His chin tilted up, as though daring her to rise to the challenge. Elizabeth suspected he wanted her to mimic the gesture. And though her heart thudded against her ribs, she did it.
She lifted her chin, met his gaze straight on, refusing to shrink.
That, apparently, pleased him. The corner of his mouth curled. He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, like he was taking her measure.
Up close, the sharp planes of his face were more defined; weathered in a way that spoke of wind and wilderness rather than drawing rooms and ballrooms. His eyes, now clearer in the light, held a spark that felt almost… wild.
Not dangerous. Just untamed.
And somehow that made him all the more impossible to look away from.
“How would we even meet? We’ve already met under less-than-ideal circumstances,” she murmured, looking away. His stare was too consuming.
“It can be arranged. Ye’ll attend the events yer stepmaither asks ye to attend. Then, ye’ll have moments to catch yer breath in between yer, er, conversations. But for the most intensive lessons, we’ll meet… at me house.”
“No. That can’t be done,” she protested, her head snapping up to look at him again.
“Not a soul would ken. I have some paid, discreet staff who can sneak ye into me house. They’ll come for ye at the Grisham townhouse. Secretly, of course. It’d be at nighttime. The only trouble is it might take from yer sleepin’. Find a way to get some rest durin’ our breaks.”
Elizabeth gulped.Nighttime?Athishouse?
The words settled like warm coals in her chest—scandalous, impossible, and yet… tempting. She could already hear Lady Grisham’s voice screeching in her head, could feel the weight of everything she stood to lose.
Her reputation. Her sisters’ prospects. What little self-control she still clung to.
But then—lessons. In how to charm, to speak, to be seen. To no longer shrink.
It was outrageous. Improper in every way.
And yet… was it not also what she needed?
She looked at him again. He was so sure, so maddeningly calm. There was no leer in his eyes, no mockery. Just quiet certainty, as if he knew she would say yes.
And the worst of it? Part of her wanted to.
“I… I don’t trust you, Your Grace,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice unsteady.
The duke inclined his head, as if that was only natural. “A wise instinct. But I could earn that trust. Slowly. We’ll meet only at public events, if that suits ye. And if, after a lesson or two, ye’ve caught the eye of a promising suitor…” he gave a faint, infuriatingly confident smile, “then perhaps there’ll be no need for further instruction.”
Elizabeth wavered. Her mind was a storm: fear, shame, uncertainty. But beneath it all, something flickered.
Hope.
What if he was right? What if this wild, inappropriate arrangement could actually work? If she could learn how to be seen, how to make herself… desirable?
Not for love. Not for fairy stories.
For survival. For Wilhelmina, Daphne, and Victoria.
Desperation surged up, swallowing the last of her doubt.
She drew a shaky breath. “Very well, Your Grace,” she said softly. “We could begin at the next event.”
It was all he seemed to be waiting for, because the moment she said the words, the Duke of Redmoor inclined his head in a small, precise bow.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured.
Then he turned and slipped through the French doors, disappearing into the garden as swiftly and silently as he had come.