He scowled. “What’s wrong, Miss Cranwell?”
She folded her arms. “Never talk to me like that again.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the dog.”
“I didn’t.” He put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. “That’show I talk to Bevel.”
Sure enough, within a few seconds, she could hear Bevel coming down the stairs. No further apology was forthcoming from the duke. The man must think none was needed.
But she had a question she hadn’t asked before and now she was dying to know the answer. “Why’s his name Bevel?”
He shook his head.
“No, tell me, please.”
“He takes the sharp edges off, smooths me down,” he muttered.
“Maybe you should take him to meet the young ladies with you.”
“Women don’t like big dogs.”
“Bosh and bollocks.”
“Refined and proper women don’t like big dogs.” He looked at her. “What are you shaking your head about?”
The silly man was not even aware he had just insulted her. Yet another part of the problem slotted into place.
The dog trotted into the kitchen and the duke opened the door to the mews. Bevel sat and looked at him until he closed the door.
“I told you he didn’t need to go out.”
“Yes, you were right.”
Her admission made his lips curve upwards again as he closed the door. There, the dimples.
“You have dimples.”
“Yes.”
“They’re quite becoming. Have you ever shown your dimples to a possible future duchess?”
“No.”
“Oh-ho. I see. You’re a serious, brooding rake, not a joking, roguish one.”
He leaned forward. “What do you know about rakes?”
She waved her hand airily. “I’ve met my share.”
Was that a snarl coming from him? “I’m not a rake. I’m whatever the opposite is.”
“I thought all dukes were rakes.”
“I’m not like other dukes.”
“No. You’re very special and very lovely.”
