“I see.” There was a little silence as he continued writing. Scritch scritch scritch. “If you should find that some of the language contained in the letter eludes you, Miss Wylde...” He paused and looked up. Then leaned back in his chair.
“I should be happy to assist with the translation when I return later this evening. I’ve a meeting with my Man of Affairs after dinner, but I will be back in my rooms just before ten o’clock.”
Her heart lurched.
She stared at him.
Shewasa good pupil. She understood at once what this was.
And he was an extraordinary tactician. He’d seized upon an opportunity, and he’d made a decision. And he’d played a card.
The man who did everything right intended to break a rule for her.
Which meant, of course, it was now her turn to play one.
“Thank you.” Her voice was arid. “Your offer is kind.”
He gave a short nod and resumed writing.
If he was invested in a particular outcome, not a twitch betrayed it.
“Shall we review what you’ve learned today?” he asked politely. He put aside his work.
His Man of Affairs had foisted upon him more requests for donations, sponsorships, quotes, and speeches, and he’d carried it all back with him to The Grand Palace on the Thames, joining the group of ladies in the sitting room, sitting apart at his usual little table. The other gentlemen were out for the evening on a matter of business for the Triton Group. Mr. Delacorte had, it seemed, gone to a donkey race.
A sudden palpably anguished, tense silence made him look up abruptly.
“It’s the ballroom ceiling, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pariseau explained, gravely, noticing his gaze.
Everyone involved in the planning, and even those who were not, were deeply, passionately committed to a midnight-blue sky twinkling with stars for the Night of the Nightingale, but no one could agree on the best way to achieve it. Tammy, velvet, tulle, and silk were variously rejected as too expensive, too outlandishly expensive, or pure madness. And the notion of affixing the number of stars necessary to enchant all the guests was daunting, and neither Delilah nor Angelique was eager to put holes in a ceiling they’d only recently fully repaired.
“Fishing nets.”
Everyone in the room swiveled to stare at the duke. It was the first thing he’d said all evening.
“Dye fishing nets indigo or black. Attach the stars using fishing line to the holes on the net and then hoist the nets up. The stars will be easier to adjust in height that way if you wish. No need to attach anything to the ceiling. Use the chandelier as a center point to help support the nets but don’t light it, of course. Any hooks you install on either end of the room will be practical and support the weight of bunting or anything else you might use to decorate the room in the future.”
They listened to this crisp recitation with wide eyes.
And their expressions transformed as though he’d just won the war again.
“We’ll layer the nets,” Delilah said at once. “To get a denser sort of blue.”
“And I suspect we can get them, and the dye, free or cheaply or for trade of some kind, given the Triton Group’s dealings with shipping and the like,” Angelique added.
“I thought so,” he said pleasantly.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Delilah said fervently.
He nodded.
It was the least he could do for spending the last half hour imagining the Night of the Nightingale’s star naked beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he thrust.
It seemed every breath he took was hot, as if the room was a blacksmith’s forge instead of a parlor full of pleasantly bickering people. Every muscle in his body, his every cell, was as alert with anticipation as the night before a battle.
He was balanced on the knife-edge of propriety.
He never equivocated. He either did things or he didn’t do things, as his moral compass dictated. He never wasted time on sexual reveries. He knew how to get satisfaction when he needed it.
