he had upon her first acquaintance with him. Nobody, not even the most high in the instep nobleman, would accuse him of being a shopkeeper now. No, he practicallyradiatedducal authority. She could nearly feel it making the earth tremble before him as he descended.
Beautiful. That was the word for him, little as she wished to admit it. He looked utterly, staggeringly beautiful in the way that an avalanche was beautiful from afar, in the way that flames were beautiful before they singed you.
One of the tittering women—a particularly bold one, in Clio’s estimation—stepped directly in the duke’s path, a sycophantic smile pasted across her features.
“Your Grace,” she purred, dropping into a curtsy that was very obviously designed to give the duke a peek down her gown. “I wassopleased to receive your invi?—”
He stepped around her.
“Clio,” he said, loudly enough for anyone to hear, andGod above, she wasnevergoing to live down the past scandal if he insisted on heaping other new scandals atop it. “You made it.”
“Your Grace,” she said pointedly, not that she truly expected this to have any effect. It wasn’t like he wasstupid. He knew what he was doing. He just didn’t care that he was doing it.
The cad.
He grinned at her and,oh, it was devastating, what with his newly trimmed hair and clean-shaven jawline.
“Please,” he said, his Northern accent temporarily absent, and sheknewhe was mocking them all, mocking their rules and their obsession with manners. Nobody else knew it, though; one of the ladies sighed audibly. “Call me Hector.”
Clio considered kicking him in the shins.
She settled for glowering, though it was decidedly unsatisfying. He grinned more broadly and offered her his arm.
She had no choice but to accept, or else cause even more talk. He knew it. She knew it. And, worst of all, he knew she knew.
Lord, Clio was starting to give herself a headache.
She accepted his arm, though she was extremely begrudging about it. Mouths gaped at them as Hector—to hell with it; she might as well give in, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts—led her into the house, though Phoebe looked as though she might drop dead with delight.
“You do realize,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth as soon as they were away from prying eyes, “that this is no way to get a wife.”
“I fail to see your logic,” he returned easily, his accent back in full force. Clio felt her shoulders unclench slightly at the sound of his rounded tones. Annoying.
“You gave that woman the cut direct!” she scolded. “You should be at leastmeeting themfirst.”
“Why should I? I already know who I want to take to wife.”
He said it so casually, as though this was not a great admission, not that he was merelywillingto marry her, in order to enjoy a mutual benefit, but that hewishedto marry her.
