“Yes. I think it’s best if I retire.” She rose, her knees shaking.
He shot to his feet. “You’re unwell, Miss St. Claire. Please take my arm.”
“No, no, it’s quite all right, my lord. I—it’s only a bit of fatigue. Perhaps we might finish our game tomorrow?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she didn’t wait for a reply.
She fled the drawing room like a perfect coward before her wobbly legs gave out on her. A blur of startled faces turned to follow her—Francesca’s and Prue’s, their mouths falling open as she darted past them without a word. Lady Emily, her pretty lips turned up in a smirk, and poor Lord Dunwitty, who was no doubt wondering what it was he’d said or done wrong.
As for the Duke of Grantham—she took great care not to glance at him as she hurried past, but she could feel that blistering gaze on her, as palpable as fingertips drifting down her spine, the touch searing her like a brand.
CHAPTER19
Shame scalded Rose’s cheeks as she ran down the corridor to the entryway.
How dreadfully rude she was, to not even pause to bid good night to the company, particularly Francesca and Prue, who’d been so kind to her! How ridiculous, as well, scampering off like a child fleeing a punishment!
Yet she couldn’t make herself stop, her slippers sliding across the marble floor of the entryway, her skirts clutched in her fist as she scurried up the stairs toward the safety of her bedchamber.
Up, up, up she fled, past the first-floor landing, the grandfather clock striking eleven, then up another flight—dear God, so many stairs—to the second-floor landing where her bedchamber lay—nearly there now, just three more doors! Abby would be there, waiting for her, and all would be well.
“Wait, Miss St. Claire!” A hand caught her wrist, halting her in her tracks.
Dash it, she’d been so close!
For an instant, she thought it must be Lord Dunwitty who’d caught her, but when she turned to face her captor, it wasn’t the viscount’s brown eyes that met hers, but a pair of intense gray eyes, some emotion she couldn’t define swirling in their depths. Instead of fair hair falling boyishly over a handsome forehead she found a mass of riotous dark waves, as if he’d been dragging his hands through the thick curls.
So impossibly soft, that hair, softer than any man’s hair should be, like a secret for her fingers alone.
“What just happened down there?” The duke—for of course, it was he—stared down at her, that fearsome frown that had chased her from the drawing room still puckering his forehead. “What happened? What did Dunwitty say to you?”
Say? Did he imagine it was Lord Dunwitty who’d sent her careening toward her bedchamber? She stared up at him, transfixed by those eyes that seemed to change color with his moods. They weren’t gray so much as a dark, molten silver now. They tended to become so when he was agitated.
She fell back a step, stunned. When—dear God,when—had she come to know that about him? When had she begun watching him so closely that she could read his moods in his eyes?
“Answer me, Miss St. Claire.” He released her wrist, his hands closing over her shoulders.
“Lord Dunwitty?” she repeated, dazed. What did Lord Dunwitty have to do with it?
“Yes. Viscount Dunwitty. That gentleman you were just playing chess with? You do remember him? Did he say something to upset you?”
“Upset me? No! No, of course not.” What could Lord Dunwitty have said to upset her? “He’s behaved like a perfect gentleman.”
He regarded her for a long, silent moment, searching her face, but at last, his hold on her shoulders eased, and he blew out a breath. “Good, that’s . . . good. But why then did you flee the drawing room? You bolted like a frightened horse.”
“I . . .” But what could she say? That it had beenhimshe’d been running from? That a mere glance from his turbulent gray eyes could overset her in a way a thousand longing glances from Lord Dunwitty never could? That every time she felt his attention on her, she trembled? “It’s nothing so dramatic as you imagine, Your Grace. I’m just fatigued, that’s all.”
“Isthat all?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Forgive me, Miss St. Claire, but young ladies don’t flee the drawing room because they’re fatigued. It appeared to be a great deal more than that to me.”
“It wasn’t.” But of course, it was. It was the plunging sensation in her chest when he’d strolled into the drawing room this evening and gone straight to sit beside Lady Emily. The way he’d bent his dark head toward hers, and the smile on his face when he’d whispered in her ear.
All of which, of course, meant she was a great fool.
But she’d sooner die than reveal such a humiliating truth to him. So, she lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I don’t see what’s so surprising about it. House parties are terribly fatiguing, Your Grace.”
“Are they, indeed? But you didn’t appear to be fatigued at dinner. Quite the contrary.” Slowly, gently, he eased her backward, until her spine was pressed against the wall. “I don’t believe you are fatigued. I think there’s another reason you fled, Rose.”
Rose. Dear God, the aching sweetness of her name, when it slipped from the tip of his tongue. Such a plain, simple name, but when he spoke it, it became seductive and infuriating, tempting and tormenting at once, because what she wanted more than anything in that moment was to taste her name on his lips.
