The cravat appeared first. Stark white and stiff.
Thereafter, a tall black form coalesced around that snowy immaculateness, upright and commanding. A determined cane tapped on the York stone flags.
“For shame, Miss Quinlan,” a deep aristocratic male voice drawled, “I am surprised the young pup did not wag his tail and yelp goodbye as you patted his head and sent him away.” He raised a gloved hand to his ear. “And hark, I hear no beckoning mother.”
Aideen yearned to place her twitching fingers around the throat that uttered those sardonic words.
And squeeze, tightly.
Then kiss him senseless, smothering those firm, non-liver-breathing lips with bites until he gasped – although whether that was due to the kiss or her ever-tightening hand around his throat, she hadn’t quite decided.
But over the past months, her distant relative and hostess for the Season, Mrs Beckford, had been teaching her poise and patience, so garnering all her newly learned expertise, she instead stepped forward and smiled pleasantly.
“Better a devoted young Labrador than a snarling old wolfhound…Your Grace.”
Perhaps notexactlyhow Mrs Beckford expected her to greet a duke, but at least she’d managed not to curse him to hell…yet.
Aideen also remained mindful that to curtesy would be appropriate, curtesy and leave, as any unchaperoned young miss would not hesitate to do, but the little red devil who squatted permanently on her left shoulder whispered that was dull. Mrs Beckford’s advice was, after all, purely that.
The last time she had seen Alexander Westhide, the Duke of Rakecombe, he had been sailing into the sunset, literally, after he’d rescued her from a nasty little kidnapping Frenchman. She had thought they’d parted amicably but since then, she’d not seen sight nor sound of him. Nigh on a year without his cold burning stare.
She had thought he might…
Alas, her cousin Sophie had mentioned his reappearance in London late last summer, but their paths had not crossed, he had not called upon her, and Aideen had left town for the cold winter months in Ireland, certain he had forgotten their amorous encounter.
And, admittedly, there was the fact she’d informed him that he kissed like a wet fish, so perhaps the fault was her own.
The moon cast its opalescent glow upon them, as though it had decided a little romance was necessary, and Aideen groaned at the unfairness of her perfect memory as his face became real.
Shehadhoped his eyes couldn’t possibly be as intense as she recollected, or that he wasn’t so forbiddingly tall. But needless to say, he was. All that and more, the damn English bug.
If she had to quibble, she would say his nose was a fraction overlong and possibly too thin, slightly hawkish, but sensuous lips, moulded cheekbones and lush lashes more than made up for any nostril disadvantage. Besides, she liked the way they flared with a brisk inhalation when he disapproved of something – mainly her.
As far as she could tell, the lone difference from last year was a certain leanness to his cheeks, but then Napoleon had escaped Elba in the previous month, war beset England once again, and she knew the duke was up to his neck in shady foreign affairs.
Leanness simply enhanced his callous stare. She shivered, and it wasn’t through fear.
“Did you enjoy the young pup’s attentions, Miss Quinlan?”
“Er…”
The Duke of Rakecombe stepped forward, jet-black cloak swirling about him. She wasn’t entirely sure how to answer, or in point of fact, why he had asked at all. But then, they never seemed able to have a normal conversation. He always riled with mocking words, and with her temper, she responded with blunt antagonism.
“Do you desire his callow touch?” he pressed again.
Aideen gulped as the black figure circled her, cane drumming on the stone, demanding an answer. She didn’t turn. Didn’t so much as move a muscle.
Two months of Mrs Beckford’s etiquette lessons and not one half hour had dealt with how to reply to a haughty duke leaning far too close and taunting her with impertinent questions.
Warm breath disturbed the ringlets at her nape. Had his lips brushed her skin? The scent of chocolate floated over her shoulder, and she closed her eyes, every nerve humming his proximity.
“Did the pup quieten your shrewish tongue?” the duke whispered in her ear, and Aideen’s eyes snapped open.
She spun to confront him, their faces close. His cravat bobbed as he swallowed heavily.
A shrewish tongue had been the only way to be heard growing up, the only protection against her da’s bitter comments. He had a voice like cannon fire and if you didn’t stay sharp, the constant complaints and needless rebukes rubbed until you dulled like an overused hunting knife.
“Shrewish, am I? Well, may savage dogs eat your fee–”
