Victoria pouted dramatically, thrusting out her lower lip in protest. Beside her, Daphne’s shoulders slumped with silent disappointment. Neither tantrum nor quiet melancholy impressed their mother.
“I’ll take them, Lady Grisham,” Elizabeth said quickly, her hand reaching for Victoria’s. “With their governess by my side, I daresay we’ll manage. You could take Wilhelmina to the milliner’s and look at ribbons.”
Lady Grisham pursed her lips, clearly weighing the risks. “They’re not to have too much. And Victoria, do try to learn some self-restraint.”
“Yes, Mother,” Victoria said, her voice syrupy-sweet.
Elizabeth knew it was pure performance. Likely, so did everyone else.
“Five minutes,” the marchioness relented at last, narrowing her eyes. “Not a second longer. We are not here to dawdle.”
Elizabeth dipped her head. “We’ll be swift, my lady.”
As they turned away, she mouthed a quick “sorry” to Wilhelmina. But when she glanced back, expecting exasperation, her younger sister only gave her a sly wink, which startled her enough to nearly trip on the curb.
Moments later, they reached the sweet shop. The windows were lined with jars full of candied violets, barley sugar, and ribbons of boiled sweets in every shade imaginable.
The door chimed brightly as Victoria flung it open—and promptly collided with someone’s waist.
She bounced back with a startled squeak, looking up. Far, far up.
Elizabeth froze.
Standing in the threshold, towering over the girl and holding the door steady with one hand, was a tall man with windswept russet hair and a coat collar turned rakishly up.
None other than the Duke of Redmoor.
His hand reached instinctively to steady Victoria, who blinked up at him with wide eyes.
“Well now,” the Duke said in his low Highland burr, “is that how young lassies greet strangers in Mayfair these days? Barrelin’ through the door like a cannonball?”
Victoria blinked up at him. “You’reverytall.”
“Victoria!” Elizabeth shouted, equal parts protective and aghast at her sister’s behavior.
The Duke tilted his head as if considering the accusation. “That, or ye’re very wee. Could be both.”
Meanwhile, the meek twin, Daphne, stepped forward, her posture graceful despite her obvious nerves. She reached her sister first and executed a careful curtsy, eyes wide and worried.
“Forgive her, my lord,” she said softly, her cheeks blooming pink. “She didn’t mean to. She just loves sweets so very much.”
Elizabeth arrived just in time to hear the apology. She placed a steadying hand on both girls’ shoulders, breath catching when she met the duke’s eyes.
Of all the people to run into—literally—why did it have to behim?
The Duke, for his part, didn’t seem the least bit put out. In fact, he looked rather entertained. His lips curled in a faint smile as he crouched slightly, bringing his imposing height a bit closer to the girls.
“Is that so?” he asked Daphne. “Well then, it seems I’ve run straight into trouble.”
With a theatrical flourish, he reached toward Victoria’s ear and, without warning, produced a small wrapped sweet between his fingers.
Daphne gasped in delight. “How did you do that?”
“A Highland trick,” he said solemnly, offering her the sweet with a wink. “We’re taught it right after walkin’ and before swordfightin’.”
Although she widened her eyes at the sudden appearance of the sweet in her palm, Victoria turned it over suspiciously, then looked up at the duke with narrowed eyes. “You talk funny.”
“Victoria!” Elizabeth snapped, mortified. “That is not how we speak to a duke.”