“I don’t believe you,” he said. She blinked, averted her gaze, blinked some more. He saw her throat work as though she was finding it difficult to breathe. So he bowed his head, moving it closer to hers and asked her gently, “How can a pretty society lady with a kind disposition, such as yourself, possibly be without friends? It makes no sense.”
Twisting her mouth until a web of fine lines began distorting the feature, she stood as though he’d just asked her to make an impossible choice. Indecision warred behind those pale blue eyes of hers, so clear and liquid now, like a pair of water-droplets just waiting to spill over.
But they didn’t. Instead, she found a safe point of focus, somewhere just to the right of his shoulder. “First of all,” she told him quietly, “I am not pretty, I am—”
“Daft,” he murmured. “If you truly believe that.”
Her mouth opened, closed again. She turned more fully toward him, her brow now puckering while her eyes—oh those innocently tempting eyes—implored and chastised while her hands balled tightly into fists at her side. “No, I am not, but I do own a mirror, Your Grace, and I am also aware of what others have said about me.”
He drew back, almost as though she’d struck him. His eyes widened, allowing her to spot another nuance to their coloring. Not just brown with flecks of gold. No, there was a subtle ring of amber toward the edge—a gradual transition toward the darker tones at the center. They held her now until she felt like squirming. He prepared to say something, but she wouldn’t let him, would not allow him to try and convince her that she was something that she wasn’t. “I know that I am strange and peculiar. I am keenly aware that everyone thought my sister would be the one to . . . to . . .” She took a gulp of air. Enough. She’d said enough. “I did not lie to them, Your Grace.”
When he said nothing in response, she turned away briskly and walked back to where Amelia and Juliette were still sitting, resuming their lesson by asking each of them to take turns reading from the Mayfair Chronicle. Patiently, she corrected their pronunciations while doing her best to ignore the large man who stood like a looming shadow to one side. Eventually, she heard his feet move across the floor, and then the clicking of the door handle as he made his exit. She breathed a sigh of relief, her hands still trembling from their encounter.
Put him from your mind, Gabriella.
Focus.
As wise as her own advice was, however, she had to concede that she was only human and that the Duke of Huntley represented every craving she’d ever wished to indulge in.
Chapter 11
“So if a gentleman asks me to dance I ‘ave to accept? Even if I don’t like ’im?” Amelia asked the following day.
“Unless you have a very good excuse,” Gabriella told her, “like another offer from a different gentleman or a sprained ankle, though this would likely remove you from the dance floor altogether.”
Amelia shook her head. “What daft rules.”
“There are many more, but I suppose the point is that a lady should always be polite and treat other people with respect. Don’t make the mistake of supposing that a gentleman is incapable of feeling slighted or hurt by your disinterest in him.”
A sudden crash in the hallway made Gabriella jump. She glanced toward the door, which stood ajar, but saw nothing. And then, “No more,” was bellowed with such force that the windows in the parlor almost rattled.
Huntley.
“I’m done with this nonsense—this imbecilic madness.” His voice was steady and clipped. “Don’t do this an’ don’t do that. Not to mention all the useless information ye keep pilin’ onto me brain. My brain. God damn it!”
“Your Grace,” Richardson spoke with endless degrees of patience. “Perhaps we should try again.”
Eyeing Amelia and Juliette who were sitting completely still, eyes wide and lips pressed together, Gabriella got to her feet and crossed to the door. She peeked out and saw the duke standing in a wide stance with his hands on his hips as he faced his secretary. The remains of what appeared to be a vase lay at his feet.
“No,” Huntley said. “Not as long as you expect me to treat a teacup as if it’s a precious relic. I refuse to hold it the way you want me to, Richardson.”
“Is everything all right?” Gabriella asked, even though it clearly wasn’t.
Huntley turned to her with a glower while Richardson hastily bowed, “My lady,” he said. “I am simply trying to educate His Grace in taking tea correctly.”
“To be precise,” the duke grumbled, “Richardson thinks I’m some effeminate creature with a delicate touch when I actually ‘appen”—he winced—“happen . . . to be a rather large man.”
“Really?” Gabriella murmured, hoping to lighten the mood while ignoring the increased beat of her pulse. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Richardson coughed while the duke’s eyes darkened. He turned more fully toward her and crossed his arms while shards of porcelain crunched beneath his feet. The edge of his mouth kicked up, and then he allowed his gaze to drift over her with a slowness that sent ripples down her spine. “Is that so, my lady?”
Shifting, Gabriella drew herself up to her full height. She was still upset by the accusation he’d made yesterday about deceiving his sisters, and although she wished to address the issue and defend herself more fully, she’d no desire to do so with Richardson present. So she called upon her most affected tone and said, “What I see is a brutish individual who just wrecked an antique vase.”
He dropped his gaze to his feet and studied the mess there. “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t knock it over on purpose.”
Gabriella raised an eyebrow. “Well, your frustration with Richardson’s teaching methods has just cost you five hundred pounds by my estimation.”
His head whipped up, eyes widening with incredulity. “Five hundred pounds?”
