She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Make me sit by you at supper. Lean in and talk to me like we were discussing something intimate. Single me out to walk with you in the garden. Everyone was looking at us…atme, Abernathe.”
His lips pressed together. “James.”
She had more to say, but his soft admonishment brought her to a halt. “I beg your pardon? Did you just tell me that I should call youJames?”
He nodded. “I would prefer it. I’ve never liked my title. It’s a necessary evil to me.”
She hesitated, for that statement made her wonder. Most dukes wore their title like a badge of honor, even though none of them had done anything to earn it except be a first son of someone else’s first son. But Abernathe did truly look uncomfortable as he stood there.
And none of that had anything to do with her, yet here she was, pondering it. She scowled at him. “I cannot call the Duke of Abernathe by his Christian name. It would be wildly inappropriate.”
“I call you Emma,” he said with a slight smile.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” she said, shivering at the way his lips formed her name. “And it is equally inappropriate, for I am an unmarried miss with no connection to you or to your family. All it does is place a false sense of—”
“You have a connection to my family,” he interrupted, folding his arms and making his jacket strain back across his ridiculously broad chest. The one she couldn’t stop staring at, even as she tried to admonish him for being too familiar.
“What connection?” she asked, fighting wildly for focus.
He arched a brow. “My sister adores you. You are her friend.”
Emma stared at him, some of the fire going out of her at that statement. “Well, yes. Meg and I have become friends.”
“Then what is the harm in me calling one of my sister’s closest friends by her first name and her calling me by the same? Especially when we are in the privacy of a garden where no one else is around. It’s not like I’m asking you to call me James in other places.”
“So calling you James is a garden-specific request?” she asked, and then shook her head. What was she doing? Was she flirting with this man? This god? This golden child who didn’t know the first thing about what it meant to be outside?
The very kind of man she had been avoiding her entire adult life?
He laughed, and the sound hit her right in the gut. Lower, actually. Significantly and inappropriately lower. Now she felt all…hot…and…and…tingly.
“Privacy-specific,” he corrected. “When we are in private, I want you to call me James.”
She shivered at the idea, foolish as it was. “James, do you really think we shall ever be in private with each other ever again?”
He looked at her closely and something in his gaze shifted. His lids narrowed and his pupils dilated as he stared at her. That hot and tingly feeling increased and she shifted, but her legs rubbing together only made it worse.
“Why not?” he asked softly.
There was a moment when she wanted to believe that a man like this could have any interest whatsoever in her. That he was different and could see past the issues that came along with courting her. That he could see past the intelligence that was a hindrance with so many men, that he could see past her lack of funds, that he could see pasteverythingthat made her unwanted.
But then reality returned and she glared at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Whyare you pretending that you could have any interest in me? What does it gain for you?”
“You are direct,” he said with a shake of his head. “One more thing to like about you.”
All her guards were raised now and she stepped back from him. “Butyouare not direct, Your Grace. Which makes me wonder what kind of game you are playing. Are you making sport with me?”
His lips parted as all humor and teasing went out of his stare, his voice, his stance. “No,” he said, almost in horror. “No, of course not. Why would you ask that?”
She flinched, a nerve exposed by his question, and it began to throb deep inside of her. She turned away from him. “You would not be the first, Your Grace. It doesn’t matter.”
She expected him to say something glib then. To find a way to escape the discomfort of this exchange. Instead she heard him move, she felt his presence just at her back. Her breath caught as his hand closed around her upper arm gently. He turned her and she stared up at him, so close that if she edged forward just an inch, she would be in his arms.
His fingers glided up her arm, across her shoulder, and then they brushed her cheek. She could hardly breathe as he took away that last inch between them. Her chest and thighs brushed his and she began to tremble.
“It does matter, Emma,” he whispered. He was so close, his breath touched her lips.
