He jerked his attention to the staircase, his heart leaping from his chest only to crash back down again with a despairing whimper. It was only Keating, with Jasper’s gloves, hat, and walking stick in his hand. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening. Thank you, Keating.” Jasper shoved his hands into the gloves and plopped the hat on top of his head. “You didn’t happen to see any sign of the duchess while you were upstairs, did you? It grows late.”
“No, Your Grace. Her Grace is dressing.”
“Still?” How long did it take to put on a silk gown? “What the devil is she doing, harvesting the cocoons herself? Extracting the silk threads and spinning them into a ball gown?”
Keating blinked. “No, I don’t believe so, Your Grace, but if Your Grace wishes it, I can go upstairs and see if—”
“No, never mind, Keating.” There was no sense sending poor Keating off on some wild chase. One madman in the house was quite enough. “It’s just that we’re meant to be at Basingstoke’s by ten, and it’s already—”
He broke off as a warm, musical sound reached them from an upstairs corridor, drifting down the stairs like a handful of tossed rose petals.
It was Prue, and she was laughing.
God, when was the last time he’d heard her laugh? Had heeverheard her laugh as she was now, in such an unrestrained burst of joyful sound? He could have remained at the bottom of the staircase all night, just listening to her. How had he not realized how still and silent his home had been, before she came?
“The duchess has a lovely laugh, does she not, Your Grace?”
Jasper smiled. “She does indeed, Keating.”
Prue had a lovelyeverything, from her laugh to her wit, her sharp tongue to her beautiful hazel eyes. He turned his gaze up to the top of the stairs, his heart thrumming with anticipation, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight of her when she appeared above him, her cheeks flushed pink, her hair gleaming golden brown in the light from the chandelier above.
He watched as she descended, dazzled, a thousand confused thoughts whirling through his head at once, but one stood out from the rest, and it was the only one that mattered.
There was, quite simply, no other woman like her, and by some miracle, she washis.
She was wearing a new gown, a deep, emerald-green one he hadn’t seen before, the silk swirling around her like jewels when she moved, the color so deeply saturated it was nearly a living thing, and cut perfectly to her lithe figure, lovingly emphasizing every inch of the long, graceful lines of her body.
The gown put him in mind of the simple green one she’d worn to dinner on the second night of the shooting party at Basingstoke House. That had been the first time he’d seen her in evening dress, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her then, any more than he could now.
It didn’t matter what she wore. That drab, brown cloak, her worn, navy-blue riding habit, or the matching hat with a hoof print in the center and that poor, limp little feather.
It wasn’t about her clothing at all. It was justher.
He waited for her to reach the bottom of the staircase, and never before had a mere dozen steps taken such a torturous eternity, but at last she stood before him, her small, gloved hand slipping into his. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
He bowed over her hand, his lips skimming her glove, the faint hint of honeysuckle that clung to her tightening his stomach. He forgot Keating’s presence entirely then and reached up to cup her face in his palm. “You’re lovely, Prue.”
She searched his face, the flush deepening to a vivid rose in her cheeks, but whatever she saw in his return gaze made her lips curve in a shy smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Shall we go?” He tucked her arm into his. “I’ll never hear the end of it from Basingstoke if we’re late.”
Keating stood at the open door, beaming. “I wish you both a pleasant evening, Your Graces.”
“Thank you, Keating.” Jasper led Prue out to the carriage and waited for Norris to close the door behind them and ascend to the box before taking her into his arms. “You realize it’s the night of Basingstoke’s ball, do you not, Your Grace?” His eyes closed as the wisps of hair at her temples brushed his chin, her scent floating around him.
God, it was almost painful, how badly he wanted her.
“Is it, indeed?” She let out a soft laugh. “I knew there must be a reason Sarah insisted upon lacing me so tightly tonight.”
At the mention of her lacing, he made a heroic attempt not to let his gaze drop to the creamy swell of her bosom spilling from her low bodice, the generous display of decolletage the one concession Prue had made to the demands of fashion in her choice of gown.
But it was no use. He may as well have resisted looking at the sunrise, or a velvety black sky studded with stars. He reached for her, tracing his fingertip over the narrow band of velvet ribbon, skimming the warm skin of the upper swell of her breasts. “Despite her humble beginnings, Sarah has turned out to be an excellent lady’s maid.”
She caught her breath at his touch, and his gaze flew to her face. The interior of the carriage was dim, the only illumination the flickering light from Curzon Street as they passed, but he could see her eyes—a dark, mysterious green tonight—fixed on him.
“Our wager is at an end.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Not a moment too soon. I’ve never lived through a longer ten days in my life. It felt like an eternity.”
