“He did not,” she put in quickly, “he could not undertake the assignment at the time. Perhaps he was simply too busy?”
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Keaton felt the driver disembarking. Moments later, the door swung open, and he heard the mechanical clatter of the collapsible steps being unfolded. He pondered Georgia's words through it all.
Why would Thorne have not taken up a task, particularly one requested by a young woman in search of her brother? Thorneis a gentleman and, I suspect, somewhat sentimental. I think he would ensure he was not too busy to help. Unless...
“Right you are, Your Grace,” his driver declared.
Keaton realized that Georgia had already alighted. He knew the driver would be standing by to offer a hand.
“Georgia, your hand, please,” Keaton ordered, “my wife will assist me, my good man. Remain here with the carriage, we will have need of you in an hour or so.”
He felt Georgia's hand in front of him and took it. Her hand was warm, dainty, perfect.
“You have cut yourself,” she pointed out as he traversed the steps.
“Yesterday. It is nothing,” he waved away.
The wound had been bound, but he had removed the dressing to make its presence less obvious. It was a cut across his palm, made when a blade had slipped.
“It is not the first time. I can feel older scars. Whatever have you been up to?” she asked.
Keaton gritted his teeth behind an outward smile.
Does she think that I share any and all of my thoughts out in the streets, where there is no way of knowing who is nearby and may be listening?
“It is nothing, I said. Accidents. That is all,” he grated, “now, shall we get this over with?”
He felt Georgia's hands take his gently and guide it to her shoulder. It was not bare today, the dress shawled it, but could not disguise the delicate feel of her collarbone beneath his heavy fingers. Such was her fragile femininity that he felt as though his hands were clumsy paws, rough and unsubtle.
He followed her across a pavement and up a series of stone steps. Then they went inside. Keaton felt the coolness of an interior protected from the sun by stone and brick.
A noise reached him, the kind that only came from a collection of people at their leisure. It was a babble that rivaled the sound of gathered geese, overlaid with the clink of cutlery and crockery. Keaton's hackles rose, and he felt himself tensing, not knowing where his next foot would fall.
He felt every eye upon him, thought he even sensed a dimming of the conversation as they entered.
Everyone wishes a gawk at the blind Duke.
“This is simply gorgeous,” Georgia enthused, distracted by it all, “the decoration is lovely! I do not know what to call it, but I have never seen the like. We are being taken to a table.”
As they walked, she described what she could see with such descriptive skill that Keaton could not help but picture the room in his mind's eye. Finally, they stopped and were seated, and tea and sandwiches were ordered.
“Is this simply awful for you?” Georgia asked, and Keaton could hear the anxiety in her voice.
For a schemer, she acts the part of concern very well. Is she as much a schemer as I think?
“Yes, frankly. An unfamiliar place surrounded by people I do not know. I do not like to be the center of attention,” he answered crossly.
“Then I think we should leave,” she started, her voice falling.
“No, not at all.” He put his hand out across the table and felt her take it.
There was a curious pleasure in that contact, though he did not seek pleasure nor desire it. This relationship would be simpler by far if she were tedious or unpleasant to be around. Or both. As it was, Keaton felt himself constantly rebuilding his walls against her.
“Let us be seen together,” he whispered, smiling.
Then he raised her hand to his lips. He lingered over the kiss longer than he had intended. The plan had been to dash a kiss against the back of her hand. Instead, he savored the taste of her, the feel of her skin, the scent of her perfume.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he murmured, desperate for any conversation to distract from his wild thoughts.
