She arched a brow, wary of the sudden glint in his eye.
“But did ye notice somethin’?” he went on, lowering his voice slightly.
“What?”
He cast a slow glance around the shop, then leaned a little closer.
“It’s gone quiet over here. Suspiciously quiet. Seems to me it’s the perfect moment for a lesson. This time from me to you.”
“Here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Her mind immediately flew to the twins, who were not far off, still busy examining sweets and arguing about which toffees were superior.
“Aye. Here,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “Can ye think of a sweeter place for a lesson in seduction?”
He picked a pale pink macaron, the one he’d been eyeing for far too long.
Her eyes widened at his remark. Instinctively, Elizabeth glanced around to check if anyone was close enough to overhear what he’d just said.
Thankfully, no one appeared to be paying attention to the scandal-in-the-making: an unchaperoned young lady and a wickedly rakish Scottish duke, standing a touch too close in the corner of a sweet shop.
“Excuse me?” she asked, incredulous.
“Aye. Our next lesson involves sweets,” he said, his grin slow and wicked. “It’s in how ye eat them.”
“Completely absurd,” she said, cheeks burning.
“But is it, really?” he asked, raising the macaron to his mouth.
She braced herself for him to pop it in all at once, something big men often did, but no. He bit into it deliberately, slowly. His tongue flicked out to catch a crumb. His lids lowered as he savored the flavor like it was something decadent and forbidden.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her chest tightened under her bodice and her stomach clenched.
It was absurd. It was indecent. And she couldn’t look away.
When his tongue darted again to gather a smudge of sugar at the corner of his mouth, she nearly whimpered.
“Do ye see now?” he asked, voice velvet-soft.
“Theatrical,” she managed, eyes narrowing.
“That’s the intention,” he said, plucking another macaron and holding it out to her. “Now, yer turn.”
“I am not doing that,” she said quickly, even as the macaron hovered between them like a dare.
“Are ye afraid, lass?” he murmured, tilting his head.
“Of looking ridiculous in public? Yes.”
“Ye’d look far more daft trippin’ over yer skirts while curtsyin’ to one of yer fine lords than flutterin’ yer lashes over a wee macaron,” he countered, leaning closer.
She huffed, but she didn’t back away. She never did when he challenged her.
Gritting her teeth, she snatched the macaron from his hand and bit into it—slow, polite, precise. The kind of way she’d been trained to eat her whole life.
He watched her, unimpressed. “Has anyone told ye that ye eat like a little bird?”
“I—what?”