He halted in his tracks, all contentment dissipating in a moment –Deuced woman!
“What in the hell do you think you are doing?” He marched to Aideen, perched by a lantern on the stone plinth of the fountain.
Damn it, she’d unscrewed the finial of his cane and was prodding inside the neck.
“Arrah, no need to get your tight ducal pantaloons in a twist…Your Grace. I was simply checking the mechanism.”
He snatched the cane away and held out his hand for the silver dog finial. The wench just shrugged and passed it over.
“You can tell your Uncle Seamus,” he muttered, screwing it carefully back on, “that it works perfectly. I can’t believe he lets you work on these.”
“I loved this piece. It suits you. The adorable little puppy with jade eyes.”
“You insolent baggage…” He ceased roaring as twinkling obsidian eyes laughed up at him. His shoulders relaxed. “Miss Quinlan, you shall be the death of me. Baiting a duke is, I believe, frowned upon.”
“But you like it?” she asked, standing.
The scent of violets overwhelmed him, and as always when near Miss Quinlan, he became aware of the great danger she posed. From the very first time they’d met and she’d scolded him for looming, his long-practised reserve had begun to crack.
He liked her provoking words. He enjoyed her bold humour. He adored those tart lips.
All those scathing comments he had thought up last night came to the fore. He would tell her she was an Irish upstart, that he disliked conversing with someone so low in status. He would say her lips were too sour and that she wasn’t pretty. He would hiss he hated violets.
But they all dwindled to naught.
Ultimately, he was a coward who couldn’t bear to see hurt in her eyes. He was a coward every which way.
Rather than insults to push her away, he should tell her the truth – that in his life there was no room for a duchess, no room for entanglement.
Unlike his friend Kelmarsh, he didn’t want to relinquish his important work for the Crown; he needed it and in turn, the Crown needed him with his unique access to the upper echelons of society, but menace from the enemy or from dubious contacts stalked him always, so very close behind. A beloved could too easily step into their path.
“I’m grateful to you for retrieving my cane.”
She curtsied and then held out her hand. He took it, letting his eyes wander.
Some might say she wore a grey frock, yet all he saw was flashing silver, beckoning him like stars and deciding his fate.
But he knew where his fate lay.
This would be the last time, he vowed. He’d ask Rainham for a mission far away. She’d marry a safe gentleman with soft fingers and a mild manner, who didn’t brawl in St Giles on murky nights.
Miss Aideen Quinlan was not for him. Women were fragile. In public, he even kept a circumspect distance from his own mother so as not to bring danger upon her.
Bending, he lightly kissed her hand, when all he really wanted to do was pull her close, wrap his arms around her and see how long they could burn together. But control, the cornerstone of his life since his twenty-second year, fought passion, and passion fought that control.
A perceptible quiver ran through her. He was no innocent. He knew their sparks and baits were part of something bigger – craving, desire, need. It arced between them.
But lust could be restrained.
So he prepared to step back, to end it, when all of a sudden, delicate fingers brushed his eye.
“Have you been at an Irish wedding?”
“I beg your pardon?” He gazed confused, endeavouring to shy from her touch.
“They give out black eyes instead of favours – have you not heard it?”
He shook his head, and a hand caressed the bruise, lightly, tenderly.
