His eyes seemed sincere, the mischief gone from there. Her chest hurt for many reasons. She was grateful for his help, but also confused as to what direction this “improvement” would be leading her to.
“It’s hardly a great feat. I am merely catching up. Most women have excelled at what I am only now grasping,” she said earnestly.
“Ye’re gettin’ better quicker than I thought, aye,” he said with a husky voice.
He confused her with that tone. It was teasing one moment, then edged with something almost sharp, almost angry. It sent a shiver across her skin. His presence was too large, too near,crowding the space and her thoughts. She couldn’t breathe properly around him, not without feeling every inch of him pressing into the air between them.
“You’re making it sound like a training course, Your Grace,” she said lightly, though her breath caught as she spoke.
His mood had shifted again—playful one moment, intense the next—and it was starting to make her feel off-balance.
She busied her hands with smoothing her sleeves, a small act of deflection. Then, reaching for a dish of sugared violets, she studied them far too intently.
On any other day, they might have held her genuine interest. Today, they simply gave her something to look at that wasn’t him.
But of course, he wasn’t finished with her.
“Ye owemea lesson, now, lass,” he murmured, his voice low and thick.
“You’ll have to be more specific, Your Grace,” she returned, trying for nonchalance, though her pulse skipped. “It seems like I owe you more than one thing.”
His brow arched slowly at that, and his eyes, too green, too watchful, flicked to her mouth.
It was a mistake, she realized, to mention debts.
A bigger mistake to imagine what it might feel like to offer something freely.
“Ye remember. I need a lesson in proper civility,” he went on, his voice roughened by humor, or something darker. “We struck a bargain, did we not? A lesson for a lesson. Ye’ll teach me to impress the lords and ladies of yer fine city, and I’ll teach ye how to drive a man mad without liftin’ a finger. Though I’d say ye’re already halfway there.”
“I’ve not forgotten,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she delicately picked up a sugared lemon peel, her movements precise, deliberate.
She could feel his gaze track her fingers, and her skin burned under the attention.
“However,” she added, “you do choose the strangest settings for etiquette instruction. A sweet shop?”
He grinned. “It’s perfect, when ye think about it. Ye’re teachin’ me sweet lies among sweeter things.” Then his voice dipped further. “Though ye’ve still not taken me up on the offer to learn in private. My house, remember?”
She suppressed a shiver and rolled her eyes instead, though her lips betrayed her with a smile, far too bold for the demure young lady she was meant to be.
“I’m afraid we’re not at that point yet, Your Grace,” she spoke slowly, “Now, about your lesson. What manner of man are you trying to approach?”
“Lord Farnleigh,” he said, and the name came out like something bitter. “White hair, thin as a ghost, with a bent back and a snivel that never stops. Like he’s sniffin’ out trouble wherever he goes. Whitton says the man thinks anyone born outside London’s a savage, and the Scots worst of them all. Proud as a rooster and twice as loud, always complainin’ that good manners are dyin’ out.”
Elizabeth raised her brows, amused despite herself. “You seem to know quite a lot about him.”
“I make it a point to study my enemies, lass,” he said, a flash of something more serious flickering behind the green.
There was something raw beneath his words, something she didn’t yet understand, but wanted to.
“Unfortunately, the type is common in London society,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Men like Lord Farnleigh expect to be approached with deference. They want to be admired, never challenged. And while your title matters to them, the fact that you arenotEnglish diminishes it in their eyes.”
The Duke’s lip curled. “Floggin’ seems a kinder fate than bowin’ to that man.”
“I don’t disagree,” she said with a small, rueful smile. “But what I did at the musicale, flattering Huntington’s nonsense, pretending to enjoy myself, wasn’t far off. Women are expected to smile, agree, admire. If we are too clever or too bold, we’re dismissed. You cannot challenge men like Lord Farnleigh, not in public. Offend one, and you offend them all. That’s how power works in a room full of pride.”
He sighed in exasperation. “I see yer point.”
“Come then,” she said, straightening and slipping into a more formal tone. “Let’s begin. Imagine I am Lord Farnleigh. We are at an event. You see me across the room. You approach. What do you say?”