She colored. Her eyes subtly widened. Her lips parted, as if she intended to say something but forgot what. They remained like that. He began picturing other things besides spun moonlight.
He poured more wine.
* * *
It was becoming a peculiar dinner. That the duke had addressed her by her given name had made her pause. That he waxed poetic about hair she did not have astonished her.
His gaze no longer appeared steely. Fiery, but not steely. It reminded her a little of the way Mr. Hume looked at her sometimes. Only Mr. Hume’s warmth never made her insides curl and tighten like this.
Perhaps the duke was drunk.
She glanced at the wine bottle. He mistook her interest and poured her more. He smiled. A truly friendly smile. Gracious and amiable, not merely tolerant.
“You should have told me about your noble intentions for the property,” he said.
“Would that have made you amenable to my petitions? Would you have stood aside?”
“Perhaps I would have said you are welcome to use it for your charitable purpose.”
“Then it would still be yours, and I would be beholden to you. I prefer to secure the property myself before trying to make my dream a reality.”
“That will take years, even if you find the proof you seek. My way would mean you can start right away.”
He dangled a tempting compromise. She rebelled against the logic of it, however.
He must have noticed. He leaned in. “You do not only want it for saintly goals, I think.”
“No, I don’t,” she blurted out. “I want it because it should be mine.”
Humor entered his gaze. Goodness, he looked handsome right then. Her insides twisted more. She drank some wine to give herself something to do. She should take her leave. Yes, she should tear herself away from the enlivening sensations he evoked—
“Perhaps if you continue fascinating me, I will just give it to you,” he murmured.
Fascinating? What did that mean?
“Your Grace—”
“Call me Eric.”
Eric! “I will not.”
“Then use Brentworth, as most of the world does.”
Even that sounded too familiar, but so be it. “Brentworth, forgive me if I am either forward or foolish in my question, but . . . are you flirting with me?”
She received the biggest, most genuine, and most charming smile she had ever seen on his face.
“Davina, I do not flirt.”
She should correct his use of her name. She would too, if she could think of a clever way to do that without sounding like a spinster scold. “Never?”
“Not in years. I doubt I know how anymore.”
“Come now. Everyone flirts.”
“Do you?”
Now that was an awkward question. “You do not flirt because dukes don’t have to. Am I right?”
