The insult, delivered in a mild tone, had Olive glancing sharply at the duke…and losing all concentration on what her feet were doing. “I beg your pardon?”
“The countess claimed you were accomplished. I was merely pointing out dancing was not one of those accomplishments.”
Huffing, Olive attempted to concentrate on the steps. “No it is not, although it is rude of you to point it out.”As if he did not know already. A duke can say what he wishes, I suppose.“And I suspect Lady Dumpkins was exaggerating my accomplishments.”
“Lying, you mean.” Effortlessly, the duke swept her through another turn, his expression blank.
Olive frowned. “Well…yes, I suppose.”
“Why do you think she did that?”
His lack of emotion—interest or irritation oranything—was becoming grating.
Which is likely why Olive forgot all of her mother’s training to snap out, “Because most men do not like to be told the woman they are dancing with has no talents when it comes to household skills or softer arts such as dancing or fashion or—or—flower arranging!”
The duke’s only acknowledgment of her outburst, which had been beyond the pale in terms of politeness, was a single nod. Finally, he hummed. “Your skills at flower arranging do not interest me. And I do not see it as rude to point out the truth.” Before she could reply—likely to apologize, althoughheowed one to her as well—he asked, “Whatareyour accomplishments?”
Surprised, she blurted, “I am a scholar.” When he merely glanced down at her as he swept her about and raised a brow, as if urging her to continue, she frowned. “My parents have encouraged me, and I am really quite happy to be surrounded by books.” When he still didn’t respond, she ventured, “My favorites are about history and architecture, and even archaeology.”
He was watching her, his light eyes still cold. Olive glanced away, trying not to feel like a particularly interesting specimen of butterfly being examined by a biologist.
Or if shewasa butterfly, perhaps attempting to be one not so interesting so as to remain unpinned to the board.
A moth, perhaps. A drab, brown moth.
“Miss L’arbre, you are content to spend the rest of your life hidden away in a library, reading?”
That was a surprising question. “Well…no,” she answered before she thought better of it. “If I could, I would want to travel. I want toseethe places I have read about.”
He nodded solemnly as the music came to an end. “You want to adventure,” he declared, even as he set her apart from him.
Stunned, she could only nod as he offered his arm to escort her off the dance floor.
“I am sorry, Miss L’arbre, but I fear we will not suit.” His tone was perfunctory. “Thank you for the dance and for allowing me to learn about you.”
It was cold. It was blunt. It was the oddest thing for a duke to say—Dukes can say whatever they wish remember—but Olive was strangely comforted by his honesty. Bowing her head, she murmured a relieved, “Thank you, Your Grace,” as he took his leave of her.
Bemused, she turned, and almost ran into a wall of well-built Scotsman.
Stop admiring his chest, you ninny!
“I was promised a dance, Olive.”
Phineas’s low brogue rolled over her, making her shiver, despite her determination to be angry at him. Sheshouldtake him to task for using her name so familiarly, but instead, she foundherself placing her hand on his forearm, marveling at the strength and warmth under her fingers.
Drat.
She wanted to snap, “I do not forgive you!” She wanted to turn from him, nose in the air, and march over to where her sisters were chatting. She wanted to give him the cut direct, not caring if it made her rude or even if it hurt Athena’s feelings.
Instead, he was leading her to the dance floor.
Double drat.
The music began, and she huffed in irritation when she realized it was a waltz. Of course it was a waltz, just when she was hoping to remain as far as possible from him.
As far as she could get from his warm hazel eyes which peered at her with concern, or the lock of light brown hair which fell over his forehead in wonderfully effortless charm. As far as possible from the feel of his forearm, muscles bunched under his jacket, which even now made her shiver—again, blast it—despite the fact she was wearing gloves.
What would it feel like to touch him without her gloves and feel his skin against hers? Hisnudeskin, glistening with?—
