“Madam,” he said again. “I assure you, I am not part of the general public, nor interested in any of the tomes such an establishment would sell.” He lifted his head arrogantly, looking down at her as if she should know better than to categorize him with just any man she would meet on the street. Didn’t she recognize him? To think if she didn’t…
She frowned at him, one of her brows lifting in disapproval.
Damn it, he never meant to come off as superior. The lady before him possessed something he admired, qualities he had—and what he’d give for a chance to seduce her.
“If this establishment holds no interest for you, then why did you darken our doorway?” She shifted her books from one arm to the other.
“May I carry those for you? Hail a hackney to take you home?”
She drew the books protectively closer to her body. “You have made it abundantly clear that you care nothing for books, sir.”
“Alonzo Farrington,” he said.
Her cheeks reddened attractively, and she averted her eyes for the briefest moment, unintentionally giving away her status as an innocent. The duke usually dabbled with widows or women who never planned to marry, but this divine creature standing so bravely before him, uninhibited by his rank, did not back down.
“I wouldn’t dare refer to you in such a familiar way, sir. Now you are being provocative for no reason, if only to rankle me.”
“Nonsense,” he disagreed. “We have only just met, so why would I aim to vex you?”
She made to step around him, but Farrington simply uncrossed his arms and naturally filled the archway he stood under, the only apparent exit route.
“Who are you, sir?”
“The Duke of Pridegate.” He offered an elegant bow to settle her nerves. “At your service.”
Surprisingly, his title did nothing but make her laugh aloud. “A duke?”
“Yes.” Had he stuttered while giving his name or title?
She eyed him severely. “You do not strike me as a pink of theton, though I would perhaps call you a rake.”
It was Farrington’s turn to laugh. That she even knew the termpink of the tondemonstrated why women shouldn’t read so freely. Spirited and sharp-tongued, the pretty woman needed a set down. No, deserved one, or in the very least, a husband. He’d be happy to break her in for the unlucky fellow who would wed her in the future.
“I have not deceived you. And now, if you would kindly return the favor—what is your name?”
She cocked her head, curiosity momentarily getting the best of her, for she was assessing him the way he had her. “You may call me Miss Castle.”
Did he know her family? “Your full name, if you will.”
“Miss Julia Castle.”
Yes, he thought, as his eyes swept over her again, the name Julia fit her well. If he had to describe her to a friend, he’d be forced to say she was a mix between a diamond of the first water and a bluestocking, though a few other words of choice spiraled through his mind—like harridan. Stubborn and proud, unaware of the effect she had on men, even a duke, though she did not believe he was one. “It seems we have reached an impasse.”
“Only because you are blocking the door,Your Grace,” she said in a stinging tone.
Farrington relaxed, leaning against the doorway, opening enough space for her to slide by if she so wished. “Do not let me be the cause of your delay,” he said. “Perhaps your father or mother are waiting for you?”
She chuckled uncharacteristically for a woman of gentle breeding. “I come and go as I please.”
“How unfortunate,” he said with severity, disapproving of such loose rules for any woman. His youngest sister, Anastasia, would never be about Town without a chaperone. But something more urgent kept surging to the front of his mind. The young lady before him could not be a day older than eighteen, how was it she did not know who he was? His popularity had surged as of late among women of her age.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“Your Grace,” he corrected.
“Sir.”
“Your Grace.”
