He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “You sound like my mother.”
“She must be a brilliant woman.”
“She is.”
“Then why are you such a—“
He lifted his head, held his breath, waiting for thearsehole. It didn’t come.
“—silly thing? I’m sure all those poor women at the house party are devastated you aren’t attending.”
“I told you. As soon as they met me, they would hate me.”
“Oh. You were being serious. I thought you were trying to be funny.”
“I don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Try to be funny.”
“Are you averse to trying or to being funny?”
“I have no sense of humor.”
“Bosh. Everybody has a sense of humor.”
He shrugged and took a sip of coffee.
“Raw toast. That’s a sense of humor, Kit.”
“It is?”
The poor man.Thinking he had no sense of humor. Thinking people hated him. And he was so sweet. Making her coffee and raw toast. A duke, making her coffee!
And he wasn’t charming. Not a bit. And that was intensely charming to Franny who was done with the other kind of charming for the rest of her life. And he had those hungry storm-tossed ocean-blue eyes and he was so handsome whether he was smiling or scowling or stoic. Even in a shabby tweed coat covered in dog hair.
Without thinking, she reached out and pulled a hank of brown fur off the lapel of his coat.
Oh, no. She stood, bumping the table, spilling her coffee into the saucer.
“The dog!”
“What about him?”
“He hasn’t been out since last night.”
He shrugged. “If Bevel needed to go out, he’d be down here, barking.”
How could he be so calm? “Well, where is he?”
“Would you feel better if we found him?”
“Yes.” She started toward the stairs.
“Stay.”
A harsh command issued by a man who expected obedience. What the Helen-of-Troy? She whirled around. She had an inkling of an idea now about theyoung-ladies-hate-mething.
